The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  Asher smirked. Oh, how Willer longed to wipe that look from the upstart’s face! ‘Better than reekin’ of lavender water,’ was the insufferable reply. ‘Or rosewater or old tea leaves or whatever it is you douse yourself in every mornin’. No wonder you’re gettin’ love letters, eh? Or is it just your smelly recipes they’re after?’

  With a restraint that nearly caused his veins to burst, Willer swallowed his instinctive reply. Darran had made himself abundantly clear on many, many occasions: the prince would brook no disrespect to the kingdom’s Assistant Olken Administrator. So instead he clung to his precious talisman, Darran’s promise: give him enough rope …

  Such dreams he had, such pleasant dreams, of a stretched brown neck, and feet vainly kicking the indifferent air!

  ‘I am very busy with work for Darran,’ he said through stiff lips. ‘Be so good as to take this message to His Highness immediately. It’s from the Master Magician.’

  A little of the arrogance seeped from Asher’s face. Even his monumental pride faltered before the mention of the kingdom’s second most powerful magician. ‘Fine,’ he muttered and held out his hand. ‘Give it here then.’

  With silent contempt Willer handed the message over, waited till Asher was round the first bend of the Tower staircase, then hurried out of the side door. If he walked very fast, he might just reach Fingle’s in time after all.

  Asher took the winding staircase two treads at a time, scowling. He’d happily live with the honest stink of sweat and horse in his nostrils, but leave him for five minutes in that prissy sea slug Willer’s company and he was itching for hot water and soap.

  Gar was working at his library desk, surrounded by towers of ancient books, piles of yellowed and crumbleedged parchment and pages of notes. Ink-stained and harassed, he muttered under his breath and streaked his blond hair blue with dragging fingers. Asher paused in the doorway and frowned. This was getting beyond a joke.

  Without looking up from his jottings Gar snarled, ‘Darran! For the love of Barl, man, I said I didn’t want to be—’

  ‘Mind now,’ Asher interrupted mildly, entering the room. ‘You’ll hurt my feelings, and we wouldn’t want that.’ As Gar sat up, blinking, he threw himself into the nearest comfortable armchair and slung a leg over one side.

  Gar pulled a face. ‘Sorry. He’s been pestering me all morning.’

  ‘Try tellin’ him to turn into a bug and beetle off then.’

  ‘I did in the end,’ Gar admitted. ‘Although not quite in those words. Look, amuse yourself for a moment, would you? I just need to finish this …’

  Asher sighed. Books, books and more books. Ever since the king’s collapse Gar had buried himself in parchment and ink pots. Fool that he was. At this rate he’d work himself into a bed right next to his ailing da, and then three guesses who’d get the blame for it? By his reckoning, Gar hadn’t set foot outside in six days. Ballodair was so short of work he’d bucked Matt off that very morning; the bruised and limping stable meister wasn’t amused.

  And Gar was looking short of work too, or at least fresh air. His thin face had grown thinner and there were lines of temper and worry engraved around his eyes and mouth. All this time and he’d still not seen his father. The strain was wearing him down, winding him tight as a lute string ready to snap.

  This whole bloody mess was a pain in the arse and no mistake. Just as he’d finally been set to tell Gar it was time and past time he packed his bags and went home to Restharven …

  He’d been meaning to do it for nigh on a month now, but unforeseen circumstances kept getting in the way. First off, right on the anniversary of his arrival in Dorana, a tricky dispute had arisen between the Brewers and the Vintners and it had taken a week’s worth of persuasion from both him and Gar to avert an alcoholic disaster. Hard on the heels of that excitement there’d been the Barlscoming Anointments; it would’ve been cruelty to dumb animals if he’d left Gar to cope with all that religious fervour on his own. And after that, the king’s birthday celebrations.

  Which he easily could’ve missed, and should have, except he’d made the mistake of drinking one glass of wine too many and accepting Gar’s bet that he couldn’t make the final four of the King’s Cup competition. After all, there was nowt to it. He’d seen Conroyd Jarralt win the cup the last King’s Birthday holiday, and if Conroyd Jarralt could do it, well …

  Naturally, he’d had to stay on and defend his honour. Da would understand that. Course he would. It had meant spending every spare waking hour on horseback learning the hard way how not to skewer himself or his mount with a stupid steel-tipped javelin as he tried to stab stupid bits of wood at a passing amble.

  He’d done all right in the end, though.

  Thinking of the gold cup, now sitting in his bathroom holding his razor and shaving brush, he smothered a grin. Actually, he’d done more than all right. Conroyd Jarralt still wasn’t speaking to him: two prizes for the price of one.

  But he’d promised himself that would be the end of it. The birthday celebrations would be his private goingaway party. Once all the bunting was put away for another year he’d bid his farewells to Dorana City and go back to where he truly belonged. The coast. Restharven. Home.

  And then what had to happen? The king had to go falling over sick with a fever, didn’t he? Now Barl alone knew how long it would be till His Majesty was hale and hearty again and he could in good conscience quit the City for home. At this rate he’d have to send a re assuring message ahead of himself, damn it, and ruin the surprise.

  Scratch scratch scratch went Gar’s inky pen over the paper as he translated yet another of his precious bloody parchments …

  Although, if he were being dead honest with himself, turning his back on Dorana wasn’t looking to be as easy as once he’d expected. In his first weeks here, with homesickness a blight, the year of self-imposed exile from Restharven had seemed a length of time without mercy. Now, though, now … He swallowed a sigh. Truth be told, he’d almost welcomed all those very good reasons for delaying his departure. Without ever meaning to he’d made a lot of friends in the City. Amongst the guilds. The guards. In the royal household and the Tower, especially. Well, not Darran. Or Willer. But Matt. Definitely Matt, and the rest of the lads down at the stables. The housemaids and cooks, like a bloody great gaggle of sisters and aunties and well-meaning grannies.

  Gar.

  Asher rubbed at a mud spot on his knee, frowning. If anyone had told him a year ago that one day he’d look on a Doranen prince like a brother he’d have laughed himself sick. Yet a year later here he was. As fond of Gar as he’d never been of Zeth or Wishus or any of the others.

  Damn it. That hadn’t been part of his plan …

  Bloody Gar, with his mercurial moods, his devotion to family, his courage in the face of magic and its lack in himself. His besottedness with horses and books and history. His sly sense of humour, and his imperfectly hidden pain.

  In the aftermath of Timon Spake’s execution, feelings in Lur had run high and wild. Fear, both Olken and Doranen, tainted the sweet air of City and countryside alike. During those dangerous, difficult days he’d watched the prince work himself near to a standstill, mending fences, building bridges, soothing the turbulent kingdom and preventing any echoes of long-past unrest sounding in the streets of her towns and villages. Watched him lay flowers on the grave of Edvord Spake, who’d followed his son into death three days after receiving his boy’s body home from the king’s justice.

  And the hard work hadn’t stopped there. Long after the stormy waters of Timon Spake’s death had calmed, Gar laboured on behalf of his father’s magickless subjects. Laughed with them when their babies were born, wept when their mothers died, danced at their weddings and calmed their quarrels in guild meetings all over the kingdom. Listened to them in Justice Hall and agonised afterwards in case he’d not heard their hearts correctly.

  Thanks to Gar, Asher of Restharven had been a part of all that. He’d helped solve those disputes.
He’d danced at those weddings. Held meetings with the most import ant Olken in the kingdom and stood before the king in Privy Council to speak his heart and mind on things that had come to matter. And he’d been listened to. Plus he was a rich man now, a different, cannier, wiser man, and that was also thanks to Gar.

  Some folk would say leaving was a sinkin’ poor way to repay such a debt. He might even say it himself. Might not go at all, at least not just yet, not this year, if it weren’t for Da.

  But he’d made his father a promise, so that was that.

  And then … there was Dathne.

  How did a body know if they’d fallen in love if they’d never been in love before? And of all the women he’d ever met, at home and here in Dorana, that he could’ve fallen in love with … why Dathne?

  In body and mind she was an angular woman, all sharp corners and flat, hard planes. Not even when drunk could he ever call her beautiful. And yet she stirred him, deeply. Her secretive eyes. The curve of her lips. The long smooth column of her throat. The way her hands shaped the air when she talked. She provoked him beyond bearing. Teased him. Challenged him. Made him laugh. Made him think. He’d learned as much in a year of knowing her as he had working with Gar. And that was saying something, because sometimes he thought his head would burst like an overripe melon with everything he’d learned working with Gar.

  But how could he be certain sure it was love, not … something else? Was it because whenever he was with her he felt strangely whole? Because he looked forward to seeing her the way he’d used to look forward to sailing? Or did he know because the thought of leaving her behind when he went home raced his heart and dried his mouth? Made him feel ill and panicked and all of a jitter?

  That could be it. A lifetime without Dathne in it? He might as well say he’d settle for a lifetime without the sea.

  He didn’t think he could do either.

  So. He’d just have to say something, wouldn’t he? Not that she’d ever given him a sign, as such, nor what most men would call encouragement even when they were both tipsy in their cups. But she liked him. He was sure of that much. They saw each other three or four times a week without fail, and she was always asking how he was, what was happening in his life. Inviting him on jaunts about the countryside. Giving him books to read and asking him what he thought of them afterwards. Showing an interest. Listening, with her eyes as well as her ears. A woman didn’t do that if there wasn’t something going on.

  Still: He’d be happier if she’d said something … dropped even the smallest of hints …

  Of course it could be she was shy, like him. Uncertain. Unwilling to risk a rebuff. To be fair, he’d not exactly shown his hand either. But then he’d seen Dathne rebuff other would-be suitors: it wasn’t a pretty sight. So he’d sort of … let it slide. Told himself he had plenty of time. That some women weren’t for rushing. Had put off declaring his feelings again and again and again, waiting for the perfect moment to declare his love.

  Well, he was fast running out of moments, wasn’t he? Perfect or otherwise. He’d have to risk speaking soon or he might never see her again.

  He imagined telling her, at long last. Imagined the feel of her hands tight in his. Her gasp of sweet surprise. The blush on her cheeks and the warm glow of pleasure in her eyes. He imagined kissing her …

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ said Gar.

  Startled, Asher blinked. ‘What? Nowt. Nothing, I mean. I was just thinking.’

  Gar returned his pen to the ink pot and leaned back in his chair, groaning at the tug of stiff muscles. ‘Careful. You might sprain something.’ His lips curved briefly, the closest he was coming these days to a smile. He took in Asher’s dishevelled appearance and lifted his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You’ve been out?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Asher, and grinned. ‘Takin’ care of the Guigan brothers.’

  Gar considered him. ‘And?’

  ‘And I reckon they’ve seen the error of their ways.’ Asher flexed reminiscent fingers. ‘Once they realised we were onto ’em they changed their tune right enough.’

  ‘Excellent. The carters have enough to contend with at this time of year without being short-weighted on their fodder. Penalties?’

  Asher shrugged. ‘Thirty percent discount to all their regular customers until the end of Fall. I got a good long list of deservin’ names that’ll need checking, double-checking and, like as not, checking again. Be nice and say I can give it to Darran, eh?’

  Frowning, Gar said, ‘Thirty percent’s a little harsh, isn’t it? If I recall correctly we discussed twenty.’

  ‘And twenty it would’ve been, right enough, except they got themselves a little mouthy. Couldn’t let ’em get away with that now, could I?’

  ‘I suppose not. Although I imagine they’re not very happy.’

  Asher grinned. ‘Not very happy at all, no. But as I said to ’em, they could do things my way and be unhappy in the comfort of their own shop, or their way and be unhappier still standin’ afore you in Justice Hall explaining what they’d been up to and why. Funnily enough, they decided to do things my way.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gar. ‘Thus showing that greed and stupidity don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Good job.’ Then he noticed the rolled letter balanced in Asher’s lap. ‘What’s that?’

  Asher tossed the scroll at him. ‘A message from Durm.’

  Gar’s expression changed. ‘Idiot,’ he said curtly. ‘You think the Guigan brothers are more important than this?’ Ripping off the neatly tied ribbon, he yanked the letter open and devoured its contents with eyes gone suddenly opaque.

  ‘Well?’ said Asher, fingertips drumming on the arm of his chair. ‘What’s the ole spell-crow want now?’

  Gar opened his fingers and let the paper rustle to his crowded desktop. ‘The king wishes to see us,’ he said distantly. Shifting in his chair, he stared out of the library’s stained-glass window into the gardens below. His lips, unsteady, pressed tight together.

  ‘So he’s feeling better,’ said Asher. ‘That’s grand.’ Then he paused, and listened again to Gar’s pronouncement. ‘Wait a minute. He wants to see us? As in you and me? Why?’

  Gar pushed free of his chair and headed for the door. ‘I must make myself presentable. You’d best do the same. Bathe and change, for Barl’s sake. You reek of sweat and horses. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Asher grumbled, following him out of the library. ‘But make it fifteen. And you ain’t answered my question, neither. What’s the king need to see me for?’

  No reply. Swearing lustily under his breath, Asher hurried to his apartments.

  Now what?

  Master Magician Durm was waiting for them in the anteroom to Their Majesties’ private chambers. A light, bright, airy room it was, but dragged down to dirt level by Durm’s heavy frown and the way his plump lips tucked in tight at the corners, forbidding smiles. His glossy brown robe hung on him with less grace than it would on a coathanger, its heavy folds mimicking the bloated lines of his body. Following in Gar’s hurried footsteps Asher hung back a little and let the prince be the first to feel the embrace of Durm’s warm welcome.

  ‘You took your time,’ the Master Magician announced, sharp white teeth snapping the tail from his greeting. Cold grey eyes, tinged green like wet slate touched with lichen, slid briefly sideways to notice but not acknowledge Asher. ‘His Majesty is waiting for you. Be brief. Pother Nix and I are satisfied with his progress but he is still swiftly wearied.’

  For Gar, a lifetime of the man had blunted his impact. Indifferent to censure, thrumming with anticipation, he said, ‘Has Nix decided yet what caused the fever?’

  ‘As I suspected,’ Durm replied, soft hands folded across his comfortable girth, ‘it was a matter of exhaustion and overwork. The king’s crown weighs heavy, Your Highness. Even the strongest of men will stumble from time to time.’

  Gar gnawed his bottom lip. ‘There must be something I can do.’

&
nbsp; ‘We have discussed this. His recovery is in hand, Your Highness.’

  ‘You should have let me see him before now.’ Gar’s voice was bladed, his eyes no longer opaque.

  Durm unfolded his hands, spread them wide. ‘To what purpose? Nix, Her Majesty and I are doing all that can be done. He finds other visitors fretsome.’

  Gar glared. ‘You’re saying he’d find me fretsome? I am his son, Durm.’

  Now the hands reached out, patted Gar’s shoulders in a gesture doubtless meant to reassure. Asher, watching from a safe distance, mistrusted the paternal smile that accompanied the gesture. ‘And as a good son you’ve held his best interests highest. Now shall we be about our business? It will soon be time for His Majesty to sleep.’

  Gar nodded, turned his head far enough to meet Asher’s neutral gaze and flickered an eyelid. Stride for stride, they made their way towards the closed chamber door.

  Durm stepped forward and reached out, catching Asher’s passing elbow between finger and thumb. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  He pulled his elbow free. Not roughly, never roughly, but with a polite, restrained violence. ‘The message said His Majesty asked for me too. Sir.’

  Durm shrugged. ‘He asks for many things, as unwell men are wont to do. He may not be strong enough to see you. Wait here until—’

  ‘Asher!’

  Gar, calling impatiently from his mother and father’s private room.

  A dangerous grin. An apologetic shrug. Don’t see the venomous look in the spell-crow’s eye. ‘If you’ll excuse me, then,’ he said with awful courtesy, and slipped out of harm’s way into the king’s inner sanctum.

  Borne sat up in his bed, swaddled in blankets and buttressed with pillows. The ravaging fingerprints of fever were plain upon him. Thin, pale, his eyes sunken to depths Asher hadn’t seen since the day of Timon Spake’s trial, he was decently robed to the throat in finest linen. His silver-blond head looked naked without a crown, yet somehow he still managed to look like a king.