by Karen Miller
‘Bad enough,’ Matt’s voice said above him. He hesitated. ‘Dathne’s fine … if you were wondering.’
He prised his eyelids open. Was he wondering? No. Maybe. ‘What about you?’
Matt shrugged. ‘I’m fine too. Glad you’re back.’
He wasn’t. ‘And the king’s all right then, is he? Not dead, I saw that, but—’
‘There was some kind of crisis. That fever. Word is he’s well on the mend now. Asher, did you know there’s blood on your shirt?’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’ Matt turned away, opened a cupboard and took out a stoppered clay pot of something that smelled potent. ‘This’ll do till we can get Pother Nix to see you.’
He groaned. ‘I don’t need that ole bone-botherer fussin’ and fartin’ all over me.’
‘Didn’t ask you that either,’ said Matt. ‘Just hold your tongue for once, if you can, and let somebody help you.’
‘Nursemaid bloody Matt,’ Asher muttered, then hissed as Matt pulled his shirt up.
‘Well,’ said Matt eventually, after a humming silence. ‘Good thing I made up a new batch of ointment, ain’t it?’
The first touch of the salve on his wounds had him gasping. Face pressed into the dark anonymity of the pillow, hands fisted by his sides, Asher chewed his lip bloody as Matt’s gentle fingers woke fire in his battered flesh. Then, mercifully, the burning faded and instead there was blessed numbness.
Dimly he heard the office door open. Heard Matt say, softly, ‘Well done, Mikel. Put it on the table there and close the door behind you. Tell Duff and Jim’l I’ll be out directly to check on those horses.’
The quiet thunk of a stone jug on wood. The door closing again. A sloshing sound as liquid was poured from the jug into something smaller. Then Matt was helping him up. ‘Drink this.’ He pressed a mug into his hand. ‘Derrig’s best.’
The cold cider slid easily down his dry throat, welcome as a lover’s kiss. He emptied the mug in two swallows. Emptied it again. And again. Then he lowered his head to the pillow once more. Was aware, just, of a thin blanket settling over him. Of Matt, staring down at him. Of the yard office receding like a wave from the shore.
He let the waters close over his head and surrendered to sleep.
Two hours later, startled by a sound, Matt looked up from his sleepy vigil in the office to see Gar standing in the open doorway. The prince looked as tired as Asher. Fading bruises marked his face. Some cuts and scratches. Shadows under his eyes.
He stood. ‘Sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t—’
Gar held up his hand and moved to the cot. ‘It’s all right.’ He was whispering. ‘How is he?’
Matt shrugged. ‘I’ve doctored him as best I can, sir, but it’s Pother Nix he’s needing.’
Gar was frowning down at Asher. ‘He’ll have him. Did he tell you what happened?’
‘No, sir.’
Gar told him. Briefly. Brutally. ‘From the day he got here he was planning his triumphant return to Restharven. Imagining his father’s pleasure. Daydreaming the boat they’d sail together. And for the last eight months …’
Wrung with horrified sympathy, Matt stared at his sleeping friend. ‘Damn. Sir.’
The prince’s expression was cool. Guarded. ‘So long as his brothers live he can never go back to the coast.’
Damn. This was what Dathne had foreseen then, when she said so confidently that Asher would return. Not for the first time he felt relief that he was not Jervale’s Heir, cursed with foresight and Prophecy.
The prince said, ‘How are the horses?’
Anger and duty warred. Duty won, just. ‘They’ll do, sir. In time.’
Gar wasn’t fooled. ‘I’d have spared them if I could, Matt.’ He nodded at the cot, where Asher lay on his stomach like a corpse. ‘I’d have spared him, too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He can’t stay here.’
‘I know, sir. I’ll see him safe to his own bed once he wakes.’
Gar considered him. ‘You’re a good man, Matt. A good friend.’
The words twisted his guts like a knife. ‘I try to be, sir.’
‘He’ll need his friends, I think, in the next little while. He’s lost his whole family.’ The prince shuddered. ‘I can’t imagine …’
‘No, sir,’ said Matt. Then added, hesitantly, ‘Sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, you should be in bed too. You’ve ridden as far and as hard as Asher. If you want the truth of it, you look fair worn out.’
Gar smiled. ‘Do I?’ Stirring, he turned. ‘I suppose you’re right. Show me the horses, quickly, and I’ll be on my way.’
After the prince had seen his Ballodair, and Cygnet too, fed them carrots and petted them, he left the quiet stable yard. Matt watched him go, then hesitated. He’d thought to wait till morning to tell Dathne of Asher’s return. There’d seemed little point in summoning her to the stables at night-time only to show her his sleeping body. But now …
His calling stone lay hidden in his pocket, twin to the one Dathne carried. Closing his fingers hard around the small crystal he opened the link between them. Sought her fierce, unquiet mind with his and whispered her name.
Half an hour later she arrived, crackling with excitement. He met her under the stable yard archway. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded. ‘How long ago did he get back?’
If there was any unease in her, any sense of awkwardness given the manner of her parting with Asher, she didn’t show it. But then she wouldn’t. ‘He rode in a short while ago. Dathne …’
She was frowning. She knew him so well; it was getting harder to decide if that was a good thing, or a bad. ‘Tell me.’
He repeated what the prince had told him. Watched her closely as she absorbed the news, looking for some small sign of sorrow. Looked in vain. Her eyes glittered. ‘So. His ties to the past are broken. He belongs to us now.’
Sometimes the hardness in her hurt him. ‘Is that all you can say?’
She met his hot gaze coldly. ‘It’s all that matters.’
He tried to turn away from her, tried to hide his eyes. She wouldn’t let him. ‘His father’s dead, Dathne!’ he cried. ‘Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
‘Not what you want it to mean. There’ll be a lot more dead fathers in this kingdom if we fail in our duty, Matt.’ She let go of his arm. ‘I’ll see him now.’
‘I don’t think he wants to see you, Dathne. Not yet, anyway.’
She shrugged. ‘And if he’s sleeping, he won’t.’
He had to wait a moment before he could trust himself to follow her quietly, calmly, into the yard office. She was kneeling beside the cot. Either Asher had rolled himself onto his back, or she’d done it. Her left hand was on his unresponsive wrist and the fingers of her right hand pressed against his forehead.
‘What are you doing? He needs to rest.’
She looked up. There was the faintest spark of alarm in her eyes. ‘He has a fever, did you know?’
He realised then that Asher’s breathing was loud. Laboured. Saw that his face had flushed from pale to hectic. His lips were dry and his head tossed uneasily on the cot’s pillow. Taken aback, he clutched at the door. ‘He was all right when he got here. Exhausted and in pain, but not—’
Her glare scalded him. ‘Well, he’s not all right now!’
No, he wasn’t. Matt laid his hand on Asher’s burning forehead. Heard the rattle in his chest. Pressed cold fingers to the pulse point in his throat and felt the echoes of his friend’s thundering heart. ‘I’ll send for Pother Nix and alert the prince.’
She stood, and pulled her shawl tight. ‘Yes, you do that. I’ll tell Veira Asher’s back. The Circle can help here. I’ll ask her to link with the others in a distant healing.’
Matt chewed his lip. ‘How can that work? They don’t even know him.’
‘They know of him,’ she snapped. ‘And it’s better than doing nothing.’
She’d slap him if he argued,
so he nodded and stood aside to let her leave. As the door slammed shut behind her and the sound of her running feet faded, he looked again at Asher.
Then he throttled fear and went outside to rouse the lads.
Dathne was breathless by the time she reached home. Flinging herself up the shop stairs to her apartment, dragging her Circle Stone from its hiding place, dropping to the floor with it in her sweating hands: blind panic consumed her, crowding out all sense and cool collection.
He cannot die, he cannot die, he cannot cannot must not die …
She’d never make the connection to Veira like this. Linking the Circle Stones required a peaceful, meditative state. A calm heart. Her hands were shaking.
Setting the crystal aside she lay flat on the floor. Closed her eyes, and made an effort to breathe out the fear.
He cannot die, he cannot die, he cannot cannot must not die …
His father was dead. What a cruel thing. What a harsh way to serve the will of Prophecy. But then Prophecy had no father, no mother, no child, nor even a heart to break. It just was. Implacable. Unknowable. A spear tip lodged deep in the mind. No matter the pain, however the heartbreak, Asher would survive his loss. Prophecy needed him. And what Prophecy wanted, Prophecy got, one way or another.
He will not die.
Dathne sat up. Reached for her Circle Stone and called to Veira. ‘He is returned.’
The old woman’s relief shuddered through the link between them. It is soon, then.
‘Yes. The waiting is almost over. The air itself oppresses me, Veira. My skin crawls like an anthill and my nights writhe like a nest of snakes. We are wounded, we are wounded, and soon the blood must flow.’
And he is ready?
‘He is ill. Prophecy has used him harshly. Body and heart are bruised, and will take time mending. I thought the Circle might—’
A wise suggestion, child. Share him with me now, that I might call for a healing.
So she thought of Asher. Unchained her memory and opened her heart. When it was done:
Oh, child. Child. Dathne …
She felt impatience. Stifled it. ‘I know. It can’t be helped. It doesn’t matter. It makes no difference.’
No difference? Not to you, mayhap, but –
‘Not to him, either. I won’t let it. He’ll never know.’
So far away, Veira sighed. I pray you’re right. Child, the Circle will hold him safe. I have said so. Be at peace now, for as long as peace can last.
Which wasn’t long, thought Dathne, breaking the link, if foresight served her. Which most likely it did.
It always had before now.
Gar was standing in the Tower lobby, sorting through the pile of mail and messages that had been delivered just before breakfast, when his father came through the open doors.
‘Demoted to post boy, are we?’ Borne asked, grinning.
There was clean, fresh colour in the king’s face. A vitality to his demeanour Gar hadn’t seen for … well, come to think of it, not for a very long time. To see it now, to see him whole and happy: it was a joy as sharp as pain.
‘Apparently,’ he replied, grinning back. ‘It seems I miss Darran more than I anticipated.’
‘Never mind. He’ll be home soon.’
Gar pulled a face. ‘Not soon enough. But please, I implore you, don’t ever tell him I said so.’
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ his father promised. ‘Is there anything urgent? Matters that must be tended to immediately?’
He glanced again at the accumulated correspondence. ‘No. Another report from Darran, as it happens. Things proceed well, he says. I thought to discuss the matter at length at this afternoon’s Privy Council meeting.’
His father nodded. ‘I look forward to hearing the details.’ Then he glanced sideways, up the Tower’s spiral staircase. ‘And how is your assistant this morning?’
Gar followed his father’s gaze. Frowned. ‘There’s no change. Nix has been and gone already. He assures me Asher’s prolonged stupor is nothing more serious than the protest of an overstrained mind and body. The fever has abated somewhat and his wounds are healing cleanly. He just won’t wake up.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to.’
‘I thought of that,’ said Gar unhappily. ‘I can only hope you’re wrong. One life is dead to him, it’s true, but he’s spent the last year making a new life here in Dorana. That life still lives and breathes. Awaits him. He’s needed.’
Borne nodded. ‘He knows that. And when he’s ready to face that life again, he’ll wake. Have faith in good Pother Nix. I’m living proof he’s a miracle worker, after all. Without his passion for herb lore, for combining Doranen healing magics with old Olken remedies …’
‘You’d be dead, like King Drokas and Queen Ninia.’ Gar shivered. The mere thought made him ill. Calamity had come too close this time. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘WeatherWorking is so cruel. Sometimes I wonder why Barl—’
His father smiled, sadly. ‘Because she had to. There was no other way. The natural energies her magics control are vast, Gar. Intricate. And the paradise they’ve bought us must be paid for.’
He could no longer hide his pain. Even though he’d sworn never to reveal it. These last days had been too hard. ‘Paid for with your blood?’
‘Yes,’ his father said simply. ‘It’s our side of the pact, my son. Our way of thanking the Olken people for giving us a home when our own lay in ashes behind us.’
‘I know, I know, but—’
‘Gar, I’m not here to debate history or its consequences,’ his father said firmly. ‘I have news. Something’s been discovered. Something I think you might find … intriguing.’
Smothering sorrow, Gar stared at his father. In that ascetic face, excitement. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What have you found?’
The king crooked his finger. ‘Come, and I’ll show you.’
Largely uninhabited since the massive building works undertaken by Queen Antra at the turn of the last century, the Old Palace baked its crumbling stoneworks in the autumn sunshine and dreamed of its glory days, dead and gone.
Looking around the abandoned west wing’s deserted central courtyard, Gar recalled the solitary childhood games he’d played here. The empty chambers and echoing corridors had been his private kingdom. Such fantastic dreams he’d woven, fashioned out of rooms piled high with discarded furniture, chests of fabulously outdated clothing, statues and knick-knacks and all manner of mysterious, grown-up things. He’d not been back here in years. The place looked sad now, not alluring. Weeds had long since taken over the flowerbeds he’d once so industriously tended, growing roses and snapdragons for his mother, and creeping wartsease slowly strangled the little row of plumple trees he’d raised for fruit, crisp and juicy and all his own. There were even some gaps in the courtyard walls, where bricks had tumbled as a result of the recent earth tremors.
‘It’s just through here,’ said the king. ‘In the old kitchen courtyard. Mind your step now, the ground is uneven in places.’
Gar stared at his father. ‘What in Barl’s name were you doing poking around the Old Palace grounds?’
They squeezed through a half-rotten doorway in the central courtyard wall. ‘I wasn’t. One of the palace cooks made the discovery while searching for her runaway cat. Instead of finding the wretched creature she found this.’
This was a huge, gaping hole in the middle of the old kitchen courtyard. The sunshine shafting into it over the roofline of the surrounding buildings revealed, faintly, some kind of chamber far below their feet. It seemed to be lined with shelves. More shelves crammed side by side across the space beneath the ruined ceiling. And on every shelf, books. It was impossible to tell exactly how large the chamber was, but Gar suspected it was a goodly size; the free-standing bookcases stretched beyond the edges of the breach. Aside from that obvious damage, the rest of the old kitchen courtyard appeared intact.
‘Barl save us,’ Gar said as he and his father skirted the hol
e to join the queen, Durm and Fane, who were standing together a prudent distance from the lip of the rent in the ground.
‘Extraordinary, isn’t it?’ said the king, jubilant. ‘And to think—’
‘At last!’ the princess cried. ‘Durm was just saying you must have found another hole and fallen into it.’
Smiling indulgently, the Master Magician rapped her on the head with his knuckles. ‘I most certainly was not, madam.’
She grinned at him. ‘Well, you were thinking so. Don’t try and deny it, I know you too well!’
As the others laughed, Gar sighed. He and his sister had hardly spoken since his return from Westwailing. Partly it was because he’d been immersed in emergency meetings with his father and both Councils. Also he’d spent a great many hours asleep, recovering from the gruelling cross-country ride. Some of it was because, whenever he could, he’d been sitting with Asher hoping his friend would grow tired of the history book he’d been reading aloud and sit bolt upright, demanding that Gar give over natterin’ afore his bloody ears fell off in self-defence.
It hadn’t happened yet, but he remained cautiously optimistic.
But he couldn’t blame all of the silence between him and Fane on work and worry. More and more, it seemed of late, they simply had less and less to say to one another … and they’d never had a great deal in common to start with. The distance between them was troubling. If in truth the king had perished, his sister would now be his queen. And their strained relationship would have made his life a hundred times harder than it already was.
It was time and past time that he found a way to cross the abyss that separated them. One day, Barl pray long hence, she would be the kingdom’s WeatherWorker and he would have to bow his knee to her in solemn obedience. Between now and that day he had to find a way to her goodwill. Because if he didn’t …
She was frowning at him. ‘What are you staring at?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, with a lightness he was far from feeling. ‘You look most becoming in that dress. The colour suits you.’
