by Karen Miller
Thrusting the fool aside, ignoring his irrelevant gabble, Morg confronted Orrick on his makeshift sickbed. “Well? What happened? And why was I not informed immediately?”
Stripped to the waist and swathed in scarlet-stained bandages, Orrick regarded him weakly. His skin had turned sickly and his eyes were rimmed with red. “Your Majesty ... forgive me...” His voice was a whispering trickle. “I failed you.”
One of the guardsmen, a hulking brute, stepped forward from the background huddle of uniforms and bowed. “Your Majesty, the prisoner tried to hang himself. Captain Orrick sent me to fetch him a pother and while I was gone the prisoner stabbed him near to death. He’s escaped.”
For one blinding moment his rage was absolute, so that he nearly wiped them from existence with a word: Orrick, Nix, the brutish guardsman.
“Your Majesty ...” Orrick again, barely audible. “I’d hoped to find him quickly. Avoid the need to trouble you. I’ve many men out searching. He’ll be recaptured, I swear it.”
Rage subsided. So the stable meister was missing. But did it really matter? Attempted suicide suggested secrets worth hiding, true ... but equally it could have been fear. Asher was dead and WeatherWorking had died with him. The Wall even now was crumbling. What matter the fate of one Olken, destined soon for fire wherever he’d run to?
Not that he’d say so. Keeping all eyes focused on recent events would mean less attention paid to him. He smiled, magnanimously forgiving. “Very well, Captain. I accept your apology. Continue your hunt for the miscreant. I trust implicitly your diligence shall find him in the end. Meanwhile, your men can enforce the Olken curfew and the other restrictions arising from this new and criminal action. My man Willer shall advise you of the details.”
He left behind him uneasy silence and a horrified exchanging of glances. Inwardly he smiled.
Downstairs in the guardhouse reception area he was accosted by ubiquitous Willer, damp from the still-falling rain and puffing from his minimal exertions. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Oh, at last I’ve found you!”
“For what purpose?” he asked coldly. The little toad had pretensions, and required regular squashing.
Willer stepped improperly close. “I have an urgent message, sir.”
He had no interest in messages. Frowning at the repellent creature he said, “Did you do as I bid, Willer, and see to Asher’s remains?”
Willer stepped back. “I supervised their disposal first thing this morning, Your Majesty, exactly as requested. The dead dogs are burned now, and then ashes scattered. The traitor is no more.”
“Excellent. And your message?”
“Your Majesty,” Willer’s voice was lowered to a sibilant hiss. “Lords Sorvold and Daltrie request an urgent audience.”
Of course they did. Puling lickspittles, desperate for advancement. “Inform them I am unavailable for audience.”
Willer swallowed, convulsively. “Yes, Your Majesty. Your Majesty, they seemed quite ... determined. They’ll ask me to ask you again. What shall I tell them?”
“Tell them a king does not account himself to his subordinates. Subordinates account themselves to their king.”
Willer looked less than convinced. “Yes, Your Majesty. Er, Your Majesty?”
In the midst of leaving he stopped and turned. Let his displeasure fully reveal itself and waited for Willer to cease his cringing. “Yes?”
Faltering, stooped as though avoiding a blow, Willer crept close again. “There is just one more thing, sir. The palace provisioner was wondering when you thought to—”
“For all I care, Willer, the palace provisioner can drop dead of an ague!” he snapped. “Delay me no further! I am fatigued with WeatherWorking and must recover my strength. The damage wrought by the traitor Asher is greater than even I imagined. Would you have me weak and incapable of fulfilling my sacred duties? Of saving this kingdom from his black and ugly business?”
Willer blanched. “No, sir! Oh no!”
“Then desist your childish blatherings! And tell those who would tax me with trifles to quickly follow suit! I return now to my townhouse. If you’re wise you’ll see I’m not disturbed.”
“Your Majesty,” said Willer, his obeisance folding him in half.
Sweeping out of the guardhouse Morg ignored the murmured reverent acknowledgments by guards and visitors alike. Paused on the steps he savored the slurry of rain splashing from the greeny-gray clouds he’d called with a thought. Olken and Doranen in the street beyond the guardhouse gates stopped to bow or curtsey. He ignored them too. Stared instead at Barl’s great Wall, clinging tight to the mountains.
Was it his imagination or did the glowing gold seem... tarnished? And along its very top—was that a hint, the merest suggestion, of a tatter? A hem, unraveling?
He rather thought it was.
A lackey brought him the silver stallion. He mounted, smiling, and rode away.
———
Just as dusk was falling Dathne heard the cottage’s side gate creak. She dropped the book she’d not really been reading, convinced at first it was a dream. Three false alarms she’d raised already. Was near worn out with hope and waiting. But this time it wasn’t her frantic mind playing tricks. This time there was the sound of a tired horse— no, two tired horses—plodding along the track outside the cottage and the glimpse through the window of a cart rolling past, driven past a bent old woman wrapped tight in a blanket.
Veira. Veira was home. Which meant Asher—
She bolted into the kitchen so fast she banged into the rickety table and nearly fell flat on her face. Rubbing her. hip and cursing she shoved the back door open and tumbled into the midst of Veira’s vigorously scratching hens. They fled, cackling. The sun was sliding towards the brooding treetops and a chill wind was up, rattling their branches.
Veira slumped alone on the wagon’s driving seat, her face half hidden in the hood of her cloak. Little brown Bessie had been replaced by two tall raw-boned grays, and the wagon they pulled was different too.
“Veira!” she cried. “I thought you’d never get here! Did it go right? Do you have him? What happened? And where’s Matt? Quick, quick, tell me, quick!”
Veira pushed the hood back on her shoulders. In the fading light she looked exhausted. So, for that matter, did the two strange horses. They were splashed with mud to their bellies and their heads hung almost to the ground.
“Matt and me got separated. I swapped Bessie and my old cart for faster new horses and a wagon with a hidey-hole in it. Now stop your questions, child, and give me a hand with our Innocent Mage.”
All she could do was stand and stare. “What do you mean, you got separated? Did you leave Matt behind? Veira!”
“Dathne!” the old woman snapped. “I can’t lift Asher out on my own! Help me. I’ll tell you what I can once he’s safe inside!”
The bony gray horses stood patiently as Veira clambered down from the wagon and began fiddling with the side of the box seat. Muttering under her breath, she poked and prodded while Dathne watched, feeling sick.
“Asher’s in there?” she demanded. “He’ll be suffocated!”
Veira ignored her. Poked and prodded some more, then said “Ha!” with a tired satisfaction. The side of the box seat dropped open and Dathne saw the soles of two bare and dirty feet.
Asher.
She leapt forward and helped Veira drag him slowly from his prison until his toe-tips touched the grassy ground and she could wrap her arms around his unconscious body. The weight of him had her staggering.
“He’s drugged,” said Veira, leaning against the wagon and catching her breath. “It was safer, and easier.”
Drugged. That was unlikely to please him. She could feel his slow and heavy breathing, warm between her shoulderblades. The rank smell of Turn caught in the back of her throat. “Let’s get him inside, then,” she said. Her voice was rough with pent-up tears and barely realized relief. “Before he wakes and causes a ruckus.”
Veira put he
r arm around him from the other side and together they half carried, half dragged him into the cottage.
“My room,” Veira grunted.
They lowered him onto the sagging mattress in Veira’s tiny bedchamber and took a moment to recover their breathing. Then, as Veira ht her bedside lamps, Dathne looked into her husband’s face.
“Oh, Veira,” she whispered.
“I know, child, I know,” said Veira. Shockingly, she sounded on the verge of tears. “I’d best go see to those horses and the wagon. And the chickens.” She sniffed, looking disappointed. “You might have done right by my chickens, child.”
Dathne flushed. “I’m sorry, I—”
“And what about my pigs? Did you forget about my pigs as well?”
“No! No, I didn’t forget, I just... I’ve been waiting, worrying. I...”
Veira sighed. “I’ll see to the pigs then, too. You stay in here. Make Asher comfortable and sit with him till I’m done outside. Then we’ll clean and physick him. In the meantime, if he wakes ...” She frowned. “But I doubt he will. I gave him enough grobleroot to—”
“Grobleroot?” said Dathne. “Veira, how could you risk—”
“Because I had to!” the old woman retorted. “And it didn’t kill him, so let it be. We’ve bigger things to worry about than whether or not I slipped him a sleeping draught!”
Dathne realized then how close Veira was to collapsing, and felt ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Of course you know what you’re doing.”
Veira nodded. “And mind you remember that. Now I’ll be back directly.”
The bedroom door banged shut behind her. Dathne frowned at it, then turned her attention to the heavily stuporous Asher. First things first: get him out of his stinking horrible clothes. She’d only undressed him twice before, and both times were occasions for joy.
Now, though ...
When she saw the extent of his injuries she wept a little, for what had been done to him. What he’d endured. And what he had yet to face, once consciousness returned. She threw the stained and filthy shirt and trews on the floor, settled his head more comfortably on the pillows, drew a light blanket over him and waited for Veira.
The sun had set completely by the time the old woman returned to the bedroom carrying her medicine tin, a bowl of warm water and a bagful of rags. Working silently, swiftly, they washed the dirt, dried blood and caked pus from Asher’s bruised and crusted skin. Spread his wounds with salves and ointments, acridly healing. Now Dathne was glad of the grobleroot because they must have been hurting him. Through it all, Asher failed to stir.
At last the nasty task was done. Clean and physicked, dressed in an old nightshirt and coddled with blankets, Asher slept on. Veira touched her arm. “Into the kitchen, child,” she whispered. “I could do with some tea.”
She smoothed Asher’s hair a final time and followed Veira from the chamber, unspeaking. Watched in continued silence as the old woman waved her to a chair, refusing her assistance, and put the kettle on the hob. She looked pale. Moved slowly, painfully, as she dribbled honey into their steaming tea cups and tipped butter biscuits onto a plate.
“The important thing is,” she said as she finally settled down at the table, “we got him here safely.”
Yes. Yes, that was important. It was everything. Dathne sipped her scalding tea cautiously, but didn’t risk a biscuit. Her occupied belly was unforgiving now. “Please, Veira. Tell me what happened. Rafel. Is he—”
Veira nodded. “Yes. He’s dead. Just as I planned it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Staring into the depths of her mug, Veira seemed not to hear her. “Rafel’s dead and Asher’s alive and good Matthias is missing. I wonder if this is what Prophecy wanted.”
Matt was missing? “I don’t know,” Dathne whispered. Reached out and covered Veira’s hand with her own. “Why don’t you tell me all of it and I’ll see if I can’t answer.”
Not lifting her eyes Veira nodded again, then haltingly began to speak.
“He smiled at me, you know,” she whispered. “When I gave him the potion and bade him to drink. He smiled, and kissed my cheek, and ... and thanked me, for the chance to do such service.” Tears, wet her cheeks, unheeded. “I held him as best I could while the poison worked its will on him. I thought I’d made it painless but. .. at the end, he felt it. Not badly, and not for long, but I was looking into his eyes at the last and I saw—” She shuddered, and released a ragged breath.
“Don’t think about it,” Dathne urged. “It’s over now, and he’s at peace. What happened next?”
It sounded incredible, like something from one of Vev Gertsik’s improbable novels. Circle members hidden in the crowd, tampering with Doranen glimfire. The hooded axeman one of their own, striking the head from a man already heart-stopped so living Asher might be whisked away in the shouting confusion. Fire. Alarm. Hysteria.
“I thought for a moment we’d not survive it,” Veira admitted after another swallow of tea. “There was screaming. Trampling. I couldn’t see a foot in front of me and if I’d fallen no one would’ve stopped to lend a hand. Our people there saved us. Bundled us into blankets and spirited us to the Livestock Quarter right under the noses of the guards. It was all such pandemonium I didn’t even realize Matthias wasn’t with us until we’d reached the horses and wagon and it was time to go.”
Her hand still on Veira’s, Dathne tightened her fingers. “It wasn’t your fault. You said it yourself: saving Asher was the most important thing. Matt’s a strong man, and resourceful. He’ll find his way back to us. I know it.”
But she sounded more confident than she felt.
Veira pulled her hand free and pushed slowly to her feet. “I’m sure you’re right, child. But what say we see for certain, eh? I’ll sleep easier knowing he’s on his way here.”
“Let me. You’re too tired to. scry tonight, Veira.”
Veira frowned. “And you’re with child.”
“What do you mean?” Dathne said, alarmed, and leapt from her chair, palms pressed to her still-flat belly. “I scried when I got here! Have I harmed the baby?”
“No, no, I shouldn’t think so,” said Veira, and pressed her back in the chair. “Tanal’s not a poison, Dathne. Chewed and not swallowed it does no harm. But better safe than sorry. Besides, I’m old and I’m tired but I’m not so decrepit I can’t find our Matthias this once.”
“Then at least let me fetch what’s necessary. Sit down and finish your tea. Eat another biscuit. You’ll need your strength.”
Pretending to grumble, Veira obeyed. Dathne gathered the basin, the water, the herbs. Laid them neatly before the old woman then withdrew to lean herself against the sink, one ear cocked in case Asher should wake and make a sound. She was too nervous to sit again until she knew Matt was all right.
Jervale, are you listening? He’d better be all right...
Unhurried and methodical, Veira readied herself for the scrying. Chewed the tanal, spat it out. Closed her eyes, and waited.
It seemed to take forever.
“I have him,” Veira whispered at last. A slow smile spread over her tired, wrinkled face. “He’s safe. He’s coming. And with company . ...”
“Company?” Dathne leapt to the table and stared into the scrying water even though she knew she’d see nothing. “Who?”
“An old man—Olken—and a handsome young Doranen fellow. They’re traveling in a donkey cart.”
A handsome young Doranen! Could it be— “Gar?” she said, incredulous. “He’s bringing Gar here? Why?”
Veira shrugged. “No doubt he has his reasons, child.”
“Not good ones!”
“Who’s the old Olken man, do you think?”
“I don’t know for certain. But if the Doranen is Gar then that has to be Darran. The royal secretary.” Dazed, she paced the kitchen floor. “I don’t believe this. What is he thinking?” Her pleasure at Matt’s survival was doused now with ire. “Once it’s realized Ga
r’s missing Jarralt won’t rest till he’s found him! He’ll peer under every blade of grass in the kingdom! We’ll all be discovered. When Matt gets here I’ll kill him!”
Slowly Veira opened her eyes and eased herself out of the tanal’s cloying grasp. “No, you won’t, child. You’ll listen to his story with your tongue behind your teeth. There’s been enough killing for now.”
That silenced her. When she could trust her temper again she asked, with restraint, “How long till they reach us?”
Veira shrugged. “The countryside is the same for miles and miles between us and the City. I can’t quite tell where they are. They’ll be here by and by, child. That’s all I can say for certain.”
Suddenly queasy, Dathne dropped into a chair. “Good That’s... good.”
But what Asher would say when he found himself in such a houseful, she hadn’t the faintest idea.
“Our Mage’ll be waking soon, I’m thinking,” said Veira, clearing the scrying things away. “And it’s nigh on dinnertime. Cook us a meal, child, and I’ll sit with Asher till he stirs.”
Dathne nodded. She wanted to feel angry at Veira’s high-handedness. To feel outraged and proprietary and indignant for her rights where Asher was concerned—but instead, she felt relieved. And then guilty. She was desperate to see him. She was frightened to see him. All the hidden truths would soon be laid bare...
“It’ll be fine,” said Veira. Her eyes were warm and knowing. “If we trust to Prophecy, it’ll be just fine.”
———
In his dreams, Asher was sailing.
The sky was a blue bowl overhead, with little scudding clouds and the sun playing peekaboo behind them. A salt-stiffened breeze snapped the sail against the masthead, the shirt on his back, the hair on his head. The fishing smack, not brand new but seaworthy all the same, gaily green and blue in her fresh coat of paint, plunged and curvetted like an eager young filly, dipping low into Restharven Harbor with the heaving weight of her nets and the bounty they promised. Her name was Amaranda. Laughing, he reached out his hands to haul the first net back on board.