by Karen Miller
Gar’s lip curled. “Maybe not. But you’ve got it.”
“And you’re so jealous you could spit, ain’t you? Well, damn you, Gar,” he said at last, and wheeled Cygnet away.
Gar spurred Ballodair forward, blocking his escape. “I’m sorry,” he said harshly. His face was filled with a monstrous pain. “You must understand. I thought I was my father’s son in more than name, but I’m not. Oh Asher, don’t you see? You have to help me. If it’s discovered I’ve lost my magic, there’ll be chaos!”
“And if it’s discovered I found it, there’ll be chaos anyway! Not to mention an execution!”
Gar shook his head. “That won’t happen.”
“Why?” he sneered. “Because you’ll protect me?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! Like you protected Timon Spake?” It was a low blow, but he didn’t care. As Gar recoiled, silenced, he jerked Cygnet back a pace. “Don’t ask me to use Weather Magic again, Gar. I can’t do it. I can’t.”
Recovered, Gar ignored him. “Barl’s Wall cannot survive without it. And if the Wall falls this kingdom and all the innocent people in it will be destroyed. Is that what you want?”
“I ain’t the only one who can do it! There’s Conroyd Jarralt, for a start. And he’s Doranen. He’s supposed to!”
Gar’s face twisted. “Oh yes. King Conroyd: a thought to ice the blood. But there are others, too, with sleeping dreams of majesty. If my failure is made public wild ambition will rule the day and we’ll be wading hip-deep in blood before the week is out. Trust me, Asher. I’m an able historian and I know what the promise of power can do.”
Asher’s fists were clenched so hard on the reins that his gloved fingers were going numb. “So... don’t tell me. Let me guess. You want to go on wearin’ the crown while I take care of the WeatherWorkin’ ? Is that the plan?”
Gar looked him full in the face. “I’m desperate.”
“Well, I ain’t! And I ain’t scraddled in the head neither! You’d never keep this secret, Gar! Sooner or later folks’ll notice you ain’t doin’ magic in public any more. There’ll be talk. Questions. Polite at first, but in the end they’ll be demands. The truth’ll come out, and when it does I won’t be the only Olken in strife! You can’t ask me to put all my people at risk. You can’t!”
Silence. Gar stared again at the bleak and dreary moor. Asher, slowly freezing to his marrow, tucked his fingers into his armpits and waited. A sparrowhawk soared overhead, wings outstretched. Spying something amongst the grassy tussocks below, it abruptly halted, feathered wing-tips snatching at the clear bright air. A plummeting dive, a shriek of triumph and it wheeled away again, death dangling from its talons.
“You’re right,” said Gar at last, rousing from reverie. “We can’t keep it secret forever. But we can keep it secret for a month.”
“And what good’ll that do?”
“Asher, your people weren’t safe during Trevoyle’s Schism. Hundreds died. And if the kingdom schisms again, hundreds more will join them. Maybe thousands, this time. You can stop that. In a month I should be able to read every medical and magical text we have, to see if there’s a cure for what afflicts me. There might even be something in Barl’s lost library. I never got the chance to look through it completely.”
“So you’re saying there’s a cure now?”
Gar shrugged. “There might be.”
“And if there ain’t?”
Another shrug. “If by the end of a month I’ve failed to find a remedy, or if Durm is still unconscious—or dead— and can be no help at all, I’ll go to Conroyd and Holze. Tell them my magic has failed. Name Conroyd king and Holze the new Master Magician. Conroyd will receive the Weather Magic, undertake his first WeatherWorking and then be publicly presented as king. No uncertainty. No schism. No death.”
A month. Rain and snow and blood. Magic. “Don’t wait,” he said, his belly churning. “Do it now.”
Gar shook his head. “Not while there’s even the slimmest hope I might still keep this kingdom from Conroyd.”
“Then choose someone else!”
“There is no one else.”
“Barl bloody save me!” he cried, and spun Cygnet about so he wouldn’t have to look at Gar’s quiet despair a moment longer. “I wanted to be a fisherman, Gar. I wanted nowt but a boat and the ocean and an open sunlit sky—”
“And I wanted magic,” said Gar. “Not every man gets what he wants, Asher. Most men just get what they’re given.”
Asher stared over the moor, unwilling to trust his voice. Afraid that a single word might shatter him entirely.
Gar said distandy, “I was going to be married. I was going to be a father. It’s funny, isn’t it, how you can tell yourself you don’t want something so often you actually begin to believe it.”
Crasthead Moor blurred. Anguished, he blinked it clear again. Found bis voice. “How can you ask me to do this?”
“How can I not?” said Gar.
It was a demand. A plea. A millstone around his neck.
He slipped his feet free of the stirrups and slid from the saddle. Dropped his reins and walked away, head down, boots squelching in the wet.
He’d always lived a dangerous life. A man went out at dawn, there was no saying he’d come back at sunset. Fishing was an unchancy way to spend your days. He’d grown up with that. Accepted that. He understood fishing.
But this? How could he understand this?
I got magic in my blood.
Where had it come from? How did it get there?
How do I get rid of it?
One sip of Weather Magic had been enough. No man should have that much power, not for any reason. Not even to do good. His bones still ached with the memory of it. With the glory, and the pain.
Behind him, the sound of boots thudding to the muddy ground. The slap and squelch of Gar approaching. A familiar, frustrating presence at his back.
He didn’t turn around. “What if I ain’t the only one, Gar? What if there’s other Olken like me?”
“Then I pray they stay safely hidden.”
“I’m scared!“ he said, and felt his gloved hands become fists. “So am I.”
Asher turned, then. Took a deep, hurting breath and let it out. Gar didn’t look scared. His face was a mask, all feelings smothered.
“If this goes wrong—”
Gar shook his head. “It won’t.”
“It might! And if it does—”
The mask slipped. “Then they’ll have to kill me too,” Gar said. His voice was low and shaking. “They’ll have to kill me first. I swear it, Asher. On the bodies of my father and my mother and my poor misguided sister. They will have to kill me first.”
Stirring words, honestly meant. He wanted to believe them. Gar believed them. But was that enough? If the unthinkable happened and this mad scheme was discovered, would the oath of a magickless king be enough to save him?
When he’d asked Gar’s dead father how best he could help, this wasn’t what he’d had in mind...
Gar said quietly, “Please, Asher. Do this. I think our kingdom is doomed if you don’t.”
For one long moment he forgot how to breathe. A terrible interior pressure swelled and swelled, dancing black spots before his eyes and threatening to crush his lungs. The desolate moor smeared red and orange and gold. He flung away from his tormentor, his friend, his king. Bent double, closed resentful fingers around a wet gray rock and hurled it into the melting distance. Hurled another, and another, and another, his bones vibrating with an incoherent rage. When he could stand it no longer he opened his mouth and screamed, bellowed, vented all his fear and fury into the wide, uncaring sky. And then stood there, his head bowed to his chest. Emptied and resigned.
Gar’s gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Thank you, Asher. I promise you won’t regret it.”
———
The return ride from the moor to the Tower stables was completed in silence. Back in the stable yard, Gar threw Ballodair’s r
eins to young Boonie and walked away. Asher watched him go, not the least sorry they were to be separated for a while. He needed time to think.
Jim’l offered to take care of Cygnet, but Asher refused. Good honest labor, that’s what he was after. Distraction, and sweat born of muscles, not magic. He returned Cygnet to his stable, untacked him, then collected a spare grooming box and busied himself with the soothing task of making the silver stallion beautiful.
Solitude didn’t last long.
“Have a good ride then?” Matt asked, leaning over the stable’s closed half-door.
He glanced up from untangling Cygnet’s tail hair by hah. “Aye.”
“You should go out more often. Cygnet needs the exercise, and you need the fresh air.”
“Aye, but when? Ain’t enough hours in the day as it is.”
“Early,” suggested Matt. “Before breakfast. It’ll give you an appetite.”
“Give me a heart spasm more like,” he said, briefly grinning.
Matt frowned. “That’s not funny. Asher, what’s wrong?”
He freed the last tangle in Cygnet’s tail and reached for a dandy brush. “Nowt.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Damn. Too sharp by half, was Matt. He made himself look up. “Nowt you can help with.”
“It’s a big job you’ve taken on, this Olken administrating,” Matt said after a moment. “Before, you could hide in the prince’s shadow. Now he’s king and you’re in full sunlight. If you’re not careful you could get burned.”
An observation too close for comfort. He swapped the dandy brush for a soft-bristled body brush and started scrubbing at the dried mud on Cygnet’s flanks. The horse swished its immaculate tail, and he thumped its rump in warning. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Matt, looking unhappy. “Just mind your step, will you? Don’t do anything stupid.”
What, like make it rain? To hide the thought he swapped sides from Cygnet’s left flank to his right. “Fuss, fuss, fuss. Ain’t you got work to do?”
Matt slapped the stable door. “Yes. I just wanted to tell you the horses to pull the royal hearse arrive sometime today.”
“His Majesty’ll want to inspect ‘em. Let me know when they get here.”
“Of course,” said Matt.
Alone again, Asher indulged himself in another half-hour of horse-primping then surrendered to the promptings of duty and returned to the Tower. Where Darran was waiting, armed with a four-foot-high stack of legal books and an evil smile.
In his weaker, less honorable moments, Asher found himself wishing that Darran had ... all right, maybe not died, but remained ill enough after his collapse for Nix to have made him retire. To the country. At the other end of the kingdom. And forbidden him long carriage rides.
“You got to be bloody joking,” he said, stopping in his office’s open doorway. “And that’s my desk you’re sittin’ at, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Darran unfolded himself from the chair. “I’ve taken the liberty of conferring with Lady Marnagh. Given the vexatious nature of the dispute between Indigo Glospottle and his guild brethren, and despite the fact you’re a jurisprudential ignoramus, we thought it wise to gazette the hearing for early next week. That’s after the funeral, and should give me enough time to prepare you adequately.” He sniffed. “Now kindly take a seat. We have a great deal of work to get through before—”
Asher slouched into his office. “Not we. Me. I can read, Darran, and I don’t need you turnin’ the pages for me. If I run into trouble I’ll ask Gar.”
Darran’s eyebrows lifted. “You can’t possibly bother His Majesty at a time like this! I will—”
“Mind your own business,” he said, and tugged Darran out from behind the desk. “He’s burying his family this Barl’s Day, Darran. Don’t you reckon he might welcome somethin’ else to think on?”
An expression of grudging acknowledgement crossed Darran’s face as he pulled his arm free. “Perhaps.”
“Glad you agree. Now if there ain’t anythin’ else—”
“There is. Apparently there are several matters pending at Justice Hall that require the attentions of a Master Magician. Lady Marnagh feels the issue is becoming... urgent. If you could mention as much to the king?”
Coward. “Aye,” he said, and sat down. “I’ll mention it. Now close the door on your way out.”
Alone at last, he eyed the pile of legal books with weary distaste. After the madness of Crasthead Moor he couldn’t be less interested in Glospottle’s pissy piss problems.
Barl save me. What have I done?
The office door opened, admitting Dathne. “I’ve finally settled that business with the Midwives,” she said, hanging her cloak and satchel on the corner coat rack. “I doubt we’ll have any more trouble now.”
He couldn’t remember what the problem was but smiled anyway. “Fine.”
“Ori—and His Majesty asked me to give you this.”
He leaned across his desk and took the note she held out to him. Cracked the crimson wax seal and read it.
See me. The crypt. Two hours after sunset.
Barl save him, what now? What else could there be for him to sacrifice on the altar of Gar’s desperate dedication to Lur?
Dathne was watching him closely. “Trouble?”
“No,” he lied, sliding the note into his pocket.
She dropped into the chair opposite his desk and nodded at the pile of books Darran had left behind. “A little light reading?”
“More like a recipe for headaches,” he said, and let himself look at her, just look at her. Since joining the Tower staff she’d unwillingly exchanged her comfortable bookseller cottons and linens for the suffer formality of silk and brocade. The expensive fabrics suited her. Brought out the sheen in her thick black hair and softened her lean angularity. Damn, she was so beautiful...
Even when she was frowning. “You’ve got a headache now, haven’t you?”
He rubbed his throbbing temple. “Does it show?”
“Only to me.” Returning to her satchel, she rummaged for a moment and withdrew a small stoppered pot.
“No potions!” he protested. “You’re as bad as bloody Nix. Just you keep away from me with that muck.”
Affectionately scornful, she moved to stand behind him. “Gossoon. It’s a salve, not a potion. Now be quiet.”
The smell from the pot as she unstoppered it was almost pleasant, hinting at mint leaves and honey and other things, unknown but soothing to the senses. Her ointment-smeared touch on his skin was a benediction, a tingling taste of what could be. Should be.
Would be, if fate just once was kind.
Kneading, stroking, her strong and supple fingers smoothed his temples, his neck, slipped inside his shirt collar to flirt with his shoulders. “You’re so tense,” she murmured. “No wonder you’ve got pains ...”
He sighed and let his head fall back to rest against her blue brocade chest, soft and welcoming: a pillow long desired. Her fingers roamed freely, wandered upwards to dally through his hair.
“You’ll make me smelly,” he complained, drowsy and only a little serious. “Like that pissant Willer.”
A soft chuckle. Slender fingers waking fire. “Barl forbid. Now—”
A sharp rat-tat of knuckles on the office door. “Asher!” said Matt, barging in. “Those horses are—oh.” Foolishly he stood in the middle of the office, staring, and foolishly Asher stared back. Behind him he could feel Dathne stiffen.
“Asher’s busy, Matt,” she said, all amusement fled from her voice. “Go away.”
“Busy,” said Matt, still staring. “Yes. I can see that.”
Asher sat forward, a tide of heat washing through him. “I had a headache. Dathne was helping.”
The strangest look passed over Matt’s abruptiy pale face. “Yes, well, she’s a very helpful woman.”
“Matt!” said Dathne sharply. “Don’t you—”
Asher raised o
ne finger and she fell silent. A miracle, of sorts. He stood. Stared Matt full in the face. “That’ll do. Horses in good fettle?”
Matt nodded. “They are.”
“Good. The king’ll come see ‘em directly. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Fine. Then you can go.” Another nod. “Very good. Sir.” Dathne broke the awkward silence Matt left in his wake. “I should go. More meetings. You know how it is. I’ll leave the ointment here, shall I? You can rub it in yourself if the pain returns.”
No, he wanted to cry. Stay. Tell me what you meant by this, tell me I ain’t dreamin’, tell me if you felt what I felt when you touched me.
“All right,” he said. “You have any trouble, you let me know. I got to make a start on these bloody legal books.”
Her smile was fleeting, and impish. “Good luck. If I finish my meetings in time I’ll help you with them, shall I?”
He shrugged. “If you like.”
“No promises, mind,” she warned.
No promises.
For some reason, the comment made him shiver.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The day dragged on, and at long last died in a fiery sunset. Dathne didn’t come back. He wasn’t hungry but he ate dinner anyway. Cluny would read him a lecture if he didn’t, then for good measure badger the cook into serving him a dessert of offended complaints and insulted imprecations. He didn’t have the stomach or the energy to hear them. His headache had returned with a vengeance.
See me.
Hiding in his private sitting room, he stared through the uncurtained window and watched the world outside dwindle into dusk, into darkness. Even the glow of Barl’s Wall seemed faded. Tarnished. Or was that just fear, pulling a deadening veil across his eyes?
See me.
When it was time he fetched a coat from his wardrobe, shrugged it on and let himself out of his apartments. The Tower was hushed. The faintest murmuring of voices drifted downwards from the staircase over his head: Cluny and her hardworking housemaid friends tending the stairwell candles. A door banged. Someone laughed Someone else shouted two floors down, sounding disgruntled. He thought it was Willer. With a sigh, needing support, he took hold of the handrail and began his reluctant descent. Slipped unseen from the Tower and made his way to the palace grounds.
