by Karen Miller
“Don’t,” said Gar, one hand swiftly raised. “I can’t afford your sympathy, Asher. Not now. Not yet.” He blinked. “Oh.”
“If you want to help ... then help me stay strong.”
“I can do that.”
A little of the bleakness eased from Gar’s face. “Thank you.” He pushed to his feet. “Now I must make myself presentable. The staff—”
“I got ‘em waiting downstairs. Will you make the announcement, or d’you want me to—”
“I’ll do it. Tell them I’ll be with them shortly, would you?” He pulled off his weskit and tossed it over the back of the armchair. “Give me ten minutes.”
Nodding, Asher slid off the windowsill. Started for the chamber door, hesitated, and turned back. “Gar...”
Impatient, Gar glanced at him. “What?”
Still hesitant, he took another step closer. Brittle or not, grieving or not, there were things Gar needed to hear. Things that couldn’t wait. “Nix may be a good pother, but he ain’t got the power to make a man live if his body’s hurt past healing. Or mend a mind that’s broken. I know this is hard, but—”
Gar paused in the middle of undoing his buttons, his eyes abruptly cold. “No.”
“You don’t know what I’m goin’ to say yet!”
“I know exactly what you’re going to say,” Gar replied, and returned to his unbuttoning. “The answer is no. I have a Master Magician.”
“Gar...” He closed the gap between them a little more. “I know Durm’s your family now, but you can’t let that make your choices for you.”
Gar stripped off his shirt and threw it at the chair.
Despite Nix’s stinking green ointment, his torso looked like a mad painter’s palette. “I’m not.”
“You are! You got to look at this the way the people will,” he insisted. “All your life they’ve known you as Gar the Magickless. Gar the Cripple. And it never mattered because there was your da, and your sister, two of the best magicians this kingdom’s ever seen. The. smallest spratling in Restharven knew the kingdom was safe, because of them.”
“The kingdom is still safe!” retorted Gar, stung. “I am Gar the Magickless no longer!”
“I know, but it’s only been weeks! Weeks, Gar, after all those years. Folks have barely got used to the idea that you’re a magician, and now you want ‘em to see you as king? As WeatherWorker! You may be as powerful as Fane ever was, but you’re not trained. Not the way you should be. You said it yourself, Durm still had so much to teach you!”
“And he shall teach me,” said Gar, eyes bright with temper. “As soon as he recovers.”
“You don’t know he will!”
“And you don’t know he won’t!” snapped Gar. “Unless we are now to number physicking amongst your many talents!”
Asher shoved his hands in his pockets, sorry he’d ever opened his mouth. But he had, and it was too late now to take back what he’d said. “I ain’t the one holdin’ out little hope, Gar. That’s Nix. His words, not mine. You can’t pretend otherwise just because—”
“I’m not pretending anything!” said Gar, and turned his back. “And neither am I continuing this conversation. The subject is closed.”
Asher reached out, grabbed Gar by the arm and spun him around. “No, it ain’t. Like it or not, you have to face facts. You need a Master Magician. You can’t leap into WeatherWorking on your own, without some other trained magician to guide you. It’s too difficult. Too dangerous! You can’t—”
Gar raised a warning finger. “Say ‘can’t’ to me one more time and I promise you’ll be sorry!”
“Sorrier than if you charge pig-headed into Weather-Working and bring the Wall crashing down around our ears?” he said, ignoring the raised finger, and the dangerous light in Gar’s eyes, and everything save the need to make the fool see sense. “I don’t think so.”
“I have no intention of destroying Barl’s Wall!” retorted Gar. “Or of appointing Conroyd Jarralt my Master Magician!”
“You have to! Who else is there powerful enough to manage the job? You have to appoint him Master Magician, even if it’s only for a while! Until Durm gets better, since you’re so sure he won’t die or wake up an addled wreck. ‘Cause if you don’t, if you try WeatherWorking alone, without help, and somethin’ goes wrong, that more’n likely means you’ll be dead and Jarralt’ll be king and then what’ll the rest of us do?”
“Are you deaf?” cried Gar. “I will not do it! I have a Master Magician!”
“No, Gar! What you’ve got is a lump of bloody meat held together with catgut and pothering and prayers and you can’t—”
“Enough!” Gar shouted, livid with pain. His arm came up, fingers fisted—and the room was filled with furious power.
Asher felt the magic hit him. Felt it lift him and toss him like a bundle of kindling on fire from the inside out He flew backwards. Hit the bed. Bounced off it again, slammed into the wall, then slid into a crumpled heap on the carpet. Every sleeping bruise woke and started screaming. Deafened, he lay there feeling warm blood trickle from his nose, his mouth. Smelling scorched air. Beneath the pain there was fear.
Bleached white and still as stone, Gar stared back at him. Watched as he groped his way to his feet and half sat, half collapsed onto the bed. Watched as he touched the blood on his face and considered his crimsoned fingertips.
“Asher,” he said at last. “I—”
Asher lifted a hand and Gar fell silent. Turned on his heel and disappeared into his privy closet. There came the sound of water running into a basin. The opening and closing of a cupboard. Then he came out again carrying the basin and a soft white cloth. Closed the immeasurable distance between them and waited.
Silently Asher took basin and cloth and cleaned his face of blood. The sharp pounding pain subsided, but the fear remained. Translated slowly into anger. Still unspeaking, he handed back the basin and stained white cloth, stood and pushed past Gar to stand once more at the window. His bones ached. Looking outside he saw a horse and rider draw to a halt in the Tower’s front courtyard. Saw a liveried servant—Daniyal—appear and take the animal’s reins.
He knew that horse. Knew its rider, too.
“Pellen Orrick’s here,” he said, not turning around.
“Asher.. .”
“I’ll go down and see what he wants while you finish tidying yourself ready to speak to the staff. After that you’d best get over to the infirmary. See how Durm’s doin’ this morning. And Darran. The ole man’ll howl like a girl if you don’t make a fuss over ‘im, take him some flowers and a box of sweetmeats.”
“Asher...”
Still he refused to turn round. Couldn’t trust what his face might show. “Reckon that’ll be the first and last time you ever raise a hand to me, Gar. Reckon you do it again, with magic or without, and that’ll be the end of that.”
Subdued, his voice small in the large round room, Gar said, “Yes. Asher, I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
Now he risked revealing his face. Looked at Gar for long moments and saw that the prince’s contrition was genuine. He nodded. “You’re grievin’.”
“That’s no excuse.” He didn’t want to talk about it. Wanted to forget it had happened, forget that this Gar, magician Gar, wasn’t the man he’d made friends with in Dorana’s market square a lifetime ago. That this man was about to become a king, and contained in his fingertips the power to kill. “Anythin’ you need me to say to Orrick?”
Gar shook his head. In his eyes understanding and a reluctant acceptance. “No. Not that I can think of.”
“Fine,” he said, and headed for the chamber door. “Asher!”
He slowed. Stopped. Waited. “I’ll think on what you said. About Durm. And Conroyd Jarralt.”
“Good.”
“And I truly am sorry. It will never happen again, I swear,” He nodded, and kept on walking.
———
Pellen Orrick was waiting halfway down the Tower’s front steps. Immaculate and
self-contained as ever, the Guard captain looked at him closely and said, “Are you all right?”
“Aye,” said Asher, meeting his sharp gaze full-square. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” said Orrick after a brief hesitation. “Beyond the obvious, that is.” Beneath the spit and polish he looked weary. Sick at heart. “We got the family up safe and sound, just after dawn. Barlsman Holze took them to the palace directly. The infirmary.”
With an effort, Asher blotted out memory. Red blood and white bone and black flies, crawling. “No sign of Matcher, I s’pose?”
“I’m sorry.”
He’d known before asking. Had to ask anyway. “So, what now?”
Orrick shrugged. “Now we wait for the results of the physical examination. Holze, my men and I combed the accident site before retrieving the bodies, looking for any sign of tampering. Anything that could suggest that someone somehow sent the carriage over the Eyrie on purpose, with or without magic. We found nothing.”
“That’s good. Ain’t it?”
Another shrug. “That depends. People like explanations for things, Asher. That’s their nature.”
“I s’pose. Nix is lookin’ at the bodies now, you say?”
“Nix and Holze.”
“And they really can tell if there’s been magic used?”
“Holze says so,” said Orrick. He was silent a moment, inspecting the nearby treetops. Looking for crimes? Probably. The law was Pellen Orrick’s bread and butter and blankets. “He kept vigil all night. He’s a good man. A holy man. If we can’t trust his findings, and Nix’s, we’re all in trouble.”
“D’you reckon they will find anythin’?”
“No,” said Orrick, grimacing. “Borne was a great king. Revered by everyone. The queen was loved. Princess Fane respected, and accepted by all as the WeatherWorker in Waiting. There’s not a soul in Lur who’d want them dead.”
Asher looked at him sidelong. “Gar might.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me you ain’t considered the idea, Captain. Gar’s got his magic now. Might be he decided he’d make a better WeatherWorker than his sister and didn’t want all the folderol and kerfuffle of a schism over the matter.”
Pellen Orrick fell back a pace and stared at him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Asher, are you serious? Do you truly want me to consider His Highness responsible for this tragedy? Is it what you believe? Don’t forget, it’s only by Barl’s grace that he and the Master Magician survived!”
“Could be it was planned that way.”
Orrick seized his arm. “Asher, I charge you straight: if you have any proof or knowledge that this was no accident, you cannot stay silent. Was it deliberate murder? Tell me!”
Pulling free, he said, “I ain’t got the first idea, Captain. I don’t reckon so. But even if it was, there’s no way Gar were involved.”
“Not involved?” Orrick glared. “Then why in Barl’s blessed name would you—”
“Because I can think of at least one man who’ll say it’s possible!” he said. “Maybe even likely. Can’t you?”
Some of the angry color faded from Orrick’s face. His eyes narrowed and he folded his arms across his chest. “Lord Jarralt.”
“Exactly. And you need to be ready for him, Captain. He’ll stir up trouble if he can. Claim the kingdom needs a seasoned magician as WeatherWorker. And without Durm to stand behind Gar as the heir, things could get real nasty real fast.”
“What do you mean, without Durm? I’d not heard the Master Magician was dead.”
“He ain’t. Not yet, any road. But between you and me and the anchor, it ain’t lookin’ good. And Durm dead’d suit Conroyd bloody Jarralt right down to the ground. So I’m just sayin’, Captain. Keep your eye on him. Don’t let him bully you into makin’ a findin’ that suits him more than you or the kingdom.”
Now the faintest of smiles was curving Orrick’s thin lips. “For a fisherman, Asher, you display a remarkable grasp of politics.”
“Aye, well, I’m a fast learner,” he said, scowling.
“Speaking of His Highness,” said Orrick after an appreciative pause, “how is he this morning?”
He shrugged. “Fine.” Orrick’s eyebrows lifted. With an effort, silently cursing the Guard captain’s instincts, he smoothed his tone. “Grievin’, of course. Looks a bit the worse for wear, which is only to be expected. But he’s fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Pellen Orrick. “Because the kingdom needs stability, Asher. There’s nothing a man in my line of work likes less than a lack of stability. It tends to make people ... frisky.”
From inside the Tower came a loud lamentation, voices male and female raised in disbelieving shock and pain. Daniyal, still holding Orrick’s horse at a discreet distance, looked around, alarmed.
Asher winced, then sighed. “He’s told ‘em. Now we’re in for it.”
Orrick clasped his shoulder briefly. “I must get to the palace. With luck Holze and Nix will know by now if there was magical foul play. Will you tell His Highness the bo— his family is safely retrieved?”
Asher nodded. “Aye.”
“He’ll want to see them, of course. Tell him that provided Holze and Nix have finished their examinations, I have no objection.” Orrick frowned. “I hope Nix thinks to... put them to rights. His Highness shouldn’t have to see them ... like that.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “He shouldn’t.”
“Good morning then,” said Orrick. He collected his horse, mounted neatly, economically, and trotted away.
Daniyal came slowly up the Tower steps, looking to Asher for instructions.
“Go inside,” Asher told him. “The prince has news for you.”
Daniyal ran. Asher stayed on the Tower steps, letting the sunshine soak into his bones. Willing it to melt the shards of ice still chilling him to the marrow. Familiar footsteps sounded behind him and he turned.
“So. That’s done,” Gar said grimly. Dressed head to toe in unrelieved black, his hair had been confined in a tight plait. Black ribbon was threaded through the braiding. “What did Orrick want?”
Asher told him. Gar took the news in silence.
“You goin’ along to the palace now?” said Asher.
“Once I’ve eaten. You’ll join me?”
“S’pose,” he said, shrugging.
Gar’s icy expression fractured, revealed a churning of emotion. “I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve sworn it won’t happen again. What else do you want from me?”
What he wanted, Gar couldn’t give him. Nobody could. The dead were dead and couldn’t be brought back to life, nor an unfamiliar world made trustworthy once more. Gar was staring at him. Angry. Fearful. Uncertain. He shook his head. Smiled, just a little. “Griddle cakes, berry syrup and hot buttered toast.”
Gar’s face flooded with relief. “I think I can manage that. Come on. We’ll eat in the solar, quickly, and then go to the palace. There’s a lot to be done today.”
Aye, there was. And none of it pleasant. In silence, he followed Gar back into the Tower, where the housemaids were weeping and even Willer’s tongue was stilled.
———
One of Nix’s myriad assistants came forward to greet Gar and Asher as they entered the Royal Infirmary’s reception room. She bowed low then clasped her hands behind her back. The green badges on her collar, denoting her status as a fifth-year apprentice, winked in the bright glimlight.
“Your Highness.” Her voice was calm, her face smooth, polite, but there was a horrified sympathy deep in her eyes. “I’ll tell Pother Nix you’re here.”
She withdrew, and some moments later Nix joined them. He looked exhausted; Asher realized that the sagging, wrinkled blue robe he wore this morning was the same one he’d worn last night.
“Your Highness,” said the pother, and offered a perfunctory bow. “How are you this morning?”
“Well enough,” said Gar. “How is Durm?”
<
br /> “Still with us, sir. His will is extraordinary. I think any other man would have succumbed to his injuries by now.”
Some of the tension eased from Gar’s face. “Not if he had you as his pother. May I see him?”
“Perhaps later. To be truthful, there was some agitation during the night. We’ve got him quiet again, well dosed with calming herbs. I wouldn’t like to see our good work fly out the window quite so soon.”
“Agitation? Do you mean—”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Nix said, and pressed a hand to Gar’s arm. “No sign of awareness, as such. Just an excitation of the nerves. It’s to be expected, with this kind of injury.”
“I see,” said Gar, and cleared his throat. “Well, you know best, Nix. And you have my complete confidence.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my utmost to ensure it’s not misplaced.”
Gar nodded, and banished the last betraying emotion. “So. If I can’t see my Master Magician, can I at least pay a visit to my secretary?”
“Certainly you may,” said Nix, and smiled his relief. “Indeed, you’ll make the old gentleman’s morning.”
“He is well?”
“Well enough to leave us soon, I believe. If you’d care to follow me?”
As Nix moved towards a nearby corridor, Asher touched Gar’s elbow. “I don’t need to see Darran too, do I? Like as not one look at my face’ll drive the ole crow straight into a relapse and Nix’ll have my guts for garters. Why don’t I just go and—”
“No,” said Gar. “I’ve got something important to say to both of you, and I want you in the same room when I say it. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from Nix. Now come along. We don’t want to keep the good pother waiting.”
Swallowing a groan, Asher fell into step.
Darran had been removed to a small private chamber a short walk from the reception area. Propped up in bed and looking ridiculous in a pale pink nightgown, when he saw the prince the faint color in his cheeks faded altogether.
“Oh, sir! Sir!” he cried, struggling to throw back his blankets.
As Nix withdrew, closing the chamber door behind him, Asher propped himself against the wall and Gar moved to the bedside. “Lie still, old friend. Nix tells me you’re doing well and might even escape confinement later today—provided you do nothing foolish.”
