“It was agreed,” said Leofric. He bent his head again.
Zacharias could never explain the impulse that overtook him then. When he reflected upon it later, in the cold light of day, he was not persuaded that he would make the offer again.
But at the time, his shock, the unreality of the scene, and the vivid memory of Sir Stephen—the near-conviction, impossible to contradict, that at any moment he would open those bright blue eyes, with their usual look of pride and affection—all combined to rob Zacharias of his instinct of self-preservation.
“Would not you consider a substitute?” he said.
Curiosity glinted in Leofric’s amber eyes. “What do you propose?”
Zacharias swallowed.
“You may have me,” he said, “in replacement for Sir Stephen.”
Leofric hissed with laughter. “You! Child, for six hundred years I have served the Sorcerer Royal. No lesser magician could satisfy me.”
“It was not my intention to suggest that you should devour me only when I was dead,” said Zacharias. He was familiar with the cuisine of Fairyland, having read the memoirs and travelogues of adventurous thaumaturges. In these civilised times the Fairy Court only served at its banquets courses which were no longer alive, but that had not always been the case. “Could not you satisfy yourself upon me while I was yet alive? Would not that please you better than a corpse?”
He faltered over the last word. It seemed so hideous to be referring to Sir Stephen as such.
“What a very interesting proposition,” said Leofric. His head was arrested in its downward swoop, the scales upon his neck gleaming dully in the candlelight.
For the first time Zacharias realised what extremely sharp teeth Leofric had, and how numerous they were.
“It would hurt you,” said Leofric. “You would survive—but not for very long.”
“You would have all of me, upon my death,” said Zacharias. “And you would have had the pleasure of a living meal before then.”
Leofric abandoned Sir Stephen’s body and dropped down on his haunches, the better to consider Zacharias.
“It could be done,” he said. “I should have to enter you. You will find the enforced intimacy a trial. I am no garrulous enthusiast, no chattering blockhead, as you know, but you would be aware of my presence at all times. You would never be alone—never wholly yourself—again.”
He paused for reflection, and a shiver went along his wings. “If I occupied your person, that would make you a sorcerer. One soul for two sorcerers is a bad bargain, you cannot deny.”
“Then it is fortunate, is it not, that I would not be a sorcerer for very long?” said Zacharias.
“Do you truly wish to sacrifice yourself for your guardian?” said Leofric. “Recall: Stephen was ageing, and you are yet young. He understood the deal he struck. You do not owe him so much.”
“I owe him a great deal,” said Zacharias. “But what I offer, I offer for the great affection I bore him. And for the love he bore me.”
As he spoke, he knew all he said to be true. Love and grief bore him up. He looked unwaveringly at the dragon, bolstered by the courage they lent him.
Leofric was silent. Then he lifted his head, his eyes glowing.
“It would be churlish of me to reject such a gift,” he said. “There is a final point to settle, however.”
He coughed, and continued with a touch of primness:
“There is my reputation to think of. My acquaintance in Fairyland sneer because I have elected to pass my days at the service of a mortal magician. The only reason they have not thrown me off altogether isbecause the mortal I acknowledge as my master is the supreme magician of magicians—the chosen of all sorcerers in Britain. I can be familiar to no lesser personage than the Sorcerer Royal.”
Zacharias stared. Yet there was a nightmarish logic to it. He knew, as well as Leofric, that Sir Stephen had intended that Zacharias should be his successor, when old age or death should have put it out of his power to continue to perform his duties.
“The staff is in the stand,” said Leofric. “You need only take it up. It will know you, I promise.”
Zacharias thought of what Sir Stephen’s life had been. He had had influence, yes—he had been esteemed by his colleagues, had mingled with the good and great of the land, and enjoyed the many fruits of his labours. But thirty years ago Sir Stephen had been one of the most lauded young innovators in unnatural philosophy, who by his researches had promised to deepen humanity’s understanding of magic, and strike out fresh paths untried by any thaumaturge before him.
What discoveries had he made since he had taken up the staff? What time had he had to pursue his own researches? He had been consumed by the neverending work of managing his wayward flock of thaumaturges, ingratiating himself with the Fairy Court, and appeasing a Government that thought Britain ought to be able to conquer magic by main force, as they did other nations.
Zacharias had hoped for a different life. But he had been given so much—far more than most thought he deserved—far more than he might otherwise have had. He had known all along that he would have to pay for it.
