by Karen Miller
He groaned. “Let a body rest a moment, Veira. I been at this for bloody hours.”
“And hours are all we have left before we must head back to the City. I—”
“Sorry,” said Matt, slopping into the shed from outside. He was festooned with oil-dark horse harness, head and shoulders soaked with the ceaseless rain. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You ain’t,” he said, frowning. All Matt’s color was bled from his face, leaving it drawn and pallid. “You all right?”
Matt let the harness slide free onto a cluttered bench. “The unbalance of magic is getting worse. I’m feeling it more with every hour that passes.”
Asher nodded. “Aye.” He could feel it too, like sharp fingernails digging into his brain. Scraping over his skin. “You got to block it out, Matt, else it’ll tear you apart.”
Matt pulled a face. “I’m trying. But I’m not you.” He looked at Veira. “Can you spare a moment to help me strengthen this harness? I’ve grown more used to needles and waxed thread than bindings—and I never was much good at them to begin with.”
“Course she will,” Asher said cheerfully. “She ain’t got nowt better to do just now, since I’m for a breather.” And he made his escape before Veira could shout, or slap him again.
He ran over the squelching grass to the cottage, shoved open the kitchen door and escaped inside, dripping.
The kitchen was full of more cleaned harness, cooking smells and Darran. Who took one look at his face, rummaged in a cupboard, pulled from it an anonymous bottle of something that looked promising, at least, and poured him half a glassful.
He swallowed it in one gulp then staggered around for a while coughing and wheezing and banging his chest.
“You’re welcome,” said Darran. Flour daubed his weskit, his face, his hair. He was in the middle of rolling pastry. It looked suspiciously lumpy.
Asher held out his emptied glass and waited. Pinch-faced, Darran poured him a stingy second splash, ostentatiously recorked the bottle and returned it to the cupboard.
He wasn’t a slow learner. Sipping this time, not gulping, he emptied the glass again and put it in the sink. Glanced at Darran, sighed, rinsed it and set it upside down to dry.
Darran returned to his pastry. “Gar never meant to hurt you.”
Another sigh. He had no strength for this. “It’s been said before and nowt’s changed. Let it be, ole man.”
Bang went the rolling pin onto the table. “He saved your life!”
“You mean Matt’s.”
“And yours. Don’t you even care how? Or is hating him more important than knowing the truth?”
Asher looked at him. The ole crow’s eyes were blazing with unfair hope and accusation. He didn’t want to see that, so he slouched over to the window. Looked at the rain instead of this pleading old man who’d been nothing but a trial and tribulation to him from the first day they’d met.
“Aye,” he said, surly. “Hate’s a lot more important.”
Darran seized him. Pushed up his jacket and shirt sleeve to reveal the ragged scar from his madcap Restharven childhood with Jed. “The other man’s arm was scar-less. But Gar said it was your body burned in the glimfire. He knew it wasn’t and he lied, though he could’ve died for it then and there. He said it so they’d believe you were dead. That must be worth a little forgiveness, surely?”
“No,” said Asher baldly. “It ain’t.”
“Why not?” demanded Darran, pleading. “Have you never done anything you’ve not been sorry for after? That you did because you had to, even though it led to someone else’s suffering?”
Jed. He skewered the ole crow with a scathing glare. “I never went back on a promise. And if Gar’d done the same there’d have been no body to identify at all, now would there? Someone still died, Darran!”
Darran flinched as though he’d been struck. “I know. The prince is most—”
“Good. Then maybe you can ask Rafel to forgive Gar,” he said bitterly, “Just don’t ask me again, Darran. You’ll only be wastin’ your time and mine.”
Darran picked up his rolling pin and attacked the pastry. “Yes,” he said, clipped and cold. “Yes, I quite see that I would.”
Furious he’d been goaded into saying more than he’d intended, Asher headed for the inside kitchen door, thinking to change his wet clothes. He hauled it open—
—and Gar was on the other side.
“What?” he said roughly. “What d’you want?”
From the stricken look on his face Gar had been eavesdropping. Mute, he held out his hand. In it was another sheaf of papers covered in his quick writing. “More spells,” he said, subdued.
“Fine,” Asher said, and snatched them. He’d worry about dry clothes later. Turning on his heel he stalked out of the kitchen. Into the rain. Back to the business of killing with magic.
———
Shaken, Gar ignored the pleading look on Darran’s pale face and returned to the sitting room and Barl’s diary. He had only a few more pages left to examine. Relief warred with a sharp, unexpected sorrow at the thought. With the diary wholly translated he’d be leaving Barl behind. Saying goodbye. It hurt, to think of that.
Barl... Barl... how glorious she was. A woman unmatched in the history of their people. Brave... dedicated... consumed with integrity. He could read her handwriting now as easily as his own. She spoke to him intimately, mind to mind, a whispering of desperate confidences. Betraying to him, and only him, the secret torments of her heart. Her doubts. Her fears. Her passionate longings. He understood her as no one ever had; certainly not her faithless lover Morgan.
Pulling the diary towards him he turned to the next page. Blinked a couple of times to clear his fuzzy vision, then focused on the hastily scrawled entry.
———
Being an incantation I shall call the Words of UnMaking. This is a terrible thing, and only my overwhelming fears have led me to it. The seeds of this monstrous spell grew out of my work with Morgan, though it shames me now to admit it. I do believe that the Wall I labor to bring forth will protect us from him. I believe we will be safe behind it forever... but if my belief proves false, yet will I prevail against him. For the dread words recorded hereafter will undo him utterly. Yes, and they will undo the speaker also... undo me, for no one else shall have them.
If I must use them ...if I must die.. . I shall be justly punished.
———
Silence, as the carved wooden clock on the wall ticked away the seconds and minutes of what might be Lur’s last days.
Mouth dry, hands sweaty, he read the diary entry again then looked at the recorded incantations. Noted the syllables and the sigils and the rhythms of the words and saw, his heart hard-beating, that victory was held here in his hands.
Victory ... and death.
There were no more spells in the diary after Barl’s Words of UnMaking. The spell that would ensure Morg’s death, and Asher’s with it.
He read it again. Again. Again. Marveled at the simplicity of its structure, its exquisite elegance, so quintessentially Barl. Recognized its triggers and why without question it would work. With magic a fading memory in his blood he could barely feel the incantation’s power. Faced with the potential of such dreadful destruction he felt briefly, guiltily relieved the burden of its utterance would never fall upon him.
And then—as he read the incantation for the eighth time—his disciplined, scholarly, educated mind went click. And suddenly he saw Barl’s spell in a whole new light. Saw it for what it was ... but also what it could be. Still victory. Still death.
And yet entirely different.
He slammed the diary shut. Shoved away from his makeshift desk and roamed Veira’s small sitting room, banging from mantelpiece to sofa to window and back again. He was sweating. Could he do it? Did he even dare try? If the memory of magic wasn’t enough, if his vaunted scholarship were faulty. If he misplaced just one single syllable...
He could kill everyone. Ev
en perhaps leave Morg alive.
No. He couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t. The risk was too great. It was arrogance inconceivable to think of altering Barl’s final, perhaps greatest work. How long had he been a magician? Mere weeks. It wasn’t enough. If what he believed was true, if the powers he’d manifested had never been his but were part of Morg’s plan, then he’d never been a real magician. Had never been anything but a magickless cripple. A pawn, used and discarded on a whim.
And yet—and yet—he could see it. Feel it. Taste the changes to her incantation, if only in his mind. He knew Barl as well as he knew himself, now. Knew how her mind worked, how it saw and shaped the world, as completely as he knew his own. He could do this.
He flung himself back to the makeshift desk. Opened the diary. Pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and re-inked his pen.
“I can do this, Barl,” he said aloud, as though she was nearby, listening. “I must do this. I know you want me to. And it’s the only way to repay my debts. Sweet lady, help me...”
———
Outside the cottage the last of the daylight-was washed away and a rain-soaked night fell. As the cottage clocks struck seven, Veira shepherded everyone into the kitchen for dinner. Just as they sat down to Darran’s lumpy rabbit pie one of the villagers, braving the dreadful weather, came calling at the back door to see if she was all right. She shooed the others into the corridor where they hid and held their breaths until Gavin was persuaded she was coping just fine, thank you, and went away.
“Is there news from the Circle, Veira?” said Dathne, as they resumed their seats at the crowded kitchen table. “What’s happening elsewhere in the kingdom?”
Veira sighed. “Nothing good, child. I’ve heard from everyone and every story is the same. Storms rage from coast to coast. There’s flooding. Fires. Tremors that tear the earth apart, just as when King Borne was ill. Fear riots unchecked in village and township streets alike.”
“And what of my people?” said Gar. “Are there no Doranen attempting to help?”
“A few,” she said, shrugging. “But what can they do? They have no Weather Magic. I’m told most of them have gone into hiding on their country estates, panic-stricken like the Olken.”
As Gar looked at his plate, clearly distressed, Darran cleared his throat. “What about the Doranen in the City? The kingdom’s strongest magicians sit on council, surely—”
She shook her head. “Morg’s suspended council business. Barlsman Holze has sent out orders for everyone to pray.”
“So not even he suspects Jarralt isn’t Jarralt?” said Matt, stabbing his fork into a potato.
Unwillingly, Veira shared her last titbit of gossip. “All the trouble’s being blamed on Asher.”
Asher snorted. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s very clever—and inconvenient. We’ll have to work hard to make sure you’re not noticed once we get into the City.” She sat back in her chair, appetite defeated. “We leave at first tight. I’d be happier going soon after supper but the roads’ll be too treacherous in the dark and we can’t risk glimfire.” She looked at Gar. “You all done with your translating, then?”
Gar put down his knife and fork. His expression was wary. Watchful. She didn’t like the look of it. “Done?” he said. “Yes, I’m done. But the last spell isn’t like the others. It’s not a summoning for war-beasts.”
“Then what is it?” said Dathne.
“A spell that Asher can say only once. A spell I’ll have to teach him myself, on the road to Dorana.”
For the first time, Asher looked at him. “You ain’t comin’ with us. You can teach me it tonight.”
“I’m too tired tonight,” said Gar, flushing. “I’ve been working all day and this is a desperately complicated incantation. Much harder than the others.”
Seated beside him, Veira put her hand on his arm. “Why?”
He took a breath. Let it out. “Because it’s a killing spell. Powerful enough to destroy Morg himself.”
“And you’re only just tellin’ us now?” said Asher, glaring.
Gar held his hot gaze steadily. “It was the last spell in the diary. Barl’s final defense against Morg. I had to be sure I translated it properly.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. It will kill him.”
Still Asher stared. “And what else? I know you, Gar, there’s somethin’ you ain’t sayin’. Spit it out.”
“Unfortunately, it will also kill you.” His words sparked a tempest.
“Then he can’t use it!” cried Dathne. “How can you even think he would—”
“There’s got to be another way,” said Matt, pushing his plate away. “Prophecy says nothing about—”
“I told you he was try in’ to kill me!” said Asher, indignant.
Veira slammed her hand hard on the table, making them all jump and fall silent.
“Enough! Nobody’s said he has to use it. Might be we’ll kill this Morg with an army of those monsters Asher conjured up this afternoon. But we can’t afford to ignore any weapon handed us in this war. It’s a kingdom and thousands upon thousands of lives at stake.” She looked at Asher, willing all kind understanding from her face. “But in the end we’re not the ones who’ll be called on to use it, and die. That might be your fate, child. Can you bear it? If all else fails could you use this weapon ... though it cost you your life?”
Asher shoved back from the table. Rubbed his hands across his face, then let them fall to his side. “Why are you even askin’, ole woman?” His cold gaze raked across all their faces. “You got me to promise to help you, and you know bloody well I keep my promises—no matter what it costs me. Besides. There’s some as might think I’m already dead. That all I am is a man livin’ on stolen time.”
“Do you think that?” said Malt, into the red-hot silence.
Asher shrugged. “Don’t matter what I think. Nowt matters any more, save for stoppin’ that monster in the City.”
“Yes,” Veira said, when no one else could answer him. “No matter what it costs any of us, Morg must be stopped. Now let’s all finish eating, shall we, then get ourselves some sleep. It’ll be a mortal bad trip back to Dorana.”
———
Returned to the Weather Chamber under cover of darkness, Morg raged and raged round the Weather map till all the polish was worn from the parquetry and the mellow timber shone dim.
The bitch whore’s golden barrier was pockmarked with weaknesses now, its intricate incantations fraying apace. Outside the chamber a shrill wind was howling. Trees lashed the cloud-clotted sky and lightning stabbed both air and sodden ground. The world bled rain.
The map itself was suffering too. Leprous patches of decay and destruction marred it from end to end. His listening mind heard a far-distant keening. He lifted his eyes and stared through the clear crystal ceiling at the writhing gold light above him.
“Yes, slut! Scream. Scream!”
An unheralded voice said somewhere behind him: “Conroyd? Your Majesty? Might we have a word?”
Startled, he spun around. Stepped back, incredulous. Furious. “Sorvold? You vomitous excrescence, get out! All of you get out! You are not wanted here!”
They’d come in a gaggle, like geese. Sorvold. Daltrie. And uninvited back from the country, Boqur and Hafar also. Conroyd’s dear friends and confidants.
As they stared at him, slack-faced with shock, he laughed his delight. “You lackwits! Don’t you know he despises you?”
Foolishly they’d braved the inclement weather. Wet, wind-tossed, plastered with tattered leaves, despite their silks and velvets and their pitiful little magics they looked like destitute vagabonds.
Payne Sorvold said, very slowly, “Your Majesty, are you unwell?”
Victory was vintage icewine, burning in his blood. He spread his hands. “Unwell? On the contrary, gentlemen. I am superb. I said get out.”
They exchanged uneasy glances. Sorvold spoke again. “Your Majesty, we are here on behalf
of your Council. Your people. The weather is... disturbing. The Wall itself seems—its appearance suggests—Your Majesty, clearly something is wrong.”
Boqur took a step forward. Neglected to bow. “Conroyd, in plain language: you have refused to meet with us that we might form a proper advisory for you in these early, unquiet days of your reign. Against all precedent and sound precepts of governance you’ve suspended the kingdom’s lawful Council. Anxious messengers pour into the City from districts throughout the kingdom, desperate to know how to proceed in the face of the weather’s wildness. And an hour ago your assistant Willer informed us that our former monarch Prince Gar has vanished without trace.”
He laughed out loud. He hadn’t heard. Didn’t care. “Vanished? Vanished? Oh, poor little runtling! Running and running with no place to hide!”
It was Hafar’s turn to remonstrate. “Conroyd, it’s clear you’re unwell. Perhaps the transfer of Weather Magic went awry. You should not have attempted it without a Master Magician to aid you. We did try to warn you, sir.”
“We must be honest, Con!” said bluff Nole Daltrie. “Your kingship’s off to a very bad start! Public executions, missing princes and now this dreadful weather! What are you doing to it? The City’s in an uproar! Captain Orrick can barely maintain order. There’s panic in the streets! Mobs at the palace demanding explanations! And hardly any Doranen are left to help control the population after your stupid wife summoned them to the country. It’s an utter disaster and you’re to blame! Now how are you going to fix it?”
He heaved a thundering sigh. “Oh, Nole, Nole ... do rest that treadmill tongue of yours. I have no intention of fixing it. Everything unfolds as I desire.”
“As you desire,“ said Boqur. “Conroyd! Are you mad then, if not ill? Have you looked outside this chamber? The Wall itself’s in danger!”
He smiled, rejoicing. “The Wall itself is falling, fool. And soon you’ll all fall with it.”
“Barl save us,” Daltrie whispered. “I think you have gone mad, Con. Gentlemen, you heard him?”
“Indeed we did,” said Hafar grimly. “We come just in time. His Majesty is unfit.”
