by Karen Miller
Conroyd shrugged. “Certainly. At some point.”
“No. Now. The law is quite clear, you must—”
“Law?” Conroyd laughed. “You sit there and lecture me on law! Hold your tongue, brat. Remember your new position in the kingdom.”
He stood, feeling most peculiar. Disconnected and likely to float right out of his body. “I shall. Are we done?”
“For now.”
“Then get out.”
Conroyd’s golden eyebrows lifted. “Get out, Your Majesty.”
He opened his mouth to say something catastrophic, but was stopped by Darran’s flustered entrance. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but an urgent message has come from the City Guardhouse. It’s from Captain Orrick. The runner is awaiting your reply.”
Conroyd held out his hand. “Give it here.”
Darran hesitated. “My lord, it is addressed to the king.”
“Give it here.”
Gar nodded as, uncertain and unhappy, Darran glanced at him. The message was handed over. Conroyd broke the seal, read the note. Refolded it and slipped it into his pocket. “Tell the runner to inform Captain Orrick I shall arrive at the guardhouse in due course.”
Darran took a step towards him. “Sir ... ?”
Gar stared at the floor. “Do as Lord Jarralt says, Darran.”
“Yes, sir,” said Darran, and withdrew. “What did it say?” he asked.
Conroyd shook his head. “Nothing that concerns you any longer.”
Jarralt and Holze departed, taking the signed proclamations with them. Aimless, emptied of thought and feeling, Gar wandered around the room like a boat set adrift on a lowering tide. Darran returned and hovered in the open doorway.
“Your Majesty...”
“Leave me be.”
Darran took a step forward. “Sir, Lord Jarralt is issuing orders. He says—”
“I know what he says,” he whispered, and ran gentle fingers along a shelf-line of books. “Lord Jarralt is a voluble man.”
Darran’s lined face was a picture of confusion and dismay. “Sir ... he says you’re no longer the king.”
“He’s right. I’ve had a busy morning, Darran, though you might not think so to look at me.”
“Your Majesty ...”
“Don’t call me that!”
A shocked silence. Darran crept a little closer. “Sir?”
“Do you know what I’ve done since opening my eyes?”
It was Darran’s turn to whisper. “No, sir.”
“Then I’ll tell you. I’ve eaten breakfast, renounced the throne and murdered my friend. And look, it’s not eve midday! Quick, Darran, find me a baby and I’ll strangle it before lunch!”
“Sir!”
It came as a shock to realize he was crying. Hot tears falling from cold eyes. Springing from a cold and killing heart.
“Just get out, would you?” he shouted. “Get out o here, old man, old fool! Get out and leave me alone!”
Darran fled.
———
It felt like years had passed, but finally Orrick returned When the cell’s outer door opened again Asher grunted his feet and stepped to his cage’s locked door.
“Pellen!” he said eagerly, craning to see past the captain’s shoulder. “Did you fetch him? Is he coming? Is it all sorted out? What’s that scroll you got there? Is it my pardon?”
Pellen gave him a look so cold, so hard, it was like being struck in the face with a bar of iron. “Be silent.”
He felt his heart jolt. “Pellen? What is it, what’s—” And then he stopped, because entering the outer cell was Conroyd Jarralt. He carried a slender poker, tapping it against one boot as he walked. At his heels Willer, bloated and shining with triumph. And behind him came two guards, manacles dangling from their fists. Ox Bunder and Treev Lallard, casual darts and drinking mates down at the Goose.
He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him dizzy and sick, and stepped unsteadily backwards. “Pellen? What’s goin’ on?”
Ignoring him, Orrick looked at Jarralt. Jarralt nodded. Orrick unrolled the scroll and began to read.
“Insofar as he has been apprehended in the midst of a blasphemous and criminal act, with witness unimpeachable, and insofar as this act is named the breaking of Barl’s First Law: I, King Gar the First, WeatherWorker of Lur, hereby condemn Asher of Restharven to lawful death.”
Numbly disbelieving, he let the words wash over him like so much salty water. “... suspicion of baleful influence upon his king ... instigation of Olken conspiracy to usurp the throne . .. Furthermore, let it be known that said criminal Asher of Restharven has acted in a fashion suggestive of further miscreancy... authorized to question by whatever means necessary ...”
Orrick stopped reading. Confused, Asher stared. “No. That ain’t right. Gar wouldn’t—that ain’t right! It’s a forgery! Jarralt—”
Orrick stepped forward and flattened the parchment against the cell bars. “It is no forgery.” His voice was harsh with rage and pain. “Or don’t you recognize the signature? The seal?”
They were Gar’s.
“So what?” Asher said, starting to shake. “That don’t prove nowt. Gar wouldn’t abandon me like this, make up that pack of lies about conspiracies and usurping. This is Jarralt’s bloody bastardry! Gar would never—”
“That’s enough, Asher!” Orrick shouted, snatching back the proclamation. “His Majesty has renounced you. It’s over.”
Conroyd Jarralt cleared his throat. “Well... not quite, Captain. Before death comes discomfort. Unless of course Asher would like to reveal here and now the names of those who helped him?”
“Nobody helped me,” he said. “There was nowt to help with! There ain’t no conspiracy!”
“The king says there is,” said Conroyd Jarralt. “And that’s good enough for me. Guards?”
The cell door was unlocked. Bunder and Lallard entered. Shackled him with the manacles, fixed the chains to the sides of the cell and stretched him out like a scarecrow in a field.
“Excellent,” said Jarralt. “Now leave us.”
“What about a trial?” demanded Asher as the outer door banged shut. Already his shoulders were burning. He saw Willer step closer to the cage, eyes alight with eagerness. “Don’t I get a trial? Timon Spake got a trial!”
“You’re not Timon Spake,” said Jarralt. “The king himself has corroborated your confession and condemned you out of hand.”
“He wouldn’t! He promised?”
Jarralt ignored him. Instead turned to Orrick. “Captain, it’s likely this traitor’s co-conspirators will be found amongst his intimate acquaintances. Seek them out and arrest them quietly before they have a chance to flee justice.”
Dathne. Asher choked back a cry of protest. No. Oh, to be able to warn her. There’d be a way with magic, if only he knew what it was.
Bloody magic. It had to be good for more than causing trouble.
Orrick was nodding. “Yes, my lord.”
“Willer?”
“My lord?”
“Assist Captain Orrick. You’ll know best who to look for and where they can be found.”
Willer’s disappointment was almost comical. “My lord? I wanted to stay, to assist you in—”
“Willer.”
Cringing, the slug retreated. “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.”
“And Willer? Captain? One last thing.” With the snap of his fingers and a softly spoken word, Jarralt froze Orrick and the slug where they stood. “Attend. Asher was apprehended attempting magic, not performing it. There is no power in him. This is what you know and will remember.”
“That’s a lie,” said Asher. The blankness in Pellen Orrick’s face made him feel sick. It was as though the man’s soul had been wiped away. Willer’s too ... if the little turd possessed one. “I can do magic. I’d bloody kill you with it if I could!”
The look in Jarralt’s eyes was frightening. “You couldn’t. But in the short time remaining to you, dare hint
to anyone that you could try and I’ll kill them. Their families, too. Is that clear?”
Nauseous, believing him absolutely, Asher nodded. “Aye.”
“Good.” With another snap of his fingers, Jarralt released his frozen victims. “Carry out your orders then. And see to it I am not disturbed hereafter, Captain.”
Orrick bowed. Seemingly he’d taken no harm from whatever Jarralt had done. “My lord.” Without a backward glance he left the cell, a subdued Willer at his heels.
Asher watched Jarralt pass his hand before the outer cell door. Saw the air shiver blackly. Felt a brief pressure against his chest. Jarralt turned. Smiled. Approached.
“Alone at last.”
Asher felt his lungs hitch. “Gar never signed that proclamation.”
Lounging in the open cell door, Jarralt raised his eyebrows. “Of course he did.”
“No. You faked it. You—”
“Asher.” Jarralt’s smile twisted into something more complicated. “He signed it.”
Asher believed him. For a moment he couldn’t breathe at all. Rage ... grief... terror... his heart was barely beating.
“You know I did this on my own,” he protested. “You know there ain’t a conspiracy. You were inside my head. You know everything?”
Jarralt raised the poker and eyed its slender strength. “True.”
“Then why—”
“Because I want to. Because your simple axe death will not satisfy. You interfered, little Olken, and I brook no interference. So I’m going to punish you ... the good, old-fashioned way.”
There was sweat rolling down his back. His face. Asher blinked the stinging saltwater from his eyes. There was something ... different about Conroyd Jarralt. He’d always been a smug bastard. Impatient. Contemptuous. Superior. Utterly unlikeable. But now he was something else. Something more. It rolled off him in thick stinking waves. Blood-curdling, stomach-churning ... Evil.
“Gar was right about you,” he whispered. “Borne, too. You’re bad. Rotten bad, all the way through. You can’t hide it any more. And when your Doranen friends see the truth of you, they’ll not let you keep your stolen crown. This kingdom’ll tear apart, Jarralt. It’ll die, and you’ll have killed it. Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Now save your breath,” Jarralt advised him kindly. “You’ll need it for screaming. And when you’re done with screaming—after I’ve reduced your throat to a raw and bloody wasteland—Orrick and his men will take you to the center of the City Square, where you’ll be chained in a cage for all the world to see and spit upon. And at midnight on Barl’s Day next, a suitably dramatic moment you’ll agree, before as large a crowd as can be contrived, your head will be hacked from your shoulders, your body will be fed to the swine, the swine shall be butchered and fed to the dogs, and the dogs will be shot dead with arrows.”
Languid and unexcited, Jarralt strolled into the cell. Spoke a single, knife-edged word. The poker’s brass tip caught fire. In his pale ice eyes pleasure flickered, and something else. Something dark and dangerous and soaked in blood. He smiled. Touched.
Asher’s world disappeared in a scarlet sheet of flame.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
With a small self-satisfied sigh Darran covered His Ma— His Highness’s lunch tray with a damask napkin. The prince’s silence since Lord Jarralt’s abrupt departure and his own unkind ejection from the library had been absolute and ominous. Luncheon gave him the excuse he needed to make sure everything was all right.
Well. As all right as it could be, given recent appalling developments.
With a last look about the kitchen he picked up the tray and headed for the door. It was perhaps a good thing Mistress Hemshaw had been dismissed; if she could see the place now, after his distracted efforts at cooking, she’d have gone into strong hysterics.
He was tempted to go into strong hysterics himself. How empty the Tower felt with all its people forcibly removed. Aching with sorrow and regrets he climbed stab-by silent stair up to Gar’s suite of apartments. Passing by Asher’s floor, he shuddered. Closed his mind to a calamity of images and kept on climbing.
The prince was still in his library, sitting in the armchair he’d shifted to face the uncurtained window.
“I’ve brought you some luncheon, sir,” Darran said, standing just inside the doorway.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Hungry or not, you should eat,” he replied, forcing his voice to a cheerful chiding. Hesitantly, he entered the room. “If you fall ill it’ll be Pother Nix’s potions you’ll be swallowing, and while my cooking isn’t perfect I can promise you it does taste better than that.”
“Leave it on the desk then,” said Gar. His voice sounded dull. Lackluster. His left hand was just visible, dangling over the arm of the chair. It looked dead.
Darran frowned, and shook his head even though the prince couldn’t see him. “Now, sir, you don’t want it to get cold.”
“I said leave it on the desk!” Gar shouted, and flung himself out of the chair. A sapphire-studded dagger dangled from the fingers of his right hand and his eyes were frightening.
Darran stepped back, his grip on the lunch tray tight enough to hurt. “Sir, the weapon isn’t necessary. I assure you the chicken is quite deceased. I roasted it myself.”
With a roar of rage Gar threw the dagger across the room. It struck the doorjamb and stuck there, quivering. “I care naught for your chicken, old man! Take it away! And if you can’t do as I tell you, don’t come here again!”
He would not look at the dagger. Instead he put down the tray on the nearest flat surface and approached his prince. “Enough, sir,” he said, hands raised palm out like a man reasoning with madness. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Gar laughed. “Hurt myself? You old fool, I never hurt myself! Only other people! My parents—my sister—Durm—yes, he’s dead now too.” He groaned, and dropped slowly to the floor. “Asher...”
Darran knelt beside him, deaf to complaining muscles and creaking bones. “You’re talking nonsense. You didn’t cause the accident that killed your family and our poor Master Magician, Barl rest him.”
“How can I be certain?” demanded Gar. “I don’t remember what happened! It might have been me, Darran. It might have been my damned capricious magic. No physical agency for the accident was ever discovered, was it? And clearly my power was never right It was flawed, as I am flawed. If I wasn’t I’d still possess it. I’d still be the WeatherWorker and Asher would ... Barl’s rite, Darran. I swore I’d protect him, I swore he’d be safe, and instead I signed his death warrant I betrayed the only friend I’ve ever known, a man who saved my life, who tried to save my kingdom when I couldn’t I am pathetic. Disgusting. I wonder how you can bear to be in the same room with me.”
Distressed by his distress and closing his ears to the blasphemy, he seized Gar’s hand and held on tight. “Don’t say such things, sir!”
“Why not? They’re true. So what if Conroyd threatened me? I should’ve found a way to defeat him. To save Asher!”
He stared. Gar’s hand felt so cold. He felt so cold. “Lord Jarralt threatened you? How? Why?”
Gar pulled his hand free and let himself sag against the armchair. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is I’ve given our kingdom to that man. Handed it over without a fight. My father would be so disappointed...”
“No, sir! No,” he said fiercely. “That’s not true. Your father loved you and was proud of you every day of his life. He’s proud now, I’m certain of it, as I am proud. And nor is it true that Asher is your only friend. I am your friend, sir, and will remain so till the day I die.”
Gar looked at him. Tried to smile, and miserably failed. “Then in the name of all that’s merciful, Darran,” he whispered, “leave me alone.”
He sighed. Clambered to his feet, frowning. “If I do, sir, will you promise me first that you’ll eat?”
“I could,” said Gar. “But my promises are a figment, Darran. Don’t you kn
ow that yet? I shed promises the way a dog sheds fleas.”
“And that’s not true either!”
Now Gar stood, only to slump on the-arm of his chair. As though standing were a task beyond his strength. “Isn’t it? Ask Asher.”
He sniffed. “I don’t consort with criminals.”
“He’s not a criminal. He’s a sacrifice.”
“But he’s arrested! Why would he be arrested if he’s not a—”
“Darran ...” Gar hesitated. Examined the carpet. “If I tell you what’s happened, why I’m deposed and the Tower emptied, Asher condemned—”
“Oh, I wish you would, sir! I can’t make head or tail of anything!”
Now the prince looked up. His face was solemn, his gaze intent. “You can never repeat it. Lives will depend on your silence. Not just yours and mine, but those of every Olken in the kingdom. Do you understand?”
Darran straightened. Let a little of his affronted pride show. “I have spent the best part of my life in royal service, sir. I think I know the meaning of discretion.”
Faint color washed into Gar’s pale cheeks. “Of course you do. Forgive me.”
“Certainly. Now please, sir. Tell me.”
By the time the prince finished Darran knew the world he’d lived in was gone forever, or perhaps had never existed. He groped his way to the library’s other chair and sat down.
“Barl have mercy,” he whispered. “This is all my fault.”
The prince stared. “Your fault?”
Hot with shame, he couldn’t look at Gar. Stared instead at his manicured fingernails and longed hopelessly to be anywhere else in Lur, confessing anything but this. “You see ... I always encouraged Willer in his antipathy towards Asher. Allowed him to know the depths of my own disliking. For a whole year, longer, we carped and criticized and complained of his existence to each other. And then, after you asked Asher and me to work together for the good of the kingdom, I failed to take Willer into my confidence or explain my change in attitude. Instead I reproved him for bad behavior. When you became king I think Willer was expecting some kind of promotion. But it didn’t come—and then I was so busy—oh, sir. Willer never would’ve turned to Lord Jarralt, never would’ve spied for him, if I’d handled the matter with greater tact!”