by Karen Miller
Sorvold stepped forward, his expression rigid. “You must accompany us, sir. Immediately. Whatever ails you, Pother Nix shall discover it and with Barl’s blessings put you right again.”
“Pother Nix is a pus-pot. I am as well as I have ever been. Gentlemen, you’re dismissed.”
“No, sir,” said Sorvold, still approaching. “You are desperately ill. You must be, for the Conroyd Jarralt I know and admire would never—”
He stopped the idiot with a tender smile. Reached out and laid his palm, so gently, above the bleating fool’s heart. Leaned close ... and showed him his true self.
“But, Payne,” he whispered as Sorvold’s face turned gray and his mouth sagged in horror. “Can’t you tell? I am not the Conroyd Jarralt you know and admire ...”
A thought, and the laboring heart beneath his hand stopped beating.
“Conroyd!” the rest of the geese cried out. Daring to criticize, and question. So he slaughtered them like geese. Dropped then bodies where they stood, burned them to ash with an incandescent thought, then forgot they had ever existed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The storm was worse come cockcrow. Wilder wind. Heavier rain, gusting with hailstones and flurries of sudden snow. The fringe of Black Woods around Veira’s cottage was battered and full of gaps where trees had been torn down through the night. The world looked desolate, beyond all hope. The sound of running water filled the sodden air.
As Veira battled through the deepening mud, freeing her pigs and chickens and the donkey, Asher helped Matt harness the unhappy horses to the wagon. Matt looked even paler this morning; instead of sleeping last night, as Veira had ordered, he’d spent hours cobbling together blanket-lined canvas covers for the animals to protect them from the rain and hail.
Checking buckles, tugging knots, Asher said, “What d’you reckon we’ll find once we get to Dorana?”
Matt shrugged. “I’m trying not to think. Asher—”
He sighed, knowing what Matt was about to say. “Don’t. There ain’t any point. If I got to say Gar’s killing spell, then so be it. You want to get rid of Morg, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! But not like—”
“Like what? Me dyin’?” he demanded. “You mean to say you never thought it’d come to this? Even though’’ your bloody Prophecy says as much?”
“No!” Matt protested. “I never—at least I hoped—”
“Hope? Since when did hope save lives, Matt? I could stand in the middle of the City Square and hope till my head falls off that Morg’ll drop dead at my feet, but it ain’t goin’ to happen unless I make it happen.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It prob’ly does,” he said. “And you’ve always known it. Don’t go insultin’ my intelligence now, Matt. Not after all we’ve been through.”
Matt stared at him, stricken. “Dathne told me not to be your friend. She always knew how bad things might get.”
Dathne. He turned away. “You should’ve listened.”
Frowning, Matt eased himself round to check the nearside horse’s tail, tied up to keep it out of the mud. “You should make your peace with her. This silence is killing her, Asher.”
He felt his heart hitch. “That’s my business, Matt.”
“You’re being unfair!”
“You want I should stop talkin’ to you too?” he said, dangerously close to snarling. “Leave it, Matt. I got enough to give me headaches without personal claptrap on top of it!”
The horses tossed their heads and stamped, unsettled by their edgy voices as well as the howling rain. Matt reached out a hand to them and murmured, soothing. Then he nodded, and sighed. “All right, Asher. Whatever you want. It’s just a shame, is all. I’ll say this for the last time then I’ll not say it ever again: she loves you.”
Over his shoulder, walking away, Asher answered, “Don’t you know, Matt? Love’s the bloody least of it.”
———
They left the cottage soon after that. Matt driving, with Dathne on one side and Veira the other. In the back of the wagon, under the makeshift canvas covering drummed with rain, Asher, Gar and Darran and their baskets of supplies. The old man tucked himself up in a blanket and quickly fell asleep, a bundle of snoring bones.
“I fear it’s been too much for him,” Gar said, fretting. “I should’ve left him behind in the Tower.”
Asher snorted. “You should’ve done a lot of things, I reckon. Bit late now though, eh?”
Gar looked down at the paper in his hands. His face was closed-off. Unreadable. The way it used to be in the early days, when Gar was still “Your Highness” and friendship never thought of. “I hope not.” His fingers smoothed over the paper’s creased surface. “I hope with this I can put everything right.”
“That’s what you call killin’ me, is it? Puttin’ everything right?” He laughed. “It don’t bother you at all, eh?”
Gar’s eyes glinted. “What? That this spell I’ve translated will destroy you? If I said yes, would you believe me?” He let his head fall back against the wagon’s temporary canvas wall. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve made your feelings plain, Asher. Let’s not belabor them now. You’ve agreed to do this, and I’ve agreed to help. Let’s leave it that, shall we?”
Asher pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Glanced up as, overhead, the sky, invisible, was rumbled through with thunder. “Aye. Let’s.”
“Good,” said Gar tightly. “Now shall we get to work on the incantation? I know we’ve hours to go till we reach Dorana but this isn’t a task for skimping.”
“And how am I meant to practice the bloody thing if sayin’ it’s goin’ to kill me?”
“Credit me at least with some intelligence,” Gar snapped. “I’ve broken it into sections. We’ll work through them one at a time, out of order, and leave the sigils till last. Once you’ve committed each section to memory I’ll show you the proper order they come in. All right?”
Grudgingly, he nodded. “Aye. Fine. All right.”
“Good,” said Gar. “Now pay attention ...”
———
Dathne huddled inside her enveloping blanket and kept her gaze pinned to the horses’ wet, canvas-covered backs. Poor things. They looked so miserable: ears pinned to their heads, snapping peevishly at each other every other stride, bound-up tails lashing. The waterlogged road unrolled before them, bordered each side with battered trees. The wagon’s wheels slipped and slithered and the horses grunted with the effort of hauling it.
Beside her, Matt held the reins in hands reddened with cold. He was swaddled in one of Dathne’s blankets too, but she could still feel him shivering. Suffering with the; collapse of the kingdom’s fabric of magic. Even she, never as adept as Matt, was starting to feel it now ... a thin cold scream on the edge of hearing.
She felt like screaming herself. How much fear and sorrow could a body hold before it must spill out in a raging torrent?
Asher would not speak to her. Asher might well soon be dead.
She turned her head to stare at the slowly passing countryside, stuffing her knuckles in her mouth to dam the frightened grief. If he died ... if he died without forgiving her... died believing then love was a he, nothing but pragmatics and a cold, hard using ... how could she go on after? What would she say to the child?
Then child...
Unbidden, her fingers danced featherlight across her belly. Was it a boy or a girl? Would it have his eyes? Would she see him in the way it walked? Hear him in the sound of its laughter? Would it even be born? Or was it, like him, destined to die? Did death await them all in distant Dorana?
No. She had to stop thinking like this or she’d be a drooling madwoman before ever they reached the City gates. There was hope, yet. There was always hope. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that Prophecy had guided them so far only to abandon them at the end.
Please, please, don’t let him die.
The clickety-clack of busy needl
es distracted her and she glanced past Matt to Veira. The old woman was knitting. Knitting. As though she was at home in her kitchen or in front of the fireplace and these were ordinary times.
Veira looked up. “You fratched about our Mage and his friend tucked up behind us? Don’t be. They’ll not come to blows.”
“I know,” Dathne said. Tried to say nothing else, but the words were out before she could stop them. “Veira— he won’t have to use that killing spell, will he?”
In between them, Matt shook the waterlogged reins and kept his gaze pinned to the horses’ backs. If he was filled with fears too, he wasn’t letting them show. He’d gotten good at hiding his feelings lately. Once, she would’ve welcomed that, but now ...
Now it just made her feel more alone. Veira hissed over a dropped scarlet stitch. “I hope not,” she said, making good her mistake. “I’ve taken steps to join him with the Circle so they can lend him strength when he needs it most.”
That got Matt’s attention; they exchanged startled glances. “When?” Dathne demanded. “And why aren’t Matt and I included?”
“It’s too dangerous for you and Matthias. The rest of the Circle is safe out of the way but we’re like to be in the thick of things, child. You’d just be a distraction to him.”
“Then how can we help him?” said Matt, frowning. “We can’t do nothing.”
Veira patted his knee. “I don’t know yet. We’ll just have to wait and see once we get there.”
Wait and see ... wait and see ... yes, but what? Victory, or a bloody defeat? The thought of Asher saying the terrible spell of UnMaking made her want to vomit. Damn Gar, anyway! Why did he have to find it? Why did he have to tell them?
Send me a vision, I beg you, Jervale. Show me he’s not ; going to die.
She closed her eyes then, and waited, but Jervale refused to oblige. Bastard. Eyes smarting, throat clogged with tears, she folded her arms across her middle. Let herself slump on the wagon’s uncomfortable seat and tipped her head sideways till it rested on Matt’s shoulder. He didn’t object.
She escaped into sleep, and restless unhelpful dreaming.
———
Dorana City was dying.
Morg stood on the roof of the emptied palace’s residential wing and watched its distant death throes, smiling. Behind him, against a sky of tarnished silver, Barl’s Wall was a coruscation of filthy, failing power, flogged in the wind like a tattered flag.
At last... at last... the bitch whore was beaten. Beneath his feet, an ominous rumble. The rooftop trembled as the palace swayed drunkenly on its foundations. Below him, the sounds of windows, breaking, of bricks and tiles falling to shatter in the buckling courtyards. In the gardens mighty trees groaned and shuddered, their roots tearing asunder the rain-softened ground. After six hundred years the earth was waking. Shrugging its shoulders as the bonds of magic were finally freed.
He heard screaming from the rooftops around him. Saw a few frantic Doranen, many more Olken: former councilors and advisors, palace servants, housemaids, butlers, running to and fro as their gentle world fell to pieces around them. They saw him.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” they screamed, like children. “Help us! Save us!”
He raised a fist and stopped their heartbeats, each and every one. The noise was distracting. He wanted to savor victory uninterrupted.
A shadow touched his face and he looked up to see fresh clouds roiling, forming out of nothingness, out of the air, born of the wild and undirected Weather Magic he’d unbound from Barl’s Wall. They clotted the face of the faded sun, turning day to murky dusk.
With a grinding rumble the earth heaved again, vomiting gouts of steam and boiling mud. In the distance, in the City, he saw more buildings tumble. Imagined the horror, the terror, and was suffused with a blinding joy.
“Your Majesty? Your Majesty,” a small voice croaked behind him.
Without turning he said, “Go away, Willer.”
“But, Your Majesty...”
So he did turn, impatiently, and looked at the pathetic thing bowing and scraping its way across the rooftop towards him.
“What?”
Willer stared at him, blotchy with fear and reeking of ale. “Captain Orrick sends an urgent message! Many streets are running like rivers and the water’s scouring everything from its path. There’s drowned dogs—wrecked carriages—furniture—” He choked on the horror. “People. Children.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“Good?” Stunned silent, the little worm groped to understand. “But, but, you’re the king! You’re the WeatherWorker!”
“Fool,” he said, contemptuous. “I am neither. I never was.”
Tears rose in the fat man’s eyes. “Please, Your Majesty. Captain Orrick begs you to come. Barlsman Holze, too. Survivors are gathered in the Square—they’re praying— but they need you.”
He sighed. “Go away, Willer.”
Sweating, weeping, the worm wrung its feeble hands. “Are you unwell, sir? Shall I fetch you a pother?”
Morg considered him. Witter, witter, witter. The bleatings of a sheep. “I wonder, was there a reason for you to be breathing?” he mused.
Willer goggled. Began to back away, very slowly. “Your Majesty?”
“No,” he decided. “No, you’ve served your tiny purpose.” He pointed a finger and froze the maggot where it stood. “But before I dispatch you, would you like to know what you’ve done? What miracle your little mind and petty jealousies have wrought in this misbegotten kingdom?”
Lifting his finger, he set the worm adrift in the damp and stagnant air. It shrieked. “No! No! Somebody! Help!”
“Look at it, Willer!” he invited. “The might and the majesty of your blessed Barl’s Wall! Do you see that it’s failing? Do you see that it’s falling? Do you know that you’re to blame?”
“Me, sir? No, sir!” the bobbing creature protested.
He laughed at the horror in its face. “Oh, yes, sir! For the only man with the power to stop me was Asher of Restharven, and thanks to you, he’s dead!”
The worm began flapping its arms, trying to force itself back to the roof. It looked ridiculous. “King Conroyd—King Conroyd!”
“Not Conroyd,” he advised the worm gently. “Morg.”
Willer shrieked. “Who? No! You can’t be! That’s impossible!”
Breathing deep of the sulphurous air he flared power round his body hi a crimson nimbus. Laughed aloud at the terror, the dawning belief, in the little man’s eyes.
“Stop this, stop it!” the fool worm babbled. “Before it’s too late! Don’t you see? You’re killing the kingdom!”
“Of course I am. To be reborn all things must die.”
“No! No! I don’t want to die!” the wretched thing wailed. “Please don’t hurt me! Please put me down!”
“Put you down?” he echoed, smiling. “Certainly, Willer. Whatever you desire.”
And with a flick of his finger he spun sobbing Willer over the roof’s stone balustrade then released him to fall to the flagstones below ... where he burst in a welter of blood and fat.
Overhead, the first bright spears of scarlet lightning lanced the billowing clouds, striking flesh and buildings with lethal force. The lurid sky writhed—and Barl’s dying Wall flailed in useless defiance.
———
Dreary in the daylight gloom, the wagon trundled onwards. The cloud-filled sky stretched on forever, spitting rain and snow in gusts and eddies, sometimes furious, sometimes sullen. The hours unspooled equally sullen. The wagon’s shivering passengers dwindled to silence. They saw not another soul as they traveled through the blighted, sodden countryside towards Dorana City.
Matt unhappily kept the horses moving, stopping only to let them drink and snatch a mouthful of grain. Morning surrendered to midday, surrendered to afternoon, surrendered to night.
“We won’t stop again till we reach the City,” decreed Veira, lighting torches to leaven the dark as Matt ran his hands o
ver the tired horses and the others staggered about in the puddles and slop, stretching their tired legs and trying to get warm. “If you’re hungry, raid the baskets. If you must piss or otherwise, do your business quickly and run to catch up. There’s no time left for niceties or coddling.” She frowned at Darran. “Sorry, old man, but there’s no help for it.”
Darran nodded. “I understand,” he croaked, and climbed back in the wagon, out of the blighting wind.
“And when will we reach the City?” asked Dathne weakly, rattled almost to pieces and leaning against a wheel.
“An hour or two past sunrise, I’m thinking,” said Veira, and pulled a face. “Though I doubt we’ll be able to see it.”
For Asher, filled to bursting with the prickly magic of Gar’s killing spell and trapped in the prince’s unwelcome company, that end couldn’t come fast enough.
No matter it might bring with it his death.
———
For the first and likely last time in his life, Pellen Orrick felt desperate. Staring through his office’s broken windows he rubbed his pain-burned shoulder and struggled to hold back tears.
The dawn of a new day: the worst of his life. His beautiful City, elegant gracious Dorana, spread smashed and trampled before him. Every second building, it seemed, was collapsed or burning or burned out completely, belching greasy smoke, spilling ruined wares through splintered doorways and shattered shopfronts, even as dirty water swirled around the floors and up the doorjambs. Bulls and cows and horses and sheep and goats, once safely penned in the Livestock Quarter, milled and lowed and bleated through the streets with no one willing or able to pen them up again. Some of them slipped, plunged head first into running water or gaping cracks in the ground, and didn’t get up again.
There were more dead people than he’d thought to see in all his life. Crushed and smashed by falling masonry, bludgeoned and drowned by the rivers of debris-choked rainwater raging through the narrower streets. Some of the bodies were abandoned, others clutched hard in the arms of weeping loved ones. Olken and Doranen, this madness had spared neither. Nor had magic saved them.
