by Karen Miller
“Doranen invitations,” her husband added dryly. “As far as I can make out, he’s always available for carousing with the Olken.”
Tobe Boqur replaced his emptied wineglass on the table and belched. “Don’t be too hard on him, Gord. For a start it’s been his job to mix with Olken society, and for another—”
“For another,” said Madri Boqur, smiling at her husband as she finished his sentence for him in her irritating little-girl whisper, “I don’t imagine he ever felt comfortable around his own kind. Not while he was—” She blushed. “You know.”
“I think the word you’re avoiding is ‘crippled,’ “ Jarralt replied. “No, no, my friends, please don’t look like that. I assure you, he applied the term to himself often enough. Borne’s son is nothing if not a realist.”
“You’d know, serving with him on the Privy Council,” said Payne Sorvold. “What else is he, do you think?”
“Our king,” said Lynthia Daltrie. Her sharply jutting chin looked more stubborn than ever. Nole had long since lost the battle to control her; such a pity. “As ordained by Barl and therefore above reproach. I have to say I liked his speech in the square today. It showed heart. Courage. I think his father would’ve been proud.”
A reflective silence fell. Jarralt waited for his wife to break it: Barl save him, she was a woman who couldn’t abide a room without words in it.
“All I know,” Ethienne said peevishly, “is that it will feel most peculiar, addressing that unfortunate young man as ‘Your Majesty.’ He’s younger than both of my boys!”
“I suppose he’s got what it takes to be king,” Madri said uncertainly. “I mean to say... Barl wouldn’t allow an incompetent to inherit tile throne. Would she?”
Almost as one their gazes flicked to the glass balcony doors through which gleamed the Wall’s distant golden haze. Jarralt hid a smile at the sight of their apprehensive expressions. Even tediously devout Lynthia had her doubts. As well she should have. Lur was in greater danger now than ever before, even during the schism. How lucky for his friends and their children that Conroyd Jarralt was at hand. Watching their silent dismay, the way they tried not to look at each other or reveal unflattering fear, he again wanted to laugh out loud.
Ah, dear. They were good enough people, these friends of his, but as transparent as his dining-room windows. Lacking any kind of real ambition or inner fire. They represented the best that Doranen society had to offer, yet not a one of them was strong enough to wield real power. To balance the kingdom in the vital role of Master Magician, or wear the crown of the WeatherWorker.
Only he was. And praise Barl for that. For if Gar’s power should prove insufficient... if the strain of WeatherWorking killed him sooner rather than later, as had happened more than once in tne past... if he should fail to produce an heir or sired one as crippled as he himself had used to be...
Well.
Thunder boomed over their heads, rattling the window-panes and the emptied wineglasses on the table. Jarralt’s secret smile died. “What was that?” he demanded, pushing to his feet.
Ethienne pointed at the sky beyond the doors. “Look! Clouds!”
“And lightning!” added Tobe Boqur. The words had hardly left his mouth when the room strobed a second time as, outside, spears of blue-white fire streaked earthwards from the rapidly thickening atmosphere. Even as they watched, the Wall’s golden glow dimmed, dimmed, and disappeared.
Gord Hafar stood and crossed to the doors. Flung them open and thrust his hand outside. He looked back over his shoulder. “It’s going to rain,” he announced. “The air’s alive with it. You never told us Gar had been given the Weather Magics, Conroyd.” Gord sounded accusing. In his eyes, a shadow of hurt surprise.
Fool. Just because he shared his icewine did Gord think he’d share his secrets, too? “You didn’t need to know,” he replied brusquely. “Before the accident there was still a question mark over the succession. There was no way of telling who would prove to be the stronger WeatherWorker, Fane or Gar, without testing them first.”
Payne Sorvold cleared his throat, his expression disapproving. “You took a risk, Conroyd. The law is clear on the matter. Only two people might possess Weather Magic at the same time: the WeatherWorker and the WeatherWorker in Waiting. Such action was a recipe, for another schism. As Privy Councilor you should have stopped it.”
Jarralt spared the man an impatient glance, inwardly seething. Who was Payne Sorvold to task him? “Exceptional circumstances require the taking of risks and the bending of law. As Privy Councilor it’s my duty to recognize that. Besides, the danger of schism was Borne’s doing, not mine. If he hadn’t bullied his way into a dispensation for a second child we never would’ve faced a divided succession in the first place. If you’re going to criticize anyone, Payne, why not start with the General Council for weakly acquiescing to—”
“The General Council,” Nole said loudly, his flabby cheeks reddening, “weakly acquiesced to nothing! We did what had to be done for the good of the kingdom. We acted according to law and with Barl’s blessing!”
“And why we’re arguing about it now, nearly twenty years later, I cannot begin to understand!” added Lynthia. “The point is moot!”
“As is the question of Gar receiving the Weather Magic,” said Jarralt. His gaze remained fixed upon the curdling sky. “With the death of his sister he is once more an only child. The line of succession is clear, and the law stands.”
“On a sprained ankle, if you ask me,” muttered Nole.
“Nobody did, dear,” said Lynthia, and patted his arm. “Never mind. As Con says, what’s done is done. All that really matters is we have a WeatherWorker and the kingdom is safe.”
As if to punctuate her words a thunderclap like the end of the world boomed over their heads. The women shrieked. The men shouted. Jarralt laughed. Beyond the open glass doors the murky cloud-covered sky gushed rain like a woman whose waters have broken.
King Gar, WeatherWorker of Lur, was born.
Jarralt eased away from his dining table. Crossed to the doors leading out to the uncovered balcony. Stepped over the threshold and into tile rain.
“What are you doing, Conroyd?” Ethienne demanded breathlessly. “You can’t stand out there, you’ll be soaked! All your clothes will be ruined! Come back inside. Conroyd? Conroyd, are you listening? Conroyd!”
He ignored her. Ignored the surprised protests of his dinner guests. Walked to the very edge of the balcony, six tall stories above the ground, braced his widespread hands on the balustrade and looked out across the City. Looked further, beyond the City’s encircling wall to the invisible horizon. The view was exactly the same: rain, rain, rain. The weeping clouds went on forever.
His new silk brocade tunic was sodden, a dragging weight against his shoulders. Rivulets of water ran down his arms, his chest, his legs, and pooled in his brand-new shoes. Yes, Ethienne, all ruined.
He tipped back his head and felt more water from his soaking hair run down the back of his neck. Eyes open, mouth open, he lifted his face to the pouring rain. Drowned himself, blinded himself, in the miracle of Gar’s calling.
Every droplet was a needlepoint of acid etching him with bitterness and despair, in his flesh, his bones, his bowels. In his heart, and the secret places of his soul.
Borne... you bastard. You bastard. You’ve beaten me again.
———
Released at last from the Weather Magic’s merciless grasp, Gar swayed drunkenly, bloodily, then collapsed unstrung to the floor beside the map of Lur where the little clouds dropped tiny vanishing raindrops from the mountains to the sea. Groaning, retching, shaking, he began to laugh.
Asher dropped to his knees beside him. “It ain’t funny!” he shouted, fright shattering his voice. “You maniac! You great ravin’ lunatic! What are you laughin’ for? It ain’t bloody funny!”
Flopping like a landed fish, Gar stared up at him through a mask of blood. “It worked!” he gasped, spitting scarlet bubbles.
“Did you see? It worked! I made it rain! Everywhere! Fane never managed that!”
“Aye, aye,” Asher muttered, scrabbling in his pockets for a handkerchief. “You made it rain and you made a mess and you took ten years off my life, you daft bastard. Hold still!”
“You know... that hurt,” Gar wheezed as Asher mopped the worst of the gore from his face. “A lot. But it was incredible! The power. I never knew—I never dreamed—oh, Asher! Aren’t you sorry you’ll never know what it’s like? That you’ll never command a power like it? Aren’t you... I don’t know... jealous? You can tell me. I won’t mind. I’ll understand.”
Asher stared down at him. At his shivering, shuddering, pain-racked body. “Oh aye. I be so jealous I could spit.”
Gar grinned redly and stared up at the glass-domed ceiling, enchanted. “Look,” he whispered. “Look what I did.”
“Aye,” he said as the rain fell from the quietly clouded sky. The sound of it striking the transparent ceiling woke gentle echoes in the chamber below. “Look what you did, Now shut your trap while I find somethin’ to clean you up proper. ‘Cause if you go back to the Tower lookin’ like this and Darran sees you, sure as sharks the ole crow’ll find some way to make this all my fault.” And then, relenting, added roughly, “Your da’d be proud right now, I reckon. And your ma too.”
Fresh tears gathered in Gar’s bloody eyes. “I hope so,” he whispered, triumph extinguished, lurking grief ascendant once more. “Oh, I hope so.”
Asher cursed. Fool. Damned fool. Just when you got him smilin’ again...
“Come on,” he said. Slipping an arm beneath Gar’s shoulders, he levered the exhausted king upright. “Scoot yourself backwards and lean against the wall till you’re feelin’ better.” Looking around the chamber, he scowled. “Why ain’t there any chairs in here?”
“I don’t need a chair,” said Gar, sliding by inches across the parquetry floor. He reached the wall, slumped against it and groaned. “I’m fine.”
Asher stood. “You don’t look fine. You look like shit.”
Eyes half closed, Gar raised a finger. “Now, now. Remember to whom you speak.”
“Excuse me,” he said. “You look like royal shit.”
Gar’s lips twitched. “That’s better.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“Oh, Asher...” Gar blinked his eyes open again. “You have no idea.”
But he did. Some idea anyway. He’d heard Gar’s screams, after all. Watched helpless as his friend writhed inside the power. Convulsed. Wept blood even as he laughed.
“Well...” Uncertain, he folded his arms. “For how long? For always? I mean, is this your life now? Nowt but blood and pain?”
With an effort, Gar pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “Yes.”
“But... you can’t do this every day,” he said, appalled. “You can’t bleed and hurt like this every day. How will you stand it?”
Gar shrugged. “The same way my father did, and my grandfather, and my great-grandmother, back and back and back till the dawn of our days here.”
“But you can‘t!”
“I must. What’s the alternative? Shirk my duty and hand the crown to Conroyd Jarralt?” Gar pulled a face. “I don’t think so. Besides, it’s not every day. Well. Not always. As I recall, my father sometimes had two days respite at a time, between Callings. Three even, in winter.” He smiled, remembering. “Winter is good.”
“Gar, nowt happens in winter. What about spring?”
The remembering smile faded then and Gar frowned at his knees. “Oh, spring. Yes. Spring is... not so good.”
“You fool, spring’ll kill you if this is just a taste of what’s to come!”
Gar shook his head. “No, it won’t. You’re forgetting this wasn’t a normal Working. Tonight I made it rain from one end of the kingdom to the other, and that’s not the way it’s usually done. Not even in the spring. You’re worrying over nothing. I’m fine, or I will be soon enough.” He stretched a hand out in front of him and flexed his fingers with only a small grimace. “See? The pain’s easing already.”
Asher snorted. “Even if you poked my eyes out I could tell you were lyin’. Gar—”
The outstretched fingers became a fist. “Don’t.” Then Gar’s icy gaze melted and the fist became a hand, became vulnerable fingers, trembling. “I am who I am, Asher. I was born for one reason and one reason alone. You can’t change that.”
Asher kicked one boot-heel against the floor, scuffing the polished parquetry. “All right,” he muttered grudgingly. “If you say so. You’re the king.”
“Yes,” said Gar. “I am.” In his voice, echoes of pain and a tired, replete satisfaction. “And now the king says, time to go home.”
“Not till I clean up the rest of that blood. You look like a slaughterhouse apprentice.” His gaze fell on the Chamber’s single cupboard. On impulse he crossed to it, opened the doors and inside found a pile of soft rags, a bowl and a stoppered vial. Looking back at Gar he said, “Seems like your da kept himself prepared.”
“Or Durm,” agreed Gar. “Bring them here.”
“There ain’t any water.”
Gar smiled. “Give me the bowl. I’ll take care of the water.”
He handed it over, then sank cross-legged to the floor and watched as Gar closed his eyes, spread his hand above the empty vessel and whispered something under his breath. A blue spark ignited in the space between clay and flesh. Gar grunted, his face contracting against new pain. The blue spark briefly danced then died... and the bowl began to fill with water from the bottom up, as though an invisible spigot had been opened.
Asher laughed. “How’d you do that?”
Gar gave him back the bowl. “Do you really want to know?”
Abruptly, he remembered who he was, and where he was, and what the penalties were for asking those kinds of questions. “No.”
“It’s all right,” said Gar. “I’ll answer. If you want the truth, it’ll be a relief to talk about it. With Durm... unwell, there’s nobody else to listen.”
Asher dipped his fingers in the water. It was warm. Wetting one of the soft cloths, wringing it out, he said, “Holze’d listen.”
Gar shook his head. “I can’t talk to Holze. Not about this. Not about any kind of magic. I can’t talk to any of them.”
He held out the cloth. “I s’pose not.”
“Holze may be a cleric, but he’s also on the Privy Council and friends with Jarralt,” said Gar, his voice muffled as he cleaned his face. “With all the prominent Doranen. If there was even the smallest suggestion I was unsure about the WeatherWorking, about anything...”
He sighed. “I know. Goodbye King Gar, hello King Conroyd.” With a grunt, he unstoppered the vial from the cupboard. A pungent, eye-stinging stink wafted into the chamber. He spat out the cork, choking.
“I’m not drinking that,” said Gar.
Cautiously, Asher sniffed. “One of Nix’s little concoctions. It pongs a bit like the one he gave me after gettin’ back from Westwailin’. Your da must’ve kept it here, for afterwards.” He held out the vial. “You might as well. I mean, you’re so weak right now I could just pinch your nose shut and tip it down your throat, but that’d be a mite undignified, I reckon. You know. Seein’ as how you’re king and all.”
Glaring balefully, Gar held out his hand. “I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I swear I’ll get you for this.”
Asher grinned. “.’Course you will. Just one swallow, mind. We got no idea how strong that muck is.”
Gar swallowed. Gagged. Thrust the vial blindly in Asher’s direction and scrubbed at his mouth with the bloodstained rag. “And after I’ve got you,” he panted, spitting and hawking, “I’ll bloody well get Nix too!”
Asher restoppered the vial then inspected his friend. Whatever was in the pother’s vile sludge it was doing the trick. A little color was returning to Gar’s complexion and his hands were steadier. “Better?” he asked.
Gar grimaced. “Yes.”
Into the fallen silence, as the magic rain clouds thinned into memory over the map of Lur, he said, “So. Seems you are a WeatherWorker, just like your da.”
The faintest of smiles ghosted over Gar’s face. “Yes. And you know what that means.”
Asher let his head drop. Here it came. “I got a sneakin’ bloody suspicion.”
“There’s no one else I’d trust to be Olken Administrator,” said Gar. “And no one else I need more on my Privy Council. But I promise you this, Asher. When Durm is well again and I am settled into my rule, when I am married and the succession is assured, if you want to go back to your precious ocean I’ll make no attempt to stop you. And when you do leave, it will be as a fabulously wealthy man.”
Asher turned his head to stare at tiny Restharven, where tiny boats made of magic danced in the tiny harbor. With money and power and King Gar’s blessing his brothers would never stand in his way again. He’d return home inviolate, able to dictate his own destiny without interference.
And Dathne had offered to be his assistant...
He grinned. “Ah, sink it. Restharven ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Does that mean you accept?”
“Aye,” he said. “I accept.”
CHAPTER NINE
From her privileged position as a member of the elite royal staff, Dathne sat on her cushioned seat in Justice Hall and watched Barlsman Holze crown Gar as Lur’s new king.
A temporary dais had been erected at the front of the Hall, where usually the Law Giver sat and pronounced sentence. Draped in gold velvet, it shimmered richly in the glimlight called for the occasion.
Hands meekly clasped before him, Gar knelt on a crimson cushion at Holze’s feet as the Barlsman prayed over his bowed head. In contrast to the cleric’s jewel-crusted green and gold and crimson brocade robes, his gold-laden cap and the various holy rings clasping his fingers, Lur’s almost-crowned king was dressed starkly in white. He looked like a sapling willow stripped bare of bark. Young. Vulnerable. Unready for the burden fate had thrust upon him.
