by Karen Miller
“What about Matcher’s widow?” said Asher. “She’s been sittin’ at home under guard since last night.”
For a moment Gar looked nonplussed, as though he’d never heard of the royal coachman. Then: “Yes. Of course. Dismiss the guards and present yourself to the lady, Asher. Extend to her my deepest sympathies for her bereavement. Assure her she need have no fears of hardship; there will be a generous pension. And thank her for her discretion in this delicate matter.”
Asher swallowed a groan. More grief, more tears ... “Aye, sir.”
With Durm indisposed, Gar continued, Barlsman Holze would announce his ascension to WeatherWorker that afternoon on the steps of Justice Hall, once the Barl’s Chapel bells had tolled for the late royal family. “While there is no question of my fitness or right to assume the throne,” he said, not looking at Jarralt, “the last WeatherWorker to die without first publicly declaring an heir was Queen Drea. That was more than two centuries ago. Therefore, above all, we must forestall any misgivings amongst the population: they should know their lives will continue in safety and prosperity, no matter whose head supports the crown.”
“An excellent idea,” Holze approved. “And what of your coronation?”
Gar frowned at his laced fingers. “Tradition dictates a WeatherWorker be crowned in the presence of his or her Master Magician.”
“Then it would appear,” said Conroyd Jarralt, smoothly, “we have a problem. Your Majesty.”
“Not yet we don’t, Conroyd.”
“But as you rightly point out, you cannot be crowned WeatherWorker without—”
“Yes, I can,” said Gar, glaring. “It’s tradition, not law.”
“That’s true,” conceded Jarralt. “At least as far as the coronation is concerned. However, it is stated in law that a WeatherWorker cannot rule without the guidance of a Master Magician. And while Durm draws breath today, each moment might be his last. Admit that much, at least Your Majesty.”
“I’d be a fool not to consider the possibility,” said Gar, his voice thin with leashed temper. “But that’s all it is: a possibihty. For the good of the kingdom I shall be crowned WeatherWorker at midnight on Barl’s Day after next whether Durm is revived or not. Two weeks after that I shall reconsider his position.”
Hungry as a hunting cat, Jarralt leaned forward. “Against all urgings and advice, Durm has neither named nor trained his successor. The choice will be yours.”
“He felt that to prematurely appoint his own hen-would be to invite ... unrest,” said Gar coldly. “There is historical precedent for his concern. My father was satisfied with the decision, therefore—”
“Your father did not foresee the current crisis. If he had, then we wouldn’t—”
“Conroyd!” said Holze, shocked. “Please!”
Gar raised a quelling hand. “It’s true our lives would be simpler had Durm made his choice before now. He didn’t. And as he still breathes I have no intention of replacing him or usurping his right to name his successor. At least not until I must. His life rests in Barl’s hands now, gentlemen. I suggest we wait and see what she intends to do with it before we visit this matter again.”
Holze cleared his throat, breaking the charged silence. “There is one other thing we should touch upon, if only briefly.”
“The funerals,” said Gar. “Yes. My family shall lie a month in state, Holze, in the palace’s Grand Reception Hall, so that all in the kingdom who wish to do so might pay their final respects. After that time they shall be interred privately in our house vault. Asher—”
He sat up. “Sir?”
“I’m charging you, Darran and Captain Orrick with the responsibility of arranging the public viewings.”
“Sir,” he said, and swallowed a sigh. He didn’t mind the prospect of working closely with Orrick. But with Darran! “What about the actual interment? You want me to—”
Gar shook his head. “I’ll worry about that. Holze, you and I will meet to discuss the matter.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Holze. “At your convenience, naturally. And your removal to the palace? When can we expect that?”
“The business of good government does not require my nightgown to be hung in a palace wardrobe,” said Gar. “When I am more accustomed to my new estate I shall revisit the matter of leaving the Tower. Not before.”
Holze, no fool, could recognize a door when it was slammed shut in his face. He nodded. “Certainly, Your Majesty.”
“And the Wall, Majesty?” asked Jarralt. “The weather, and its Working?”
“Aren’t matters you need be concerned with, my lord,” replied Gar. “Thanks to Durm’s prudence and foresight I have the necessary skills at hand.”
“But lacking a Master Magician, sir, and yourself... unpracticed, in the art of WeatherWorking, surely—”
“I am my father’s son, Conroyd,” said Gar. “I need no more qualification than that.” He stood. “Gentlemen, you have your assigned duties. Apply yourselves to their commission without further delay.”
Scrambling to his feet with the rest of them, Asher watched Gar leave the Privy Council chamber like a slender, haughty cat. Watched Conroyd Jarralt frown, wait a moment, then leave and turn out of the doorway to walk in the opposite direction. Watched Holze sigh, and smooth his unadorned braid with unhappy fingers, and follow Jarralt.
“So,” said Pellen Orrick once they were alone. “Meister Privy Councilor now, eh?”
He swallowed bile. “It weren’t my bloody idea!”
“I know,” said Orrick. “I saw your face when he said it.”
Resisting the urge to spit sour saliva on the chamber floor, he said, “About yesterday. Your findings. Was it really an accident?”
“Why?” said Orrick. “Do you doubt my competence now, along with our good Lord Jarralt?”
He scowled. “Course not. Just... it seems wrong, somehow, all those powerful magicians brought low by an accident.”
“I see,” said Orrick, amused. “Feeling a touch mortal, are you?” He shrugged. “Doranen die, Asher, just like we do. Their magic can’t protect them from everything. I’ve known Doranen who choked on a fishbone. Broke their necks falling down a flight of stairs. Drowned in their bathtub. Death has no rhyme or reason. It comes for us all, making up its own mind as to when and how.”
Still scowling, Asher scuffed at the chamber floor with his boot heel. “I know, but—”
“But you want it to make sense.” Orrick laughed. “I was right last night. You do have a guardsman’s mind.” Sobering, he stared out of a chamber window. “If you’re asking whether I think these deaths out of the ordinary, then yes, I do. But beyond that? I have neither reason nor proof to question Pother Nix and Barlsman Holze’s findings. Nor your innocence, or His Majesty’s, or even that of Lord Conroyd Jarralt, though as a man I find him ... distasteful.”
Surprised, Asher stared at Orrick. “That ain’t very discreet of you, Captain.”
Orrick stared back. “Why? Are you a tattle-tongue?”
He just snorted and shook his head. “Gar— His Majesty, I mean, he seems—”
“He’s a king without warning, Asher. A young man whose whole family has just died in violent, sudden circumstances. He wears his royalty like a suit of armor, to keep emotion at bay.” Orrick smiled then, mockery and sympathy combined. “Are you feeling slighted?”
“No,” he said, affronted. “Reckon I’m feelin’...” Sorry. Scared. Uncertain. Overwhelmed. “Hungry.”
“Then eat.”
“Ha. Who’s got time, Captain?”
“Call me Pellen. Since it seems we’re to be working hand in glove, for a while at least. And speaking of which—”
“Aye?” he said.
“I’d like to sit down with you, once I’ve prepared my men for what’s coming,” said Orrick. “Look at calling an urgent meeting of all the guilds’ representatives. When this sad news breaks, the streets will be awash in tears, I think.”
Asher nodded. “An
d the guilds are in a better position than we are to keep their members under control. That’s good thinking, Cap—Pellen.”
“When you’ve a moment to scratch yourself send a runner down to the guardhouse,” said Orrick. “I’ll come up as soon after as I can.”
“Provided you ain’t had to lock me up for throttlin’ that ole biddy Darran. ‘Cause I’m tellin’ you, Pellen, it ain’t beyond the bounds of possibihty.”
“Well, don’t hold back on my account,” said Orrick, straight-faced. “We could meet in your cell, then, which would save me a trip to the Tower.”
It took him a moment to realize the joke. Who’d have thought it? Hatchet-faced Orrick with a sense of humor.
“Ha!” he said, warmed, and headed for the door. “Very funny.”
Pellen Orrick fell into step beside him. Smiled, swiftly and with a dry amusement. “I thought so.”
———
Undisturbed by customers, Dathne was tidying shelves when she heard the first faint, waiting cries from the street outside her bookshop. Turning, she looked through the display window to see her alarmed neighbors spilling out of their premises like ants from a stick-stirred nest, pushing and shoving in a cluster round Mistress Turtle from the bakery five doors along. Mistress Turtle was flapping her hands in a frenzy as she spoke, her oven-flushed cheeks streaked with tears.
Dathne felt her breath catch as relief warred with sorrow. So. The news was out then. Which meant she could put down one burdensome secret, at least, and worry instead about what next Prophecy would send to try her. Not more death, she fervently hoped. Three lives—well, four if you counted poor Matcher—and five if you included Asher’s father—had already been sacrificed for the sake of an uncertain future. To ensure that whatever must come to pass would come to pass, so Asher might be reborn as the Innocent Mage.
Why, Veira? she’d asked the old woman the previous night, after telling her of the royal family’s fate. Why would Prophecy need to kill so many?
Veira’s reply through the Circle Stone had been typical. We don’t know it is Prophecy’s doing, child. But if it is then you should know there is a reason. Even if we can 7 see it for shadows.
As the uproar in the street outside intensified, Dathne starting shoving a new shelf of books into line. Reason or not, it seemed to her that Prophecy was being needlessly harsh. Surely events might have been managed without bloodshed, and suffering, and the look on Asher’s face as he fell into her outstretched arms.
Snared in memory she felt again the weight of him against her, his bone-deep trembling beneath her spreading hands. Heard for the thousandth relived time the way he exhaled her name like a prayer and drank her face down with his eyes. Fresh longing rose sharp within her like sap in the trees after winter...
No. He was the Mage and she was the Heir. It was true they walked the same path at the same time, but they must journey alone, their hands never touching, their hearts unentwined. What she felt was sentiment, pure and simple, and Prophecy had no time or use for sentiment. She had no time or use for it. Sentiment would kill a lot more people than Prophecy ever could.
But oh ... how hard it was to deny him. Hard, and day by day getting harder, for now she knew him. Really knew him, not simply as the living embodiment of Prophecy but as a man.
She knew he liked malt ale better than hop. Roast chicken, not sauced duck. Liked to sing, but out of mercy refrained in public. His favorite colors were green and blue. He thought play-acting in the theater was a ragtag-gin’ bloody great waste of time but would stand in front of a puppet show for an hour and never notice the time fly past. He was impatient of pretension, self-opinion and the puff-and-ruffle of guild meisters and their lackeys, yet gave his time, favors and sometimes money freely to those guild members he found in need. Complained bitterly if asked to read any kind of history book, but snuck peeks at the brightly illustrated fairy tales left lying about the shop for children to discover.
He was rude and crude and caustic and compassionate. Loyal, implacable, honest and fair. His skin against hers was a benediction, his voice at her doorstep a song.
“Damn you, Asher! Why couldn’t you have been hateful? Or—or married, or ugly, or old? Why couldn’t you have been anyone but yourself?”
“Who are you talking to, dearie?”
Startled, Dathne turned. Pushed her hands into her skirt’s capacious pockets and blanked her face. “Meister Beemfield! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had a customer. Can I help you?”
Meister Beemfield’s hat was askew on his head and there were tears in his faded blue eyes. “Oh, dearie,” he quavered, lost, bewildered. “Have you heard? It’s the king, lass. And the queen too, and that pretty daughter of theirs. Dead, dead, all dead. The heralds are crying it throughout the City!”
“No!” she gasped, suitably shocked, and tried to squeeze out a surprised tear or two. Failing, she groped for her handkerchief and hid her face. “How awful!”
Meister Beemfield was shaking his head. “You’d best shut up your shop for the day, dearie. There’ll be nobody buying books this afternoon. The heralds say there’s to be an announcement at five o’clock on the steps of Justice Hall. If you like I’ll escort you there now. The streets are fair thronged and there’s no saying what could happen when folks are ramshackled with dismay.”
He was the one who wanted to go, she realized. Wanted, and was perhaps afraid, feeling frail and overwhelmed by tragedy. Certainly he wasn’t wrong about the streets. One glance through the window showed her a solid mass of townsfolk streaming along in the direction of the City’s central square. One misstep, one stumble, and the old man might well be thoughtlessly trampled. For herself she could easily miss the gathering. Whatever the announcement she’d learn of it soon enough. But it meant so much to Meister Beemfield, and he was an excellent customer...
And there was a good chance Asher would be there.
“That’s a very kind offer, sir,” she said. “Let me get my shawl.”
———
Lady Marnagh had been weeping. Her pale gray eyes were bloodshot and puffy and her lower lip persisted in trembling. Every so often, when she thought Asher wasn’t looking, a finger crept up to capture an errant tear. He would’ve offered her a kerchief but still felt in awe of her. Besides, she probably had her own. Probably, she was trying to be discreet.
They stood with the rest of Justice Hall’s staff inside the building, as Barlsman Holze graced the steps beyond the open double doors and prayed before the gathered multitude in the square. The mood in the hall was somber, the silence almost complete. A muffled sob here, a shuddering sigh there: they were the only sounds aside from Holze’s measured, stately voice. Magic carried his words through the air and into the hearing of the City’s inhabitants, who’d crushed themselves into the square so tightly Asher doubted you’d fit even a feather in there with them. More folk crowded at the windows of the various buildings lining the square. He thought they might even have tried crowding into the guardhouse, if Captain Orr—Pellen—had let them.
Staring at all those listening people he found himself counting heads. So many yellow, so many black. From up high like this he could see they formed a pattern. A lot of the yellow heads were gathered right up the front, around the base of Justice Hall’s wide marble steps. Others were thick around the edges of the square, so it looked like a pie: golden pastry edges with a thick blackberry filling.
It occurred to him he’d be hard-pressed to put a name to most of the Doranen faces out there. The only Doranen he could claim to know, even slightly, were Barlsman Holze and Conroyd Jarralt. Lady Marnagh. And a few of the Doranen on the General Council. Jarralt’s cronies. And only then because he couldn’t avoid them. Beyond that, Doranen society was a mystery to him. Like oil and water his folk and Gar’s sloshed around inside Dorana’s walls, touching frequently but never quite mixing. Even as Assistant Olken Administrator he’d never had to deal with the City’s Doranen. On the rare occasions over the past year or
so when a Doranen was involved in Olken business, Gar had taken care of it. And when one of them invited Gar to dinner they never saw fit to include an Olken fisherman at the table. Even one who’d learned the hard way which fork to use when.
With an unpleasant shock he wondered if Gar could put a name to all their faces. The only times the prince mixed with his own folk was when duty or royal protocol meant he couldn’t escape the encounter, or when Darran’s protests and pleadings wore him down and he grudgingly accepted one of those invitations to dinner or the races or some other kind of exclusive Doranen entertainment.
Now though, thanks to disaster, that was about to change. Magickless Prince Gar could avoid his peers, but WeatherWorker King Gar was suddenly one of them. About to go sailing into strange and unfamiliar waters. And, like a rowboat tethered to a smack, Asher of Restharven was about to go sailing into them with him.
Asher bit his lip in dismay. How would the Doranen react to the notion of their almost invisible prince upon the throne of Lur? To a once-crippled outcast, more at home with the Olken than his own people, suddenly become the beating heart of all their lives? And how would they react when they realized he expected to marry one of their daughters so he might breed himself an heir?
Before the accident Gar had felt nervous at the thought of unveiling himself to them as a prince reborn. So how would it be now? He was an untried, untested magician, famous for all the wrong reasons, and now he was the king. The WeatherWorker. All that stood between Lur and the unknown dangers beyond the Wall. And not one of his own people knew if he was up to the job. To be honest, even Gar didn’t know. And if he stumbled, even once, even slightly, Conroyd Jarralt and his cronies would be on him like cats on a mouse.
Asher felt his heart sink like an anchor. Barl bloody save me! I ain’t a bloody guard dog!
Holze had finally finished entreating Barl’s mercy and protection. Now he waited as the echoes from the crowd’s final response died away. Feeling Lady Marnagh’s disapproving gaze, Asher wrenched his attention back to the moment at hand and managed to mutter something appropriate at the tail end of the Hall’s employees’ heartfelt murmuring. Then he took a small step forward, the better to see the crowd and waited, hardly breathing.
