by Karen Miller
A useful little toad, this. Disappointed poisonous men were always useful. “Return to the Tower. Inform that black streak of misery Darran that I wish him to announce an emergency session of the General Council for two o’clock this afternoon.”
Willer bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Next Morg ordered Jarralt’s carriage and directed it to the City Chapel, where he found wittering Holze in the midst of leading a morning service.
“Conroyd!” the Barl-sodden cleric exclaimed once the caterwauling was over and the congregation had emptied from its seats. “You look quite perturbed! Is something the matter?”
Morg arranged Jarralt’s austerely beautiful face into lines of tragedy and woe. “Alas, dear Efrim, I’m afraid it is. Can we talk? Privately?”
“Of course! Come, we can speak in my office.”
Smiling quietly, Morg followed him out of the chapel.
As they passed yet another portrait of his dearly beloved dead whore, he blew her a kiss.
———
When Asher roused from his stupor he found himself still on the floor of his cell in the guardhouse, unbound, and Pellen Orrick sitting in a chair outside it reading reports. The pain Jarralt had inflicted was gone but the memory of it dried his mouth and threatened to start him shaking all over again.
Unsteadily, he sat up. Leaned against the nearest bars. “I want to see Gar,” he croaked. “I got a right.”
Orrick looked at him. Nobody would ever describe the captain as forthcoming, but they’d fallen into the habit of easy, joking conversation in the last long weeks. He’d been halfway to thinking the man might become a friend. Now, though, the warm flicker of appreciation in Orrick’s pale eyes was extinguished and his face was set like stone.
“Don’t speak to me of rights, Asher. Not after what you’ve done. And don’t go trying to change your tune now, either. You confessed, to Lord Jarralt and then to me! You’re condemned out of your own mouth!”
He’d confessed to Orrick? He didn’t remember that. Pain had stolen his last hour or so. “I only did what Gar asked me to do.”
Orrick grimaced. “So you say.”
“I’m a bar now, am I?”
“Asher, I’m afraid to think what you are,” said Orric and stood, turning away.
He wrapped his fingers round the cell bars and hauled himself to his feet. “Jarralt ain’t told you, has he?”
Reluctantly, Orrick turned back. “Told me what?” he asked at last, grudging.
“Gar’s lost his magic.”
Another silence, longer this time. Then Orrick shoo his head. “That’s impossible.”
“No. It’s true.”
“Then you stole it,” Orrick retorted, “though Barl alon knows how.”
“Stole it? Do I look brainsick to you?”
“You look like a traitor.”
It was no good, he couldn’t stand up any longer. Stifling a groan, he slid back to the floor. “Well, I ain’t.”
“You broke Barl’s First Law!”
“And Jarralt broke the Second! He hurt me with magic, Pellen! Do you care about that law? Or doesn’t hurting me count?”
For the first time a shimmer of uncertainty crossed Orrick’s obdurate face. “I have no bias in the law, Asher,” he said stiffly. “I agree Lord Jarralt was ... misguided. But he was also sore provoked!”
“And so was I bloody provoked!” he shouted. “D’you think I did this willingly’? Gar begged me, Orrick. You got any idea what that’s like, being begged by a king? He was desperate to keep Lur out of Jarralt’s hands and I was stupid enough to let him convince me. Ask him, Pellen. He’ll tell you I ain’t lyin’, I swear.”
Orrick ran a hand over his face. Listening, but not convinced. “You didn’t steal His Majesty’s magic?”
“No.”
“Then where did it come from?” Orrick whispered. He looked torn between fear and fury. “Olken are taught from the cradle: we don’t have magic. So where did yours come from if not the king?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care! All I know is Gar swore to protect me if the truth came out. Well, Pellen, it’s out. And instead of actin’ like the City’s Captain and askin’ the king yourself whether or not I’m tellin’ the truth, you’re runnin’ about like Conroyd.Jarralt’s lapdog! Takin’ his word unchallenged—a man who tortures with magic. A man who’s coveted this kingdom’s crown for the best part of his life. Who’d do just about anythin’, I reckon, to snatch it off Gar’s head and put it on his own.”
Orrick glared, seething. “I am no man’s lapdog!”
Muscles screaming, Asher forced himself onto his knees. Hanging onto the bars, harshly breathing, he looked Pellen Orrick full in the face. “Prove it.”
Orrick stayed silent as a thousand thoughts rolled behind the glassy surface of his eyes. Slowly, the outright rejection in his face faded to wary suspicion. “Why should I? You’re the one in prison, not me.”
“Today,” Asher agreed, feeling ill. “But if you let this injustice stand without raising a finger against it there won’t be a single Olken safe in all of Lur. Don’t you see, Pellen? If Jarralt dares hurt me with magic, who of us won’t he touch?”
Still suspicious, Orrick tapped a knuckle to his lips. “You must see, Asher. What you claim strains all bounds of credibility.”
It was a struggle, but he kept his voice steady. He was so close to begging ... and he’d never begged for anything in his life. “I can’t help that. What I did was for Gar and the Kingdom. I swear it. Pellen, you know me. You know me. I ain’t a traitor.”
Like the first hint of sunlight on snow, Orrick’s expression softened. “Before today, I confess I’d have laughed to hear you called one.”
Asher swallowed. “And nowt’s changed. But withou your help I’ll never prove it.”
“Lord Jarralt has laid it strict upon me I’m to keep this coil a secret,” said Orrick, frowning. “I’m not to step foo outside the guardhouse till he returns.”
He’d never known hope could hurt so much. “Then send Gar a message. Private and sealed. If you ask him he’ll come. He’ll fix this; I know it. He promised.”
Orrick turned away from the cell. With his hand on the outer door’s latch he said, not looking back, “I promise nothing.”
“But you’ll try?”
The longest moment of silence he’d ever lived through A fractional dip of Pellen Orrick’s head. White knuckles on the door latch. “Yes, Asher. I’ll try.”
———
When Conroyd Jarralt returned to the Tower and was shown into Gar’s library, he wasn’t alone; Holze stood at his shoulder. One look at him and Gar knew Conroyd had told all. Eyes grim, mouth pressed thin and unforgiving, there was little of the kindly, welcoming cleric about the royal spiritual advisor now. Instead he looked like a man made of iron, against which all gentle things must shatter.
Pinned to his chair by Holze’s hard, heavy gaze, Gar felt himself diminish. Weaken. Falter.
In the time between his rude awakening and this moment he’d managed to gather his scattered wits. Smother dismay and bolster courage. Let Conroyd bluster and bully as he liked, he was not king. His threats were the rantings of a man unhinged by thwarted ambition, nothing more. No Doranen of conscience would stand by and let him slaughter innocent Olken. No cleric who followed Barl’s merciful teachings would countenance such uncivil discord. Holze would never side with Conroyd. Holze would understand that what his king had done was done for the good of all.
Or so he’d told himself as he bathed and dressed and recovered his balance. But now Holze was here before him, with all his thoughts clear in his face.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I scarcely know where to begin.”
Gar stood. There must yet be hope. “Holze. Efrim. I thought you of all men would understand.”
“Understand what?” said the cleric, a whip-snap in his voice. “That you placed personal ambition above a sacred oath? That you suborned blasphemy in the pursu
it of worldly power? That you conspired to pervert the course of law and justice, of Barl’s holy word, which you were sworn to uphold? No, sir. I do not understand. I will never understand. And I praise Barl your father did not live to see the day his son committed such sins against the kingdom in whose sweet service he spent his life.”
“How can the truth be blasphemous?” he demanded. “Holze, don’t you understand? We’ve been living a lie, all of us. The Olken are possessed of magic. Learning this, how can we in good conscience—”
“The question of Olken magic is irrelevant!” said Holze. “The only arbiter of conscience is Blessed Bar and her Laws and they are crystal clear on the matter Magic is reserved for the Doranen, custodians of Barl’s kingdom. As king you but hold this land in trust. A trust you have grievously betrayed.”
Gar looked from Holze to Conroyd Jarralt. Until now he’d never thought hate could be a thing you tasted, like wine gone sour in the jug. “Congratulations, Conroyd. Somehow you’ve managed to convert a good man to you deceitful cause.”
Conroyd smiled. “The only deceit was yours. Now hold your tongue. All we require from you is a signature on these proclamations. Your opinions have ceased to carry weight in this kingdom.”
“Whilst yours have assumed all the heaviness of a crown?”
“In due course.”
The bastard was unspeakably smug. Feeling sick, his ill-advised breakfast churning in his belly, Gar held out his hand to receive the first roll of parchment. Untied the ribbon encircling it. Read its contents.
He looked up. “I can’t sign this.”
Holze exchanged glances with Conroyd. “Why not?”
“Because it’s a lie!” he said, and tossed the parchment aside. “Asher didn’t steal my magic. There was no Olken conspiracy to dislodge me from the throne, or usurp Doranen authority in the kingdom. Asher did what he did because I asked him to and for no other reason. Isn’t it enough that you want me to kill him? Must I kill his memory also, and all the good he did as well?”
“If you do not sign it, you leave open the possibility that some misguided Olken fool might question the validity of his condemnation,” said Conroyd. “He is popular, this monster you created. To uncreate him you must paint him blacker than he’s painted himself and so ensure he is remembered not with love but with loathing. His destruction must stand as a beacon till the end of time, a warning to any Olken who would dare disturb the quietude of this kingdom.”
As well talk to a wall as to Conroyd Jarralt. He looked to Holze. “Can’t you see this is wrong? How can you support it? Ask me to support it? I thought you loved me!”
“I loved a boy who loved his family,” said Holze, unmoved. “I loved a man who loved this kingdom, who bore misfortune with fortitude and spent his life in service to others. I don’t know the man I see before me today. And how can I love a man I do not know?”
Gar felt his legs give way, fold him once more into his chair. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. “I can’t do this.”
“You must,” said Holze. “Asher is a canker, poised to kill a kingdom. He must be cut from its heart before his poison spreads. If you do not see it there is as little hope for you as there is for him.”
He’d never imagined soft-spoken Holze could sound so harsh. “But he is innocent. Blameless.”
“Hardly innocent,” said Conroyd. “By your own admission he broke the law!”
Again, he looked to Holze. “Do you know what Conroyd threatened, to make me agree to this perfidy? Did he tell you what he swore he’d do if I refused to conspire with him in Asher’s murder?”
Holze was shaking his head. “Lawful execution is no murder.”
“He said he’d despoil my family’s legacy!”
“You’ve done that yourself.”
“He said he’d slaughter thousands of guiltless Olken!”
“If it’s discovered there are other Olken—other traitors—with pretensions to a power denied them by Barl herself then certainly they will die,” Holze replied. “But that is hardly slaughter.”
Conroyd smiled. “Accept it, boy. Your reign is over. You threw power away when you yoked yourself to Asher of Restharven. Sign his warrant of execution and this, your intent to abdicate, then get down on your knees and praise Barl that for the sake of this kingdom’s peace you’re to be spared a more rigorous accounting of your actions.”
Gar stared at the second roll of parchment and for one last mad moment considered defying them. Considered spitting in Conroyd’s handsome, hateful face and trusting himself and Asher to Barl’s mercy. To the love of his kingdom’s people, both Doranen and Olken. To their forgiveness of his frailty, his failure as a magician, his desperation as a king.
Somehow, Conroyd read his mind. “They plight— might—forgive you, boy. They will never forgive Asher. He is dead already. He was dead the moment you convinced him to defy Barl’s First Law. And if you’re honest, if you’re even capable of honesty, you know I speak the truth.”
He felt a peculiar inner breaking then, as though his bones were made of glass and Conroyd’s words were hammers, striking. He nodded. “Yes. I know.”
There was pen and ink in the desk drawer. He fetched them and signed the proclamations. Wrote carefully, with a steady hand, using all his names and titles. Gar Antyn Bartolomew Dannison Torvig, Scion House Torvig, Defender House Torvig, WeatherWorker of Lur.
Traitor... betrayer... and breaker of oaths.
“Don’t forget your personal seal,” prompted Conroyd. “The finishing touch, so to speak.”
A stick of sealing wax lay in another drawer. Conroyd melted it for him with a word, smiling just a little. He pressed his signet ring into each blood-red pool and completed his act of treachery. Watching, it was as though a stranger’s hand did the deed.
Conroyd took the signed proclamations and rolled them swiftly. “As for the rest...”
“Rest?” he said, dully. “What rest?”
“My elevation to the throne. I’ve called an emergency General Council meeting at which you’ll announce your abdication and withdrawal from public life. You’ll declare me your lawful heir. Lur’s new king and WeatherWorker. Then you’ll return to this Tower and not set foot beyond its grounds until such time as I give you permission.”
This was a dream, it had to be. “Today? You want me to abdicate today?”
Conroyd was pulling on gold-stitched gloves. “Why postpone the inevitable? Without magic you cannot be king. And Lur needs its WeatherWorker. Barl only knows what damage was done by that creature you let meddle with the Wall.”
“Asher did no damage.”
Conroyd sneered. “How would you know? You’re a magickless cripple.”
He flinched. Felt corrosive self-hatred, like acid. His father would never so meekly submit... he had to keep fighting...
He made himself stand. “For all you know there might be a cure for me, Conroyd. I demand consultation with Pother Nix. I demand—”
“Nothing,” said Conroyd. “Not now, not ever. And besides, there is no cure. Now, as to the dispersal of your household.”
“Dispersal? What do you—”
Conroyd ignored him. “In keeping with your newly reduced role in the kingdom, and to minimize your burden on the royal purse, the majority of your staff will be reassigned. Only Darran will remain to take care of your modest daily needs. I hope he can cook. And clean.”
“One man?” Gar said, incredulous. “To care for all this Tower? Darran is elderly, and recently infirm! You can’t expect him to—”
“But I can,” said Conroyd, smiling. “I do. Perhaps you could in some small way shift for yourself? Barl knows you’ll have the time.”
“Conroyd,” Holze murmured disapprovingly. Standing to one side. Doing nothing, nothing, to stop this.
Unheeding, Conroyd continued. “Your stables of course will be emptied; horses and equipment sold off.”
Fresh pain stabbed. “Sold? Ballodair? No! He was a gift from my father, you
have no right to—”
“Your expenses must be defrayed somehow. And given you’ll not be riding anywhere in the near future, what need have you of horses? The animal will be sold, along with all the rest.” Conroyd stepped closer, pale eyes glittering. “You dare to complain? Don’t. Mercy has its limits. You are free on sufferance, boy.”
“Free?” he said, and laughed. “I’m your prisoner.”
Holze cleared his throat heavily. “If this Tower has become your cell, then it’s a cell of your own making.”
- “And as cells go, it’s not without comfort,” Conroyd added. “I’m sure your unfortunate Olken would be pleased to change places.”
Gar felt his belly spasm. “He’s not to be touched, Conroyd. You’ve got your wish. He’s in prison and condemned to die. That should be enough even for you.” When Conroyd stayed silent, he turned to Holze. “Barlsman, I’m begging you. Restrain Lord Jarralt. If not for me, then for the love you bore my father.”
Holze’s face twisted. “Your purse is empty of that coin, sir.”
“Your purse is empty of all coin,” said Conroyd. “Save the cuicks I let fall in your path. Remember that. Remember also the Olken stand hostage to your good behavior and silent tongue. If word of Asher’s exploits leaves this room, there will be consequences.”
“I see,” said Gar, when he could trust himself to speak. “I disobey and someone else suffers?”
Conroyd’s smile was pure poison. “Exactly. Now, I suggest you spend the next while penning a short, crowd-pleasing speech for our esteemed General Council. As for the meeting, I’ll return to collect you for it later this afternoon. Don’t keep me waiting.”
With an effort, he bit back a response. Instead looked to Holze. “About Durm—”
“I go now to the palace infirmary,” the Barlsman said.
“He shall be afforded all rites and respect. None of this mess is of his making.”
Was that true? He wished he knew. Wished, desperately, that he’d had more time to quiz the dying Master Magician. To learn more of Barl’s diary and what use Durm had made of it, if any, and how it was their only hope. He had to find the thing. If there was an escape from this nightmare, perhaps he’d find it there ... “Thank you, Holze,” he said stiffly. “For myself, and my father.” He looked again at Conroyd. “You will need to choose his successor.”
