by Karen Miller
Asher pushed back his chair, abandoned his barely touched food and slid silently into the night. He thought he heard a disappointed shout behind him, but didn’t look back.
Westwailing Harbour was wide of mouth and deep of bottom. Draped over the stone wall separating the general public from the business of catching fish, Asher sucked in a deep double lungful of heady ocean air and marvelled at himself for staying away so long.
A wide stone pier jutted from the main wharf, pointing like a finger towards the horizon … and the foam and break of the huge, magically protected reef. As a boy, Asher had sat atop a headland at sunrise and watched the morning light glint off the ferocious coral construction and wondered, achingly, what might lie beyond that meeting of sea and sky. Nobody knew. Hardly anybody cared. What did it matter, so long as the fish found their way through the reef and into the harbours, that they might end their days on a dinner plate somewhere?
Their lack of curiosity had enraged him. But that was people for you. They were the same in the City. Day in, day out, that bloody great Wall gleamed and towered and cut them off from whatever lay beyond it, but they didn’t care. It was just the Wall, it had always been there and it always would. Anyway, what other kingdom could possibly be better than Lur? Lur was perfection. Let beyond the Wall look after itself.
Not even Dathne cared. Not even Gar. He supposed he didn’t even care all that much himself. Just sometimes, looking, he’d be struck with wondering.
Just like he was struck now, gazing out at the serene, silvery waters of Westwailing Harbour, with the sounds of celebration loud still behind him, and the softer slosh and slap of waves before, and a full moon riding high overhead.
The beauty of it seared him. That afternoon, as they travelled the winding road down to the headlands and the salt wind blew off the water and they’d got their first dazzled, dazzling glimpse of the ocean, his eyes had stung with tears. He’d known then that leaving the City, coming home, was the only right thing left for him to do. All the aggravation, now and to come, was worth it, had to be worth it, because there was the ocean. There was his heart, whose muffled beating in a dry city had gone on long enough.
Tomorrow, after the festival, he’d find his father. Kneel at the old man’s feet and beg his forgiveness for being away so long. For staying silent. Da would be angry at first, but he’d come round soon enough. They understood each other, he and Da, as his brothers had never understood either of them.
And after that, their new life would start.
Before that, though, he’d try to mend fences with Gar. It would be a damned shame, after a year of friendship, if they parted so bitterly at odds. Gar wasn’t a mean man. He’d just been thoughtless. Was disappointed. Angry that this wasn’t a decision he could overturn or overrule. But, just like Da, the prince would come round.
Or if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be for want of trying.
A giggling couple, courting and fuddled with ale, weaved their arm-in-arm way down the sloping street to the stone wall. They were young and in the full bloom of love. She was short and sweetly plump, he a hand span taller, with the close-cropped hair and muscled arms of a working man. Her eyes were starry for him, her lips red with his kisses. He was peacock proud, walking on a fine cushion of air for all to see.
Asher, caught unprepared and opened to beauty by the night, watched their bodies melt one into the other as they murmured breathlessly into each other’s mouths. His heart hitched. Dathne.
He must have said something, or made a noise, because the couple broke apart, charming in their confusion. Then, laughing, they drifted away into shadow and the all-consuming fire of private passion.
Asher shook his head, fingers tight on the sharp stones of the harbour-mouth wall. Fool, he cursed himself. There was no point in pining. He’d asked, she’d answered. If he couldn’t share his life with Dathne, then mayhap there’d be someone else he could share it with. That could take care of itself too. All that mattered now was he was home, beside the ocean, and he’d never leave it again.
From the direction of the square the sound of footsteps on the pathway, coming closer. He didn’t need to look: he knew that slovenly gait. ‘You followin’ me, Willer? Have a care. Folks’ll talk.’
Willer’s snide and snivelling voice said: ‘So. We’re finally rid of you. I must say it took long enough.’
He sighed. ‘Piss off.’
‘The question everyone’s asking, of course, is did he jump or was he pushed?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re standin’ on the edge of a tidy drop into deep water,’ said Asher. ‘So I wouldn’t be talkin’ so much about jumpin’ and pushin’ if I were you. The amount of food you shovelled down your gullet tonight, reckon you’d sink faster than a stone.’
Laughing softly, Willer drifted forwards until his fat belly met the stone harbour wall. Asher noticed he kept his distance.
Smart man.
‘I do hope, Asher,’ he continued conversationally, ‘you weren’t expecting any public displays of grief over your long-awaited departure. Impassioned pleas for you to stay. A going-away party, or any such thing.’ He paused, considering. ‘Although now I come to think of it I could name one or two people who’d happily pay large amounts of money for a “Praise Barl he’s gone” party.’
Asher took a deep breath. Let it out, throttling rage and the desire to silence the vomitous sea slug once and for all. He turned his head and looked at Willer, baring his teeth in what wasn’t exactly a smile.
‘Fancy that. Here’s us workin’ together all this time and I never knew you for a man who liked livin’ dangerous.’
Willer laughed again. ‘You’re wasting your breath. You don’t frighten me. You never did.’ He pushed away from the harbour wall. Drifted backwards, and was swallowed by shadows. ‘Goodnight, Asher. Goodnight and good riddance.’
Back in the town square the partying continued. Snatches of music and laughter floated down to the harbour, and drowned in the sighing of the sea. Propped up by the ancient stone wall, Asher listened.
It was a long, long time before he finally turned away from the moonlit water to make his way back to his bed in the mayor’s house, where he could sleep away the scant hours before the great event of the morning: the Sea Harvest Festival, and the end of Asher, Assistant Olken Administrator of Lur.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Tell me again,’ said Gar, reaching for the damp towel Darran held out to him, ‘whose spectacularly clever idea this was.’
‘His Majesty’s, I believe,’ Darran replied. His smile was sympathetic. ‘If it makes you feel any better, sir, His Majesty also became … indisposed before his first Sea Harvest Festival.’
Sitting on the edge of a chair, his emptied stomach churning, Gar blotted cold sweat from his forehead. He was shivering, even though the Mayor of Westwailing’s very best guest room faced full into the morning sun and the chamber’s air was warm against his bare chest. Less than an hour before he was due to lead the procession down to the Harbour … to lead the Sea Harvest Festival … and he was puking his guts into a chamberpot like a virgin on her wedding night.
Perfect.
He spared Darran a sour glance. ‘You’re just saying that.’
‘I assure sir, I am not,’ Darran said blithely. ‘As it happens I was in a position to perform for your dear father the same service I perform for you now.’
‘Really?’ Gar considered him. ‘That’s very dedicated of you, Darran. Surely there must be something more edifying you can find to do with your time?’
‘Not at all, sir,’ said Darran as he tidied away the pot and the soiled facecloths. ‘I consider this opportunity a great honour.’
The roiling queasiness was easing. Overcome, possibly, by sheer, fascinated horror. ‘You think watching me vomit my breakfast into a chamber-pot is an honour? Darran, you really need to get out more.’
Darran laughed politely and relieved him of the damp towel. ‘Your Highness, I have served y
our father’s house since before he was born and I was a small boy, of an age to be trusted with running messages. Serving him once he ascended the throne … serving you, now, in whatever capacity I can … well, there isn’t another Olken in the kingdom who can claim such continuity. Who has been gifted with such trust. How could I be anything but honoured?’
Tentatively, Gar straightened. When his stomach didn’t revolt, he took a cautiously deep breath. ‘I suppose.’
Darran bowed. ‘Indeed, sir. Now, as you can see, I’ve laid your clothes out for you. Of course, if you’ve changed your mind, then—’
‘No,’ said Gar, glancing at the grass-green silk shirt, the deep blue, gold and crimson brocade weskit embroidered with bullion thread, the sea-blue woollen breeches he’d selected last night. They were as respectable as anything else he’d brought. ‘Well, not about the clothes anyway. Are you sure I can’t change my mind about leading the festival?’
‘You are a prince, sir,’ Darran reminded him with a discreet smile. ‘You are at liberty to do as you please. But I wouldn’t advise it.’
‘Neither would I. The king would skin me alive.’ Gar frowned, briefly, the thought of his father still a small, stinging hurt. He banished the pain. There’d be time enough to deal with that upon his return. For now he had to concentrate on the matter at hand. ‘But even so, I can dream, can’t I?’
‘Certainly you can, sir,’ Darran said. ‘But if I might suggest that you dream and dress at the same time? We are due to leave for the harbour within the half-hour.’
Nodding, Gar reached for his shirt. Buttoning it, careful to keep his eyes on the task, he said, ‘Have you seen Asher this morning?’
Darran stiffened. ‘Yes, sir. He took breakfast with the rest of the staff in the servants’ kitchen.’
‘And did you convey to him my displeasure at his leaving the banquet so peremptorily last night?’
‘I did.’ Darran’s voice was frigid. ‘He saw fit to inform me that his whereabouts were none of my concern.’
Gar glanced at Darran. Noted the burning spots of colour in his sallow cheeks. ‘But not quite as politely as that?’
Darran sniffed. ‘Not quite, sir. No.’
He felt his jaw tighten. Felt the simmering rage surge. ‘I see.’
‘If I may be so bold as to suggest it, sir,’ Darran continued, ‘you might be best served by dispensing with Asher’s services at the festival ceremony this morning. His attendance can achieve no useful purpose and his recent behaviour clearly demonstrates a distressing want of conduct and appreciation for his position. Without wishing to cause you further perturbation, I would remind Your Highness that in a short while you shall be the cynosure of all eyes. It would be regrettable indeed should Asher’s deplorable conduct in any way reflect poorly upon yourself or His Majesty.’
With the last button successfully captured, Gar turned his attention to pulling on his breeches and tucking his shirt tails into their waistband. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He is sworn to me until the end of our stay here and I shall hold him to that oath.’ Not least because clearly it was the last place Asher wanted to be.
Vindictive? Him? Never.
After a short pause Darran said, ‘Certainly, sir. If you say so.’
Gar shot him a look. ‘I do. Hand me my weskit.’
Darran gave him the brocade vest and adjusted it across his shoulders after he’d shrugged it on. ‘Your Highness is naturally free to do as you see fit.’
‘Yes, Darran, I am,’ he snapped, and eased his feet into his boots. Damn the man; criticising and judging and never a word out of place … ‘And as I said before, I’ll have no gossiping on this, do you hear me? It’s between me and Asher and nobody else.’
‘Sir,’ said Darran, grossly offended. ‘I do not stoop to gossip.’
Gar held out his hand for his circlet of office. The plain one, which had been passed down from father to son since the days of Barl herself. ‘And there’s no point getting huffy with me either.’
Lips thin with disapproval, Darran removed the circlet from its velvet-lined case and with a soft cloth began to buff it to a glowing lustre.
‘People talk,’ Gar added as his secretary’s careful hands coaxed highlights from the beaten white gold. ‘It’s to be expected. I’d just better not hear about it, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Sir,’ said Darran with awful dignity, and handed over the gleaming circlet. ‘If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I shall ensure that the rest of the party is ready and awaiting your pleasure.’
Gar nodded. ‘As you like. I’ll be downstairs shortly.’ Ignoring Darran’s straight-spined departure he laid the circlet on the bed, found a brush and put his hair in order. Then, staring at his immaculate reflection in the chamber’s full-length mirror, settled the circlet of office on his head. Behind him, the door opened again. Asher.
The circlet wasn’t quite straight; damn thing was always a horror to get right. ‘Yes?’ he asked, fingers cool and steady on the gold.
‘Just checking to make sure you be all set.’ Asher was dressed in dull purple and dark blue, all silk and brocade and leather, thick black hair freshly washed, polished half-boots on his feet. There was nothing of the fisherman about him.
‘Of course I’m all set,’ said Gar. ‘Do you think I can’t get myself dressed for some half-baked country yodelling session without assistance?’
Asher sighed. Came further into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. ‘Look. Let’s not leave it like this, eh? Not when we’ll likely never lay eyes on each other again after today. You want me to say I’m sorry? Then I’m sorry. You want me to say it were wrong of me not to drop a hint every now and then? “When I get back to Restharven”, that kind of thing? Fine. It were wrong. And I know I should’ve said something the minute I knew my mind was made up to go. But, Gar, I didn’t. And you poutin’ and stampin’ and pullin’ faces like a frog on a log over it ain’t goin’ to change that now. What’s done is done. And you did say I had leave to quit you after a year. So can’t we just shake on it, eh, and part friends?’
One final nudge and the thin strip of ancient gold was perfectly aligned. It clasped his skull lightly. Only his imagination made it heavy. Gar took a step back from the mirror and eyed himself up and down one last time. He looked fine. Better than fine. He looked every inch a prince. Doranen royalty. Keeper of Barl’s Law. Defender of the Realm. Morg’s Scourge. Pity about the magic, but there it was. You couldn’t have everything, could you?
Letting his gaze slip sideways, he met Asher’s uncertain, reflected eyes. ‘Change your mind.’
Across Asher’s face, a skittering of emotions: sorrow, anger, an impatient compassion. ‘I can’t.’
And there it was. Final as a door slam. Part friends? Not likely. ‘You’re making me late,’ he said. ‘Go downstairs and wait with the others.’
Correct to a hair’s-breadth, Asher bowed. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ The door closed softly behind him.
Gar snatched off his circlet and threw it at the door. Part friends? Not likely.
But he wasn’t going to think about it. Let Asher toss his life away. Let him wade chin deep in fish guts and end his days scarred and shrunken and seasoned with salt, like all the old men of Westwailing. He’d had his chance and turned his back on it. More fool him.
His Royal Highness Prince Gar had more important things to worry about. It was Sea Harvest Festival time, and very soon now he would stand before thousands of the king’s subjects and lead them in song and celebration.
Asher? Asher who?
Miles and miles and days away the king disobeys his keepers and calls a fall of rain. The power writhes through his weakened body, finding all the sorry places, and he cannot help but cry. Too soon, too soon, his keepers were right, but the choice was not theirs to make. Was never theirs to make, and the fault was his, to let them make it. Is he not King Borne of Lur, the WeatherWorker? Bound and sworn to solemn duty unto the bitter end? He is. His daughter was
not ready for the blade. Had bared her throat to its edge before the proper time … and now pays dearly for the privilege.
The ceiling of his Weather Chamber is solid glass. Early autumn sunshine spills across the timber floor, his shaking hands, the map of Lur that guides his heart and mind and tells him where to send the rain, sing the seeds, chill the earth with snow and ice.
But pain shouts more loudly than magic. Drowns it in a scarlet flooding tide. He falls to his knees. To his hands. Stares hotly at the map on the floor, sweating. Stares at Westwailing township, down on the coast. Thinks of his son, serving him, serving Lur, and smiles. Power seethes and surges through him, turning his blood to bubbles. His long silver hair, lank with recent ill health, stirs of its own accord on his shoulders. Crackles with blue sparks that arc and dance and ignite the air.
‘Gar,’ he whispers. ‘Sing for me, my son. Sing the harvest. Sing the festival. Sing the health and happiness of the people. Sing well, and make me proud.’
Beyond the naked chamber ceiling, the blue sky trembles … and across the glowing golden sun a cloud, like gauze.
‘Gar!’ the king cries, fingers clawed and clutching, his head crowned with a nimbus of unspeakable power. ‘Barl save me … save me … save him!’
And then darkness, as the sun goes out.
The festival fishing boat danced on the end of its mooring, sprightly as a lass at her first grown-up party. Mouth dry, heart pounding, Gar imagined himself upon it, upon the ocean, which was vast and blue and very, very deep. He couldn’t remember Asher ever saying it was deep.
Yesterday, still seething with anger at the ingrate’s intentions; he’d scarcely noticed the immensity of water stretching from the coastline to the horizon. Even though it was the first time he’d ever seen it. Rage had blinded him.
Now, though, now …
He imagined himself at the mercy of all that wild water, which not even a WeatherWorker’s might could tame, and felt a tremble in his bowels.
Fear was unbecoming. Ruthlessly he throttled it. Throttled imagination too. Instead glanced at Asher, who stood at his fisted right hand. Who stared at the ocean and the boat, his unknowable eyes alight with avarice, and who thought both were more important than anything he’d ever achieved … had yet to achieve … in the City of Dorana.
