by Karen Miller
Gasping for air, Dathne wrenched herself free. The effort sent her sliding backwards down the stairs till she came to a bruised and spreadeagled stop on the floor of the bookshop’s workroom. Head and heart pounding, she stared at the worn blue carpet inches from her eyes and struggled to breathe, to forget, to remember. She felt befouled, her skin and soul smeared with the unspeakable detritus of evil.
When at last her heartbeat and breathing slowed she sat up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of her eyes.
‘Well,’ she said aloud, needing to hear her voice, any voice. Even a thin and frightened one. ‘They do say be careful what you wish for …’ Breathy laughter shook her. Threatened to collapse into sobs. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, hard.
She’d always known the end would be terrible. For years she’d glimpsed snatches of it. Received scanty images bad enough to wake her sweating in the middle of the night. The knowledge of their possible future, the ultimate culmination of the Final Days, had dogged her like a shadow, visible only from the corner of her eye. But now she knew precisely the taste and sound and smell of what she and the others fought to prevent. Knew exactly how terrible, to the last drop of blood and the final, fading cry, Lur’s death would be. The fear of that fate was merciless: a serpent coiled in her belly, waiting to strike.
Cold, Matt called her.
He didn’t understand, and she could never explain it to him. There was only one way to defeat the serpent. Sheathe herself in ice. Freeze the tears that threatened when she thought of what would happen if she failed in her duty as Jervale’s Heir.
Freeze her heart.
Panting, she closed her eyes. A mistake. Images of death and destruction flared. Her stomach churned. Sour saliva flooded her mouth. Lurching to her feet she scrambled upstairs to her tiny privy and emptied her spasming belly of the stewed rabbit and poached greens she’d eaten for lunch. Bile burned her throat, searing tears from her eyes. When at last she was empty she pressed her face into a damp towel. Swilled water round her mouth and spat it out.
Veira must know of this. She must be told that what they faced, what they and Asher must fight, was an intelligence. A person … or something pretending to be a person. It was unclear, and too terrible to dwell upon, at least so soon after enduring its foetid touch. Nevertheless, Veira must know.
Somewhere beyond the fragile safety of Barl’s great Wall something … someone … was waiting. Not that Veira could do anything about it, of course, but it would be better if somebody else knew.
Less lonely.
Because she still felt unnerved and desolate she drank two full glasses of strong green wine, one straight after the other. Then, with warm lamplight dancing shadows on the walls of her small living room, she knelt by the fireplace and rummaged in the blanket box her mother had given her as a leaving-home gift. Buried at the bottom, beneath papers and letters and shawls with holes in she’d get around to mending one of these days, and frayed cushions she didn’t want to throw out, was her precious Circle Stone. Gently withdrawing the blanket-shrouded treasure she unwrapped it, put it on the low wooden table by the window and sank cross-legged to the floor.
To anyone unknowing it was just a lump of rough quartz crystal, cracked and crazed and more dull than shiny, but to her it was priceless, her link to Veira and, through her, the rest of their Circle: a conduit to comfort and sanity when the weight of being Jervale’s Heir grew too great for bearing. Her crystal and Veira’s were twins, halves of a whole, forever joined no matter how vast the distances between them.
Using the Stone was at once simple and challenging. She was Olken. Her secret magic was a subtle thing, a matter of insinuation and gentle cajolery, soft as a whisper amidst the drowning shouts of brash and bossy Doranen incantation. Finding a quiet place in the chatter and noise of their magic was never easy: down the centuries its raucous echoes had soaked the City right down to the cobblestones. If she went deaf tomorrow she’d still feel its thrum against her skin and hear the racket of a thousand thousand charms ringing inside her skull.
The only good thing about the Doranen’s loud magic was that it made detecting her a virtual impossibility. Somebody would have to be looking, and even then it was unlikely they’d hear her hushed voice in all the din.
Despite the evening’s warmth, she shivered. ‘Don’t be a fool, Dathne,’ she said aloud. ‘How can anybody be looking? No Doranen alive or dead knows you exist.’
Which was just as well, given the consequences of discovery.
Closing her eyes, letting the lingering tension drain out of her neck and shoulders like rain sieving through sand, Dathne conjured Veira’s face before her inner eye. Round and wrinkled like an ageing apple. Framed in a tangle of salt-streaked hair. Long bony nose. Dimpled chin. Eyes the colour of moss, which shimmered and shifted with her mercurial moods, now snapping with temper, now softened with sympathy.
Her fingers caressed the crystal, seeking the subtle vibrations that would lead her to the inner road, the pathway her thoughts would travel across the unknown miles that lay between her and Veira. The old woman’s whereabouts were a secret … just in case.
Perfect peace. Perfect harmony. Breathe in. Breathe out. Thoughts like thistledown, floating on a breeze. Veira …
And Veira was with her. In the crystal, in her heart and mind, a warm, quizzical presence that never failed to calm and encourage. Or scold, if it seemed that scolding was called for.
It’s been three days, child. I was beginning to worry.
Dathne felt her lips move, framing each word as it winged its way along the invisible connection joining her crystal to Veira’s. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to concern you, I—’ She stopped. Was shamed by a sudden rush of emotion at the sound and touch of the old woman’s voice.
Child, is aught amiss? There’s an echo of something wicked and wild in you tonight. What’s happened?
Haltingly, Dathne told her. Reliving the vision broke sweat upon her brow and clenched her fingers around the crystal. ‘I’ve never been given images like that before, Veira. I’ve been praying to Jervale, asking him for guidance, but I never thought …’
You have no doubts? It was the Final Days you were given?
‘What else could it be?’ She shivered. ‘Veira … it was terrifying. How can I hope to prevail against such evil?’
Prevailing isn’t what you’re here for. That’s the Innocent Mage’s destiny, child. Yours is to see him safe to the moment when the battle is joined.
‘And how will he prevail? The mind I sensed, Veira, it was terrible! An evil beyond speaking! Asher’s untried, untested, completely unprepared!’
Then we must prepare him, child, to the best of our abilities. Stop fretting, it does no good. The cup is pressed to our lips now. All we can do is sip and swallow.
‘And if that’s poison in the cup? What then?’
Then, child, we die.
‘Veira!’
Hush. I can hear your bones rattling from here. If there was no hope of victory we would not know what we know, or have been given the tasks that bend our backs and break our hearts. You are Jervale’s Heir, child. It is your duty to resist despair. Tell me of Asher. What news?
Reprimanded and comforted both at once, Dathne wrenched her mind away from the vision and thought instead of Asher. ‘It was announced in chapel yesterday. His Highness is officially named Olken Administrator and Asher is appointed his assistant. Although apparently it pleases the prince to tease him with the title of Champion.’
And does it please Asher as well?
Dathne felt herself smile. ‘From the look on his face when he told me, no, I don’t think it does. A gaggle of royal heralds rode out this morning to spread word of the appointments to the rest of the kingdom. Asher’s about to become the most famous Olken in Lur … and I don’t think that much pleases him either.’
The link hummed with Veira’s fat satisfaction. But it does please me. So. He is taken into the Usurper’s House. P
rophecy continues.
‘Veira … I don’t know what to do next. How to proceed.’
You must do nothing.
She felt impatient anxiety ripple through her. ‘I can’t do nothing.’
Then wait. Waiting is not nothing. Waiting is what the Circle has done for six hundred years. Waiting has brought us safely to the here and now. It will serve.
‘But I’m not the only one waiting! And I can’t see what comes next. There must be a way forward from here, I just can’t see what it is, or how I should arrange matters.’
What makes you think you are the one to arrange matters?
‘Of course I am! The vision—’
An irritated snort. The vision is but part of the mosaic, child. It is important, I grant you. But so is Asher import ant, and the prince, and any number of puzzle pieces yet to be revealed. You must not let yourself be intimidated by dreams. They are sent to guide and inform you, not render you helpless with fear. Forewarned is forearmed goes the saying, and so, now we are forearmed. We know now something of the taste and texture of that which will oppose us, and this is all to the good. Be content with that, child. Doom rushes towards us fast enough without we raise the dust in hurrying to greet it halfway.
Dathne felt her ribs expand and contract in a sigh. ‘I know.’
Now tell me, what of our good friend Matthias?
The thought of Matt made her frown. ‘He holds. Just.’
You sound uncertain.
She shook her head, even though Veira couldn’t see the gesture. ‘No. Not of him. Not exactly.’
Then what, exactly?
‘He refuses to abandon this unwise friendship with Asher. I’ve told him it’s madness but he won’t listen. He’s going to be hurt, I know it, but nothing I say will sway him. I tell you, Veira, I’m sorely tempted to take his hammer and hit him over the head with it until he sees sense!’
Are friends like pebbles on the road, child, so numerous they can be kicked aside uncaring?
Dathne let her own tone sharpen to match Veira’s. ‘The butcher who befriends the lamb is a fool, and worse than a fool, for might not a family starve if for love he can’t use his knife at the appointed hour?’
True. But consider this … what if we talk not of butchers, but shepherds?
‘The shepherd delivers his lambs to market, knowing it’s the butcher’s money he’ll put in his purse when they’re sold. In the end, it’s the same.’
Veira sighed like a ghost, frost in the invisible air. Be not harsh with good Matthias, child. Can you say for certain he is wrong in this? I know I cannot. You are not the gatekeeper of wisdom nor the sole one among us with a purpose. Until the song is sung and the musicians have all gone home, not even you can tell which notes made the melody.
Rebuked again. Not harshly, but even so. Stinging, Dathne felt her head bow. ‘You are wise, Veira.’
A whispering chuckle. I am old. Sometimes it amounts to the same thing. Will you tell Matthias of this new vision?
Dathne hesitated. She’d seen Matt weep for a dead baby sparrow dropped out of its nest. His heart was too soft: try as he might, he couldn’t freeze it.
‘No. There’s no need. It’s enough that I’ve told you. And besides, he won’t have any more idea than I do right now how we’re supposed to stop it from happening.’ Fear chilled her all over again. ‘Veira—’
Child, do not fret. We have trusted Prophecy so far, and so far it has not led us astray. I think we can – Wait, the Basingdown crystal calls me. Do you stay indoors tonight?
Dathne felt her heart leap; in Veira’s thoughts, a discordant chiming of alarm. ‘Basingdown? You said that problem was behind us …’
Perhaps I spoke too soon. Stay within reach of your Stone, child. I will call you when I can.
Before she could reply, the connection was broken. The severance was so abrupt, the echo of Veira’s alarm so jangling, that behind her eyes pain bloomed like blood in water.
Dizzied, adrift, she bumped from wall to wall like a bird encaged, unable to settle, nerves thrumming. She didn’t know the exact nature of the Basingdown trouble any more than she knew the name of the Circle members who lived there. Only Veira knew each individual of the group. It was safer that way.
But something terrible had happened, she knew that much: every instinct she possessed was shrieking and her stomach clenched and unclenched like a fist.
Just when she thought she must go mad with waiting her crystal flared, and from its heart pulsed a soft white light. Deep in her mind, the insistent tug of Veira’s thoughts to her own. Dathne flung herself to the living room carpet and feverishly sought the connection. Three heartbeats and she had it, hot and humming with alarm.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Calamity and woe, child. One of our number is revealed.
If she hadn’t already been on the floor she would have fallen. Struggling for air she pressed her palm against her chest. ‘Revealed? How? Veira, what happened?’
The link between them vibrated wildly with the old woman’s distress. Four months ago Edv—
Shocked, Dathne interrupted. ‘No names, Veira!’
Peace, child. It matters little now.
Dathne smothered her rising fear. Never in all their long years of friendship had she heard Veira sound so defeated. So heartsick, or afraid. ‘Sorry. Go on.’
Edvord of Basingdown judged the time was ripe to bring his son Timon into the Circle. Edvord has a canker. He is dying. He was afraid to leave it any longer lest his failing wits desert him before what is needful could be completed. Timon is talented, but proud and impatient. Edvord told him he must wait, be guided, and so did I, but wise words fell on deaf ears. An hour ago Edvord’s son was taken by the Town Magisters for the illegal practisings of magic.
Dathne knuckled a moan back behind her teeth. ‘He was seen?’
Yes.
‘In Jervale’s name, what was he thinking? Veira, we’re undone!’
Veira rallied; through the link, Dathne could feel what it cost her. Perhaps not. He was caught attempting Doranen magic.
‘Doranen magic? Why? Wasn’t he told—’
Of course he was told, child! Did I not say Timon is proud and impatient? He refused to believe it is a song we cannot sing. He thought to prove his father wrong and be a hero.
Dathne swallowed a fresh rush of bile. Shut her eyes tight and willed her hands to stop shaking. ‘At least there’s something to be thankful for. If he’d been caught casting Olken spells it would mean the end of everything.’
Yes.
She smashed a fist against the floor. ‘Barl’s tits!’
Edvord swears his son will die silent.
‘Edvord is hardly unbiased.’ Another rush of bile. ‘This Timon must be dealt with, Veira. If he should attempt to save himself by betraying us …’
He hasn’t yet. Besides, he is beyond our reach now. The magisters are taking him to the City as we speak. They’ll be there by sundown tomorrow. A rider has gone on ahead, to alert the king.
‘And the prince. As Olken Administrator he’ll be up to his pretty green eyes in all of this. Which means that Asher will be too.’
Through the link, Veira’s mind echoed with sorrow and dread. Once news of this disaster spreads, the people of Lur will bay for Timon’s blood like hounds in the hunting field. He has broken cardinal law. It will mean an execution. How will that affect Asher, child? He is destined for magic.
Dathne chewed her lip. ‘I … don’t know.’
You must find out, then. And you must repair any damage caused by Timon of Basingdown. Should the Innocent Mage refuse his destiny we are all of us doomed.
Dathne felt suffocated. Hailstones of fire … ‘What if I can’t repair it? What if Asher himself leads the baying pack?’
You are Jervale’s Heir. You must.
Just like that. The old woman made it sound as easy as sewing a new button on a shirt. It wasn’t … but she had no choice. ‘I will. But Veira
, there’s a more immediate danger to consider. You know what will happen now.’
Yes, child. I know.
The last breaking of cardinal law had been over a century before. Trial and execution a matter of one day’s examination and five minutes with the royal headsman … but the seeds of suspicion and mistrust sown that day had taken root to flower and poison the air with an ill-smelling perfume equal parts fear, anger and blame. The aftertaste had lingered for months, years, the lifetimes of those who had seen the head fall.
A repeat of those unfortunate days was the very last thing they needed. Doranen eyes, woken from trusting sleep, would be newly sharpened by this violation of cardinal law, would look twice and more than twice at every harmless Olken gesture, every blameless Olken gathering, every thoughtless Olken laugh. Even on a good day the Doranen were apt to be jealous of their magics … and the days ahead promised to be anything but good.
Worse still, the Olken of Lur would be twice as vigilant, twice as suspicious as the Doranen. Eager to prove their devotion to Barl, to the Law, to their own preservation, they’d report the smallest doubt to show the world they could be trusted.
And in their midst the secret Circle … and Asher, the Innocent Mage.
Damn this wretched Timon of Basingdown and damn his dying father, too, for putting them all in danger, for risking the Circle and everyone in it and all that it meant for the future of Lur. What fools they were, like father like son, and did this now mean the end of all the Circle’s hopes and plans and painstaking sacrifices?
The end of Lur?
Reading her mind, perhaps, Veira spoke. There is yet hope. Hopeless though things appear. This is not the first storm the Circle has weathered. And I have known Edvord longer than you’ve been alive, child. If he says his son will hold true to his oath I believe him.
‘Well, you know him, Veira. And you know I trust your judgement,’ Dathne replied. ‘But if this fool does look like talking out of turn then I’m well placed to hear so. Asher is in the habit now of confiding most things to me. I swear I’ll pluck Timon’s wagging tongue from between his teeth before he can do us damage.’
