by Karen Miller
Then the dungeon door swung open.
“Come,” said the winged beast, pointing. “Woman of Lur. You will come.”
Without protest, without another word, she walked from the dungeon. And because she was still a mouse at heart, she never once looked back.
In silence she followed the winged beast through lofty corridors and across open halls with stained glass windows, their patterns hidden by the night. Followed it past more beasts and terrified human servants and up many elegant stairways. The extravagant beauty failed to touch her. Since stealing that skiff in Westwailing she’d lost count of the times she thought she was about to die. So now, even though death seemed more likely than ever, she couldn’t feel anything. Instead, she made her plan.
It’s quite a short spell, but Morg will know it. So I have to start saying it before I see him, so I can trigger the final sigil and kill him before he kills me. But I can’t say it too soon, either, or the magic won’t catch.
Decisions, decisions. How odd, to feel so numb, so dispassionate. So completely indifferent to the prospect of her death. Was there something wrong with her? Had Da felt like this?
Rafel.
She stumbled.
Noddyhead. Don’t think on him. You told Charis you’d try to save him to save her feelings, not because there’s any hope.
Now the winged beast was leading her along a dead-end corridor. She saw the enormous, ornate double doors up ahead and felt her mage-sense stir. Felt a sudden prickle of sweat and slowed her pace, just a little. The lethal Words of UnMaking burned behind her eyes.
“Senusatarum,” she said, her voice the merest whisper. “Belaridovarik.” And then with the tip of her finger, she sketched the first sigil. Deep in her blood and bones her magic stirred, questing. “Kavartis.” The second sigil. “Toronakis.” The third. One more word. One more sigil. Morg would die—and so would she.
Ewen.
The winged beast halted before the closed double doors. She halted behind it, dizzy with the painful pressure of the incompleted spell. Da. Da, I’m sorry. Without knocking the beast pushed open the doors, snatched her by the arm, shoved her into the chamber and slammed the doors behind her.
It was a library. There were books, shelves and shelves of them. Most were sunk deep with warding incants, cruelly effective. Tall, narrow windows drawn with blue velvet curtains. Lamps. Chairs. Two glossy reading tables. A low sofa. There was a man hunching in the lamplight shadows. As she saw him he moved, and the light fell on his face.
“Goose!”
Shocked, she extinguished the deadly spell shuddering in her blood.
“Goose, it’s me! Deenie!”
Shambling, uncertain, his dear, familiar face so changed, he covered his head with his arms as though he expected her to run at him, shouting, or beat him about the face with her fists.
“No, no, Goose—no,” she said, creeping forward. “Goose—it’s Deenie. Rafe’s sister. Oh, Goose, don’t you know me?”
Goose Martin, Rafe’s friend from boyhood, as dear to him as Charis was to her. Brave and bold riding over Barl’s Mountains. A master brewer in the making. A kind man to make her smile. Not to make her heart beat the way Ewen did, she knew that now. But still. Goose. He’d been so sweet to her the night of Uncle Pellen’s farewell ball, when things had gone so badly wrong. When their world began to fall apart in earnest. But what had happened to him? How in Barl’s name had he become this?
Goose lowered his sheltering arms and peered at her. Such a struggle in his face, his gentle eyes, as though he was trying to remember, to know her. His lips, gone slack and trembling, worked as though he wanted to speak. It broke her heart.
“Deenie?” His hand hovered, on the brink of reaching out to her. “Deenie?”
“Yes, Goose,” she whispered. “It’s me.”
Their fingertips met. Gasping, he snatched his hand back. She kept hers outstretched.
“It’s all right, Goose. I won’t hurt you.”
“Deenie,” he said, smiling, knowing her, and took hold of her hand.
“Well, well,” said a cold voice out of the room’s shadows. “Isn’t that touching? I might shed a tear.”
She turned, ignoring her thudding heart, and lifted her chin. “Sink me bloody sideways. If it ain’t Arlin Garrick.”
Arlin stepped into a soft pool of lamplight. It shone on his golden hair, on his pristine velvets and his jewels. Showed her his smooth, handsome face. But beneath the arrogant mask she could feel his disquiet… and something terrible writhed in his eyes.
“Deenie.” His lip curled. “The ruffian Rafel’s forgettable sister.”
“Not so forgettable, Arlin,” she pointed out. “You remember my name.”
“Actually, I had forgotten,” he said, careless. “Only you were bleating it at this idiot and as it happens, I’m not deaf.”
Hating him, she clenched her fingers. Did I defend him to Charis? That was foolish of me, wasn’t it? “Don’t you call Goose an idiot!”
Arlin shrugged. “Why not? It’s what he is.”
“What he is,” she said, teeth gritted, “is my friend and a dear, good man.” She swallowed, fighting tears. “What happened to him, Arlin? How did he come to this sorry state?”
“He was a vessel. He held a sundered piece of Morg.”
Oh, Barl’s mercy. Only—“Are you sure? He’s not dying. He’s not…”
“Putrid? No,” said Arlin. “It wasn’t for very long, and it wasn’t a big piece.” His turmoiled eyes went dark. “Fortunately for him. You’ve seen what hosting a big piece for more than a day or two will do.”
He was standing so still. She could hardly see him breathing. And Goose stared at him so strangely, a little afraid, a little anxious. Muddled between the two an odd kind of trust. But she didn’t have time to think about that.
“Are there any others here?” she said. “From the first expedition? Or is Goose the only one?”
“Pintte’s dead,” said Arlin, curtly brutal. Goose whimpered at the sound of his name. “The others annoyed the Master, so he turned them into beasts. Which is a kind of living, I suppose. Oh—and Sarle Baden’s dead too. He was Morg’s host for a while, until your brother and I found him.”
He wasn’t going to make her cry. Nothing he said was going to make her cry. “And I s’pose you arranged for the sorcerer to exchange Baden for Rafe, and not you?”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was Morg’s decision.” Shadows danced across Arlin’s face. “Believe me or don’t believe me. I don’t care. But it’s the truth.”
Oddly, she did believe him. He was hateful, he’d always be hateful, but she knew she’d not been wrong about him in that terrible chamber. Arlin Garrick was a deeply troubled man.
“Arlin—what am I doing here?”
The question made him laugh. It was an awful sound, full of sick despair and fury. Flinching, Goose hunched his shoulders and whimpered. Arlin paid no attention.
“I thought perhaps you could tell me, Deenie,” he said. “And tell me this, while you’re about it.” He took a step towards her, his pallid face and dreadful eyes intent. “How did you escape Lur? You can’t have crossed the mountains. Not you. And there’s no way past the reef. Was it that Doranen incant Rafel used to send those idiot councillors back to the city? Is that how you did it? Tell me!”
She didn’t even try to hide her mean triumph. “Actually, Arlin, I did get past the reef.”
His eyes widened, and his throat convulsed in a swallow. “Liar.”
“Suit yourself,” she said shrugging. “But you asked.”
“You broke the reef?” he whispered. “You? An Olken?”
“I don’t know if I broke it, Arlin.” It’s more likely the reef broke me. “But I tamed the ’spouts and the whirlpools and sailed past it into open water. You keep forgetting I’m not just any Olken. I’m Asher’s daughter, remember?”
“And Asher couldn’t break it,” Arlin spat, livid with resentment. “Rafe
l’s his son and he couldn’t break it. My father couldn’t break it with the best Doranen mages in Lur! And you stand there with the gall to claim that you—that you—”
Goose was whimpering again. Ignoring Arlin’s near-incoherent outrage, Deenie took Goose’s hand in hers and stroked it until he calmed.
“How?” said Arlin, once he’d mastered himself. “How did you do it?”
Turning away, she smiled at Goose. He tried to smile back—and that did make her weep.
“Why should I tell you, Arlin?” she said, letting her tears for Goose fall. “Telling you is like telling Morg, isn’t it?” She turned back to him. “Why don’t you tell me something? Do I still have a brother? Or did Morg kill Rafe, too?”
She thought Arlin would lie. She thought he’d say something taunting, something cruel. Instead he stared at her, silent. And as he stared his arrogantly handsome face emptied of all expression until it was pale and blank, like a fresh fall of snow.
“I wonder, Deenie,” he said at last, softly. “Is it possible to hate someone, yet not wish them ill?”
She smiled at him, fiercely. “Well, Arlin, I hate you—but I don’t particularly want you to die. On the other hand I do want Morg dead. So I might not be the best person to ask.”
Arlin nodded, his gaze drifting around the room. “I hate your brother, you know,” he said, after another long pause.
What was he playing at? What did he want? “Yes, Arlin, I know.”
“I still can’t decide why,” he continued, as though she’d not spoken. “I can’t decide if it’s because I was raised to hate him, as an Olken, as Asher’s son, or whether I would have hated him anyway because he’s an arrogant shit. And even you have to admit, Deenie, he is an arrogant shit.”
She scowled. “It takes one to know one, Arlin. And even if he is, I don’t care. Rafe’s my brother. I love him.”
Nodding again, Arlin tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips. In the lamplight its heavy ruby ring winked and flashed. “Rafel’s not dead.”
Her eyes pricked with tears. There was no reason to think he would ever tell her the truth. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“So you could hurt me with the truth later, of course!”
Her raised voice upset Goose. Whimpering again, he raised a protective arm to his head. Arlin gave him an impatient look. “Idiot. Fool. No-one’s going to hurt you.”
“Don’t call him those things!” she said hotly. “Sink me bloody sideways, Arlin! You can say mean things like that and wonder why I won’t believe you?”
Incredibly, he almost smiled. “You sounded like Asher, then. Is he dead?”
“No, he’s not,” she said, waspish. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Arlin raised an eyebrow. “You mean, he wasn’t dead when you left Lur. But anything could have happened since then. For all you know Lur’s ripped itself to pieces with tremors and fallen piecemeal into the sea by now.”
Rage came on her so hard, and so fast, she couldn’t breathe. Shaking, she took a clenched-fist step towards him. Killing magic rose choking inside her. And because Arlin was a great mage he felt her seething, murderous power. He stepped back, his arrogant face stilled to a knife-edged wariness.
“Careful, Deenie. Kill me and you kill Rafel—and I don’t think Asher would be happy about that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Deenie stared at him, scornful. ��I’m not a noddyhead, Arlin. You’d say or do anything to save your life.”
His wary expression didn’t change, but a muscle ticced in his cheek, and in his watchful eyes the shadows shifted. She’d scored a point. She didn’t think she wanted to know how or why. It was enough that she could keep the poxy shit off-balance. She needed the advantage—and he deserved to squirm.
“Rafel was right,” he murmured. “You have changed, Deenie.”
“Really?” Ruthlessly she smothered a surge of hope. “So now you expect me to believe he’s alive and you’ve spoken to him?”
Arlin nodded. “Twice. Twice he’s been able to break free of Morg’s control and talk to me. The second time not long ago.”
“Oh, Arlin! How much of a noddyhead do you think I am?”
“Your brother’s in grave danger, Deenie,” said Arlin. “If you want to save him I suggest you stop fratching at me and listen to what I have to say, before it’s too late.”
I don’t have to kill him. I could just hurt him, a little bit.
The dreadful urge was almost overwhelming. Fingers clenched, she beat it back. At the very least she’d have to wait until he’d outlived his usefulness.
But after that, Arlin? I make no promises, I don’t.
“And why should I believe you care what happens to Rafel?”
Arlin smiled. It was ghastly. “Because as much as I hate your brother, Deenie, I hate Morg much, much more.”
“And why should I believe that?”
Silence, as Arlin’s ghastly smile faded. “You think because I’m Doranen I worship him? I despise him. He’s the reason my people lost their birthright, have been deprived of the power and glory that’s rightfully ours. He’s why we were cast out of this city, out of Dorana, and banished to exile in your pathetic little Lur. He ruined us, Deenie. He ruined you, too. Not that I care, but you should know I know it.”
She almost laughed in his face. “And that’s why you hate him? Not because he’s evil. Not because he’s cruel. Not because he’s a perverted monster who turns people into—into things. Into beasts. You hate him because he took away your magical toys. Oh, Arlin.”
With an impatient curse, Arlin turned away to pace the library. Goose, closely watching him, ducked behind the nearest reading table. Deenie shifted and shifted, not letting Rodyn Garrick’s horrible son out of her sight.
“And where is Morg now? What is he doing while you’re skulking in here?”
Arlin glanced up, as though looking through the library’s ceiling. “He’s in his eyrie, recovering. Every time he takes back more pieces of his mind—his soul—he retreats into a trance to reacquaint himself with himself.”
And did that explain why the sorcerer felt somehow muffled? In the heart of his domain, was that why she could hardly feel him?
“This trance—how long will it last?”
“Hours. We’ve time.”
Falling silent, Deenie watched Arlin pace and pace. Waited for her mage-sense to warn her of treachery. When it didn’t, she breathed a little easier.
“What do you want, Arlin?”
“What you want,” he snapped. “Morg dead.”
“Why? So you can take his place?”
Shocked, he blundered into the other reading table. “No.”
And oddly enough, she believed that. Arlin really had suffered. The twist of mage-sense that had gifted her—cursed her—with the ability to feel things that others couldn’t meant that even standing on opposite sides of this library, she could feel the raw, weeping places inside him. Lord Arlin Garrick was on the brink of breaking.
So here’s my choice, Da. I can push him and smile as he smashes to bits… or I can pull him back from the edge.
“Rafe said I’m changed, Arlin? What else did he say?”
For a little while he simply stared at her, as though he couldn’t believe she believed him. And then he sighed, the high, discordant note of tension in him easing, and gestured to the ranks of books around them.
“He said there are three books in this library that will help us defeat Morg.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Us. You can’t defeat him without me?”
A touch of colour in Arlin’s pale face. “I’m warded. My power is limited.”
Holding his gaze, she crossed the floor to stand before him. Lightly pressed her palm above his heart and opened her senses. Morg’s binding blight whispered sibilant in her unsettled blood.
“And so you are,” she said, letting her hand fall. “I could unbind you, but I’m not sure you
’d survive.” And then she smiled. “Besides. I think I prefer you on a leash.”
Arlin’s lips twisted. “Changed? Your precious brother doesn’t know the half of it.”
Had he felt Morg in her? Perhaps. It didn’t matter.
“The books are warded too,” he added. “I can’t break them.”
“But I can?”
Brimful of doubt, he pulled a face. “Rafel thinks so.”
He wasn’t lying about Rafe… but he wasn’t telling the whole truth, either. Grief and fear churned her, ’cause this was Arlin Garrick, who’d stood before the General Council and accused Da and Rafe of murder. Now he expected her to trust him? When scant hours ago she’d watched him stand beside Morg and not lift a finger as the sorcerer destroyed a score of innocent men and women with as much compunction as she’d swat a mosquito?
It’s not enough that he’s tormented for it. It’s not enough that he’s bound. He should have done something. He should at least have tried.
Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, because Arlin frowned. “Deenie, what you saw in that chamber—it was terrible, I know. But you must understand, if I’d ever tried to save one of those rotting vessels, if I’d tried to dissuade Morg from seeking to restore himself to himself? I’d be dead. And you’d have no chance of defeating him.”
It galled her to admit it, but Arlin was right.
And I didn’t do anything to save them, did I?
Somewhere above her, Rafel was trapped in a prison of his own flesh and bone. Below her Charis and Ewen and his barracks men were trapped in a different kind of prison. Far away in Lur, in Billington, Da was trapped too. The whole known world was trapped… and it needed her to free it. All she had to do was trust Arlin Garrick.
Barl’s tits.
She pressed a hand to her eyes, willing the pain and dismay to retreat. Then she looked at Arlin, showing him nothing but a grim resolve.
“You said we could save Rafe before it’s too late. Is he dying?”
