The Mage Who Guarded the Sleeping King

The king had not opened his eyes for nine days.

Karen stood by the tall window of the royal bedroom and watched the grey morning light move slowly across the stone floor.

Behind her, King Aldric lay in his great bed.

His chest rose and fell as calmly as it had risen and fallen every morning of his life.

He did not look ill.

That was the worst part of it.

If he had looked ill, the doctors would have known what to do.

"Anything?" asked Sir Bevan from the doorway.

Karen did not turn around.

"He is breathing.

His heart is strong.

His hands are warm."

"Then why will he not wake?"

"Because he is somewhere else," she said, "and he cannot find the way back."

Sir Bevan came into the room.

He was the captain of the Royal Guard, a wide, tired man who had protected three kings with a sword and had never once needed to understand magic.

"The council meets again at noon," he said.

"They will ask me the same question they asked yesterday."

"And what will you tell them?"

"That the king's mage is working."

Karen finally turned around.

She was twenty-nine years old and thin, with dark hair tied back so tightly that it pulled at her forehead.

She had been the guard mage for six years.

In that time she had stopped four poisons, two knives, and one very clever spell that had been hidden inside a gift of flowers.

She had never lost a night.

She had never lost a king.

"The king's mage is failing," she said.

"Do not say that where anyone can hear you."

"I am saying it where you can hear me.

Somebody in this palace should know the truth."

Bevan rubbed his face with a heavy hand.

"Then tell me the truth."

Karen walked to the bed.

In the pale light, Aldric looked younger than his forty years.

There was a small line between his eyebrows, as if he were thinking hard about something, or listening to a voice a long way off.

"There are two kinds of sleep," she said.

"The first kind is ours.

We go down into it and we come up again, and while we are down there, nothing holds us.

The second kind is a room.

Somebody builds it, they put you inside, and then they close the door."

"Somebody built a room," Bevan repeated slowly.

"Yes."

"Inside his head."

"Inside his sleep.

It is not quite the same thing, but it is close enough."

Bevan was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "Who?"

"I do not know yet."

"How was it done?"

"I do not know that either."

Karen laid two fingers on the king's forehead.

The skin was warm and dry.

Somewhere far beneath it, she could feel the thing again, the thing she had felt on the first night and on every night since.

It was a slow, patient pressure, like a hand pressing down on still water.

It did not want to hurt the king.

That was what frightened her most.

It wanted to keep him.

"Nine days," Bevan said.

"There are men in the markets saying that the king is dead and that we are lying about it.

If he does not wake before the end of the month, somebody will decide that the throne is empty."

"I know."

"Then work faster."

"I am going to do something worse than faster," Karen said.

"I am going to go in after him."

Everything in the room had been tested twice.

The wine, the water, the bread, the fruit, the oil in the lamps, the wax of the candles, the ink on the last letters the king had read — all of it had been carried down to Karen's workroom and taken apart.

Nothing had been found.

If a poison had been used, it was a poison that left no trace, and Karen did not believe in poisons that left no trace.

She believed in people who were careful.

So she sat on the floor of the royal bedroom with her back against the cold wall and made a list of everything she knew.

The king had gone to bed on the ninth of the month at half past ten.

He had been in a good mood.

He had eaten an ordinary supper with six people, and all six had eaten the same food.

He had read for a while.

He had told his servant that he was tired, but he had said that every night for a year, because he was a man who worked too much.

At some hour of the night, a door had been closed on him.

Karen looked at her list for a long time.

Then she wrote one more line at the bottom of it.

Whoever did this did not want him dead.

That line was the strange one.

Killing a king is difficult, but it is not as difficult as this.

A knife is cheap.

Poison is cheaper.

Whoever had built this sleep had spent a great deal of money and a great deal of skill on something that had left the king alive, warm, and perfectly safe.

Safe.

The word sat in her mind like a stone inside a shoe.

She stood up and began to search the room again, but this time she searched it differently.

She did not look for something wrong.

She looked for something kind.

She went through the drawers beside the bed.

A comb.

Three letters from the king's sister.

A small wooden horse that Aldric had owned since he was a child, its paint worn away by forty years of thumbs.

Then she looked under the pillow.

There was a stone there.

It was smooth and grey and about the size of a hen's egg, and it was warm — warmer than the bed, warmer than the king's own hand.

Karen did not touch it with her fingers.

She took a silk cloth from her sleeve, lifted the stone through the silk, and held it up to the window light.

Deep inside the grey, something moved.

It moved very slowly.

It looked like smoke turning over inside a closed jar.

"Bevan," she said quietly.

The captain was at her side in three steps.

"Do you know where it came from?"

He looked at it and shook his head.

"I have never seen it before."

"Somebody put it under the head of the King of Verath," Karen said, "and nobody noticed."

She turned the stone slowly inside the cloth.

"This is where the room is anchored.

If I break it, the walls should fall."

"Then break it."

"No."

Karen wrapped the silk around the stone and closed her hand over it.

"If I break it now, I do not know which side of the wall the king will be left on.

He might come back.

Or the door might simply disappear, and then he would stay in there for ever, and there would be nothing left for us to open."

Bevan stared at her.

"So what do we do?"

"First we find out who gave it to him," she said.

"Then I go inside, and I bring him to the door myself.

And then we break it."

Master Odo lived at the top of the west tower, in a round room full of birds.

He had been the guard mage before Karen, and before that he had been the guard mage of Aldric's father.

He was eighty-one.

He kept nine birds in nine cages, and the cage doors were always open, and the birds never left.

"You want to enter a built sleep," he said.

He did not look surprised.

He was cutting an apple into small pieces for a fat brown bird on his knee.

"Sit down, Karen."

She sat.

"A built sleep is a room," he said, "and every room has a shape.

The shape is made from the sleeper.

His memories become the walls.

His fears become the doors.

His habits become the furniture.

When you walk in there, you are not walking into a place.

You are walking into a person.

Do you understand the difference?"

"I think so."

"You do not, but you will."

He turned the apple over.

"Now.

Three rules.

If you remember nothing else, remember the three rules, because they are the only reason I am still alive and the men who taught me are not."

Karen took out her notebook.

"Put that away," Odo said.

"Paper will not come with you."

She put it away.

"Rule one.

You must take an anchor.

Something small, something ordinary, something that belongs to your waking life and to nothing else.

Hold it, and it will keep telling you which world is the real one.

Lose it, and you will start to believe the room."

"Rule two."

He held up a thin finger.

"Time is not the same in there.

So you must have a bell in the waking world — a real sound, made by a real hand, at a fixed hour.

When you hear it, you leave.

Not when you are finished.

When you hear it."

"And if I am not finished?"

"Then you come out unfinished and you go in again tomorrow."

His voice was suddenly hard.

"Girl, I have pulled four mages out of built sleeps.

Two of them thanked me.

One of them did not speak again.

The fourth came out and asked me who I was, and then asked me who he was, and he was thirty-one years old and he had a wife."

Karen said nothing.

"Rule three," Odo said, more gently.

"Nothing is carried out of a room for free.

If you bring something back — a man, a memory, a truth — the room will take the weight of it from you.

Always.

There is no spell that has ever changed that, and there never will be.

So before you go in, decide what you are willing to lose.

If you have not decided, the room will decide for you, and the room has no kindness."

The bird on his knee finished the apple and flew up to the window.

"Now," said Master Odo.

"Show me the stone."

She showed him.

He looked at it for a long time without touching it, and his face changed in a way she had never seen before.

"This is not a weapon," he said at last.

"No?"

"No.

This is a cage that was built for a bird, by somebody who was afraid the bird would fly into a fire."

He handed it back to her, still wrapped in silk.

"Find out who loves him, Karen.

Not who hates him.

That is where you will find your answer."

She went in that night.

The bed had been carried into her workroom, because she wanted no windows and no visitors.

Bevan sat by the door with a hand bell in his lap and orders to ring it at the fourth hour after midnight, whatever happened, whatever she said, even if she begged.

Her anchor was in her left hand: a bent iron key that opened a door in a house in the low town where her mother had once made bread.

She held the stone in her right hand.

She lay down beside the king.

She let go.

The palace she opened her eyes in was almost the right palace.

The corridors were the correct length.

The stairs turned the correct way.

But the windows had no glass in them, and beyond every window there was only a soft white nothing, like a fog that had been asked politely to stay outside.

And the palace was warm.

Karen had lived in the real palace for six years and it had never once been warm.

She walked.

Her boots made no sound.

On the walls hung paintings of people she half knew, but their faces were smooth and unfinished.

She found the king in the great hall.

He was six years old.

He was sitting on the floor under the high table with a small wooden horse in his hands, and he was making it walk carefully along a line in the stone, and he was completely happy.

Karen stopped in the doorway and felt something cold move through her chest.

"Hello," she said.

The boy looked up.

He had Aldric's eyes exactly.

"Hello."

"What is your horse called?"

"He does not have a name yet.

If I gave him a name, then I would have to be careful with him."

He walked the horse another step.

"Are you a visitor?"

"Yes."

"You should not stay.

My father says visitors make the house tired."

Karen crouched down.

"What is your name?"

The boy thought about it.

He thought about it for a long time, and while he thought, the light in the hall grew a little dimmer, as if a cloud had passed somewhere far away.

"I do not remember," he said.

He did not seem worried.

"It will come back.

Things come back here."

"Aldric," said Karen.

"That is a king's name," the boy said, and laughed.

"I am not a king.

Kings are old and they are tired all the time and everybody wants something from them."

He walked the horse to the end of the line and turned it around.

"It is nice here.

Nobody wants anything."

The iron key was hot in Karen's left hand.

She held it tighter.

"Do you know how long you have been here?" she asked.

"Always," said the boy.

And then, somewhere above them, there was a sound like a stone being set carefully on top of another stone.

Karen looked up.

At the far end of the hall, where the tall doors to the courtyard should have been, someone was building a wall.

The figure was grey.

It was not a man, though it had the shape of one.

It had no face that she could look at directly — every time she tried, her eyes slid away, as if the face were written in a language her mind refused to read.

It worked steadily.

It lifted a grey block from the air, set it in place, pressed it down with both hands, and reached for the next one.

The wall already covered the doorway to the height of her shoulder.

"What is that?" Karen asked.

The boy did not look up from his horse.

"That is the builder.

He keeps the outside out."

"Does he ever stop?"

"No.

He is very good."

Karen walked towards it.

She had expected to feel hatred, or hunger, or the cold, bright cleverness that she had felt in other spells.

She felt none of those things.

She felt something worse.

She felt care.

The thing was working the way a mother works on the night a fever breaks: patiently, endlessly, without any thought at all for what it costs.

She put her hand on the wall.

It was warm.

"You have to stop," she said.

The builder did not stop.

It set another block.

"There is a country outside this door," Karen said.

"There are eleven thousand frightened people in it.

If you keep building, he will die inside your safe room and you will still be building."

The grey figure paused.

Only for a moment.

Then it reached into the air, took another block, and pressed it into place.

Karen understood then that she was not talking to a person.

She was talking to an instruction.

Somewhere in the waking world, somebody had said keep him safe, and this was what those three words looked like when they were given hands and enough time.

She went back to the boy.

"Aldric," she said.

"Do you want to go outside?"

The boy walked his horse very slowly along the line in the floor.

He did not answer for a while.

"No," he said at last, and his voice was so small and so honest that Karen had to look away.

"Outside I have to be tired."

And then, from somewhere impossibly far above the roof, a bell began to ring.

She came up out of the dark with her whole body shaking, and the first thing she said was: "Do not ask me anything for ten minutes."

Bevan did not.

He put a blanket around her shoulders and a cup of hot water in her hands, and when the shaking had stopped she told him everything, and by the end of it his jaw was set like a gate.

"He does not want to come out," Bevan said.

"No."

"He is the king.

He does not get to want that."

"He is a man, Bevan.

He has been on that throne since he was nineteen.

His father died in front of him.

He has signed orders that killed people, and he has read every one of them twice, and he has never once said out loud that he is tired."

Karen put the cup down.

"Somebody offered him a room where he does not have to be tired.

He walked in.

He did not know what he was walking into, but he walked in, and now some part of him has closed the door from the inside and is helping to hold it shut."

Bevan said nothing for a while.

"Then the spell is only half of it," he said.

"The spell is the walls.

He is the lock."

"So we still need the man who gave him the stone."

"Yes."

Karen stood up.

Her legs did not want to hold her, and she made them.

"And I know how to find him now.

I was looking in the wrong place.

Master Odo told me to find out who loves him."

They found him in the smallest office on the east side of the palace, and he did not even try to run.

Lord Hallam had served three kings.

He was sixty-four, and he had taught Aldric to read, and he had stood behind Aldric's chair on the day the old king died.

Karen put the grey stone on his desk, still wrapped in silk.

Hallam looked at it and then he put both hands over his face and made a sound that was not quite crying.

"How long have you known?" Karen asked.

"Since the second morning," he said through his hands.

"Since the second morning, when he did not wake."

"Tell me."

He told her.

It took a long time, and he told it badly, going backwards and forwards, and twice he had to stop.

There had been a plot, and every word of it was true.

Four men, two of them in the guard.

They had planned to kill the king at the harvest feast, and Hallam had learned of it eleven days before, and he had gone to no one.

"Why not?" Bevan said.

His voice was terrible.

"Why not me?

That is my work.

That is the only work I have."

"Because one of them was your nephew," Hallam said.

The room went very quiet.

"I did not know how deep it went," the old man said.

"I did not know who could be trusted.

I have been afraid every day for forty years, Captain, and I have been right to be afraid three times, and that is enough to teach a man to be afraid on all the other days as well."

He wiped his face.

"There was a woman who came to the city in the spring.

A foreigner.

She said she sold protection.

She said that a sleeping king cannot be poisoned and cannot be stabbed.

She said it would last twelve days, and that I would take the stone away on the twelfth morning and he would wake and never know."

"And you paid her," Karen said.

"I paid her everything I had."

"And she has left the city."

"She left the city on the tenth of the month," Hallam said.

"The morning after he did not wake."

Bevan turned away and hit the wall once with the side of his fist.

"You could have told me on the second day," Karen said.

"Or the third.

Why did you not?"

Lord Hallam looked up at her, and his eyes were red and old and perfectly clear.

"Because on the second day he was safe," he said.

"And I have not been able to say that sentence about him since he was nineteen years old.

I sat in that room and I watched him breathe and I thought: nothing can reach him today.

And every morning after that it became a little harder to give it back."

Karen went in again the next night, and the night after that, and each time she stayed longer, and each time the walls were higher.

On the second night, the great hall had no doors at all.

She had to find the boy in the kitchens, and he was eight years old now, and the wooden horse had a chip out of its ear, and he told her a long story about a dog.

On the third night he was eleven, and he was sitting on the stairs, and when she came near he asked her, quite politely, whether she had visited before.

She said yes.

He said he was sorry, but that people did not really visit here, and would she like to sit down.

Each night the builder was further along.

It had walled the courtyard.

It had walled the long gallery.

It had begun on the windows.

And each night, when the bell rang and she came up, something was gone.

She noticed the first one on the fourth morning.

She was washing her face, and she reached for the memory of the house in the low town — the one the iron key opened — and the door of it was still there, and the smell of the bread was still there, but the room behind the door was empty.

Her mother had been standing in it for twenty-nine years.

Now there was only a shape where a woman had been.

She sat down on the floor of the workroom and held the bent iron key in both hands for a long time.

"You are paying," Master Odo said, when she climbed the west tower to tell him.

"I told you that you would pay."

"I did not choose that."

"No.

You did not decide, so the room decided."

He was not unkind about it.

He put a bird on her shoulder, which was the only comfort he knew how to give.

"It takes what is nearest.

Warmth is nearest.

It is always warmth."

He sat down heavily.

"Stop now, Karen.

You have found the man and you have found the stone.

Break it and take the chance."

"He will not come out on his own.

You did not see him.

He has stopped being a king in there.

He has stopped being forty.

If I break the walls while he is six years old and hiding under a table, I do not know what will walk out of that bed."

"Then he dies a king in his sleep and the country crowns his sister and the world turns."

"His sister is nine years old."

"Yes," said Odo.

"The world turns badly quite often."

Karen stood up.

The bird flew off her shoulder.

"Rule three," she said.

"Decide before you go in what you are willing to lose."

The old man looked at her for a long moment.

"You have decided," he said.

"Yes."

"Say it out loud.

That matters more than people think."

Karen closed her eyes.

"I will give the room my childhood," she said.

"All of it.

Every year until I came here.

It can have the house and the bread and my mother's face and the name I was called before I was called Karen.

It cannot have him, and it cannot have the six years I have spent guarding him, because I will need those to know why I am doing this."

Master Odo nodded slowly.

"Then go tonight," he said, "and take a better anchor than that key.

That key belongs to a house you are about to sell."

The palace of the last night had no outside left at all.

Every window had been filled.

Every door had been closed.

The white nothing beyond the glass was gone, and there was nothing left that could be called beyond.

The building had become solid all the way through, like a house drawn by a child who has been told not to leave any gaps.

The builder was working on the roof of the great hall.

Karen's anchor was in her left hand, and it was not a key.

It was a button from the coat of a man who had stood at a door for nine nights with a bell in his lap because she had asked him to.

She found the king in the last room that still had a floor.

He was six years old again, and the wooden horse was new, and he was walking it along a line in the stone, and he was completely happy.

"Hello," he said.

"Are you a visitor?"

Karen sat down on the floor beside him, which she had never once done in six years.

"No," she said.

"I am your guard."

"I do not have a guard.

I am not important."

"You are not important here," Karen agreed.

"That is true.

Here you are a boy with a horse and nobody wants anything from you, and I am not going to tell you that it is a lie, because it is not a lie.

It is the best room anybody ever built for anybody.

A man who loves you built it."

The boy went on walking the horse.

"Outside," Karen said, "there is a country.

Bread is being sold at double price because the people are frightened.

In the spring the river will flood the eastern farms, the way it does every third year, and somebody will have to decide which villages are moved first, and every man who has ever made that decision has been hated for it."

"That sounds tiring," said the boy.

"It is unbearably tiring."

"Then why would anyone go?"

Karen looked at the small unfinished face, and she found that she was not afraid, and she found that she knew the answer, and she found that it had been standing in her own chest for six years without ever once being said.

"Because being tired is not the worst thing," she said.

"The worst thing is being kept."

The boy stopped walking the horse.

Above them, the builder set a block and reached for the next one, and there was no next one, because the roof was finished.

The room began to grow dark.

"He is going to close it," Karen said quietly.

"He is not cruel.

He does not know how to be cruel.

He was only ever told to keep you safe, and in a minute he is going to finish, and then he will sit down outside the walls and wait, and nobody will ever open this again.

Not me.

Not Odo.

Nobody."

The boy looked at the walls, and something moved behind his eyes, something much older than six.

"I know his name," he said.

"The horse.

I have known it the whole time."

"Tell me."

"If I say it, I have to be careful with him."

The boy's voice shook.

"I have to be careful with him for ever."

"Yes," said Karen.

"That is what a name is."

She held out her hand.

The boy looked at it for a long moment.

And then he put the wooden horse down on the floor, very gently, and left it there, and he took her hand.

She stood, and she pulled, and the weight of him was like the weight of a full river, and the room understood immediately what was being taken from it and began to take its payment.

It took the house in the low town.

It took the smell of bread at four in the morning.

It took a woman's voice saying a name that was not Karen, and a yard with a broken wall, and a winter when there had been no wood, and a hand on the back of her neck, and a summer, and a summer, and a summer.

She did not let go.

The last thing the room took was the face.

She felt it go the way you feel a coat being lifted off your shoulders in a warm room: not painful, almost pleasant, and then simply not there.

Then the walls fell.

The king opened his eyes at nineteen minutes past four in the morning, in a workroom that smelled of chalk and cold iron, with the captain of his guard standing over him holding a hand bell like a man who had forgotten he was holding anything at all.

He said, "Bevan."

Bevan sat down on the floor and did not get up for some time.

Aldric was ill for eleven days afterwards, in the ordinary way that men are ill, and he complained about the soup, which everybody found comforting.

On the fourth day he asked for Lord Hallam.

Nobody knew what was said in that room.

The old man came out of it with his face wet and his back straight, and he served another nine years.

The four men of the plot were arrested in the second week.

Bevan brought his own nephew in, and then went to the west tower and sat with Master Odo and the birds until it got dark, and Odo did not say one single useful thing, which was exactly correct.

Karen slept for three days.

When she woke, she knew her own name, and the name of the king, and the shape of every corridor in the palace, and the four poisons she had stopped.

She knew that she had been born in the low town.

She knew there had been a woman in that house who had loved her, and she was glad of that, and she could not have said one word about what that woman looked like, or sounded like, or what she had ever been called.

It did not hurt.

That was the strange part.

It was simply a room with the door open and nothing in it.

She went back to work on the fourth day.

The king found her that evening in the royal bedroom, testing the wine, as she had done every evening for six years.

"They have told me some of it," he said.

"Yes."

"Not all of it.

Odo would not tell me what it cost you.

He said it was not his to sell."

Karen put the glass down.

"It was not a large price, Your Majesty."

"That is a lie, and it is a poor one, and I have been lied to by professionals."

Aldric came and stood beside her.

He looked thinner, and the line between his eyebrows was still there.

"May I ask you something instead?"

"Of course."

"In there."

He was very careful with the words.

"Did I say anything I would be ashamed of?"

Karen thought about a boy under a table with a wooden horse, and a small honest voice saying outside I have to be tired.

"You said you were tired," she said.

The king was silent.

"That is all?"

"That is all, Your Majesty.

And you were right.

You are tired.

You have been tired since you were nineteen years old, and nobody in this palace has ever once said it out loud, and I think that is why the door was so easy to open."

Aldric looked at the window for a long time.

"Then say it out loud to me from now on," he said at last.

"Once a week.

Whether I ask or not.

That will be part of your work."

"It is a strange duty for a guard mage."

"It is the whole of it," said the king.

"You have been guarding the wrong door."

And so it was written into her orders, in the careful hand of a clerk who did not understand what he was writing, and it was read out to her once a year for the rest of her service: that the guard mage shall attend His Majesty each week, and shall speak plainly, and shall be heard.

Karen kept a bent iron key in her pocket for the rest of her life.

It opened a house she could no longer picture, in a street she could no longer walk to, and she never once threw it away, and on quiet nights she would take it out and hold it and feel nothing at all, which she had decided, on the whole, was a fair price for a country.