by Karen Miller
He managed a shaky smile. “It’s lost I thought I was, Tav, more times than I can count.” Then his smile faded. “Murdo’s dead, Swordmaster. I watched the sorcerer kill him.”
“Spirit,” Tavin murmured. “That’s not an ending worthy of him. Son, it’s sorry, I am.”
He’d held the grief at bay for so long, feeling it now somehow made it harder to bear. He let himself take comfort from Tavin’s comforting embrace. “You never did tell me what the rub was between you.”
“And I won’t,” said Tavin, letting him go. “It’s no matter now.”
No. It wasn’t. “Vharne held its own, did it, while I was gone?”
“Well enough,” said Tavin. “Son, what’s that you’ve done to your face?”
He touched fingertips to the puckered talon-scars. “Sliced myself shaving, I did.”
“Careless,” said Tav, going along with the joke. But his eyes weren’t laughing. “Seems you’ve brought a crowd home with you.”
“I have,” he agreed. “See that girl on the horse?”
Purse-lipped, Tavin looked. “I do.”
“That’s Deenie. She killed Morg, she did.”
“The sorcerer’s dead?” Tavin whispered. “Ewen—”
“He is, Tav. I swear it.”
“And she killed him?” Tavin’s mouth dropped open. “That girl?”
He laughed. “A word to the wise, Tav. She’s a mage, she is, and she doesn’t take kindly to being called girl.”
“A mage,” Tavin said blankly. “Boy, are you run mad?”
Well, he’d never thought Tavin would take kindly to this at first glance. “It’s a long story, Swordmaster. Cutting it quick, I’ll tell you now—she’s a mage, and her friend Charis in the cart is a mage, and so’s her poorly brother, Rafel, he’s in the cart with her friend, and his friend, Goose, well, he used to be a mage, and that snitty blond man driving the other cart? That’s Arlin Garrick, that is, and he’s a mage too. Only Tav? He’s Doranen.”
Tavin took a step back, hand shifting to his sword-hilt. “Is it Ewen, King of Vharne, you are? Or has the sorcerer sent me a changeling in his place?”
Slowly, deliberately, with one fist raised in a warning to Robb and the others, Ewen dropped to his knees in the road.
“I’m no changeling, Tavin. It’s Murdo’s son, I am, and Padrig’s brother. I’m the King of Vharne and you’re my beloved right hand. Look in my eyes, Tav. You’ll find the truth there, you will. Or if you can’t? Take my head. I won’t stop you.”
Tavin stared down at him in anguished silence, fingers clutching and loosening on his sword’s hilt. “A Doranen?” he said at last, looking ready to spit. “Where are your wits, boy? A Doranen in Vharne?”
With his beast-clawed hip hardly paining him at all now, Ewen stood easily enough. “I’d still be kneeling before the sorcerer if it wasn’t for him. Ride easy, old man. There’s a lot more to tell, there is.”
“That’s as may be,” said Tavin, glaring past him at Arlin Garrick. “But do I want to hear it?”
He kissed Tavin’s stubbled cheek. “No. But you will, Tav. For me.”
They rode for the castle side by side, leaving the others to follow in their wake. And as they rode he told Tavin most of what had happened since the day he left the Vale, and after that he explained what he had planned for the kingdom, and was patient as his swordmaster protested and swore and cursed him and argued. But in the end Tavin gave in, because he wasn’t a foolish man and he knew, like it or not, what Vharne needed most.
“Only is it sure, you are, Ewen, I’m to have that girl mage me?”
Ewen shrugged. “Tav, I told you, the spell’s on me and it’s on Robb and Hain and the others, it is. It doesn’t hurt. And you’d best believe it makes life less tricky. Besides, if it’s leaving Charis and Rafel and that poor Goose behind with you, I am, what’s the good of you never understanding a single word they say?”
Casting a glance over his shoulder, Tavin grimaced. “And it’s bound to leave them behind you are, is it?”
“You won’t ask me that once you clap eyes on Deenie’s brother. He’s not fit for more travelling. Tav—” He couldn’t hide the shiver. “I thought what Padrig and the king suffered was bad, I did. And it was. It was bad. But Rafel?” Another shiver. “I’d rather burn alive than live through that, I would. He never stopped fighting Morg, Deenie says. No matter how the sorcerer hurt him, he stood firm. The Doranen says it too, he does, and there’s no love lost there.”
“Another long story?” said Tavin, sounding sour.
“Most like. It’s heartsick for her brother Deenie is, and I can’t see a thing to be done for him.”
Riding through the afternoon’s shadows, between the High Vale’s green fields, home, Tavin thought about that. Then he raised his straggled eyebrows.
“So. It’s tumbled into love with this Olken mage girl, have you?”
He’d not said a word about love. “Charis?” He showed Tavin his horror. “That scold? Bite my head off soon as look at me, Swordmaster, she would.”
And that bit of play-acting earned him a stern look. “Ewen.”
He should’ve remembered who he was talking to. “And if I am in love with Deenie?” he said quietly. “That’s tricky for you, is it?”
Tavin grunted. “Expect me to answer when I’ve not swapped three words with the girl, do you?” He rubbed his chin. “Son, if you love her she’s a girl worth loving, she is. But that doesn’t make her any less of a mage. And what the Vale will say to it? To any of it? That’s a puzzle, that is.”
“The Vale will smile about it, Tav,” he said, not in the mood to hear otherwise. “And so will the rough. Her people feel our spirit paths. There’s a meaning in that, I say.”
Tavin nodded, and didn’t say any more.
They rode in silence for a time, with the sun in their faces and the carts creaking behind them. Foolish Goose sang some ale songs in a cracked, deep voice.
“Charis thinks he’ll get Rafel talking, she does,” said Ewen. “Best friends they were, Deenie says. Good as brothers.”
“Sad it is, that,” Tavin agreed. “Son… what haven’t you told me?”
So many lonely weeks he’d lived through without Tavin’s rough guidance. He had to wait a moment, and just breathe.
“Deenie,” he said, making sure to keep his voice down. “She won’t tell me what happened when she killed Morg.”
Tavin let out a long, slow sigh. “And these secrets, boy. Mage secrets or woman secrets are they, do you know?”
“You’re asking if I trust her? Clap tongue, Tavin. That’s a stupid question, I say.”
Another sigh, impatient this time. “And if you trust her, boy, does it matter how long it takes her to tell you?”
“No,” he muttered, scowling.
“Then you clap tongue,” said Tavin. He pointed. “Look. You’re home.”
And there it was, bright in the distance, the king’s castle in the Vale, set on gently rising ground, its slate roof shiny in the sun. He lost sight of it through a blur of tears, lost the sound of horses and cartwheels in the pounding of his heart.
Spinning his nag on its haunches, he kicked it back to Deenie. She was driving her brother’s cart now.
“What is it?” she said, startled. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head, close to laughter. “Give the cart to Charis to drive and climb on behind me.”
Nimble, she handed over the reins, slid to the horse and closed her arms around his waist. As he urged their nag back into a canter, clattering down the road past Tavin without a pause, she leaned a little sideways.
“We had a castle,” she said, over the horse’s drumming hooves. “It fell to pieces. So did my home.”
She’d not told him that before. For all the things she’d told him, there was still so much he didn’t know. Reins in one hand, he covered her fingers with his.
“Then we’ll find you a new home, girl,” he said. “One that can�
��t fall down.”
He heard her shaking, indrawn breath. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
She kicked their horse into a gallop.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ewen saw Rafel settled in the room that used to be his brother’s. And once he was settled, with a gentle “Find me if you need me, Deenie,” withdrew so she could sit some private time with him before she had to leave for Lur, in the morning.
“I’ll give Da your best love, Rafe,” she said, holding his cool, disinterested hand between her own. “He’ll be so pleased to know you’re on the mend.”
If he’s still alive. If I haven’t lost him too, along with everything else.
Rafe was sleeping again. Barl save him, he did so very little except sleep. And even when he was awake, he wasn’t really awake. He wasn’t Rafe. He was a wax doll who looked like Rafe.
And this is Morg’s revenge, I think. This is me and Da and Rafe punished ’cause we wouldn’t give in. Oh, Rafe.
His hair was clipped short again. Charis had done it, Arlin’s scissors held in trembling fingers as she hacked and hacked and hacked. Hoping that with his hair Rafe-length again he’d look more like himself and less like Morg. And he did, there was no doubt.
Only it would be a long time before she’d forget Morg’s crimson marble dais in that black chamber, and the brain-rotted wanderers, and Ewen’s father as he died.
“It wasn’t you, Rafe. I know it wasn’t you,” she whispered. “But you were in there. You couldn’t stop him. And I know that’s why you won’t come back.”
Or it was part of why he’d not come back.
“I know you’re hurt, too. I know he hurt you worse than ever, at the end, ’cause of me. ’Cause I fought him. But I had to fight him, Rafe. You wanted me to fight him. And now I want you to fight. You have to fight, or else it’s just me. I know there’s Ewen, but that’s a leaky boat. Or it could be. I don’t know yet. Rafe, you can’t leave me alone. If you do, I’ll be so fratched…”
His eyes were closed. Was he listening, or sleeping? And if he was listening could he even understand?
Goose understood. Goose was getting a little better, she thought. Charis thought he was. And Arlin. So that was cause for hope. Though he’d never be Goose again, not the way he was. But she couldn’t complain. Not after Ewen’s father and brother. Ewen was pleased about Goose, for her sake, but she could feel the splintered pain in him whenever he looked at Rafe’s friend.
Every time he looks at Goose he feels his dagger thudding home in Padrig’s heart. He sees his father, dying.
And there was nothing she could do about that.
She lifted Rafe’s hand to her cheek and pressed it there, frighted. Would this be her life, now? Was she about to become her mother, trapped in a silent chamber with a man who’d never speak? Or would that fate fall to Charis, her best friend, so steadfast in her love?
Swallowing fresh grief, Deenie hid her face against her brother’s slowly rising and falling chest.
Please, Rafe. Please. You have to come back.
She heard the chamber door creak open. Thinking it was Charis, so there was no need to hide, she kept herself pillowed on Rafe.
“Deenie. I’m sorry to disturb you but I wanted a word.”
Arlin. She snapped up straight. Took a moment before showing him her face. “Yes?”
He closed the door. “It’s about returning to Lur.”
Arlin looked so peculiar dressed in borrowed Vharne leathers. The few clothes they’d travelled with from Elvado were rags, or nearly. They’d all been given castle or barracks clothes to wear. Discreetly inspecting him, dressed in her own barracks man trews and shirt, she hid a dry smile.
Leathers or velvet, he’ll always be Arlin.
“Yes? What about it?”
Standing just over the threshold, he was careful to keep his gaze away from Rafel. “Did you know Ewen—the king—intends on coming with us?”
Was there any use pretending in front of this man? She thought prob’ly not. He knew her, and she knew him, in ways that would never leave them comfortable.
“No.”
“Ah. Then if you don’t like it, I’ll refuse to take him.”
Why wouldn’t he look at Rafe? ’Cause he still saw Morg, even with the long hair gone? ’Cause he still blamed Rafe for so much, and couldn’t let it go? Or was it ’cause he blamed himself for Rafe’s suffering?
It’s all of that, I reckon. And there ain’t a thing I can do to help him, either.
She tipped her head a little. “You think I can’t use that fancy travelling spell, Arlin?”
“I have no doubt you could,” he replied. “But I thought it might be more comfortable if the refusal came from me. If you wanted to refuse.”
Dear Ewen. “I don’t.”
All those weeks on the road and not once had she and Arlin talked of what happened in Morg’s eyrie. Of what had happened before that, in the time he’d been Morg’s faithful servant.
Still holding Rafe’s hand, she sat back in her chair. “Is there anything you wanted to ask me, Arlin?”
Pale and silent, wearing rough leathers like silk, Arlin stared at her. Then he shook his head. “No.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Another headshake. “No.” His lips twisted in that small, bitter Arlin smile. “Anything you feel like telling me, Deenie?”
She looked at Rafel. “No.”
“Then I suggest you find your bed early,” he said. “It’s likely tomorrow will prove itself… grim.”
Charis did come in, soon after Arlin departed. Goose was with her, faithful shadow at her heels. “He’s still sleeping?”
Letting go of Rafe’s hand, Deenie slid from the chair. “Yes. Still.”
“You’re not to worry about him while you’re gone,” Charis said, taking her place at the bedside. Goose stood behind her, one protective hand on her shoulder. “King Noddyhead’s promised us all the soup and soft blankets we need. Goose and me, we’ll keep him safe. You see about your da, and about Lur. Deenie—” Her voice was shaking. “What are we going to do if it’s all ruined?”
She couldn’t bring herself to think on that. “I don’t know. Let’s hope it isn’t, eh?”
Leaving Charis and Goose to their vigil, she went in search of Ewen. A castle maid said His Majesty was in the Hall, but when she found her way there she only found his swordmaster, Tavin.
“Girl,” he said, not standing out of his chair at the rough-hewn table. Once returned to the castle he’d let himself be spelled to understanding. Hadn’t liked it overmuch. She thought he didn’t like her.
But Ewen loves him, so…
“Swordmaster,” she said politely. “I’m looking for Ewen.”
A grizzled bear of a man, he was, with scars and memories she didn’t want to share. “He’s not here.”
“Can I wait?”
“It’s a mage you are, girl,” he said. “Seems to me you can do what you want, I say.”
“Thank you.”
She crossed the Hall’s flagstones to the flame-leapt fireplace and stood with her back to the welcome heat. Tavin pretended to busy himself again with his quill and parchment, but really he was watching her. The game lasted only a few minutes. Dropping the quill, not caring for splattered ink, he planted his elbows on the table and stared at her, unblinking.
“Just one thing I want from you, girl. One thing. If you give it me, we’ll untangle the rest as we go, I say. But if you don’t? If you can’t? Then we’ll be in the tiltyard, you and me.”
If she smiled, she’d offend him. He’d never accept she wasn’t mocking, only seeing an odd reflection in him of a fussy ole man who complained and stamped about and loved without reservation.
“Swordmaster,” she said, softly, “I’ll never hurt him. Not on purpose, any road. He’s in my heart, he is.”
Ewen entered the Hall while Tavin was still staring.
She turned to him. “Arlin
says you want to come with us to Lur.”
“I do,” he said, cautious. “I was looking for you to talk on it.”
“There’s nothing to talk on. Come.”
Relaxing, he smiled at her—but beneath his smile she could feel pain. He wanted her to confide in him. He wanted her to tell him about killing Morg and the ways that had changed her. ’Cause it had, and he knew it. She knew it.
I just don’t want to say.
Instead she borrowed from Arlin. “I’m to bed, now. You shouldn’t stay up late either. The magic to get us home—to Lur, I mean—it’s powerful. Best you’re rested for it. And when we get there, well… I don’t know what we’ll find.”
He stopped her in passing, and lightly kissed her lips. Despite the salve, those talon-wounds in his face had scarred. Every time she saw them, she wanted to magic them away.
“Whatever we find, Deenie?” he whispered. “You’ll not bear it alone.”
And what they found was utter destruction.
“Arlin,” said Deenie, one hand pressed to her mouth, eyes flooding with shocked tears.
Though he’d never made a secret of his disdain for Lur, even Rodyn Garrick’s arrogant son looked shaken at the sight greeting them as they stepped out of magic and into Dorana City’s desolate Market Square.
Gaping holes. Ripped up, buckled cobbles. Piles and piles and piles of rubble. Bricks and tiles and glass and timber. The few buildings that had survived that last enormous tremor hadn’t survived the tremors that came after. Nothing was left standing. The air smelled rank and old and rotten. Storm clouds clotted the sky and beneath their feet, the soaked earth shivered. Not a soul stirred. Not a sound but their own breathing. Dorana City was abandoned.
“I don’t see any mageworking that can fix this,” Arlin said at last. “Not even Morg could have fixed this.”
Chilled to her marrow, Deenie banished grief. “No.”
Not Morg, or Rafel, even if he was himself. I doubt the three of us, Rafe and me and Da, could fix this.
“Deenie…” Ewen slid his arm around her shoulders. “It’s sorry, I am.”
She shrugged free of him. She couldn’t risk his sympathy. Not now. She had to stay strong.
