The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  Gar made a small sound of amusement. ‘Probably that’s an exaggeration but … good. I’m glad.’

  With a groan Asher let his head drop again. If he didn’t get another drink soon he’d have to start climbing the walls. He glanced at Gar. Saw trenched hollows beneath his eyes, the scouring grief within them.

  ‘You’re sure about the king?’

  Gar nodded, bleakly. ‘I’m sure.’

  When, exactly, did a body fill up with so much pain it couldn’t feel any more?

  Soon, he hoped.

  Gar looked … destroyed. He should say something, but the words wouldn’t come. And then the door opened and manky ole Darran bustled in with the pothecary. After that the only pain that mattered was the clean, physical kind.

  A pity it wasn’t likely to stay that way.

  Scant hours later, in the cold dawn of the mayor’s stable yard, drugged and dour in the saddle, Asher waited as Darran flapped and fuddled over Gar.

  ‘Oh, sir, I do wish you wouldn’t do this!’

  Gar frowned. ‘So you’ve said. And said. Don’t say it again.’

  Darran’s lips pressed tight. ‘No, sir.’ He looked like he wanted to scream.

  Asher knew the feeling.

  ‘You’ve plenty of coin in your saddlebag, sir,’ Darran continued. ‘And as much bread and cheese and sausage as I could pack.’ He chewed his lip for a moment. Turned abruptly and glared at Asher. ‘Make sure he sleeps in a decent bed every night, you. Not rough under a hedge by the side of the road or in an open field. You’re to look after him, do you hear?’

  Asher didn’t have the energy to bite. ‘Aye.’

  Willer, lurking behind Darran, glared daggers through puffy, bloodshot eyes. Spite and thwarted triumph roiled in him like snakes in a vat of rancid oil. Asher looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. Willer’s bitter disappointment was the only good thing about his forced return to Dorana.

  Gar hissed through his teeth, impatient. ‘Thank you, Darran. Asher knows his duty … and so do you. Remember, you are my voice here now. Speak softly and with charity to all.’

  Darran nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, sir. Safe journey, Your Highness. And my …’ He flicked a glance at the mayor and his wife, huddled inside their best coats, blinking bleary eyes at the sunrise, ‘… regards, to Her Majesty.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gar turned to his hosts. ‘My thanks to you and your good lady, Mr Mayor. I regret that I’m forced to take my leave in such an unseemly fashion.’

  The mayor bowed. ‘Aye, Your Highness.’

  ‘If there’s anything you need, anything, don’t hesitate to tell Darran. He’ll provide it.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’

  With a final nod at his secretary, Gar nudged Ballodair over to Cygnet. Lowered his voice. ‘You can do this?’

  Asher nodded. Gar’s saddlebags may be bulging with food but his own were crammed with little pills and potions from the pothecary. ‘Aye.’

  Still Gar stared at him. ‘I won’t spare you.’

  ‘I never asked you to.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Gar, anguished. Uncertain. ‘If the ride is more than you can manage—’

  ‘It won’t be.’

  ‘But if it is …’

  Asher glanced at the nearby treetops, tipped with light. ‘Sun’s almost up. Are we leavin’ or ain’t we?’

  Side by side they wheeled their horses round and started the long journey back to Dorana.

  They followed the wreckage-strewn path of the storm.

  If Gar had any opinions regarding the gouged earth and splintered trees, the flattened crops, the houses peeled like oranges, he didn’t share them. Nor did he offer aid or comfort to the grieving Olken they encountered as they rode. He stopped only when necessary: to drink, eat, piss or rest the horses. As far as Asher could tell, nobody recognised them. The prince wore plain brown leathers and a hood. With his bright head covered, from a distance he’d easily be mistaken for Olken, like Asher.

  As the sun slid up the sky then down again the miles unrolled behind them. Mindful of all the miles still waiting, Asher hoarded his treasure of pills and potions and accustomed himself to pain.

  They were stranded between villages when at last Gar was forced to admit it was time to stop riding. The sun had set and the moon was a remote sliver of light, high and to the west. They halted and considered their choices.

  Squinting in the dark, Asher pointed. ‘There’s a barn still standin’.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Gar. Turning Ballodair’s head he kicked the weary horse into a walk. ‘I won’t tell Darran if you don’t.’

  There were rats in the straw and holes in the roof but it was better than nothing. After unsaddling the horses and leaving them to eat a mean double-handful of oats each, they sat in the dark and devoured their own meagre dinner of sausage and cheese. They had candles and a flint box but didn’t dare use them.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Gar for the first time since leaving Westwailing.

  Asher started to shrug, then stopped. ‘I’ll manage.’

  Rustling and dust as Gar shaped straw into a makeshift mattress and pillow and lay down. ‘Barring disaster,’ he said, stifling a sneeze, ‘I think we might reach Dorana inside a week.’

  ‘Aye. Barring disaster. We want to watch the horses, though. Matt’ll never speak to us again if we founder ’em.’

  ‘I know.’

  Asher rummaged in his saddlebag, found one of the pother’s vials and drank its foul contents, grimacing. After a few moments the raging fire in his flesh faded to a warm glow. Praise Barl. With a sigh of relief he eased himself onto his side and pulled his saddle a little closer for a pillow.

  He was so tired he could see purple blotches dancing in the air in front of his face, even without candles. He closed his eyes. One by one, protesting, his muscles relaxed. Sleep beckoned.

  In the darkness Gar said softly, ‘I was five when Durm confirmed what had long been suspected. When I learned I was … what I am. Once the first shock wore off I lived in daily fear that my father would no longer love me. I thought I might be farmed out somewhere, perhaps to an Olken family where lack of magic didn’t matter. I don’t know why I thought that. Children have strange fancies, I suppose. Even at that young age I knew I meant trouble for my parents. Maybe even for the kingdom. Unlike other Doranen families I knew that kings and queens were allowed only one child, one heir … and that my father’s precious legacy had been squandered on a magickless cripple.’

  ‘Sounds daft to me,’ Asher said drowsily. ‘Reckon there should be an heir and a spare, at least.’

  ‘You’re forgetting your history. Trevoyle’s Schism. This kingdom was nearly destroyed by brothers and sisters fighting for the right to be named WeatherWorker.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone think of drawin’ straws?’

  A breath of brief, wry amusement. ‘Three months after my true nature was revealed my father took me riding. It was a great treat. He’d been so busy of late, so troubled. I’d heard raised voices. Crying. Somehow I knew it was because of me. We rode for, oh, ages, until we were quite alone, right at the foothills of the mountains. There we stopped and he told me Barl was giving me a sister. I was confused. I thought I wasn’t allowed a sister because of who we were. He said I needn’t worry about that. All I had to do, he said, was be my new sister’s big brother. It was a very important job. I had to love her and take care of her and help her to one day become the greatest WeatherWorker in the history of Lur.’

  Asher grunted. ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I remember my father leaned down from his horse, cupped my face in his hands and kissed my forehead. There were tears in his eyes. On his cheeks. He said, “I will always love you, Gar. I don’t know why you were born without magic but I know there must be a reason. Barl has a destiny for you, my son. In my heart I know this is true. All we need is patience, until it’s revealed.”’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I believe he loved me.’<
br />
  ‘And what about the destiny thing? Don’t s’pose Barl’s dropped any hints, has she?’

  ‘He was a father trying to ease his child’s pain. What do you think?’ Gar said roughly. Then, whispering: ‘Blessed Barl save me. He’s gone, he’s gone … and I don’t know how to bear it …’

  Outside the barn a hunting owl shrieked. The horses lifted their heads and shuffled the straw uneasily. Further away a fox barked. Barked again. Another fox answered it.

  I don’t know either, thought Asher, but didn’t say it. There was no point, Frowning, he felt memory rise like a mist, blotting out the present. Smothering him in the past. ‘The only time I saw my da cry was the day we buried Ma,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘It was a bad day. Not rainin’, just a cold, miserable, mizzly drizzle blowin’ in from beyond the reef. After they put her in the ground and said what was needed, folks went home. My brothers went home. But Da stayed. Sat in the dirt beside the hole that swallowed her and said her name, over and over. Amaranda. Amaranda. His face was wet. I told myself it was the drizzle but deep down I knew different. I knew it was tears.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Eight, just gone. A spratling. When he wouldn’t get up I sat beside ’im. He put his arm around me, which didn’t happen often, I said, “Don’t be sad, Da. We’ll be right. One day when I be a man growed, and rich, I’ll buy us a boat, and we’ll call her Amaranda. Paint her green and blue, Ma’s favourite colours. And nobody but us’ll be allowed to sail her. Zeth and the others, we won’t let ’em so much as look at her. That boat’ll be just for us. I promise. You and me, Da. Together and laughin’, eh? You and me.”’

  In the soft silence Gar sighed. ‘I am sorry. About your father. And your friend, too, what was his name—’

  Asher felt his fingers close around fistfuls of old straw. He’d wanted to find him, see him cared for, but there’d been no time. ‘Jed.’

  ‘Yes. Jed. Look … Asher …’ Now the prince sounded hesitant. ‘You must realise, you must, none of what happened is your—’

  ‘I know,’ he said, hard and fast. To shut Gar up, not because he believed it. ‘Now I reckon that’s enough talkin’ for one night. We ought to be savin’ our strength for tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. We got a long road ahead of us with nowt but heartache at the end of it. So if it’s all the same to you I’ll go to sleep now. You’d be smart to do the same.’

  He thought Gar might argue, but he was answered with silence. After a time the prince’s breathing slowed and deepened. Hours later he said his father’s name but didn’t wake.

  Eventually Asher escaped into sleep himself … and dreamed.

  Dawn didn’t come soon enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Well?’ Matt leaned over Dathne’s shoulder. ‘Have you got him?’

  She pushed him back with a crooked elbow. ‘Don’t crowd me. And be quiet. I need to concentrate.’

  Beyond her living-room window dusk softened the edges of the City. If only it could soften her too. Flinty, she felt, and rough, like scratched glass. Five days since the storm and still she’d not managed to find Asher in her scrying basin. Twenty times at least she’d tried, tried till her head throbbed to splitting with too much tanal leaf. No luck. First it was the leftover effects of the catastrophic weather, and after that the waves and waves of Doranen magic flowing in and over and round the City as all efforts were made to repair the damage done by wind and water and heaving earth. Even her precious Circle Stone had been affected. She’d finally reached Veira that morning, a quick brush of mind to mind to make sure the old woman was safe. To assure her that she and Matt had escaped calamity unscathed.

  Well. Mostly unscathed. Matt still grieved for Bellybone and the dead colt. There was nothing she could do about that, though, so she kept herself focused on what she could do. Find Asher. Confirm that he was safe too, and returning to the City where he belonged. Where Prophecy needed him.

  Where she needed him.

  ‘Come on, Dath,’ said Matt, fretting. ‘Get on with it. I’ve got to get back to the yard. There’s poultices and dressings to change. Willem’s a good lad but he’s not quite ready for that on his own just yet.’

  She swallowed curses. ‘You were going to stay for dinner. We’ve not talked decently since the storm, Matt, there’s things we must—’

  He turned away from her. ‘I can’t. Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she echoed, temper rising. ‘Are you mad? Look around you, Matt! Think of what’s happened! The storm – the king – what do you think is going on? What do you think it all means?’

  He’d lost weight these last days. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks sunken. The scrapes on his skin had healed but the wounds to his spirit, his soul, still pained him. There was doubt in him now, where once there’d been only blind, stubborn faith.

  ‘I don’t know what it means,’ he said. ‘All I know is if everything you’ve seen in your visions is true, Dathne, then this storm was nothing, nothing, compared to what’s coming. And this storm shook us like a cat with a mouse. Folk died, Dath. Children died. And what did we do about it? What could we do? Nothing.’

  ‘It’s not our job to do, Matt! You know that. Our job is to watch. Wait. Follow Prophecy and guide Asher. He’s the one born for the doing of great things. Not us.’

  Trembling, he flung himself away from her and paced the room. ‘Then find him, would you? Stop lecturing me and bloody find him, Dath! Make sure he ain’t dead or broken to pieces in a ditch somewhere! Because if he is – if that’s what’s happened to him—’

  The effort nearly choked her but she held her tongue. Lashing out at Matt would be too easy, not just thanks to the excess of tanal leaf but because he was giving a voice to her own doubts, her own fears, and she didn’t want to hear them spoken aloud. In case speaking them made them come true. Lashing out might make her feel better, if only for a moment, but it would hurt him. Hurt them. Their oathsworn bond, and their friendship. The mood she was in, it would be so simple. Undoing the damage would be far more complicated and they didn’t have the time.

  So instead of shouting back at him, instead of stamping her foot and slapping him, she gentled herself. Went to him and rested her hand on his arm. ‘Dear Matt. Don’t you think I’d know if he were dead? Don’t you think Prophecy would’ve told me?’

  His eyes were stark. ‘Would it? I don’t know. Seems to me there’s a lot going on that Prophecy’s not talkin’ about.’

  Her fingers closed on his shirt sleeve and shook him. ‘He’s not dead,’ she said fiercely. ‘Come. Sit down. Hold your tongue. Let me work and I’ll prove it to you.’

  She tugged him towards the table. With a stifled groan he dropped into a chair. She sat beside him, smiled at him briefly then took another pinch of tanal. Chewed it, spat it out and began again the ritual to open her mind, send it winging through the world in search of her heart’s desire.

  This time she found it.

  Asher rode into the sinking shadows, towards the towering might of the Wall. All around him the countryside was laid to waste. Trees felled. Crops ruined. Grim endurance was in his face and the way he sat his stumbling horse. The set of his slumping shoulders and the bloodless hold he had on the reins.

  Dreamily, held deep within the tanal’s insinuating grasp, she took Matt’s hand and pressed his fingers with her own. ‘He’s coming,’ she murmured. ‘I see him.’

  ‘Praise Barl,’ said Matt, his voice unsteady. ‘He’s all right, then?’

  No. There was pain. In the muscle and the mind. The heartbreak she’d foreseen for him had struck deep. She could feel it. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered save that Prophecy was served once more.

  Asher was coming home.

  She stirred the basin’s water. Broke the link. ‘Yes. He’s fine.’

  Sitting back, Matt dragged one hand over his face, breathing heavily. ‘Praise Barl.’ He looked at her. ‘Praise Prophecy.’ His expression
altered. ‘Dath …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I was nervous too. I think we’d be fools not to be. These are nervous times, Matt. A kingdom’s at stake.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Nervous. Aye.’

  She started rolling up her diminished pouch of tanal leaf. ‘He’s not so far away. They’ve travelled fast. Tomorrow night, maybe, or early the morning after that, will see them in the City.’

  ‘They?’

  She frowned. ‘The prince is with him.’ Impatiently she shook herself free of the melancholy she’d felt from both men resonating through the scrying spell. ‘So, you can rest easy now. Go, if you’re going. See to your precious poultices. I’ll call if I need you.’ Reaching across, she tugged at the small calling stone on its leather thong around his neck. ‘And if I call, come. I worry when you don’t answer me. Ignore me again and I’ll tell tales on you to Veira, I swear.’

  He had the good grace to flush. As well he should. Twice since the storm she’d used the crystal to signal she needed him, and twice he’d put his precious damned horses before her.

  ‘I will,’ he promised. ‘Dathne …’ His hand rested on her shoulder. ‘You look so tired.’

  And so she was. Tired, and more than tired. Her recent days had been spent fixing the bookshop, helping neighbours, and her nights were twisted with dreams. Not Prophecy, not precisely. Just dark forebodings and uneasy intuitions, riding her hard till morning dragged harsh fingers across her face and she woke, bathed in pale yellow sunshine and sweat.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said Matt. ‘You’re right. The horses won’t die for lack of a poultice. I’ll stay and make us soup and we can talk, Dathne. All right?’

  Perversely, it wasn’t all right. With the last lingering tartness of the tanal on her tongue, her sight just tinged with its golden potency, all she wanted now was to be left alone. To slide between cool sheets in the rose-scented darkness of her bedroom and surrender to sleep.

  With luck, she wouldn’t dream tonight.

  She shook her head. ‘No. You go. There’ll come a time soon when you’ll need to leave the horses behind without a second thought. Don’t abandon them till you have to. I’ll be fine.’