by Karen Miller
He should have felt relieved. He should have felt like turning cartwheels. Instead he felt like some kind of traitor. ‘I’ll never forget what the prince has done for me, Your Majesty. I’m a wealthy man, thanks to him. I got a wardrobe full of fancy clothes. Books to read. A fine horse. I know things now I never knew I didn’t know, if that makes any sense. And I’ve made a lot of good friends. Never would’ve had any of that without Gar.’
‘When do you plan on telling him?’
‘Soon. I thought—’
‘Wait,’ said the king. ‘Wait till you’re in Westwailing and the festival is done. I want you to guide him through it safely, Asher. He’s never seen the festival. Never even seen the ocean. As a child he used to beg me to take him with me to Westwailing but the queen and I …’
Didn’t want to parade their magickless son in front of a gawking crowd. Asher nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Wait,’ Borne pressed. ‘Don’t give him anything else to fret about. After everything you say he’s given you, it’s not so much to ask, is it?’
Asher chewed at his lip. He didn’t want to wait. With his mind made up to go didn’t want to keep the decision secret. It’d been hard enough these past few months, knowing his time was running out, making plans with Gar for various projects, discussing ideas. He’d felt like a liar and a cheat because all the time he’d known he wouldn’t be there to see them through.
‘Asher?’ said the king. ‘Please. As a favour to me, and to his mother.’
A king was begging a favour of him. Of all the strange things that had happened to him since setting foot in Dorana City this had to be the strangest. Asher frowned. ‘But he’ll guess, sir. He’ll know somethin’s in the wind when I start packin’ all my—’
‘Then don’t pack. At least no more than you’d take if you were going down to Westwailing and coming back again. I’ll make arrangements for all your possessions and your money to follow you safely down there a day or so after you leave. You’ll not be short-changed by so much as a single cuick.’
Asher sighed. So he’d spend a few days feelin’ uncomfortable. He’d survive. He’d felt the same way in the weeks leading up to his departure from Restharven, hadn’t he, and that hadn’t killed him. ‘All right, Your Majesty. I’ll wait till the festival’s over and done.’
Relief washed some colour into the king’s white face. ‘Thank you. And speaking of the festival …’
‘I’ll help him every way I can,’ promised Asher. ‘If that ole Darran’ll let me.’ He pulled a face. ‘Are you sure he has to come with us?’
That made Borne chuckle. ‘I’m sure. You never know, Asher, you might even find yourself learning something of the festival from him.’
‘From Darran? And me a fisherman born and bred?’
‘Well, perhaps not,’ conceded the king. ‘But you’ll humour me and let him think it’s possible, won’t you?’
Asher rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The brief amusement in Borne’s face died, leaving him tired and sad. ‘I’m sorry to see you leave us, Asher. I hope some day you’ll come back to the City, and bring your father with you.’
‘Your Majesty …’ Asher slid off the chair and knelt beside the king’s bed. ‘I don’t know what to say except thank you. Reckon if I were leavin’ Dorana with less money than I had when I got here, and that’d be bloody near impossible, I’d still be leavin’ a wealthy man, ’cause I had the luck to know you. And your son.’
‘The luck runs both ways, I think.’ Beckoning Asher close, the king pressed dry and burning lips to his forehead in a kiss. ‘Barl’s blessings go with you, Asher. Your father is a fortunate man.’
‘Aye, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said Asher, and made good his escape.
Gar was waiting for him outside the chamber. ‘Done at last?’ he said as they headed for the door. ‘What did he want to see you about?’
‘Makin’ sure you don’t make a muck of the Sea Harvest Festival,’ said Asher, after the briefest hesitation. ‘I’m to hold your hand every step of the way.’
Gar snorted. ‘Not where anybody can see us, you won’t be.’
‘Course not. Don’t want to make that ole Darran jealous, do we?’
Gar choked. ‘Or Willer.’ He burst out laughing, all the strain and despair of the last week draining from his face.
Relieved for the moment, dreading the future, Asher laughed with him.
In the aftermath of the announcement that His Majesty had that very morning been pronounced once more fine and dandy by the royal physician Pother Nix, the Green Goose was crammed to the rafters with celebration and a damned fine tune from Humperdy’s Band. No sooner had the sun gone down and the last shop shut its doors than the inn began to fill with cheerful Olken ready to raise a mug or many to the king’s good health and the Wall’s longstanding.
Not that there’d been any fear for the Wall, of course. Everybody knew the king was a powerful strong magician who’d never let that Wall fall down. And anyway, there was always Princess Fane, ready to be WeatherWorker as soon as was needful. And if that wasn’t a reason for celebration, then just what bloody well was?
Dathne waited and watched as Matt fought through the heaving, hilarious crowd to the bar for a fresh mug each of ale. Despite the good news about the king she was in no mood for smiling.
After a year without visions, Prophecy was back.
She’d dreamed last night of evil eyes, waiting, and a wind of fury blowing every tree in the Black Woods bare. Of stars bleeding scarlet as they fell from the sky, and the sound of women weeping.
The stubborn silence had continued for so long since her last vision she’d begun to doubt all that had at first felt so clear and certain. If Asher were truly the Innocent Mage, why had Prophecy abandoned her, Jervale’s Heir, leaving her ignorant and blind? Where was calamity? What had happened to the Final Days? Had she been wrong after all?
Wait, Veira had counselled her. After six hundred and forty-four years, what is one more? Prophecy unfolds itself according to its own desires, child. Not ours. You were not wrong. Asher is the one, and his time will come. Wait.
So she’d waited. Waited and waited and waited, filling her days with work and her nights with schooling Asher as best she could, without revealing anything, in whatever arts and knowledge she thought might help him in the hidden days to come. And after a little while had got well used to waiting. To laughing. To his company. So that waiting had stopped feeling like waiting … and instead began to feel like happiness.
Now at long last the waiting was over, and all she could do was long for the silence and nights empty of dreams. For after the dream that had woken her screaming into the dark, there burned in her mind a new knowledge. An understanding that here now were the Final Days, counting down to chaos. That the last year had been a kind of gestation, and bloody childbirth waited hungrily, its time almost come. The knowledge sat on her shoulder like a midnight crow, cawing and chittering its fears and foretellings into the dark secret places of her mind where there was no hiding, no kind forgetting, no respite from care.
And to think she’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, the Final Days had somehow passed them by …
But she forbade her rediscovered weariness and fear to show in her face as she crunched garlic-roasted nuts and waited for Matt to return with another mug of ale. Still stuck fast in the raucous crowd he turned his head to smile at her, shoulders shrugging an apology. She smiled back, but it was an effort. Then Humperdy’s music changed from gleeful laughter to a sweet, slow lament and a bracelet of fingers closed tight about her wrist.
‘This be my favourite,’ Asher announced, his breath tickling her ear, stirring the wayward curls that escaped the confinement of her practical plait. ‘Dance with me, Dathne.’
She hadn’t seen him come in. Before she could protest, demur, distract or simply slap him down he’d dragged her into the swaying, close-packed press of bodies on the Goose’s tiny excuse for a dance floor. His arms
were loosely on her, gathering her close. The smell of him was all around her, clean and male and vaguely re dolent of horse, and it was wrong, so wrong, he wasn’t for her, couldn’t be for her, there was no-one for her. She’d been chosen for other things, and so had he …
Wickedly, she let her forehead drop against his broad chest, and for one chorus and half a verse allowed the music to move her as it willed. His arms tightened, and for the first time in a long time … ever … she felt safe. Secure.
Fool! her inner self screamed and the moment shattered.
She stepped back, easing a proper distance between them. Lightly, brightly, in the bantering tone she’d taken with him from that first day in the bustling marketplace, she said, ‘So you’ve come out slumming, have you? Am I to be honoured or should I just fall over in surprise?’
He scowled. ‘Ha ha. I been stuck up in that bloody Tower for a week, haven’t I? Taking care of all the bits and bobs that Gar forgot about, seeing as how the ceiling were going to cave in if he didn’t finish translating some stupid ole story or other.’
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘He’s been worried about his father.’ And so had she, and Veira. Remembering anxiety, she asked: ‘His Majesty’s really better?’
Asher nodded, and slyly pulled her closer again. ‘Oh, aye. At least he seemed well enough when I saw him this morning. Tired but on the mend, just like Nix said.’
‘You saw the king? This morning?’ She stared at him. ‘In his bedchamber?’ And stared a little harder, as some memory chased across his face. ‘Is something wrong? What did he want?’
He chewed his lip a moment, hesitant, then said, ‘Gar’s going down the coast, to Westwailing. It’s nearly Sea Harvest Festival time, and since the king’s still too poorly to sing it, Gar’s going to. I’m going with him. We leave in three days.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, it sounds very exciting. I’ll look forward to hearing all about it when you get back.’
‘Thing is …’ said Asher, after another silent moment. ‘I ain’t coming back.’
There were too many people dancing. All the breathable air had been sucked from the smoky room. Bumped and jostled she stood there, and he stood there with her, staring down, anxiety and excitement and a kind of foolhardy bravado lighting him from within.
‘I’m sorry?’ She almost didn’t recognise her own voice, so breathless and uncertain did it sound. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m leaving Dorana. Going back to Restharven. Mayhap I’ll stay there, mayhap I’ll shift along to one of the other fishing villages. Depends on Da. And my brothers. But—’
‘Does the prince know?’ she demanded, a little strident, a touch querulous. Be easy, her saner self counselled from a great distance. But easiness was nowhere to be found.
Asher shrugged, uncomfortable. ‘Not yet.’
That made her stare. ‘You haven’t told him?’
At least he had the grace to look abashed. ‘I been meaning to. Now the king’s asked me not to. But Gar’s always known I were never going stay in the City much above a year.’
‘I never knew that. You never told me.’
He pulled a face. ‘Figured it were easier all round if I kept that to myself. Nobody but Gar needed to know.’
She wanted to slap him. Wanted to scream, I did. She said, ‘And if he says no, you can’t leave?’
‘He won’t. I got his word. I can leave whenever I want to.’
‘And now you want to.’ There was a pain in her chest like hot coals, burning. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never told me. I thought we were friends.’
‘We are,’ said Asher unhappily. ‘You and Matt, you be the best friends I ever had, along with Gar.’
She lifted her chin. ‘And this is how you treat us?’
‘Don’t be angry, Dathne …’ Asher brushed her cheek with his fingertips.
She took him by the arm, ungently, and hauled him through the dancers and the drinkers, heedless of the catcalls and the laughter, outside to the empty street which glowed gently in the golden light from the distant, magic-soaked mountains. Dominating the night sky, Barl’s Wall soared effortlessly upwards, losing itself amongst the stars.
‘You can’t leave,’ she said fiercely. ‘Gar needs you.’
He pulled his arm free. ‘My da needs me more.’
She took a deep, steadying breath and let it out. Careful handling, always careful, that was the key to Asher. For many more reasons than one. So she calmed her frightened heart and sweetened her voice and said, persuasively, ‘You can’t be sure of that. But even if it’s true, your father has other sons. Gar has only one of you. How will he get on if you leave? You’re his strong right hand, Asher. The most important Olken in the kingdom. If you’re worried about your father, send for him. You can look after him here as well as there.’
Asher shook his head. ‘He’d hate it here, away from the ocean. All this dry land, no salt air, no rolling waves. It’d kill him.’
‘You can’t just walk away!’
‘Watch me,’ said Asher, eyebrows knitted, jaw tight.
Stepping close again, she rested her palms flat to his chest. ‘Please. Don’t go.’
He stared down at her, his broad and weather-beaten face clouded with unhappiness. His mouth opened and she could see the denial in him, the rejection, the stubborn, ignorant undoing of them all … and then he looked at her hands, resting on him, and his expression cleared, vivid as a crack of lightning. Suddenly there was hope in him, and wonder, and a kind of terrified joy.
‘Come with me,’ he countered, and covered her hands with his own.
Noise and light spilled through the alehouse’s open door and windows, painting the cobblestones and the cool night air. His hands were warm, the skin callused, working hands, a man’s hands. His unexpected touch goosebumped her, shivered the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and stoked the fires banked low and deep within. Harshly, with a piercing reluctance, she pulled her own hands free.
‘Asher, be serious.’
His face was eager now, smiling. ‘Just listen, eh? Hear me out. I know you’ve got the bookshop and all, and they don’t be much for reading down Restharven way, but you could change all that. I’m pretty nigh rich now. I could set you up all fine and dandy with another little bookshop and I reckon it’d be only a month or two afore you’d have ’em all eatin’ out of your hand, just like you do here.’
She stepped back again, shaking her head. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Or, or,’ he continued, heedless, all tangled up in his bright and futile dreams, ‘you could just come for a visit. For a while. And if you like it, and I know you will, then you could stay.’
‘Oh, Asher,’ she said, torn between tears and temper.
‘You work too hard, Dath, and you’re always so serious. As if the weight of the Wall rested on your shoulders. It don’t. That be King Borne’s problem, and Fane’s after him. Come with me. I … I … care for you, Dathne. I don’t want to leave you behind.’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said again, and pressed her fingers to her face. ‘Or I am. Or I should be. Are you mad? I can’t just drop everything and run away to the coast with you, even for only a week or three. What are you doing? Why are you asking me this now? What possessed you to say it at all?’
He was blushing. How boyish. How charming. The pillock. ‘Don’t know,’ he muttered, staring at his expensive shoes. ‘Been wanting to for a while. Just never could get up the nerve.’
She could have hit him. Her fingers clenched to her palms, making fists. Oh, how she wanted to hit him. ‘I’d say you’ve got plenty of nerve, Asher of Restharven! I can’t come with you. Not next week, or the week after, or the week after that. Not ever.’
‘Why not?’ he said roughly. ‘Ain’t I good enough for you?’
Good enough? Good enough? Oh, if only he knew. She gentled her voice. ‘That’s not the point. I have work to do that can’t be done anywhere else. My place is here in this City, Asher. I’m sorry. I can’t do
what you want.’
‘Can’t?’ he echoed. ‘Or won’t? You’re a bookseller, Dathne. You could sell books any ole place. If you wanted to.’
She was filling with furious tears. He’d weakened her, damn him. Made her vulnerable in a way she’d never been before. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said harshly. ‘I don’t mean to be unkind. I don’t want us to part in anger. I don’t want us to part at all! But what you want is impossible.’
He nodded, slowly. Stared thoughtfully through the Goose’s open door. ‘Is it Matt then? Are you in love with him?’
That surprised her into laughter. ‘Matt? Now you’re being ridiculous. Of course I don’t love Matt. Asher—’
‘Then it’s me.’ His eyes hardened, and he stepped away from her. ‘Go on. You can say it. I’ll not break to tiny pieces and run screaming into the night. Say it.’
And now she’d hurt him, truly hurt him. Oh, why hadn’t she seen this, as well as all the other things? What should she do? Lie and say he meant nothing to her? Or should she defy Prophecy? Break her vow, her solemn oath, and tell him the real reason behind her refusal of him? Tell him the terrible truth of himself, long before it was time for him to know? Risk everything, risk a kingdom and everyone in it, all for the sake of one man’s bruised heart? Even if the man was Asher?
Or was she supposed to go with him? Jervale’s Heir will guide him, Prophecy said. Did that mean she should abandon her shop and Matt and traipse all the way to Westwailing with him? She would if she had to, but it made no sense. Asher’s place was in the Usurper’s House. In the Tower, the palace. He didn’t belong on the coast, not any more. Restharven was his past, not his future.
Closing her eyes, she looked into that hidden part of herself that all her life had guided her, ruled her, brought her here, to this place, this time, this terrible moment …
Let him go. He will return.
A hesitant voice behind them said, ‘Eh up. What’s going on?’
Matt.
She turned, eyes wide, willing him to go away. ‘Nothing.’
Asher said, ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Already? You only just got here. What’s the rush? There’s a barrel of ale in there with your name on it, you know.’
