by Karen Miller
“Your Highness ...” Now Darran was whispering. Looking afraid. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He stepped back. “Neither do I.”
“What you’re saying... it sounds fantastical.”
“I know that. Insane too.” He forced a smile. “But I’m not crazy, Darran. Witnessing that execution hasn’t robbed me of my wits or filled my head with wild imaginings! I know what I saw. And I know this too. Since the moment we opened Barl’s library—since Durm found her hidden diary—something’s been wrong in this kingdom. I don’t know what but I intend to find out.”
Still fearful, Darran stiffened his spine. “Yes, sir. But how?”
Gar glanced up, as though he could see right through the ceiling and into his library. “The answer’s in that diary, Darran. I can feel it in my bones. I must finish translating it and there isn’t a moment to lose. Very soon now, I fear it will be too late and Conroyd—or whoever, whatever, he is—will bring us all to ruin.”
He headed for the staircase, almost running. Darran called after him. “And me? Your Highness? Can’t I do something?”
“Of course you can,” he said, turning on the staircase. “You can think of a way to rescue Matt!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Conroyd?” Morg kept his entranced gaze on the blood-soaked straw around the executioner’s block. The glim-lit Square was almost emptied of Olken now; a handful of industrious individuals were plucking wet, scarlet wheat stalks from the ground, darting in quickly before a guard could interfere with their relic-taking. The body was already removed, bundled into sacking and taken away to the guardhouse to await its promised ignominious destruction. Willer had gone with it, eager and gloating.
All in all, a good night’s work. Behind him, the cleric shifted restlessly. “Conroyd.” Sighing, he turned. Considered the old fool coldly. “Your Majesty.”
Holze’s pale cheeks colored. “Forgive me. Your Majesty. Sir, we need to speak.”
He turned away again, this time resting his gaze on the guardhouse wherein languished an Olken of great interest. One who’d been held in firm affection by dead Asher, and might, with judicious winnowing, reveal some knowledge of Asher’s unexpected abilities. Just in case there was some other inconvenient Olken somwhere who could yet interfere with his plans. “Tomorrow, Holze.”
Standing at a discreet distance, ever-hopeful Sorvold and Daltrie waited to see if their friend and king required anything more of them. Holze spared them a wary glance and stepped closer. “I’m sorry, but it can’t wait,” he said, his voice insistently lowered. “Tonight sees the end of an era for our kingdom. An era that has died with bloodshed... and a certain amount of unexpected excitement. As Lur’s oath-sworn caretakers it is urgent that you and I confer. In private. Between us, as Barl’s chosen instruments, we maintain the spiritual and temporal balance in this land. What we do next will set the tone for generations of Doranen and Olken to come.”
Well, no. Because Lur’s current crop of milk-and-water magicians was its last and the Olken were irrelevant. But since he was, for the moment, forced to continue his charade as the dutiful, dedicated king he couldn’t let Holze suspect that.
And, in truth, there was no desperate need to question the captured stable meister immediately. Obedient Or-rick had him safely locked away. This Matt would keep a few hours longer—and a night spent stewing in fear would doubtless render him more pliable. More likely to speak without encouragement. Searching Asher’s mind had nearly killed the Olken untimely, and Asher had been an Olken stronger than most. It might well be unwise to kill this one too quickly, and with magic. Orrick’s inconvenient ethics might prompt him to whisper in the wrong ears.
He favored Barl-sot Holze with a smile. “Efrim, your wisdom as ever prevails. Indeed, let us talk.” With a raised eyebrow he summoned Payne Sorvold to his side.
“Your Majesty?”
He acknowledged Sorvold’s bow with the slightest of nods. “Ah, Payne. Barlsman Holze and I have weighty matters of state to discuss. See that my horse is taken to the Barl’s Chapel stables.”
Sorvold bowed again. “Certainly, sir.” His public face was impeccable; Morg almost laughed to see the churning disquiet behind it. The barely leashed desire to partake in those weighty state discussions. Sorvold’s ambition stank like rotting flesh.
For desultory amusement he touched his fingertips to Sorvold’s forearm. “Patience, friend,” he murmured “Walking, one still reaches the desired destination ... and with far less risk of a fall.”
Sorvold’s greedy eyes glittered. “Indeed, Your Majesty.”
As Sorvold and Daltrie withdrew, conferring, Holze made a little noise of disapproval. “I confess I had thought better of Payne Sorvold. Such naked self-interest is displeasing to Barl. Those of us privileged to be in the upper ranks of Doranen society should care more for her desires than our own.”
Drivel, drivel, drivel. Was there no end to the man’s pious platitudes? Suppressing contempt, Morg smiled “As you say, Efrim. But a king is confined to the counsel at hand. And if Payne Sorvold’s voice is a part of the choir we must assume he sings with Barl’s blessing, yes? Her choice may seem dubious to us but is it meet that we question it?”
The rebuke stung fresh color into Holze’s cheeks. He bowed. “Your Majesty.”
Morg smiled. “And now let us retire to your rooms, Efrim, that we might best decide how together we can steer our beloved kingdom to its rightful destiny.”
“Indeed, Conroyd,” agreed Holze. “Let us.”
———
Fueled by desperation, Gar returned to his study of Barl’s diary. There was no more time for a measured, methodical deconstruction of her memories. He had to risk haste, risk racing through each entry in his search for the key words and phrases that would help him explain their current predicament. Had to subdue the historian, whose love of language and detail cried out for a leisurely perusal, and let the king’s needs hold sway. The king’s.
Yes. In his heart, though his magic was now a bitter memory, he believed he was still Lur’s rightful king, its guardian, its protector, in a way that transcended magic and WeatherWorking and trappings of power. The transience of an externally bestowed authority.
His father’s words, spoken so long ago, echoed in his mind like thunder. “Barl has a destiny for you, my son.”
This was it. Finding her diary. Learning its secrets and using them to save Lur from a danger he could not define but knew was upon them. That was connected intimately, inexplicably, to the fate of Conroyd Jarralt.
Ignoring the spiking pain between his eyes, indifferent to the dull ache in his shoulders, his spine, uncaring of the throbbing in his face where Conroyd’s ring had cut him open, Gar bent all his energy to those secrets’ uncovering. Every time he lifted his gaze from the diary’s ancient, faded paper and ink the image of Conroyd’s dual face rose before him, spurring him on.
Wisely, Darran left him alone.
The answer came hours later, as the first intimations of light appeared in the sky beyond his library window. Not dawn, but dawn’s harbinger.
Exhausted, he’d had no choice but to slow the speed of his reading. The diary’s later entries were scrawled hastily, haphazardly, as though Barl had been as pressed for time then as he was now. They were almost illegible. The incantations she’d recorded were of no use to him, of course. Not any more. But if he could find Asher... prevail upon him for assistance one last time...
The Doranen arcane heritage was appalling. No wonder there’d been a war. No wonder Barl had hidden the diary, and Durm after her. No wonder such magics had been erased from his ancestors’ memories. The thought of such magic unleashed during Trevoyle’s Schism ... unleashed now by Conroyd against any who dared oppose him...
Sickened, his fatigued eyes burning, acutely aware of the fast-approaching day, Gar flogged his tired mind onwards.
Barl had written:
But while a locked room is safe, without a key it is al
so a trap. So I have fashioned one and in time I will use it to open a window in the Wall,’that I may see what has become of the world beyond. And if it be safe then we will go home. I swear it, I swear it on my life. One day we will all go home.
A window in the Wall?
Thrumming with tiredness he slumped in his chair and let the implications of Barl’s words unfold in his mind. Fragments of her earlier comments resurfaced and clicked into place, part of the puzzle he was trying so desperately to piece together.
———
I’ve not told a soul of the power we discovered, the key to immortality... He is coming, he is coming, I can feel it... He will find us, no matter how long it takes to search each corner of the world...
———
A window in the Wall.
Was that the answer? Had Durm read Barl’s diary from cover to cover? And had he, in all his pride and arrogance, opened Barl’s window? Breached their safe, sealed kingdom and placed them all at risk?
He heard again Durm’s harsh and dying words: “Borne ... forgive me. I couldn’t stop him ...”
Gar dragged his fingers over his face, struggling to understand.
Stop who? Stop ... Morg?
No. No. It couldn’t be that. Morg was dead, had to be dead. Immortality was a dream, not reality. There was another explanation, one he hadn’t thought of yet.
Behind his closed eyes he saw once more that rippling alchemical change cross Conroyd’s face. Remembered the oddness in his writing, as though another hand had guided the pen. Remembered the gaping hole in the fence at Salbert’s Eyrie, where horses and carriage had plunged over the edge without any attempt to swerve or stop. Taking with them three powerful magicians without a fight.
A window in the Wall.. . and an immortal warrior mage, steeped in evil, bent on revenge. “Darran!”
The old man appeared in the doorway a few moments later, shaken and breathless. “Sir? Sir, what is it?”
Gar pushed to his feet, clutching at the desk to keep from falling sideways. “Get down to the guardhouse. Now, before the City starts stirring. Find Pellen Orrick and bring him back here.” He pounded a fist against his head, trying to rattle coherent thought free of crippling exhaustion. “No! No, not here. It’s too dangerous. Take him—take him to House Torvig’s crypt. I’ll meet you there.”
Darran looked as sleepless as Gar felt. In rumpled clothing, his hair awry, he wrung his hands in agitation. “Sir? Has something happened?”
Slowly, acutely aware of all his aches and pains and his swollen cut cheek burning. Gar nodded. “I think I’ve figured it out, Darran. I think I know what we’re up against. Who we’re up against.”
Darran swallowed. “And do I want to know, sir?”
He shook his head, feeling sick. “No. No, Darran, you really don’t.”
———
Pellen Orrick jerked upright in his chair with a snort, furious with himself for dozing, and looked to his prisoner to make sure he was still there and breathing.
He was. Curled on his side against the cell’s far wall, draped in a blanket, the stable meister watched his captor with silent wariness.
Perhaps not surprisingly, given the execution and the malfunctioning glimfire and the general air of unrest, the guards who’d apprehended Matt last night had been heavy-handed in their methods. Enthusiastic in their eagerness to restrain him. They’d brought him in unconscious. Now, in the murky just-dawn light, Orrick saw that the man was a patchwork quilt of cuts and bruises. None life-threatening but all uncomfortable... and with more discomfort still to come.
Creaking a little, Orrick got to his feet. Stretched, hearing all the bones in his neck go pop, then stared down at the silent, unmoving prisoner on the floor before him.
“His Majesty sent word late last night. He’ll be here later today to interrogate you himself. If you’re wise you’ll tell him whatever you know, and quickly. Asher resisted and paid a heavy price.”
Matt blinked his swollen, blood-crusted eyes. “I don’t know anything.”
“For your sake I hope not. I warn you, Matt, since you’re a man who to the best of my knowledge has done no harm: our new king is ruthless in the pursuit of justice. He’ll use magic to tear the truth from you, just as he used it on Asher.”
“Magic?” said Matt, and sat up, wincing. “But that’s forbidden. You’re the Captain of the City, how could you sanction—”
“Captains don’t sanction,” he replied. “Or object.” Not when a king commands. Even when then conscience pricked them. Even though they had grave doubts. And was that duty or cowardice speaking? An uncomfortable question he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Tell him what you know, Matt. Put an end to all this misery.”
“I told you,” said Matt, and closed his eyes. “I don’t know anything.”
Well, if the stable meister was telling the truth surely he had nothing to fear, magic or no magic. And if the man was lying the king would soon dig the truth free. Either way, it was out of his hands. He was weary, and hungry, and needed an hour or three at home.
The guardhouse was empty, save for Bunder on front-desk duty and young Jesip filling out reports. All the other lads, on active duty or recalled for special circumstances, were out patrolling the City, maintaining order after last night’s tumult and hastening all the sightseers back to their homes, either in Dorana or beyond it. He sent Jesip out back to keep a close eye on their prisoner and paused for a word with stolid Ox.
“I’m off home for a bit. Stay alert and send for me if there’s fresh trouble.”
Letting himself out through the guardsmen’s entrance he saw that the day promised fair, with flushes of pink on the rim of the horizon. Smothering a yawn, he turned for the small gate leading into the alley ... and was accosted from the shadows alongside the guardhouse building.
“Captain Orrick! Captain Orrick, a word!”
He knew that whispering voice. It was the prince’s secretary. Darran. A good man, if a witterer. “Sir?” Orrick said, approaching. “Is something wrong? Come out into the light where I can see you.”
The old man didn’t move. “Captain Orrick, do you love this kingdom?”
And what kind of a question was that? He scowled, feeling fratched and fractious. “Meister Secretary, it’s been a long night and I’m in no mood for games. State your business or be on your way. It’s a grave offense to loiter on guardhouse property.”
The old man inched forward until just his face was visible. His gaze darted left and right, seeking eavesdroppers. “Captain, we must speak in private. Will you come?”
“Come where? And why? What do you want to speak of?”
Darran eased a little further forward. He looked exhausted. Terrified. “I can’t say, Captain. Not here. Please, I beg you. Come. In the name of our beloved King Borne.”
That name stilled his tongue. He looked more closely at Darran. Recognized honesty, and desperation. “I was on my way home,” he grumbled. “I’ve been on duty now a good long time, sir.”
“I know that,” said Darran. “I’d not ask if it weren’t important.”
He sighed. “How important?”
“A matter of life or death,” the old man said. “For all of us.” He held out a bundled cloak. “Wear this. Pull the hood low over your face. We don’t want you recognized.”
Orrick took the cloak and shrugged it on as the old man settled the hood of his own cloak over his graying head. “If this is not urgent but a trick or, worse still, some lawless skullduggery ...”
“Come with me, Captain,” said Darran, “and see for yourself.”
Groaning, sighing, Orrick went with him.
———
He wasn’t surprised to find he’d been taken to meet with Prince Gar. The choice of meeting place was more unexpected: House Torvig’s family crypt. Chilly, and filled full of candles. And bodies.
The prince looked sleepless. High-strung and backed against an invisible wall. The cut on his cheekbone was scabbed over,
the flesh around it bruised and puffy. “Thank you for coming, Captain. Pellen. May I call you Pellen?”
Orrick nodded. “Of course.”
“Pellen, I need your help. Lur needs your help. Can we count on you?”
His spine snapped straight. “I am an officer of the crown. My loyalty has never been questioned.” Well. Not reasonably anyway. Or more than once.
The prince smiled. There was something ghastly in his eyes. He stood beside his dead sister’s coffin, his fingers caressing her—the effigy’s—cold stone foot. “I know that,” he said. “But you’re also an officer who’s never been asked to face what we are facing. To accept what will sound to you like the ravings of a madman.”
Careful... careful... Orrick moistened dry lips. Glanced once at the old man who’d brought him here, standing now in the corner, then settled his attention on the prince. “And what is it we’re facing, Your Highness?”
“I believe—the destruction of our kingdom.”
Well, yes, that did sound like the ravings of a madman. And he was so damned tired. “Sir, you’ll need to speak more plainly. You believe that we’re in danger? From whom? From what? And where is your proof?”
“So speaks the City guardsman.” The prince shook his head. “I’m not sure you’d call it proof, Pellen.”
Orrick glanced again at Darran. The old man’s eyes didn’t leave the prince’s face. From his expression he at least believed what Gar was saying. Or did he just want to believe it? Hard to say.
Looking back at the prince, he thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Your Highness, have you told the king of your concern?”
The question provoked a harsh, choked-off bark of laughter. “Pellen, dear Pellen. Conroyd is my concern!”
“You’re talking treason. I can’t hear this,” he snapped, and burned Darran with a look. “You shouldn’t have brought me here, old man. If you love your prince, take him away. Now. And I’ll do my best to forget the three of us ever spoke.”
