by Karen Miller
‘No, no, don’t cry, Fane,’ he whispered, rocking her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. It’s all right. Everything will be all right. We’ll work this out. I don’t know how, but we’ll think of something. You’re my sister and I’m your brother, and even though you drive me to distraction I love you. Nothing either of us can say or do will ever change that.’
She was hidden from him, her voice muffled. ‘So you say.’
‘So I promise.’ He gently shifted her so he could see her tear-stained face. ‘And I promise something else, too, and Asher will be my witness.’ He raised his voice. ‘Won’t you, Asher?’
‘Aye,’ said Asher, keeping a discreet distance. ‘Provided you promise it fast so’s we can get out of here.’
Ignoring that, Gar took his sister’s chin between his fingers and stared unguarded into her face. ‘The crown is yours, Fane. Only yours. Always yours. You are the WeatherWorker-in-Waiting. On my life, I will never take that from you.’
He watched the doubt shift behind her eyes. ‘On your life?’ She shook her head, frowning. Rejecting. ‘I don’t believe you.’
She sounded uncertain, though. As though she wanted to believe him but couldn’t quite bring herself to make that leap of faith. Despair threatened. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t allow his miraculous magic to tear their fragile family apart. Not when they should be celebrating.
Inspiration struck. A memory from distant childhood, a time when he and Fane had not yet learned to hate. Holding out his hand he dribbled saliva onto his palm and showed it to her. ‘You have to believe me. See? I’ve spit on it. Now. Your turn. Come on.’
Her eyes widened. Filled with a brief, incredulous laughter. ‘No. That’s disgusting.’
‘Spit on it,’ he insisted.
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ He bit his lip, thinking. ‘It meant something when I didn’t tell about the gardener’s flowerpots. It meant something when you fell off the stable roof that time you thought you could fly. It meant something when—’
‘All right!’ she cried, torn between laughter and temper. ‘Shut up. My memory’s as good as yours. Better, probably.’
‘Come on, Fane,’ he murmured coaxingly. ‘You know you want to. You know I mean it. Just spit and we can put all this behind us. Start over, on a whole new page. My magic won’t change anything for you. I swear it.’
She stared at his spittled hand, her dirty face screwed into a frown. Holding his breath he willed her to accept the challenge. Join him halfway. End the destructive, corrosive feud poisoning their family.
She said, still frowning, ‘Mama doesn’t like it when we swear.’
His laugh was half a sob. ‘Mama’s not here.’
She spat. Pressed her hand on top of his and shook. Then she looked up at him, a little shy, a little defiant. ‘I’m not really selfish. I’m just focused.’
‘Focused?’ he said, grinning. Light-headed with relief and hope. ‘So that’s what they’re calling it these days.’ Fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket he wiped the tears from her face, then smeared both their hands dry of saliva.
Asher said, agitated, ‘All done then? All finished swearin’ and spittin’ and tryin’ to kill each other? Good. Then best the pair of you make yourselves scarce. Ain’t no tellin’ who that ole Darran’s gone flappin’ to.’
Gar nodded. Got to his feet and pulled Fane upright beside him. ‘You’re right. As usual. And then we’re going to have to come up with an explanation.’
Fane was staring around them, her expression awestruck. ‘It’s going to have to be a pretty good one, Gar.’
For the first time he gazed at their erstwhile battleground. His glorious bower was a smoking ruin, splintered and scarred and shredded. Hardly a flower was left untouched. Beneath the smashed branches of one blackened tree, four charred and feathered corpses. The air stank of magic and death, smudged still with drifting smoke.
‘Barl save me,’ he said quietly. Tiredly.
Asher was staring over his shoulder, his face grim. ‘Well, somebody bloody better. ’Cause here comes trouble times three.’
Gar felt his heart plummet. Wrapping his fingers around his sister’s trembling hand, he turned. Took a deep, shuddering breath and prepared to face his father and his father’s best friend … and his father’s bitter enemy.
‘Barl’s sacred bones!’ roared Conroyd Jarralt as his fist crashed down upon the Privy Council table. ‘This is your fault, Borne. You are to blame for this appalling state of affairs!’
‘Now, now, Conroyd—’ Barlsman Holze began, his expression pained.
Jarralt turned on him. ‘Hold your tongue, Holze, you pandering old fool! Don’t think I’ve forgotten your part in this!’
Morg had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing aloud; the look on the pandering old fool’s face was priceless. But Durm would not have let such an affront to dignity pass unchallenged so he arranged the magician’s face into a frown. ‘Mind yourself, Lord Jarralt. We will swiftly achieve nothing if we cannot control our choler.’
Jarralt continued unchastened. ‘And why should I control my choler, Master Magician? We are facing the gravest crisis this kingdom can know: a divided succession. Not since the days of Trevoyle’s Schism have we seen such a barbarous display as provided by Prince Gar and Princess Fane! Control my choler? No, indeed! Rather I should be shouting my outrage from the rooftops of the City. The rooftops, sir!’
Pale and rigidly composed the cripple stirred in his council seat. ‘Lord Jarralt, you are gravely mistaken. There is no divided succession. When the time comes I have no intention of challenging my sister for the crown. She has worked for it her whole life. Sacrificed every joy of childhood in service to the goal of serving this kingdom as its queen. As a prince of the ruling house I have my own duties and I am well satisfied with them. Fane will be WeatherWorker hereafter. I do so swear it, in this place at this time before you, my witnesses.’
‘So you say now,’ retorted Jarralt. ‘And it sounds well and good in theory. But a man can change his mind, Your Highness. Especially when lured by the promise of power.’ Turning his back on the cripple he glared again at the king. ‘I said this day would come, Borne, didn’t I? Do you remember? I said it was a mistake for this Privy Council to side with the General Council and sanction the birth of a second child to your house … and a mistake it has proven to be!’
The king lifted burning green eyes to his accuser’s face. ‘Sanction? You imply there was some kind of rule-breaking, Jarralt. We broke no rule.’
‘You birthed a second child! Trevoyle’s Legacy states clearly and unequivocally: The ruling house shall spawn but one heir, lest discord and strife once more tear the land asunder. One heir, Your Majesty. And now you have two.’
‘If you’re going to quote law, my lord, do me the courtesy of quoting it accurately,’ said Borne. ‘The Legacy goes on to say: Should the ruling house be robbed of its heir by death untimely, then—’
Jarralt struck the table again. ‘But it wasn’t, was it? That is precisely my point! Your heir did not die, he—’
‘He was magickless!’ cried the king. ‘And what is that if not death, to a Doranen?’
Silence. Morg watched, mildly fascinated, as Jarralt and Holze looked anywhere but at the cripple. The king reached out his hand and laid it on his son’s shoulder. ‘Gar—’
Face white as milk, the cripple shook his head. ‘It’s all right, sir. Your point is valid.’
‘Hardly!’ said Conroyd Jarralt. ‘Magickless or not you lived. There is no provision in Trevoyle’s Legacy for a Doranen heir born without—’
‘There wasn’t then,’ interrupted Holze. ‘There is now. You helped make it so, Conroyd.’
Jarralt bowed his head. ‘Yes. To my everlasting shame, I did. In a moment of weakness I stopped my ears to the counsel of my heart and allowed myself to be swayed against my conscience by you, Holz
e, and you, Durm, and you, Your Majesty. When we all know you should not have had a voice in the matter at all.’
The king smiled thinly. ‘Because I had a vested interest in the outcome? Whereas you, who would have nominated your house to succeed mine, naturally had nothing but the welfare of the kingdom in mind.’
Conroyd Jarralt’s handsome face was blotched with venom and spite. ‘That would have been the proper order of things! The law made no provision for the birth of a cripple. You know it! But you pleaded and you cozened and you convinced us to make an exception. And now look at the result. Your two charming children at each other’s throats. Attacking each other with magic. This kingdom poised on the brink of anarchy. And all because of your overweening arrogance and pride. You were ever thus. All your life whatever or whoever you wanted you took, heedless of anybody’s best interests but your own.’
The king was on his feet. ‘Silence! You go too far, Conroyd!’
‘Too far?’ Jarralt kicked back his chair and lunged, thrusting his face into the king’s. ‘I think not! I think we’ve a distance further yet to travel, Borne, you and I. This kingdom’s two Councils made a ruinous mistake in letting you and your precious, persuadable queen birth a second child. Blinded by love or seduced by sympathy or simply shouted down, we indulged your intemperate ambition and now the kingdom is asked to pay the price. Well, I say it is too high. The time has come to—’
Holze slapped his palms on the tabletop. His normally mild face was vivid with displeasure. ‘Enough, my lord! Your Majesty! This unseemly brawling will cease immediately! Are we cur dogs in the gutter, to snap and snarl in such a fashion? In Barl’s name I tell you to be silent and mindful of your stations!’
Shocked, shamed, the king and his councillor sank back into their seats. Vastly entertained, Morg watched them gather their tattered dignity and studiously examine their fingertips.
Holze glanced at the cripple, sitting in pallid, mortified silence, and said with utmost reason, ‘No mistake was made. Laws must change to reflect the current reality. When Trevoyle’s Legacy was first laid down, centuries ago, there was no record of a magickless heir ever being born. With His Highness incapable, His Majesty was to all intents and purposes childless. He was well within his rights to breed up a new heir to his crown. And since we settled this some seventeen years ago I fail to see why we must revisit the matter now!’
‘Why?’ said Jarralt, looking up. ‘Because now it appears we were a trifle premature in our proclamation of Prince Gar’s technical demise. Now it appears he is a magician of power equal to, if not greater than, his sister. Now we must contemplate a world in which they attempt to burn each other to cinders! And that returns us to my original assessment of the situation: our kingdom faces the dire prospect of a divided succession.’
The cripple sighed. ‘This afternoon’s unfortunate incident will not be repeated. You have my solemn word. Besides, it was merely a … misunderstanding.’
‘So you say. But I say we can afford no more “misunderstandings”. The next one might well do more than char a few trees and rosebushes and kill a handful of birds!’
‘Did you not hear my oath, Lord Jarralt?’ the cripple snapped. ‘Do you wish me to open a vein and write it in blood for you? I will not contest the crown.’
With a happy, inward sigh Morg cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid, Your Highness, the matter is not quite so easily dealt with as that.’
Caught unawares, the cripple stared. ‘Why not?’
‘Because this kingdom must be served by the magician best suited to become the WeatherWorker. Family sentiment cannot play any part in the choosing. Once, before your miraculous transformation, Fane was the obvious WeatherWorker-in-Waiting. Now …’ He shrugged. ‘The matter is less clear. You must receive the Weather Magic, so that I may properly assess who is most fit to follow in your father’s footsteps.’
‘But—’ The cripple turned to his father. ‘Your Majesty, I can’t. The law—’
‘Was designed to serve us, Gar,’ the king said. ‘And not the other way around. Durm is right. There is only one way to settle the question of who will succeed me.’
‘No!’ the cripple protested. ‘I won’t. I refuse. Not only am I not qualified or prepared or willing, I gave Fane my word I wouldn’t usurp her inheritance.’
‘That promise wasn’t yours to give, Gar,’ the king said heavily. ‘It’s possible that Fane is still the best magician to wear the crown once I am incapable. But it’s equally possible that you are the one destined to be Weather Worker after me. We must know. Soon, before uncertainty can undermine the kingdom’s stability.’
The cripple flinched. ‘She’ll think I’ve betrayed her.’
‘I shall speak to her. Make her understand.’
‘You can try,’ the cripple said. ‘But I’m afraid—’
With an abruptly raised hand, the king silenced his son. ‘She will understand.’
Jarralt was scowling. ‘And if His Highness is right and the Princess Fane refuses to accept her displacement? Then I’ll be proven right. Your children will come to daggers drawn, and that will lead to civil unrest at the very least. The people have yet to fully recover their faith after your fever-born storm, sir. Once word spreads of today’s altercation—’
The king looked grim. ‘There was no altercation. It was an unwise experiment that got out of hand. His Highness has yet to refine his magical control. Master Magician Durm will be working most closely with him to ensure such an accident does not occur again. That is the explanation to be given, should anybody ask. If I hear of a different explanation … I will know where to look.’ His gaze touched Jarralt with frost.
Impervious to cold, Jarralt sneered. ‘You expect that sorry tale to hold water?’
‘I expect everybody here to make sure it does.’
Morg watched, bubbling with private mirth, as the king and his rebellious privy councillor again locked gazes. The cripple and the religious sot held their breaths. Sadly, Jarralt this time gave ground. Lowered his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The king slapped the table. ‘Then we are adjourned, save for one last matter. Until further notice, while Gar devotes himself to arcane study, Asher will be the Acting Olken Administrator. As such he shall enjoy all powers and duties previously ascribed to His Highness Prince Gar in the same capacity. He will attend these Council meetings and raise his voice with impunity wheresoever he deems it appropriate. I trust, gentlemen, that when he makes his first appearance in his new position you will make him feel right welcome.’
Jarralt was displeased. ‘Are you certain that’s wise? I was told he’s been traipsing from tavern to tavern telling anyone who’ll listen that His Highness is now a “proper” Doranen. One wonders what kind of Doranen he considered the prince to be before today.’
As the cripple and the king exchanged startled glances, and Holze tut-tutted his disapproval, Morg smothered a smile. Obedient Asher, following the Master Magician’s suggestion. And in doing so, possibly – hopefully – weakening his inconvenient friendship with the cripple.
That was important. The sooner Prince Gar relied solely on the warmth and support of his tutor – kind, patient and understanding Durm – the better.
The cripple said, ‘There must be some mistake. Asher wouldn’t—’
‘No mistake,’ said Jarralt. ‘I had it from my groom, who was in the tavern at the time. If this is an example of how the Acting Olken Administrator intends to conduct himself, then perhaps—’
‘You give unexamined credence to servants’ gossip?’ replied the cripple. ‘You surprise me, sir.’
‘And you surprise me, Your Highness! To place your unquestioning trust in a man who would—’
‘If Asher did in fact make this announcement—’
‘If?’ Jarralt stabbed a pointed finger at the cripple’s flushed face. ‘So now you accuse me of lying? To the Privy Council? To His Majesty? How dare—’
The king seized his son’
s wrist with crushing strength. ‘Let be. Both of you. Conroyd, Gar’s unexpected transformation is hardly a secret, seeing as it took place in front of half the City. If Asher did speak on the matter it’s hardly a crime. Surely we have more urgent matters to attend to. This Privy Council session is ended. Go about your own business, my lord. Leave Asher to my son.’
Jarralt departed, a silent snarl in his eyes. Breaking the uncomfortable silence, Holze turned to the cripple with a gentle smile. ‘Do you know, in all the unpleasantness I did not think to say how pleased I am for you, Your Highness. I know you’ll use this unexpected gift wisely. Barl’s blessings upon you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Holze,’ the cripple replied, flushing. ‘You can be sure I’ll look for your guidance in the days to come.’
As soon as the old dodderer had gone the king released his son’s wrist and pulled a face. ‘Well. That proceeded as I imagined it would.’
‘I am so sorry, sir,’ said the cripple. ‘To have exposed you thus to Conroyd Jarralt and his—’
‘He was always going to scream about a divided succession,’ the king said wearily. ‘That at least is not your fault. As for the other business …’ He frowned. ‘It’s over and done with. In the past, and best left there. I need not ask that it never be repeated?’
‘No, sir,’ the cripple agreed, subdued. ‘You needn’t. Sir, might I beg a favour?’
Fingers exploring a flaw in the wooden table, the king sighed. ‘What?’
‘While I accept – reluctantly – that for now at least I must be considered as a potential Weather Worker-in-Waiting, need Fane be informed immediately? For the first time in years, if ever, she and I are truly talking to one another. I want to give this fledgling bond between us time to strengthen before she learns I am indeed a rival.’
Troubled, the king looked to his best friend for advice. Morg seethed. More delay? He was tired of delay, tired of waiting. He wanted this petty kingdom beaten now. Crushed now. Subordinate to his sublime domination now.
