by Karen Miller
‘I mean I’m leaving the City,’ said Asher, and his expression was cold and distant. ‘Going home.’
Matt was staring, aghast. Joining them in three swift strides he said, ‘For good? No, you can’t. Asher, you can’t leave. Dathne, tell him, tell him he can’t—’
She sank her fingertips into his arm, making him wince. ‘It’s his life, Matt. His choice. There’s nothing I can say that will make any difference.’ She looked again at Asher and managed a smile. ‘I’m sorry. Truly I am.’
He didn’t smile back. Just turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Dathne!’ said Matt explosively. ‘What are you doing? Go after him! Tell him!’
She stared up the street, at the shrinking shadow that was Asher. Felt the knowledge in her, the certainty, the sorrow yet to come, and slowly shook her head. ‘It’s not time.’
With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, Matt pointed one scarred, accusing finger at the shimmering mountains and lowered his voice to a scalding whisper. ‘I think it is. That damned sorcerer’s Wall is all that’s standing between us and chaos, Dathne. When it goes, when whatever it is waiting beyond those mountains comes crashing down on all our heads, our only hope will be Asher. He has to know.’
‘And he will,’ she said steadily. ‘But not yet.’
‘Really? Seeing as how he’s leaving for good? Dathne, you’re wrong. He has to know. And if you won’t tell him, I will.’ Reckless with fright he turned and stamped his way up the rising cobbled street.
Oh, Matt. Dear Matt. Often blind and sometimes foolish Matt. She raised her voice and snapped it at his heels. ‘Don’t.’
He stopped, as she knew he would. Waited for her to join him. ‘He thinks he’s leaving for good, Matt, but he’s not,’ she told him. ‘What he wants isn’t there. He’ll be back.’
Matt’s inner turmoil reflected in his face. ‘Who says? Dathne the bookseller? Or Jervale’s Heir?’
‘Both of us.’ She said it quietly, confidently, hiding the hurt. ‘Matt, just trust me, all right? He will be back.’
‘Trust.’ Matt raked his fingers through his close-cropped hair. ‘It’s a little word for a big thing, Dathne. Sooner or later we’re going to have to trust him, you know. With the truth. With us, and himself.’ With a jerk of his dark-stubbled chin he looked up the empty street that led to the rarefied air of the palace, and the Tower, and Asher. ‘With Prophecy.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, knowing it in her bones and in her aching heart. ‘But not yet.’
‘Not yet! Not yet!’ he shouted in sudden rage, fists clenched. ‘You keep saying that! You’ve been saying that for a year now, Dathne! We’ve been lying to him for a whole damned year! When is it going to stop? When will not yet become right now?’
If she cried nothing would ever be the same again. Her own hands fisted, the blood in her veins on fire, she stared at him. Said coldly: ‘Not yet.’
For long moments he glared back at her. Hated her. Then the angry resistance in him melted, as it always did, and he rubbed his large horseman’s hands over his despairing face. ‘Oh, Dath. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to question you, I know you know what’s best. I just …’ He groaned. ‘Damn. How’d I ever get mixed up in all this anyways?’
She smiled, because he needed to see it, not because she felt like smiling, and stepped close. Eased her arm around him until it lay across his defeated shoulders. ‘The same way as me and Asher, my friend. You were born for it. And in case you were wondering … yes. It’s far too late to turn back now.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘I can’t believe you’re really doing this.’ With a deft flick of his wrist Asher tipped another forkload of manure onto the muck sack. ‘Why not? Ain’t like I never mucked out horse shit before.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Matt, and kicked the stable door he was leaning over.
Gently pushing Cygnet aside, Asher slid his fork under another pile of manure. In the yard behind him the bustle of afternoon stables half drowned their conversation. Why he’d felt the need to come down here and shovel shit he wasn’t sure. Mayhap ’cause this was the last chance he’d ever have to do it. The last chance here, any road. In this stable. In this yard, where it had all begun. It was, he supposed, another goodbye that needed to be said. He glanced up at Matt, then kept working.
‘Aye.’
‘Have you seen Dathne since—’
‘No,’ said Asher, disposing of the manure. He didn’t want to, either. Just the thought of what he’d asked her, how she’d answered, could flood him hot with angry embarrassment. Seeing her was impossible. The faster she faded into memory, the happier he’d be.
‘Are you going to?’
There were three more piles of manure to collect. Bloody Cygnet; the horse was nowt but a pretty silver shit-maker.
‘No.’
Another bang as Matt kicked at the stable door again. ‘Why not? You’re leaving tomorrow. She’ll be hurt if you don’t.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Asher!’ Matt’s laughter was baffled. ‘She’s your friend. How can you not—’
‘Easy!’ he shouted, glaring. ‘Because I don’t bloody want to, all right? Because – because—’ He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t make the words leave his mouth. If he didn’t say it, maybe that meant it didn’t have to be true.
Matt’s expression changed. ‘Oh.’ In his voice, a sudden understanding. ‘Oh, Asher. Why didn’t you say something?’
Savagely he scooped up another pile of manure and dumped it with the rest. ‘Because I didn’t want to. Anyway, it don’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters. When did you – I mean, how long have you known you …’
Asher sighed and let himself collapse against the stable wall. Moodily he poked at the straw with the tips of the fork tines, and watched the lazy swish of Cygnet’s tail as the horse nibbled hay. ‘I don’t rightly know. Seems it kind of snuck up on me.’ He glanced at Matt, then glanced away, not wanting to see the sympathy in his friend’s face. ‘I asked her to come with me.’
‘Oh,’ Matt said helplessly. ‘Asher, I’m sorry. Damn, I wish you’d said something. I could’ve told you she’d never agree to leave Dorana.’
Oh, could he? ‘It’s all right,’ Asher said curtly. ‘She told me herself.’
‘I had no idea you felt that way. No idea at all.’
‘Why would you?’ said Asher, pushing away from the wall and forking up the remaining manure. He needed to get out of here before Matt said something they’d both regret. It looked like he was parting badly from one good friend; he didn’t want an argument with Matt to make it two. Not when he had Westwailing looming on his horizon.
‘It’s what I do,’ Matt said, almost to himself. ‘I see things.’
Asher snorted. ‘Around here, maybe, but only ’cause it’s your job. And I ain’t a part of it, not any more. Not for a long time. Here,’ he added, and held out the fork for Matt to take. Then he gathered up the corners of the laden muck sack and dragged it towards the stable door. Cygnet huffed through his nostrils and pretended to be terrified. ‘Let me out.’
Matt opened the stable door and stood aside to let him pass. ‘Still, I wish I’d realised.’
‘Why?’
‘I would’ve said something,’ said Matt, bolting the stable door closed again.
Young Fulk scurried past empty-handed. Asher grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and gifted him with the muck sack. ‘Said what?’ he demanded, once the lad was safely on his way to the muck heap. ‘No offence, Matt, but I don’t reckon as it’s any of your business. Unless you got an idea I’d be poaching.’ Scowling, he watched Bellybone slosh water buckets across the yard. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘No.’ Matt spoke absently, as though he’d barely heard the question, or didn’t care what it might mean. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’ve been hurt but if you had told me I could’ve spared you some of it. There’s no use having feelings for
Dathne. She’s not that kind of woman.’
That snapped his head round. ‘And what’s that s’posed to mean?’
‘It means …’ Matt stared at the ground. ‘She’s not for home and hearth, Asher. Her life is in the bookshop. Business. She belongs here, in the City.’
Something else he didn’t need Matt to tell him. ‘I know that now.’
‘And even if you stayed, it wouldn’t make any difference.’
He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, I ain’t staying, am I, so there you are.’
‘I know, but …’ Matt shrugged. ‘Even if you were, Asher. She still wouldn’t – well, her answer would be the same. That’s all I’m saying.’
All this bloody interfering. Friends, eh. Who needed ’em? ‘Y’know that for a fact, do you?’ He sounded waspish. He felt it. Right this moment he could sting, and sting, and sting.
Matt rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘If you mean has she ever said as much to me, no. She didn’t have to. I know her, Asher. We’ve been friends a long time, and sometimes – not often, but sometimes – she confides in me. Dathne’s a … a racehorse. Not a broodmare.’
Despite the anger and pain, he laughed. ‘I wouldn’t go round callin’ her a horse where she can hear you, Matt. Not less you fancy yourself as a gelding.’
‘I just wish you’d not told her,’ said Matt unhappily. ‘It only makes things harder for her. It’s not that she doesn’t care, you know. She just doesn’t care like that.’
‘For me?’
‘For anybody.’
‘So, this ain’t about you bein’ jealous?’
Matt gaped. ‘No! Me and Dathne, you mean? Barl save me. No.’
Asher stared, suspicious. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Bloody sure. I promise.’
Stepping sideways so that Matt’s hand was pulled free, he scowled. ‘Well. Anyways. I did speak to her, didn’t I, and I reckon I’m paying dear enough for the mistake without you chewing on my ear for good measure. Now were there anything else? Only I’ve got to meet with bloody Darran to make sure there’s been nowt forgotten for tomorrow.’
‘Anything else? I don’t know. No. Yes. Asher, if going home doesn’t work out for you …’
Asher began inching towards the gate that led to the Tower. Bloody Darran would start squealing like a hog in the slaughterhouse if he didn’t turn up soon. Even worse, if he was late he’d have to apologise, and apologising to Darran gave him indigestion. ‘Of course it’ll work out. I got it all planned, Matt. Had it planned for years, not just since I came here.’
Matt took a step after him. ‘Yes, but you’ve been away a long time, Asher. Things change.’
He laughed. ‘Not that much, they don’t.’
‘I know. I know. But if they do. If they have …’
The urgency in Matt’s voice and face made him stare. Matt as a rule was a placid man. Urgency was saved for important matters like lameness and difficult foalings. He stopped inching towards the gate. ‘What’s going on, Matt? Is there something you ain’t tellin’ me? D’you know something I don’t, and should?’
‘No.’ Matt’s expression cleared of everything save a gentle concern. ‘Of course not. What could I know? I’m just trying to be a good friend.’
Damn, he hated saying goodbye. He had to wait a moment before he could trust himself to speak. ‘You’ve always been a good friend, Matt. Always, from the first day I got here. I ain’t likely to forget it.’
Matt smiled. His eyes were melancholy. ‘I hope not.’
He was late. He had to go. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, eh? I need Cygnet saddled by seven, mind.’
‘He’ll be ready.’
And there wasn’t anything else to say after that. Slipping through the stable-yard gate, he started running for the Tower.
‘Ah. Asher,’ said Darran, poisonously polite. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed most of the discussion.’
‘Sorry,’ muttered Asher as he slid into Darran’s office. ‘Got held up.’
‘Indeed.’ Darran looked down his bony nose at him. ‘Well, I’m not inclined to waste time by repeating everything we’ve already agreed upon. I’ll give you your instructions once we’re done.’
Willer sniggered. He was seated beside the Tower’s housekeeper, Mistress Hemshaw, who in turn was wedged into the chair next to Trundal, the palace provisioner.
‘Fine,’ said Asher, burning, and propped himself against the nearest bit of wall.
After confirming with Trundal that everything necessary for the long journey was assembled ready for loading into the wagons, Darran turned to the housekeeper. ‘Mistress Hemshaw, have you anything else to add?’
She fluffed herself like a broody hen. ‘No, Darran, save for the matter of His Highness’s wardrobe. He’s still not made up his mind as to exactly what clothes he wishes to take with him so I can have them properly packed and ready for loading.’
Darran’s nostrils pinched shut. ‘I see.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Asher, already bored to sobs and staring out of the office window. ‘I ain’t his nursery maid.’
‘For the sake of efficiency, shall we pretend otherwise?’ said Darran. ‘Just this once?’
Asher sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll take care of it.’
‘All that remains, then,’ Darran continued, ‘is one final announcement. After due consideration and the proper consultation with His Highness I have decided to allow Willer to accompany us on this historic trip to Westwailing. He shall be our official chronicler of the expedition, charged with the solemn duty of keeping a daily diary and accurately recording every moment of His Highness’s triumphant procession.’
Willer sat bolt upright and squealed like a girl. ‘Oh, Darran! Really? Oh, thank you, thank you!’
Aye, thought Asher sourly, as Mistress Hemshaw and Trundal dutifully congratulated the little sea slug. Thank you very much, Darran. And Gar. Barl bloody save him. With Darran and now Willer along for the ride, it looked like this was going to be the longest, most tedious trip from Dorana to Westwailing in the history of Lur.
An hour after dawn the next morning Gar’s entourage was in the last throes of its preparation to quit the City. Four large covered wagons and a travelling coach crammed nose to tail around the outer edges of the Tower’s forecourt. Darran stalked along their length, interrogating the drivers and any menial who couldn’t scurry away fast enough. Asher, in counterpoint, crisscrossed the scattering gravel on horseback, barking orders, contradicting Darran, chivvying and bustling and scuttling folk out of his way.
Still put out about Willer being included in the expedition, Gar decided, and swallowed a smile. Oh well. It served him right for being so rude about people who had so many fancy bloody clothes they couldn’t make up their mind which three shirts to throw into a suitcase, and did he really think the folk down Westwailing way cared whether his britches were blue or crimson? Because, you know, it was damn near certain they didn’t.
Every spare inch of the forecourt not occupied with last-minute baggage waiting to be stowed or grooms holding horses or messengers bearing sundry forgotten items was packed shoulder to heel with palace and Tower folk and townspeople, eager to send him on his way with a smile and a wave. Even the surrounding gardens were peppered with grinning faces. Seeing them went some small way to warming the cold hollow space in his chest.
If he wasn’t very careful he’d find himself feeling terrified of the job that lay ahead. Terrified of doing something wrong, of looking a fool, of letting his father down when the only thing that mattered, in the end, was making him proud.
Reading his mind as usual his mother said, ‘It’s a shame this expedition doesn’t appear on the official calendar. I know the Olken on the coast hold the event close to their hearts. But, for reasons that doubtless seem sanguine to the Privy Council, you must depart without their auspices. When it comes to the Sea Harvest Festival not even your father warrants a goodbye wave from Conroyd, you know.’ She flickered a
smile at him. ‘Are you so very disappointed?’
They were standing together on the Tower’s front steps, pretending to be bored by all the hustle and bustle. With a lifetime of practice behind her, his mother was much better at it than he was. He, lowering though it was to admit, was feeling pretty damned excited.
It was, he supposed, marginally better than feeling terrified.
‘Disappointed? Not at all. It was the first thing Darran told me so I’ve had ample time to recover from my devastation,’ he replied dryly. ‘You know as well as I, the minute the Privy Council gets involved in anything the protocol quotient trebles and it takes five times as long to get anything done. On the whole I’m as happy as they are that they’re still snoring sweetly in their own little beds.’
His mother chuckled. ‘And of course I needn’t mention how sorry your father is that he can’t be here to give you his blessing. But Durm and Nix were adamant, and I confess I’m glad of it.’
He closed his fingers around hers and squeezed gently. ‘I would’ve been cross beyond measure if I’d seen him here this morning. Joining us for dinner last night pushed him to the limits of his recovery. All that needed to be said between us was said then, and I’m content.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Good.’
‘Still,’ he added, shattering all his excellent intentions, ‘I thought Fane might come to see us off. And Durm.’
His mother hesitated. Smoothed his embroidered linen sleeve with a troubled hand and said, ‘She’s busy with her studies, Gar, and of course needs Durm beside her.’
‘You mean she’s jealous and he’s excusing her. As usual.’
His mother made a small noise of distress. ‘Oh, Gar. I thought you’d forgiven her that business with the stick and the rose. I know it was unkind. I’ve spoken to her most severely on it, she knows—’
‘You’re mistaken, Mama. I don’t care about that,’ he said impatiently, even though he did. Even though the memory could still freeze his blood. He still didn’t know which was worse: that she could have done it or that he could have been so blind, so stupid, as to have let her. She was his only sister. He wanted so much to love her. And even though he knew why she had to make it so difficult, there were times he found it almost impossible.
