by Karen Miller
They weren’t holding hands, not exactly. But their fingertips were touching as they tiptoed to the tack room and she was looking into his face with her unlocked heart in her eyes. He was grinning, happier than the City had eve seen him.
She waited as he slipped into the tack room and emerged a moment later with Cygnet’s saddle, saddle-cloth and bridle. The horse had recognized his step and was hanging over its stable door, ears pricked, nostrils fluttering a welcome. He saddled up and she draped herself over the door, watching. Giggling softly. Dathne? It was hard to believe. When he was done, she swung open the door for him and stood aside as he led Cygnet into the yard.
“Ride carefully now,” she admonished him, her voice hushed. “The kingdom needs its Olken Administrator in one piece.” Her hand was on his arm. There was something terrifyingly possessive about the simple gesture. She smiled, her expression wicked and suggestive and heartbreakingly intimate. “And so do I.”
His hand slid round her waist, down to her hips, down even lower, and he pulled her to him with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Stop fratchin’ at me,” he said. “Cygnet and me’ve been out early every morning this week and ain’t come to harm. It’s the only time I get to m’self these days, and I ain’t about to give it up.” He nipped at the soft skin between her jaw and throat. “Not even for you.”
Their kiss was molten, passion unleashed. Matt watched it, despairing. There wasn’t enough common sense in all the kingdom to douse this. When they parted Dathne stepped back, unsteady on her feet, and Asher was flushed.
“Now get away from me, woman,” he said, throwing the reins over Cygnet’s head, “afore I go off like a rocket. I’ll see you back at the Tower sharp at nine.”
“Yes,” she said. “There’s the rest of Tevit to get through today.”
“Sink Tevit and his bloody Principles of Jurisprudence” said Asher, grinning. He swung himself into Cygnet’s saddle and sat there, staring down at her. “I love you.”
“And I you,” she replied. “Now go if you’re going. Matt and the lads will be downstairs any minute.”
She watched him ride out of the yard, then turned to leave through the main entrance’s archway. Her face was shuttered again, closed down and self-contained. Matt took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.
“Dathne.”
Startled into silence she stared at him. Then: “Matt. You’re about early. And stealthy, too. You should mind where you creep, my friend. You might give some poor soul a seizure.”
Closing on her, he took her upper arm in his callused fingers. “Are you mad, Dathne? Have you abandoned all sense? You’re futtering with him?”
She jerked her arm from his grasp, glaring. “I’m married with him. It’s not futtering when you’re married, Matt.”
“You’re married...” Speech failed him. Aghast he looked at her, this sudden stranger, and struggled to find the words. “Dathne—”
The door leading up to the staff dormitory flew open and the chattering stable lads tumbled into the yard. “Not out here,” she said grimly, and stalked to the office. He followed her inside and closed the door behind them.
“You’re married with him,” he said, despair reducing his voice to a whisper. “Does Veira know?”
“Not yet.”
“Why, Dathne?” he asked her. “Why did you do it?”
“Because I had to. Because I need him bound to me, body and soul. He’s holding something back, Matt. Something important. I must know what it is.”
He collapsed into the office’s dilapidated armchair and rubbed his hands across his face. “You are mad. You told Asher you loved him, Dathne. I heard you.”
Her cheeks tinted pink. “That conversation was private.”
“Dathne! Love won’t save you when he finds out you’ve used him!” Outrage and dismay churning through him, he pushed to his feet and began pacing the small office. Outside in the yard the horses were neighing and banging their stable doors, demanding breakfast The lads laughed and joked, gravel crunching beneath their boots and buckets rattling as they crisscrossed from feed room to stables and back again. “When did you marry?”
She was watching him closely, chin up, arms folded across her chest. “Last night.”
“Who witnessed? Holze?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before she answered “Nobody.”
“Nobody?” he said, incredulous. “You mean you just exchanged vows with each other? No Barlsman? Whose crazy idea was that?”
The heat in her cheeks deepened. “Mine.”
He wanted to scream. Stamp. Throw mugs at the wall and watch them shatter. “Of course it was. Dathne, you?re a fool! If there wasn’t a Barlsman then you aren’t married and it is futtering and if anybody finds out—”
“They’ll only find out if you tell them!” she retorted.
“Save your breath, Matt. It’s done and you can’t undo it. And I was right. Whatever he’s hiding, he almost told me last night.”
“Before or after you futtered him?” he said bitterly.
She slapped him, hard enough to burst stars before his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
His face throbbed, but he ignored the pain. “You say I’m your compass, but what good’s a compass if you don’t follow its directions? Ever since he came here I’ve said he should be told.”
“And he will be!”
“But only when it’s too late! After this, after what you’ve done, when he finds out the truth he’ll spit on you and walk away!”
“No, he won’t.”
“Yes, he will. He’ll walk away and Prophecy will fail and our lives will’ve been for nothing!“
There was fear in her face now, crowding out her defiant anger. “You’re wrong. He understands duty, Matt. And sacrifice. He wouldn’t be the Innocent Mage if he didn’t!”
“He may be the Innocent Mage, Dathne, but he’s also a man! He’s a man before he’s anything else, and if you think a man can so easily forgive this kind of betrayal then it wouldn’t matter if you’d futtered a hundred Ashers, you’d still be an ignorant girl!”
He was ready for her this time and caught her wrist before her hand reached his face.
“Let go of me,” she said, her voice a deadly whisper.
“Dathne—”
“No!” Her eyes were glittering. “It’s over, Matt. You’re no use to me any more. I’m telling Veira you’ve stepped aside. Can I trust you’ll hold your tongue? Say yes. You must know by now there’s nothing I won’t do in the service of Prophecy.”
“No,” he whispered back. “Nothing. Not even strumpeting yourself.”
The office door swung open and in walked Asher, talking all the while. “You in here, Matt? There’s half a tree come down on the fence round Crooked Paddock and all the three year olds are out. Thought I’d best ride back and warn you, seein’—” He stopped, all friendliness freezing. “What’s goin’ on? Dathne?”
Before she could answer, Matt turned on him. “And you! Are you as mad as she is? You’re the Olken Administrator! Don’t you know what scandal there’ll be if you’re found to be futtering out of wedlock with your assistant? Not even the king will save you then!”
Incredulous, Asher stared at Dathne. “You told him?”
“He saw us.”
“No, he didn’t,” said Asher, and slammed the office door. “He didn’t see nowt. He don’t know nowt. And if he values his bones unbroken he’ll let go of you right now.”
Matt released Dathne’s wrist and stared at the livid white marks his fingers left on her flesh. “Tell him you made a mistake, Dathne. Please. Tell him everything.”
“What everything?” said Asher. His expression was ugly. “What’s he on about, Dath?”
She stepped forward, barring Asher’s progress. “Nothing. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. We were just talking.”
He didn’t believe her. Gently he pushed her aside and came closer. Matt made himself meet his friend’s unforgiv
ing eyes. “I asked you once if you had feelings for Dathne,” said Asher. “You said no. Seems to me you lied, Matt.”
He turned to her. “For Barl’s sake, Dathne—”
“I’m sorry, Matt,” she said, and threaded her arm through Asher’s. Her eyes were pitiless. “I wish I could care the way you want me to, but it’s Asher I love. Not you.”
“Dathne!”
“Look, Matt,” said Asher, voice and face thawing slightly, “I’ll make this easy on you. You’re dismissed.”
He stared, stupid as a scarecrow. “I’m what?”
“Dismissed,” said Asher. “Let go. Relieved of your duties. I’m reassigning you to His Majesty’s stud farm down the Dingles. I’ll get Ganfel from over the palace stables to step in for now. He’s a good man with horses, he’ll see the place don’t fall apart till I can decide who’ll take over here.”
He shook his head. “You can’t—”
“I can,” said Asher. “I have. It’s done.” Still, he couldn’t believe it. “But... but...”
“It’s done.”
There was no fellowship in Asher’s face now. No amusement or warm understanding. Matt wasn’t sure he knew this man at all. “I thought we were friends.”
Asher smiled. Stepped closer and lowered his voice. “We are. Which is why you’re walkin’ out of here on your own two legs.” The smile vanished. “You put your hand on her in anger, Matt. Ain’t another man in all this ( kingdom who’d do that and walk away.” He stepped back again. “Now, why don’t you go see to them pesky sightseein’ three year olds, eh? After that you can report to Darran. He’ll help you with the particulars of gettin’ resettled down to the farm.”
Matt turned again to Dathne. “You’re just going to stand there and let him—”
“I’m sorry, Matthias,” she said. She never called him Matthias. “I do believe it’s best this way.”
Her denial of him hurt worse than Asher’s anger. Almost, he opened his mouth and blurted out the truth and Jervale’s Heir be damned. But he couldn’t do it. He’d sworn a sacred oath to obey her... and he’d keep it, no matter what that cost.
“What if I fight you?” he said to Asher in a strangled whisper. “I could fight you.”
Asher shrugged. “You’d lose. I never came to this dratted City lookin’ for power, Matt, but it seems I ended up with it anyways. Ordinarily I ain’t one for throwin’ my weight around but for this I’ll make an exception. Dath’s right, even if you don’t see it now. And you’ll do fine down in the Dingles. Maybe you’ll not be as high up the ladder there as you are here, but you’re young yet. You’ll manage.”
You’re young yet, from a man six years his junior. Feeling like he’d been turned to solid wood, he nodded again. “Yes, sir.” He allowed himself a pinch of sarcasm. “Thank you, sir.”
Asher’s eyes narrowed. “Off you go then.” Without looking back, without saying another word, he went.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Darran and Willer were already at work in their office when Asher returned to the Tower, his hopes of a morning ride dashed to pieces. Cluny and her housemaid friends bustled about the foyer, putting fresh flowers in the vases, straightening the paintings on the walls. They dimpled and curtseyed as he strode in. It wasn’t their fault he was in a killing mood, so he smiled and nodded and pretended not to notice the wary surprise in their eyes.
“Asher!” Darran called as he pounded up the stairs on his way to change clothes. “A moment, please!”
“I’m busy,” he called back without stopping. “I’ll be down directly.”
A scuttling of footsteps behind him. A plump hand, plucking at his sleeve. “Darran says it’s urgent,” Willer gasped. “It’s about the weather.”
He pulled his arm free. “What about it?” There was definitely something .. . furtive ... about Willer these days. He smiled too much, and in the wrong way. His familiar belligerence was drowned in sugar syrup and yet somewhere beneath the sticky sweetness a sharpened knife blade glinted, waiting. These days Willer put his teeth on edge in a whole new and unpleasant way.
“Please come,” the sea slug said, his eyes wide and earnest. “Darran needs you.”
And thanks to yet another promise to Gar, what Darran wanted Darran got, all in the name of nauseating bloody unity. Swallowing a string of curses, Asher followed Willer back down the stairs and into the secretary’s office. “What?”
Darran looked up from his desk. The sun had barely started its long slow crawl up the sky and there he was, crisp and shaven and immaculate in black, distressingly healthy, surrounded by ink pots and parchments and piles of important papers.
“As a matter of urgency I require the new Weather Schedule,” he said. No “good morning,” or “sorry to interrupt you,” or any such common-and-garden pleasantries. Bloody ole crow. “And a firm idea of how often His Majesty intends to prepare one. The palace informs me the late king drafted the weather patterns some six weeks in advance. Does His Majesty intend to maintain the same routine? Or does he anticipate an alteration? If so, I must know. I’m getting messages from all over the kingdom wondering when the next schedule will appear. People are agitating, Asher. I would much prefer they didn’t.”
“Ask Gar. It’s weather business, that is,” said Asher. “Ain’t none of my nevermind.”
“I’m making it your nevermind,” said Darran, and not without a gleam of malicious pleasure either, the miserable geezer.
“Sink me bloody sideways,” he muttered. His head was aching already and dawn was only five minutes ago. “All right. When I get a minute I’ll—”
“Now,” said Darran. “If you please.”
Clearly, there was no escape. And anyways the ole crow was right, drat him: the last thing Gar needed was widespread agitation over a delayed Weather Schedule. That’d suit Conroyd bloody Jarralt right down to the ground, that would.
Willer was goggling at him, fat lips pursed in a smile. He scowled. “What are you bloody lookin’ at, eh?”
Willer’s smile widened. “Why, nothing at all, Asher. I promise.”
“Well, go look at it someplace else. You’re makin’ me seasick!” And on that mildly satisfying note he headed for the door... only to turn back halfway, remembering. “Matt’s transferrin’ down to the Dingles stud farm, Darran, Draft me a letter of recommendation to sign, would you? Lots of compliments. And send a runner to the Treasury so’s he can take his money with him, and one to the palace for Ganfel to take over just now.”
Darran exchanged a surprised look with Willer. “Matt is leaving? Why?”
“Personal reasons. Nobody’s business but his own. I’ll tell the king. No need for you to bother him about it. He don’t need to be fratched with anythin’ else just now. Right? That means you too, Willer. Not a bloody word.”
Frowning, Darran said, “Willer knows the meaning of discretion as well as I do, Asher. Matt’s departure shall not be mentioned outside this room” He sighed. “But I think it a great pity. His Majesty’s very fond of him.”
Asher felt a stab of pain. And so was I fond of him, before he laid hands on Dathne... Then he shrugged, and continued to the door. “Folk move on, Darran. You can’t hold onto ‘em.”
He overtook Cluny on the last flight of stairs up to Gar’s suite. She was carrying the king’s breakfast tray, and dimpled when she saw him.
“Morning, Asher.”
The wafting aromas of bacon, fried potato, scrambled eggs and hot bread teased his empty stomach and doused his mouth with saliva. “Morning. Want me to take that up for you?”
“Oh, would you?” said Cluny, pink-cheeked and grateful. “Only we’ve a maid with the collywobbles and there’s ever so much to do.” She thrust the covered breakfast tray into his hands, dimpled again, enchantingly, and flew back down the stairs. Despite all his aggravations, he smiled after her. He liked Cluny. A lot. If it hadn’t been for Dathne ...
His blood stirred, thinking of her. We’re married... we’re married! Thin
king of all they’d done the night before and soon would do again, he hoped. With that warm pleasure to sustain him, crowding out all dark thoughts of Matt, he headed on up the stairs.
Gar was in his library, barricaded behind towers of books. Asher kicked the door shut behind him and wandered over to stand in front of the desk.
“Breakfast.”
Gar grunted and kept on working. Asher sat down, tray in his lap, uncovered a plate and filched a crispy slice of bacon. Kicking his boot heels onto a handy table he sat back with a sigh, crunching. Then noticed what was different about Gar’s crowded, chaotic library.
There was a new painting on the far wall.
Well. Not new new. But new to the Tower. Sucking bacon grease from his fingers he studied the enormous portrait. The royal family stood beside a spreading djelba in full bloom; the velvet pink petals looked real enough to touch. Behind them the pristine white walls of the palace, jeweled windows glinting in the sunshine. And behind the palace Barl’s Wall, soaring triumphantly into the cloudless sky. It was a masterful painting, commissioned from one of the kingdom’s finest Doranen artists. Lord Someone-or-other. Short, skinny, busy fingers, temper like a sex-starved tomcat. Bracan.
He’d caught his subjects seemingly between breaths. Borne was smiling, Dana seemed ready to laugh. Fane looked so beautiful it broke a man’s heart. Remembering them, he felt his throat close hard and tight Painted Gar stood beside his sister, one hand resting on her shoulder. Posed by Bracan, doubtless. You’d never catch them touching on purpose, unless it was to slap or stab. Gar was smiling too, but his eyes were sad. As though he knew something the others didn’t As though he could see the future, and was sorry.
“We were a handsome family, weren’t we?” said Gar.
Asher nodded, melancholy settling like a mist. “Aye.”
Gar turned away from the painting. “I miss them so much,” he said, his voice low. Unsteady. “Even Fane.”
“I know.”
“I just received word from Nix,” Gar said, and flicked a discarded note with one fingertip. “Durm is awake again and much improved. He’s asking to see me.”
