by Karen Miller
Because it hurt so much to look at this shuttered and newly unknowable man she looked at her surroundings instead. A goodly garden had been created around the back of the cottage. There was a vegetable patch sprouting carrots and tomatoes and suchlike. Three scraggly apple trees. A riotous herb bed and a hodgepodge of flowers. A clovery lawn patched the spaces between cottage and cultivation. Veira’s pony cropped grass in a small paddock attached to a tumbledown stable off to the left, and on the right was a mildly odorous pigpen. Next to that the henhouse, its jaunty red paint faded and peeling. It was all very .. . rural.
Aside from the sound of Matt’s wood-chopping, the sharp calls of hidden birds and the answering cackles of Veira’s hens, the forest hush was absolute. Unsettling, after the steady humming bustle of the City. But there was a kind of peace in it too. A balm to her lacerated soul. On any other morning she’d have reveled in the solitude and thought of this interlude as a holiday, embracing it with passion.
But all her passion had died. She’d killed it, with arrogance and pride and a refusal to consider she might be wrong. That Matt could be right. That being Jervale’s Heir did not make her infallible.
She wanted to tell him that. To say she was sorry and beg his forgiveness. But his shuttered face defeated her. Made her more tongue-tied, and unfairly angry. So she sat unspeaking and watched him cut wood.
Eventually there was none left Matt buried the axe blade in the chopping block with one mighty swing and said, sweating, “Could be you were right after all.”
For a moment she could only look at him, slumguzzled into silence. Then she found her meager voice and said, uncertainly, “What do you mean?”
He inspected his palms for blisters. Found one and popped it, frowning. “I mean about not telling Asher the truth.”
Asher. Images from the scrying basin swam across her inner eye. She felt her heart constrict and her mouth suck dry. “How so?”
“What you saw was done to him... the way that Jarralt hurt him ...”
She thrust away the bloodshed and the haunting echo of screams. “What about it? How can that mean I was right?”
Matt looked elsewhere, into the distance of tangled trees. “Who’s to say what a man can know and not talk of when that kind of thing’s being done to him? With all the will in the world, if he’d known who he is and what we’re about, it’s more likely than not he’d have told it to that poxy Doranen bastard and then where would we be?”
She shook her head. “No. Asher’s strong. He’d never have broken.”
“You can’t know that for sure. So the way things fell out it’s best you held your tongue and made me hold mine.” He glanced at her. “That’s the only thing you were right about, mind. As for the rest of it...” Faint color tinged his face. “The frittering ...”
“What about it?” she said tiredly, feeling her own face heat. “You deny Asher’s charge that you’re jealous ‘cause he’s known me and you haven’t, and never will. But how can I believe you? You act like a man feeling robbed.”
For some time he didn’t answer. Then he shrugged. Glanced at her again then let his gaze slide sideways into the woods. “Believe me, Dathne, if ever once I loved you I got over it soon enough.”
And that hurt, not because she wanted him to love her, at least not like that, but because there was a hardness in him now that before this moment she’d only ever noticed in herself. She’d done that to him, and wasn’t proud to learn it.
“I do love him, Matt,” she said, worrying at a pulled thread in the fabric stretched over her knee. Needing him to believe her. “It’s not an excuse for what I did, but I suppose it is a reason.”
He nodded. “I suppose.”
“I’m not sure why I love him, mind. The purpose behind it, I mean, not the bits and pieces of him that make me soft round the edges. And there must be a purpose, Matt. Mustn’t there? Prophecy wouldn’t have thrown us together for so long and in such a way that we fell in love if there wasn’t a purpose?”
“You’re asking the wrong man. I’ve never much understood Prophecy or its workings.”
“And yet you’ve followed it all your life. Followed me. Why?”
He gave her a painful smile. “Why does a dog chase rabbits, Dathne? Because it’s in his nature.”
In all the years she’d known him she’d never heard him sound so defeated. “We can’t afford to doubt now, Matt. We’ve come too far. Risked too much, and sacrificed more. We must see this through to the end no matter how bitter it might be.”
“I know that,” he said tersely. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
She longed to touch him, but was afraid he’d rebuff her. “What I did with Asher... it was never a trivial thing. I meant what I said about us being sworn in marriage, Barlsman or no Barlsman. His heart is mine, Matt, and mine is his, no matter what.”
“I know,” he said. “If I thought it’d make a difference, I’d say I wished you happy.”
She felt tears well, burning her tired eyes. Never before last night had she cried in front of Matt. It had been a matter of pride and, she thought, necessity. But such things seemed pointless now so she let them fall. “It makes a difference,” she whispered, fisting her fingers in the folds of her skirt. “Never think it doesn’t make a difference.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad for that.”
“I can’t believe he has their magic,” she said. “He made it snow, right under my roof. How can an Olken do that?”
Matt shook his head. “I don’t know. Unless .. .”
“Unless what?”
“Could he have Doranen blood in him?”
The idea was outrageous. “How? Our peoples don’t mix, it’s forbidden!”
That made Matt snort. “Olken magic’s forbidden, Dathne, yet here we are. Aren’t you the one who says all things are possible with Prophecy?”
“Yes, but...” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He has their magic and I didn’t feel it. How could I not feel it? It’s my business to know the Innocent Mage better than he knows himself! And now because I’ve failed him he might die!”
Matt moved to her then, and folded her in his strong, sheltering arms. He smelled of sweat and leather, his jerkin warm beneath her cheek as he held her against his chest. “You mustn’t lose faith, Dath. We have to trust in Prophecy.”
“I do,” she sobbed. “I do. Oh, Matt, I’m sorry I sent you away. I’m sorry I’ve always been harsh with you, keeping you distant. I thought it was best. I thought I was protecting you.”
“I know that,” he said, and rested his cheek on her unruly, unbound hair. “I always knew. And even though it irked me sometimes I never begrudged you your snappishness. It’s a sore burden you’ve been carrying all these years, Dath, and my only true sorrow was in knowing I couldn’t carry more of it for you.”
“You carried a lot, Matt. You’ll never know how much. There were times I thought I could never keep going. I’d have despaired if you hadn’t been with me, encouraging. I owe you so much. I owe you my sanity and I never once told you. I’m sorry.”
“Hush now, hush,” he chided, rocking her gently. “You’re Jervale’s Heir, you’ve a task laid on you like nobody else. Especially now, in the Final Days.” .
She pulled away a little and looked up into his face. “I may be the Heir but you’re the Heir’s conscience, her wisdom and her strength. Is there anything you can tell me, Matt? Is there anything you’ve felt that can show me a way out of this mess we’re in?” She let out a long and shuddering breath. “That I’ve put us in?”
He smoothed a tangle of hair from her face. “I wish there was. What do your visions tell you?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. “Ever since I lay with Asher they’ve stopped coming and I don’t know why. I’ve never been so blind in all my life and it scares me.”
“Well,” Matt said slowly, “could be they’ve stopped because they’d led you where you needed to be. With him. Could be you’re right and Prophecy p
lanned it all along.”
“For what purpose? How does me lying with Asher get us through the Final Days? They must be close now, for Asher’s revealed as our Innocent Mage. Oh, Matt, are you sure you don’t know anything?”
“Veira’s asked me the same question,” he said, “and all I can do is give you the same answer I gave her. There’s something amiss with the magic fluxes, but I don’t know how or why. It’s in the City, because as soon as I left there the uneasiness faded, but beyond that... If I went back I might be able to tell more.”
She tightened her arms around him. “No. You can’t go back. With Asher arrested they’ll want his friends next, and we’re his two closest. You’re safe here.”
“For how long?” Gently, he pulled away and began pacing. “There’s not a man, woman or child in all of Lur who’ll be safe when Prophecy’s finally fulfilled, Dathne, and your dreams become our reality. Our job’s not over yet. We still have to save this kingdom from destruction.”
“How?” she cried. “For that we need Asher and I can’t help him! Can you? Can anyone?”
“I can,” said Veira’s voice from behind them.
They turned. Stared. Dathne folded her arms about her ribs and held on tight. “How?”
Veira walked out of the forest fringe and across the cottage yard to join them, her brown wool trousers soaked to the knees and her stout leather boots mired in mud. In one gnarled hand she gripped an old tramping stick and at her heels snuffled two enormous mud-covered pigs, tame as dogs. Her wrinkled-apple face was grim.
“With heartbreak, and sacrifice, and a mortal lot of danger,” she said. “But we must act swiftly. I had word from the Circle last night: Asher’s appointment with the axeman is set for midnight Barl’s Day next.”
Dathne turned to Matt. “I can’t believe the king is doing this. Asher’s his dearest friend!”
“If by the king you mean Gar then that’s more bad news,” said Veira. “Lur has a new king now.”
“Not Conroyd Jarralt?”
Veira nodded. “Yes.”
“Barl protect us,” said Matt, and rested his hand on Dathne’s shoulder. “There won’t be an Olken safe anywhere.”
“Only if we fail,” said Veira, grimly. “But if we are to save the Innocent Mage from dying and taking us all with him to the grave, you must do as I say without fratching. What’s to come will come. Must come. Prophecy demands it.”
Matt frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You’re not asked to,” Veira snapped. “Dathne, put these pigs back in then pen, child, and see they have a good breakfast. You, Matthias, fetch knife and bowl from the kitchen. Cut me two sprigs from every herb and planting in the last row of the garden there. Tie a strip of cheesecloth over your nose and mouth, be sure to put on gloves, and whatever your opinion of what you see and cut, keep it to yourself. Don’t bring the cuttings inside either; leave them on the ground beside the back door. When you’re both done, amuse yourselves in the kitchen by making soup for lunch. All the fixings are in the pantry.”
Bewildered, Dathne looked over at the herb bed. “Cheesecloth and gloves?”
Veira’s severe expression eased, just a little. “For precaution only. I’d not put Matthias in danger.” She pulled a face. “Not from herbs at least.”
As she stumped past them on her way back into the cottage Matt said, “And I like the sound of that even less.”
Troubled, Dathne nodded, watching as the cottage’s back door closed behind the old woman. “Nor do I. But we’d best do as we’re told, I think. Whatever it is she’s planning, it’s near torn her heart from her chest.”
———
Despite her village isolation and solitary cottage lifestyle, Veira kept her Circle Stones out of sight, in a hideyhole she’d dug beneath her bedroom floor and lined with discarded tiles from the village pottery. The neatly rejoined floorboards with their betraying finger holes for lifting stayed hidden beneath an old, fraying carpet.
Alone in her bedroom with the door safely closed and curtains drawn she rolled back the carpet, hoisted up the hidey-hole’s lid and leaned it against the bed. Forty Circle Stones winked up at her in the flickering lamplight, looking no more important than a random collection of pretty quartz crystals, a magpie’s playthings.
Forty stones, forty friends—no, family—forty oaths solemnly sworn. So few, to stand against the coming darkness.
She hunkered down beside the hidey-hole, grimacing as her knees protested. Rafel’s stone, a blue as pale as fresh-skimmed milk, drew her gaze like a magnet. She picked it up, cradled it in her palm and called to him. When he answered, tears sprang to her eyes. “It’s time.”
For long heartbeats he said nothing. Then she felt him sigh. When we heard of Asher’s arrest I thought it might be. He is the one, isn’t he? He’s the Innocent Mage?
She’d told no one save Gilda. Trust Rafel to guess the truth.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s him. Darling—”
Don’t say it. She thought his smile might kill her. You’re crying... and besides, I’ve had strange dreams.
“If there was any another way ...”
Perhaps I wouldn’t have been born.
“We have little time,” she said through her tears. “You’ll need to meet me tomorrow where the West Road runs into the Black Woods Road on its way to the City. How soon can you get there?”
By mid-morning or not long after.
“You must invent some reason for leaving. Tell as few as possible and depart without an audience; say you go anywhere but to the City. Travel light and as fast as you can without drawing undue attention. Let no one see your sorrow.”
I understand.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Tomorrow, he said, still smiling, and out of love was the one who broke the link.
Some time later, after she’d won back composure, she again reached out to Gilda through the rich green stone that kept them in contact. Nearly ten long minutes ticked by before their connection was made.
Sorry, sorry, said Gilda, flustered. I was with a customer, I couldn’t get away.
“No matter, Gilda. My friend, I have a task for you. And not to plunge you into deep dismay I must say this: upon your success lies the future of our kingdom.”
The link between them trembled with Gilda’s uncertainty, then firmed again. Of course, Veira. What do you need?
“I’m coming into the City for the execution and I need you to save me bench space for three beside you, right down the front. Directly before the block.”
Beside me? said Gilda, faltering. So close?
“Yes. Can you do it?”
Of course.
“Bless you, dear. I’ll see you before midnight this Barl’s Day.”
She replaced Gilda’s stone and selected another, this one dark blue-black.
“Rogan. I have a task for you.”
Rogan agreed without question, as she’d known he would. Next she contacted Laney Treadwell, whose family business was most useful, and finally she reached out to the ten best-placed and strongest magicians in the group, on whose shoulders she must place a heavy burden. Resolute, they promised to join her in Dorana and carry out their task.
Jervale bless them all. Without such staunch supporters she’d not have the heart to go on.
With all the arrangements in place, and tired almost beyond speaking, she replaced the last Circle Stone, the hidey-hole lid and the carpet that covered them. Eased herself groaning to her feet, and went out to the kitchen.
The soup was on the stove top, bubbling aromatically. Dathne and Matthias sat in silence at the table, each lost in private meditation.
“Please, Veira, what’s going on?” said Dathne,’looking up. “The herbs you had Matt cut for you—”
“Are deadly,” she said shortly. “I know it.”
Matthias stirred in his chair. “Then why do you need them?”
She moved to the kitchen window and stared ou
t into the garden beyond, with its undisciplined winter roses and riot of ravenberries. “To serve Prophecy.”
“Serve it how?” said Dathne.
“I’ll keep my own counsel on that. The less you know, the better. At least until you must.”
“And who decides when that is? I’m not a child, Veira, whatever you like to call me! I’m Jervale’s Heir and—”
“And you’ll learn to follow another’s instructions!” she snapped, turning away from the window. Then, seeing Dathne’s strained and peaky face, seeing the fear imperfectly smothered, she softened. “Child, child—for that’s what you are to me, married lady or not—stop fretting on things you don’t control. We’ve enough worms in the apple without you making room for more.”
Dathne looked to Matthias, who shook his head and ventured a brief smile. “No fratching, remember?”
Defeated, Dathne slumped. “All right.”
“Good,” Veira said briskly, and moved to the stove. “Now let’s eat.”
Afterwards, once the soup had been consumed in silence and Matthias was sent outside to check Bessie, her shoes, her harness and the rackety old cart, Dathne turned her hand to washing dishes.
“I’m not fratching, truly,” she said, her hands in soapy water. “I just wish you’d tell me who those herbs are for.”
Veira sighed. Letting the dish towel dangle from her fingers she said, “No one you know, child. I promise.”
“But someone you know?”
Grimly, she held her tears below the surface. “Yes. Someone I know.”
“Then let me brew the potion.”
Oh, it was a tempting thought. Kind and loving too. “No,” she said, and touched her hand to Dathne’s shoulder. “Though you have my thanks for offering.”
Mettlesome as always, Dathne took the refusal as criticism. “I am capable! I have more herb lore than—”
“Herb lore has nothing to do with it. No woman with child should touch those cuttings.”
Shocked silent, Dathne stared at her. Pulled her hands from the soapy dishwater to flatten them against her belly and press, softly. “With child? What do you mean?”
Veira snorted. “I’m old, child, not blind or deaf or stupid. I might not’ve birthed my own but I’ve done my share of midwifery over the years. There’s a look a woman gets. And I felt something different in you too.” Then she sighed. “You didn’t realize?”
