by Karen Miller
He sat up, incredulous. “Conroyd? What is the meaning of this? How did you get in here?”
Outlined in sunlight Conroyd Jarralt stood beside the bed, his golden head a glowing nimbus. “Your secretary admitted me.”
“Then he’s dismissed. Darran, do you hear me? You’re dismissed!” He screwed up his eyes and squinted round the room. “Where are you, you damned interfering old woman?”
“Not here,” said Conroyd. “What I have to say is for your ears alone.”
Sliding back under his blankets, he rested a forearm across his face. It felt as though he’d fallen asleep mere moments ago. Hours and hours spent searching through Durm’s borrowed books, and not even a sign of Barl’s diary.
“I’m not interested. Now get out.” When Conroyd made no move, he sat up and shouted. “Are you deaf? Your king just gave you a command! Get out!”
Conroyd smiled. “Your tame Olken is arrested and sitting in a cell, and you are called upon to clarify certain matters arising from his apprehension.”
He half climbed, half fell out of bed. Reached for his dressing-gown and covered his nakedness. “Arrested? On whose authority? Yours? How dare you? Free him! Immediately] And then take his place in the guardhouse!”
Conroyd considered him, unmoved. “You don’t ask why he’s arrested. Can it be you already know?”
Barl save them... Barl save them... “I don’t care why! All that matters is you’ve laid hands on a fellow councilor without recourse to your king! You’d never have done this while my father was alive and you won’t do it now that he’s dead!”
“Asher has broken Barl’s First Law,” said Conroyd. “Where else should he be if not in prison?”
Conroyd knew. Stunned into silence, he felt his blood turn to ice. Somehow, he knew.
Conroyd sneered. “You puling cripple. Did you truly think you could succeed? Against me? Did you actually believe you could deny me my destiny? My rightful possession of this land? You’re just like your father, a weakling and a—”
“Don’t you speak of my father!”
Conroyd ignored him. “Criminal. Asher has confessed, boy. Magic has failed you and your complicity in his crimes is beyond doubt.”
“Do you hear yourself, Conroyd?” he said, his voice low and shaking. His empty stomach roiled and bile burned his throat, his mouth. Asher was arrested. “ ‘Your rightful possession of this land?’ You arrogant bastard. Father was right: given the chance you and your heirs would elevate the Doranen to godhood and reduce the Olken to slaves! Is it any wonder I’d do anything, risk anything, to keep House Jarralt away from the throne?”
“You pathetic earth-sodden worm!” Conroyd screamed in a whisper, backing him into the wall. “Are you truly this blind, this stupid? You’ve given an Olken magic! Given a subhuman race of cattle power?”
“Let go of me, Conroyd,” Gar said as fingers twisted in the brocade of his dressing-gown. “Let go and get out.”
“How did you do it? Who was it helped you?” Conroyd hissed. “The filth didn’t know. Was it one of my so-called friends! Is that how you did it? Did you promise Daltrie power, or Boqur? Sorvold? Hafar? Promise them riches in return for—”
“I promised nothing to no one!” he shouted, and wrenched himself free. “And that was assault upon your king—so now you’re the traitor.”
But Conroyd wasn’t listening. Motionless, the hectic color fading from his face, comprehension dawned behind his eyes. “It was in him?” he said slowly. Almost disbelieving. “The Olken has magic of his own!”
Heart thumping, Gar pushed past him. Stumbled against the corner of the bed and nearly fell. “Go home, my lord. Consider it house arrest. I will—”
“Do nothing!” said Conroyd, and laughed. “Little crippled king, do you not understand? It is over. Your secret is revealed, your failure discovered. Asher of Restharven is destined to die ... and you are powerless to save him.”
But I promised him ... I promised... Fighting nausea, he made himself look into Conroyd’s hateful, hating face. “Anything Asher did was because I asked it. Because he is my friend.”
Conroyd smiled. “Then he is a fool. And his lack of discrimination will kill him.”
Gar wondered if this was how his father had felt when the carriage hurtled over the edge of Salbert’s Eyrie. “I’ll make you a bargain, Conroyd.” His voice sounded thread-thin and distant. “Release Asher and I’ll give you the crown.”
Conroyd laughed. “The crown is mine already, boy, and all the kingdom with it! Instead of bargaining you should get on your knees and beg!”
“For what? Asher’s life?” he dropped to the carpet. “Very well, then. I beg.” He winced as strong fingers, heavy with rings, imprisoned his face.
“Too late,” said Conroyd.
Something dreadful was burning in the man’s eyes. Gar forced himself not to quail before it. Made himself meet that incendiary gaze. “If you kill him, Conroyd, I’ll shout from coast to coast that the Olken are as magic as we. I’ll destroy the lie our people have lived here these past six hundred years. I’ll tell the truth and let it cost me my life.”
Conroyd’s cruel fingers tightened to gasping point. “Breathe one word of Olken magic, cripple, just one, and I’ll bring House Torvig down on your magickless head. By the time I’m done history will remember your father as an ignorant, impotent, cuckolded king. And your mother? Your mother will be known as the Strumpet Queen who sullied her marriage bed with some rutting Olken farmhand, your true father, and then foisted her blasphemous spawn upon an unsuspecting kingdom. Your house will be reviled, its crypt will be struck open and the corpses of your family cast into the wilderness. And your sister? I’ll erase her from Doranen memory as though precious, precocious Fane never lived. When I am done with it all that will remain of House Torvig is the cuckold, the strumpet and the half-breed cripple. Is that the legacy you want to leave, boy? Shall that be the sum of your dynastic achievements?”
“You wouldn’t,” he choked, fighting the urge to retch. “You loved my mother!”
“Loved her?” echoed Conroyd. “Your mother was a bitch, a slut, a treacherous whore!”
Guts heaving, Gar knocked the grasping fingers aside and stood. “I promised Asher I’d protect him. To break that oath would be to destroy House Torvig myself. So do your worst, Conroyd. But be warned: my house stands stronger than you know ... and you’re not as loved as you think.”
Conroyd’s face twisted. “I could kill you, worm, before you had the chance to open your mouth.”
“You could, but you won’t,” he retorted. “Without me to endorse your succession there will be a schism, Conroyd, with no guarantee you’d emerge victorious or even alive at the end of it. Be sensible. Spare Asher and I’ll abdicate in your favor and keep secret his use of magic. Kill him ...”
A moment of blazing silence. “Well, well, well,” said Conroyd softly. “So the worm has a spine.”
“How often must I tell you? I am my father’s son.”
Conroyd’s eyebrows lifted. “And as your father’s son how will you react, I wonder, when I declare a purge upon the Olken?”
“What?”
Now Conroyd was smiling. “Unless you abdicate and sign a proclamation publicly condemning Asher of Restharven to death as a criminal, a traitor and a breaker of Barl’s Law, I promise he’ll be but the first Olken to die. For the sake of the kingdom, and to uphold our sacred laws, I shall launch a purge the likes of which this land has never seen, and when I’m done if there are enough Olken left living to fill a single village then I’ll say that I havefailed!“
Bludgeoned to a disbelieving silence, Gar stared at Conroyd. “You’re mad,” he said at last. “The General Council would never let you. Holze would never—”
“Stop deluding yourself!” Conroyd said brutally. “Do you think there’s a Doranen breathing who wants to see an Olken with magic? And if you think Holze would try to stop me, you’ve sadly mistaken the depth of his devotion to his pr
ecious Barl and her Laws!”
Abruptly, his legs would no longer bear his weight. Collapsing onto his bed Gar turned his head away so Conroyd wouldn’t see his despair. His defeat.
“Is there no human feeling in you?” he whispered. “Does a king’s word mean nothing? Asher trusted me. Trusted my promise I’d keep him safe.”
“Then he is twice a fool. It was a bargain you had no business making. A promise you knew full well you could never keep, didn’t you?”
No. No. At least... not a promise he thought he’d have to keep. Damn it, they’d been so careful.
“The choice is a simple one,” said Conroyd, relentless. “Do as I say or drown in a flood of Olken blood.”
Gar made himself look at his tormentor. “You’d truly do it, wouldn’t you? You’d kill them all.”
“I have said so,” said Conroyd “Do you at last believe it?”
Yes. He believed it, and wondered, sickened, if his father had ever once suspected the truth of this man. The hatred and the violence that slept behind his eyes.
“And what of me?” he asked dully. “What happens to me once I’ve signed my name to your filthy lies? A convenient accident?”
Conroyd shrugged. “Not unless you lose your senses and try something ... unwise. You’ll remain here in the Tower. In seclusion. Withdrawn from public life, your health sadly ruined by the loss of your family and your magic. By the betrayal of one you so stupidly trusted.”
“The people—”
“Won’t miss you for long. The Doranen barely noticed your existence before your mistaken elevation to king. And as for the Olken ...” Another disdainful shrug. “They were never people in the first place.”
Gar pressed a fist against his heart. There was a pain in him so dreadful, so deep, he thought he should die of it. He wished he could. Kill Asher ... or kill a kingdom full of his innocent brethren. Whatever he decided, he’d be stained with blood forever.
Oh, sweet Barl, forgive me .. .
“Bring me your proclamation then,” he said, and could hardly recognize his own voice. “I will sign it. And may Barl damn you, Conroyd, in this life and the next.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After a sleepless night, Dathne rose with the sun, washed and dressed and ate a half-hearted breakfast, then drifted downstairs to the bookshop. Dusting shelves was a mindless antidote to worry, and anyway it needed to be done. Young Poppy, hired to run the place day to day, was perfect with customers but seemed allergic to cleaning.
There was something soothing about books. Even the newest Gertsik romance calmed her riotous nerves. Made her smile. Safe amongst her silent shelves, pretending it was still her old life that she lived, she dabbed and drifted and tried not to remember the touch of snowflakes on her skin.
But memory would not be denied. Asher made it snow.
Her hands shook, and she dropped her dusting cloth. She’d never dreamed his power would come like this. Weather Magic was Doranen magic. She’d never known of an Olken who could wield it.
“Fool,” she berated herself savagely, retrieving the duster. “He’s the Innocent Mage and born of Prophecy. What did you think he was? Just another Olken? Oh, Asher, Asher. If only you’d confided!“
Failure burned her. She’d been so sure that if she seduced his body his mind would surely follow.
She wasn’t used to being wrong.
“I’m Jervale’s Heir,” she whispered to a shelf crammed full of histories. “I’m in the business of being right!”
Clearly, the time had come to tell him. To spirit him somewhere to safety and show him to himself at last. Reveal to him his destiny and purpose. Veira would know best where he could be hidden, which meant she could no longer avoid talking to the old woman. And if that meant a scolding for her silence, so be it.
Decided at last, Dathne tossed aside the dusting cloth, turned for the door leading back to her apartment—and was startled by an urgent tapping on the bookshop window. It was young Finella, Mistress Tuttle’s apprentice, on her way to work at the bakery. The girl’s eyes were popping-wide in her pale face. She waved her hand, pointed round the corner, then disappeared from view.
Frowning, Dathne unlocked the shop’s back door and slipped into the tiny courtyard behind. “Yes, Finny?”
The girl was on the brink of tears. “Oh, Mistress Dathne, I saw you in there as I was passing and I thought perhaps I should tell you but now I don’t know, I don’t want to get in trouble, but you work with him, you’re friends with him, and you’ve always been so kind to me ...”
Asher. Resisting the urge to shake the wretched child, Dathne forced a smile. “It’s all right, Finny. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s amiss.”
“Oh, Mistress Dathne!” Finny whispered. “Meister Asher’s been arrested!”
“Arrested?” she said sharply. “Nonsense. Where did you hear such a poppycock tale?”
Finella shrank back. “From my brother Deek! He was street-cleaning in the alleyway opposite the guardhouse and he saw them bring Asher in. All tied up he was, with a cloth over his face and a noose round his neck! But the cloth slipped and Deek saw him. It was awful, he said! Captain Orrick was there, and Lord Jarralt too.”
Arrested^-and in such a skulduggery fashion. She could hardly think straight for the frantic pounding of her heart. “And did they see Deek spying there?”
Finny colored, indignant. “He wasn’t spying, he was doin’ his job! But no, he says they never saw him ‘cause he made sure to stay quiet as a mouse. Deek says a smart man who comes across that kind of business is deaf and dumb and blind!”
“And yet he told you?”
“I’m always the first one up, on account of starting so early in the bakery,” said Finny, shrugging. “He said he had to tell someone, he was feeling all wobbly, and he knew I’d hold my tongue. And I will too! I’m only telling you ‘cause I know you’re Asher’s friend!”
Trembling, Dathne hugged her. “And I’m right grateful, Finny. Now off you go to Mistress Turtle’s before you get docked for lateness. And, Finny—not a word about this to anyone. Promise?”
Finny nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, I promise. Mistress Dathne, is Asher going to be all right?”
She forced a smile. “Of course he is. I’m sure it’s all a terrible mistake.”
Reassured, Finny hurried away. Breathless with fear, Dathne contacted Veira.
Arrested? the old woman repeated. The link connecting them vibrated with her shock. Do you know why?
“No,” said Dathne. “But, Veira... he has the Weather Magic. I fear he’s been discovered.”
Veira swore.
“I’m sorry!” Dathne wailed. “This is all my fault! I should’ve told him who he was weeks ago, I should’ve listened to Matt, I should never have—”
We can lay blame later. Pack all that might betray you, child, and leave the City at once.
“Leave?” she said. “Veira, no! I have to save Asher, I have to—”
You can’t, child. Not on your own. And the City won’t be safe for you now. Come to me and together we’ll find a way.
Smearing the tears on her cheeks with a shaking hand, Dathne nodded. “All right. Where are you?”
The knowledge sped from Veira’s mind to hers through the Circle Stone link. “The Black Woods? You’re not so far away then.”
Far enough. Don’t risk a horse, for fear of attention. Cloak yourself and slip out of the City sideways. Walk as fast as you can. The Black Woods Road is lightly traveled this time of year. If you do see someone, hide till they pass. I’ll meet you on the way.
She wasn’t alone... the relief was overwhelming. And then she sat up sharply, remembering. “Matt! Veira, I have to warn Matt.”
Leave Matthias to me. Think only of yourself, child. If you stay there much longer the next knock on your door could be a guardsman with inconvenient questions.
Numbly, she stared into the pulsing heart of the Circle Stone. “Asher will think I’ve abandoned him
,” she whispered. “He’ll think I never meant a word I said.”
Maybe he will and maybe he won’t, said Veira. That’s not for you to say. Now hurry!
———
Fat with satisfaction, Morg scattered salt on the wet ink of the proclamations that Gar would shortly sign then sat back in his chair. Beyond the closed door of Jarralt’s private library he could hear voices as the lord’s household bustled.
At last his plans were fruiting. And with inconvenient Asher soon to be dead, the cripple off the throne, and himself as king and free to tamper as he willed, Barl’s cursed Wall would quickly be a memory.
Knowing how close he’d come to failure, fury stirred. First Durm’s injuries, then the unexpected interference of that Olken filth. A tremor of hatred, of livid frustration, shook his fine-knit limbs. He was so sick of this place. Sick of this exile behind Barl’s Wall. Of being cut off from his vast reservoir of power, trammeled and confined in these prisons of meat, vulnerable to mere accident. Forced to wait and plot and connive and scheme instead of reaching out his will and taking what he wanted the instant that he wanted it!
To be thwarted by an Olken? It was enough to make him vomit! He wanted to kill them all. Slaughter every last Olken and yes, the Doranen too. Rid this pretty kingdom of its cattle and renegades. Cleanse the land with blood and fire.
But no. As an infinite intellect trapped in finite flesh, he dared not risk it. Alarm and alert the kingdom’s magicians and united they might defeat him. Caution was the key. The moment Barl’s Wall was destroyed he could abandon this body and reunite with his larger, immortal self. But until then he had to be careful. Until then, Morg could still die.
A whisper from his deeply prisoned host. Yes, yes, die!
He smiled. Fool Conroyd, who’d fancied himself a mage to be reckoned with. Who only now began to understand the meaning of ambition. Of mastery. Of power.
The parchments dry now he rolled them, secured them with a ribbon from the desk drawer and tucked them under his arm. Fat Willer was waiting patiently on a bench outside the library door.
“My lord!” he cried, lumbering to his feet. “What now?”
