by Karen Miller
It was done, then. Done and done. Prophecy appeased. Outwitted, even, since he still lived. The mad world righted. Now he could go home to Restharven. Start a new life with Dathne. His wife. His beloved.
Eyes closed, shaking like a man with ague, he saw the sun rise over the harbor, smelled the salt air, felt the sea spray wet on his cheeks. A sob rose hot in his aching throat. Home ...
Beside him, Conroyd Jarralt’s body coughed.
No. No. That weren’t bloody possible . ..
On his feet again and staring, sucking air like a man half-drowned, he watched the knife push slowly but surely out of Conroyd’s blood-slicked chest to fall with a metallic thud on the marble steps. Watched the wound seal closed as though it had never been and the rib cage rise and fall, rise and fall. Saw the eyelids flicker a dreadful warning.
Shit. Shit. Morg was proof to killing steel, and now he had no choice: he’d have to use Gar’s bloody spell. Seemed Prophecy weren’t outwitted afterall.
It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. He wanted to go home!
The words of the UnMaking spell were in him, and waiting. He called them to the tip of his tongue. Turned his head, just a little, just far enough to see Dathne, on her feet at the edge of the Square with Gar nowhere in sight.
Dathne. Dathne.
He nearly howled out loud.
This wasn’t bloody fair!
At his feet Morg sighed, and shifted.
Now or never. Time was up.
With a right hand that trembled only a little, with a voice that cracked only just at the edges, he signed the sigils, spoke the spell, and closed his eyes.
Here I come, Da... here I come ...
Nothing happened. No surge of power. No flash of light. No death, for him or Morg.
Disbelieving, he opened his eyes. “Sink me bloody sideways!” he shouted, spinning about. “Gar!”
“This way, Asher!” the little shit called out, beckoning from deep shadows off to the left. “Quickly! Here! Before he wakes!”
Head spinning, rage like a red mist clouding his vision, Asher slipped and slithered down the steps to join Gar in the narrow walkway between Justice Hall and the City chapel. Grabbed him by the shirt front and shook for all he was worth.
“You said it were translated! You said it’d bloody work!”
Gar fended him off with difficulty. “It is! It will! Let me go, Asher! Listen!”
“To you?” he demanded. “I’m done listenin’ to you! I listened to you and look what it got me! Sink me, sink me, what do I do now? The bastard won’t die! I stuck a knife in his heart and he still ain’t dead! And your spell—your damned bloody spell—”
“Won’t work unless it’s channeled through me.”
He took a step backwards, staring. “What?”
Gar’s face was bloodless, his eyes hollowed and bruised. “I changed Barl’s incantation, Asher. Not a lot. Just a little. Now I’m an integral part of the magic. The power must flow through me before it can kill Morg.”
Was Gar raving? Deluded? Had the past weeks’ strain unhinged him completely?
Reading the questions in his face, Gar sighed and shook his head. “I’m in my right mind, I promise you, Asher. And what I’ve said is the simple truth. It’s what I tried to tell you before you tried to dash out my brains.”
“You altered the incantation? Why?”
“I had my reasons.”
Stunned almost speechless, Asher turned away. Turned back again, still struggling. “But... but that means you’ll die too, don’t it?”
Gar shrugged. “What do you care, so long as Morg is dead?”
“You are mad,” he whispered, retreating until his shoulderblades met cold damp bricks. “Stark, staring suntouched.”
“You know I’m not. Morg must die and this is the only way.”
“It can’t be!” he shouted. “You’re the smart one, the scholar, the historian! Think of somethin’ else! I’ve already had one man die in my place, Gar, I ain’t about to make it two!”
Gar shook his head. “That choice isn’t yours. It’s mine, and it’s made.”
“Butwrty?”
“Why does it matter? You don’t care about me.”
No, he didn’t, but that weren’t the point. “Pretend I do and tell me why!”
Gar let outa sigh, and stared at the ground. “I promised Fane I’d not seek her crown, and broke my word. I promised you I’d keep you safe, and broke my word again. I promised Barl I’d protect her people with my life—and that’s one promise I intend to keep. I may be a magickless cripple but I’m still Lur’s king. I’ll not have my legacy a string of broken promises. My father taught me better than that. I told you once, I have a destiny. Do you remember? Well, this is it.” He looked up, then, his face as stony as any effigy. “Don’t try to stop me, Asher. I’ll hate you if you do.”
“And if you make me go through with this, I’II hate you”
A twisted smile touched Gar’s lips. “You hate me now.”
“Then I’ll hate you more!”
Another shrug, uncaring. “Hate me as much as you want. It changes nothing. Asher, there’s no other way and we’re running out of time .. .”
Trapped. He was trapped, with no escape. The bastard. The bastard. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Gar,” he whispered. “Never not ever.”
“I know that already,” said Gar. “Now shut up and listen. We only have moments. Everything I taught you in the wagon holds true. All that’s different is the spell’s delivery. You hold my shoulder and you don’t let go. Understand me? If you let go the spell fails and Morg lives forever.”
He was numb. Dizzy. “Over my dead body.”
“No,” said Gar, unsmiling. “Over mine.” He had no answer to that.
Still unsmiling, Gar reached inside his jacket and pulled out the age-mottled journal that had started this mess. Bits and pieces of ragged paper were slid here and there between its pages. Looking at it, his expression softened to tenderness. “I brought Barl’s diary with me. It comforts me, somehow, though I know that makes no sense to you.” He held it but, his hand unsteady. “Take it. Care for it. It’s the last the world has of a grand and glorious woman who gave her life for something bigger and better than she was. Don’t let her be forgotten. Please.”
Grudgingly, he took the proffered diary and shoved the bloody thing inside his weskit. Gar’s unguarded face was too terrible to look at. “Now what?” he muttered.
“Now you put your hand on my shoulder... and we finish what Morg started.”
“And you’re sure this’ll work? You said it yourself, you’re a magickless cripple, what if—”
Gar’s chin lifted, his face full of pride now and nothing uncomfortable. “You said it better. I’m the scholar. Trust me, Asher. This will work.”
Side by side they walked to the mouth of the passageway.
“Begin the incantation,” Gar whispered. “But keep us concealed till the very last word. Then we’ll confront him. Don’t forget: you must see his eyes. And for Barl’s sake, Asher—”
“I know, I know, I bloody know! Whatever I do, don’t let go!”
The words of the spell were still there, still waiting. He took a deep breath. Let it. out softly. Tightened his fingers on Gar’s steady shoulder.
“Senusartarum!”
Sketch the first sigil.
“Belkavtavartis! “
Sketch the second, and the third.
“Kavartis thosartis domonartis ed—”
This time it was different. The magic ignited, dark and dreadful, setting his bones on fire. Left arm raised to shoulder level, fingers spread and pointing, Gar stepped smoothly out of the shadows. Shaking, burning, Asher stepped with him.
Morg stood posed at the top of Justice Hall’s steps, clothing mended, immaculate and glittering. He saw them and laughed, burnished with power.
“So there you are! And look at you! Look! The little cripple and his tame brute Olken holding hands on the b
rink of death! How poetic! How romantic]” He lifted his arms and threw back his head. Baleful green fire crackled around him, igniting the sullen air. “Oh, what a wonderful way to die! You two first, then whoever is left. Or should I leave you till last?”
Gar was shivering. “Finish it, Asher! Quickly, now] Before he kills anyone else!”
Yes, yes, more than time to finish it. He could barely contain the maelstrom within. On a choking breath he lifted his head to look deep into Morg’s mad shining eyes. Opened his mouth and whispered: “Nux.”
Killing magic seared through his veins. Out of his fingers clutched to Gar’s shoulder, into Gar’s body and down Gar’s arm to burst from his fingertips in a stream of pure gold fire.
It struck Morg hard in his knife-proof heart, transmuting him to a pillar of flame. Gar sagged to the ground, gasping, shuddering. Not loosening his grip, Asher followed him downwards as the spell of UnMaking flowed like blood from a mortal wound.
For five slow heartbeats, Morg burned incandescent. Then came a crack of ear-splitting sound. The golden fire bloomed. Blossomed. Swallowed the sun.
Morg disappeared, and his dead demons with him.
Without a word Gar slumped to the cobbles. Fell face upwards, green eyes staring at the cloudy sky. The sky with no Wall. Asher fell with him. He mustn’t let go, no matter what happened.
Gradually, he became aware of feet, hurrying by him. Sound, as rubble was kicked away. Voices shouted orders, called for “Help here, help! “ He wanted to answer but his head was hurting and he was oh, so very tired.
Footsteps stopped beside him. He opened his eyes. Dathne. At her shoulder, Darran. Not dead then, the ole crow, even with a groggy heart, and in his face such a ravagement of grief...
He managed to smile as Dathne knelt beside him, her . hand pressing hard to his cold, wet cheek. “You were goin’ to tell me somethin’,” he whispered, his voice a sickly croak.
Her eyes were brighter than any star. “I was, love, wasn’t I?” Her forehead came to rest against his. “We’ve made a baby,” she told him softly.
A baby. A baby? How had that happened?
He turned his head and said to his friend, “Did y’hear that, Gar? I’m havin’ a baby!”
But Gar was dead, and couldn’t hear him.
Darran sobbed then, a thin, broken sound. Asher sat up with Dathne’s help, and stared at the rotten ole crow in fury.
“Don’t you blame me, you bloody ole man! This ain’t my doin’! It ain’t my fault!” His blunt and brutal handprint was burned into the shoulder of Gar’s blue coat.
“It ain’t my fault,” he said again. “I never thought of it. I ain’t the scholar. It were his idea. All his. Not mine.”
He lowered his forehead to Gar’s still chest.
“I forgive you, Gar,” he whispered. “I forgive you. Please... now you forgive me, too...”
Silence. And then a long slow weeping of rain.
EPILOGUE
After the moist heat of the high summer afternoon, the shadowy coolness of House Torvig’s royal crypt came as a welcome relief. Asher took a deep breath, tossed a ball of glimfire into the ah and let it light his way along the corridor to the place he’d not stepped foot in since the funeral. His palms were damp and his heart was racing. Sink it, he’d sworn he wouldn’t let nerves get to him. The chamber was cramped. Crowded with memories as well as coffins. As he pressed past Borne, then Dana, and finally Fane he touched a fingertip to his forehead in greeting. Looked into the marble serenity of their faces and with affection recalled them, living. “Majesty. Majesty. Highness.”
They were the last royal family of Lur. The end of a long and proud tradition. One day they’d be nowt but old-fashioned portraits staring down from a wall. Engravings in a history book with no one left alive who’d known them.
One day.
But not today.
He reached the fourth and final coffin. Shoved his hands in his pockets and took another deep breath, then let it out slowly, hoping the ache in his chest would ease. It didn’t.
“So,” he said, into the somnolent silence. “Here I am. Bet you thought I’d never make it, eh?”
By some kind of miracle he’d managed to get Gar’s effigy pretty lifelike. Even though Darran kept insisting the nose was wrong.
Bloody ole crow.
Staring at Gar’s proud stone profile he felt a wave of melancholy. A grinding echo of grief. Dathne said he shouldn’t come here. Let the dead lie and the living dance. That was her motto. But he’d put it off for long enough, so here he was.
With a snap of his fingers he conjured a stool to sit on. No reason he couldn’t be comfortable, was there? Heart still heavily thudding, he tilted it onto two of its legs till he reached a precarious balance.
“We had some rain this mornin’. Rain that fell all on its lonesome, without any meddlin’ from me.” He shook his head. “Rain without magic, like everyone’s agreed to. Did you ever think we’d see the like? No more WeatherWorking. Now there’s a thing . ..”
The Gity folk had danced in the street like children as the dove-gray clouds summoned by no one unburdened themselves without spite or fury. He and Dathne had smiled to see it. He smiled again now, remembering, then swiftly sobered; harsher memories lurked close to the surface. Sometimes he thought they’d never sink.
“Everything’s different now, Gar. Everything’s changed. For the better, I’m hopin’, though I don’t deny it’s still a mite unchancy. Bloody politics. There’s lots of you Doranen of the mind things should go right back the way they were. Seems they’re havin’ a deal of trouble gettin’ used to Olken magic. Good thing I got Holze on my side. Good thing Nix and some healers from the Circle patched him up and kept him breathin’. He’s the royal Barlsman. Folk listen when he speaks. He’s kept the kingdom together, I reckon, him and his clerics. Kept folk from goin’ mad.”
He thudded the stool back to the flagstoned floor. Got off it, arms folded over his chest, and started pacing.
“We lost a lot of people, Gar. Yours and mine. The storms savaged every inch of the kingdom, just like the Circle said.” Pulling a face he added, “All of Conroyd’s family perished. Sad, but I don’t deny it’s made life easier. Ain’t no squabblin’ over crowns any more. And it seems I got no brothers left but one. There were waves, you see, from the falling of Dragonteeth Reef. Ferocious, they were, folks say. Taller than treetops and faster than a galloping horse. They washed in from the harbors, up and down the coast. Restharven’s most gone now, and Westwailing. Rillingcoombe. Struan’s Cove.”
The playgrounds of his childhood, smashed to rubble and firewood. He’d not gone down to see them yet. Wasn’t sure when—or if—he would. Getting the kingdom back on its feet was a full-time job, and besides, all those survivors, searching for answers. What could he tell them? How could he explain?
Not even the Innocent Mage could save everyone.
He shook his head. “Jervale alone knows how Zeth survived, but if anyone was goin’ to, it’d be him. I sent a message sayin’ he and the rest of the family could come here. That they was all welcome. Folks as spoke for me said he just spat and walked away. Aye, well. That’s bloody Zeth for you.”
With a shrug and a jerk of his chin he put that memory to bed.
“And Jed survived too, bless ‘im. He’s livin’ here now, with us. Potters round the stables and pastures most days. Cygnet and Ballodair follow him like overgrown dogs. He won’t stop feedin’ ‘em apples no matter how often I ask ‘im not to.”
Was that glimshadow, or Gar secretly smiling? He smiled himself, a little. Right or wrong he found it hard to grieve for his brothers. But if he’d lost Jed ...
“We’re rebuildin’, slowly. Got anew Council. Dathne’s on it, and Pellen Orrick. Me. Holze, of course, and Nix. Lady Marnagh, too; she’s a woman with sense. There’s talk of makin’ Orrick mayor of Dorana, but I don’t know if he’ll do it. He was born a guardsman, Pellen. Dathne’s overseein’ all to do with Olken magic
.” He grinned. “You should hear her speechifyin’. Scares the trousers off me. Veira’d be right proud of her, if she was here. Matt, too.”
His breath caught a little at the sound of their names, and his fingers pressed the lump of crystal still buried in his flesh. It was a talisman, now. A part of him, memory, as they were part of him and always would be.
“Bloody Darran’s in his element. Fussin’ and orga-nizin’ and bossin’ folk about. Truth is I’d be lost without him, but don’t you bloody tell ‘im. The ole crow’s puffed up enough as it is.”
He scratched his chin and watched, for a small while, glimshadows dance on the chamber wall.
“It ain’t smooth sailin’, not by a long shot, but we ain’t quite capsized yet.” He snorted. “Some fools want to make me king but I won’t let ‘em. I ain’t a king, I’m a bloody fisherman. Just ‘cause I got some powerful magic...”
Suddenly tired, he dropped back on the stool. “I don’t much care for magic, Gar. Don’t like what the wrong person can do with it. Ain’t too proud of what I did with it, even though I had to. I’ve kept Barl’s diary, like you asked me. Read it, at least what you managed to translate. Your bloody handwriting—I nearly went cross-eyed. I’ll keep it safe, no need to worry. But I reckon I’ll keep it secret, too. Barl hid the thing for a reason, and I reckon she was right. No one should have that kind of power. Not for any reason.”
He’d told not even Dathne he had the diary. He had a duty to safeguard the future, just in case another Morgan—or Barl—was born.
Gar’s effigy glowed warmly in the light of the yellow glimfire. In the stone face a silent agreement. Seeing it, he breathed a little easier.
“There’s talk started up of crossin’ Barl’s Mountains, and I reckon we will go, one day. But there’s work to do here first. That’s what we need to think on now, not rushin’ about from here to there, sightseein’.”
He stood again, then, and unkinked his back. “Speakin’ of work, I’d better go. Just wanted to tell you what’s happening, is all. Figured you’d like to know.” His fingers touched Gar’s shoulder, briefly. “I miss you, my friend. Ain’t a day goes by I don’t think...” He stopped, his throat closing. It was done, it was done, and nowt could undo it. “Anyways. I just wanted you to know this: I promise I won’t waste what you gave me. What you gave all of us. I should’ve said thank you, Gar. I should’ve said a lot of things. Sorry. Guess I am bloody rude after all.” He heaved a sharp sigh. “Don’t know when I’ll have a chance to visit again, but I will. I promise. Wait for me, eh?”
