by Karen Miller
Matt stared. “I’m not leaving you alone here to do Barl knows what kind of craziness!”
Damn it, what was wrong with the man? Couldn’t he seel “You got to, Matt,” he insisted. “Like you say, we’re losing the light. If they are down there and they ain’t all dead, we can’t wait till mornin’ to find out. They’d never last the night.”
“You can’t think anyone could survive this?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Now what say you stop wastin’ time, eh? Might be they are all dead down there, but we got livin’ folk hurt up here, and I don’t know how long that maggoty ole Dunn’s goin’ to keep breathing without a good pother to help him. I’ll be fine, Matt. Just go.”
Matt’s expression was anguished. “Asher, no . . . you can’t risk yourself. You mustn’t. I’ll do it.” . “You can’t. You’re near on a foot taller than me and two stone heavier, at least. I don’t know how safe the ground is on the side of that mountain, but a lighter man’s got to have a better chance.” Matt just stared at him, begging to be hit. “Look, you stupid bastard, every minute we stand here arguin’ is a minute wasted. Just get on your bloody horse, would you, and ride!”
Matt shook his head. “Asher—”
Out of time and patience, he leapt forward and shoved Matt in the chest, hard. “You need me to make it an order? Fine! It’s an order! Go!”
Matt was beaten, and he knew it. “All right,” he said, despairing. “But be careful. I’ve got Dathne to answer to, remember, and she’ll skin me alive if anything happens to you.”
“And I’ll skin you alive if you don’t get out of here,” he retorted. “Tie Cygnet to a tree so he don’t follow you. I ain’t keen on walkin’ back to the Tower.”
“Promise me I won’t regret this,” said Matt, backing away. His scowl would’ve turned fresh milk.
“See you soon.”
Matt stopped. “Asher—”
“Sink me, do I have to throw you on the damned horse mys—”
“No, wait!” Matt said, holding up his hands. “Wait. What about Matcher?”
He lowered his fists. “What about ‘im?”
“He’s got a family, they’ll worry, start a fuss—”
Damn. Matt was right. “Stall ‘em. Send a lad with a message to say he’s got himself delayed at the palace. That should hold his wife till we can—”
“You mean lie to her? Asher, I can’t!”
Barl bloody save him from decent men. “You have to. We got to keep this as secret as we can for as long as we can, Matt. Think. If we don’t keep her fooled for the next little while—”
“All right,” said Matt. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll lie.” His face twisted, as though he tasted something bitter. Almost to himself he added, “I’m getting good at it.”
There wasn’t time to puzzle out what he meant. “Hurry, Matt. Please.”
He watched his friend run back to the horses; anchored Cygnet to a sturdy sapling then vault into his own saddle. The urgent hoof beats, retreating, echoed round the valley. Then, under a dusking sky lavished lavender and crimson and gold, Asher eased himself over the edge of Salbert’s Eyrie.
It was a sinkin’ long way down to the hidden valley floor.
Don’t look, then, you pukin’ fool. Take it one step at a time. You can do that, can’t you? One bloody step at a time.
The rock-strewn ground at first sloped gradually, deceptively. Beneath his boot heels gravel and loose earth, so that he slipped and slid and skidded, stripping skin from his hands as he grappled stunted bushes and sharp-sided boulders to slow his descent. His eyes stung with sweat and his mouth clogged dry with fear. The air was tangy and fresh, no crowded City smells tainting, flavoring. It struck chill through his thin silk shirt, goosebumping his sweat-sticky flesh.
Further down into the valley he went, and then further still. Every dislodged rock and pebble rang sound and echo from the vast space below and around him. Startled birds took to the air, harshly protesting, or scolded him invisibly from the Eyrie’s dense encroaching foliage.
He reached a small cliff, a sheer-faced drop of some five feet that looked to give way first to a sharply sloped terrace and from there to a natural platform jutting out over the depths of the valley. Most of the platform itself was obscured by shadow and rocky outcrops, but he was sure now he could see the edge of a wheel, tip-tilted into the air.
If the carriage had landed anywhere other than the hidden valley floor, it would be there. Beyond the edge of the platform was nothing but empty space and the shrieking of eagles.
Five feet. He’d jumped off walls as high without thinking twice. Jumped laughing. Now, belly-down and crawling, he eased himself feet first and backwards over the edge, tapping his toes for cracks in the cliff face, burying his ragged, bloody fingernails in the loose shale as he scrabbled for purchase.
If he fell... if he fell...
Safely down, he had to stop, still holding onto the cliff edge, sucking air, near paralyzed with fright. That sharp little needle had returned and was jabbing, jabbing. His ribs hurt, and his lungs and his head. All the cuts and scratches on his fingers, his palms, his cheek and his knee burned, bleeding.
Time passed.
Eventually recovered, the needle withdrawn and his various pains subsided, he let go of the cliff. Turned inch by tiny inch to press his shoulderblades against the rock and look where next to tread ... and felt his heart crack wide with grief.
So. His eyes had not misled him.
It was indeed a wheel, and more than a wheel. It was two wheels, and most of an ornate, painted carriage. It was a brown horse, and sundered harness, and a man, and a woman, and a girl.
He closed his eyes, choking. Saw a broken mast and another broken man.
“Da,” he whispered. “Oh, Da...”
Ice cold to the marrow, shaking, he continued his descent.
———
There was blood everywhere, much of it spilled from the shattered horse. Splashed across the rocks, pooled in the hollows, congealing beneath the stunted, scrubby bushes that clung to life on this last ledge before the dreadful drop to the valley floor, it soaked the air in a scarlet pungency.
Staring over the platform’s edge Asher saw treetops like a carpet and the white specks of birds, wheeling. There was no sign of the second carriage horse or Coachman Matcher. A fine fellow, he was. Had been. Married with two children, son and daughter. Peytr was allergic to horses and Lillie had the finest pair’ of hands on the reins the City had ever seen.
Or so said Matcher, her doting father.
Despairing, he turned away from the pitiless chasm yawning at his feet and faced instead the death he could see. Smell. Touch.
Borne was pinned beneath the splintered remnants of the carriage. His long lean body had been crushed to a thinness, and one side of his face was caved in. He looked as though he wore a bright red wig. Dana lay some three feet to his left, impaled through chest and abdomen by branches smashed into javelins. The impact had twisted her so that she lay half on her side, with her fine-boned face turned away. It meant he couldn’t see her eyes. He was glad.
And Fane ... beautiful, brilliant, impossible Fane had been flung almost to the very edge of the narrow rock shelf; one slender white hand, unmarked, dangled out into space, the diamonds on her fingers catching fire in the sun’s sinking light. Her cheek rested on that outstretched arm, she might have been sleeping, only sleeping, anyone finding her so might think her whole and unharmed ... if they did not see the jellied crimson pool beneath her slender torso, or the eerie translucence of her lovely unpowdered face. Her eyes were half open, wholly unseeing; the lashes, darkened by some magic known only to women, thick and long and bewitchingly alluring, as she had been alluring, lay a tracery of shadow upon her delicate skin.
There was a fly, crawling between her softly parted lips.
For the longest time he just stood there, waiting. In a moment, one of ‘em will move. In a moment, one of ‘em will breathe.
Or blink. In a moment, I’ll wake up and all this will be nowt but a damned stupid ale-born dream.
In a moment.
He came to understand, at last, that there were no more moments. That not one of them would move, or breathe, or blink again. That he was already awake, and this was not a dream.
Memories came then, glowing like embers at the heart of a dying fire. “Welcome, Asher. My son speaks so highly of you I just know we ‘ll be the greatest of friends.” Dana, Queen of Lur. Accepting his untutored bow and clumsy greeting as though he’d gifted her with perfumed roses and a diamond beyond price or purchase. Her unconstrained laughter, her listening silences. The way her eyes smiled in even the gravest of moments, a smile that said I know you. I trust you. Trust me.
Borne, his sallow cheeks silvered with tears. “What does my kingdom hold that I can give you? He is my precious son and you saved him. For his mother. For me. For us all. You’ve lost your father, I’m told. I grieve with you. Shall I stand in his stead, Asher? Offer you a father’s words of wisdom if ever you need to hear them spoken? May I do that? Let me.”
And Fane, who smiled only if she thought it might do some damage. Who never knew herself well enough to know that beneath malice lay desire. Who was beautiful in every single way, save the one that mattered most.
Dead, dead and dead.
Bludgeoned to tearless silence, he stayed with them until to stay longer would be foolish. Stayed until the cold and dark from the valley floor crept up and over the lip of the ledge and sank icy teeth into his flesh. Until he remembered the last living member of this family, who had yet to be told he was the last.
Remembering that, he left them, reluctantly, and slowly climbed back up the side of the mountain.
CHAPTER TWO
There were hands to help him over the broken railings at the top of Salbert’s Eyrie. “Easy does it,” said Pellen Orrick, holding his elbow with firm fingers. “Catch your breath a moment. Are you all right?”
Bent over and heaving air into his lungs, aware of stinging scrapes and strained muscles, Asher nodded. “Aye. Where’s Matt?”
“Minding his own business back at the Tower.” Orrick frowned, and released his grasp. “You know, Asher, some folk might say you were mad to climb down the side of the Eyrie. I might even be one of them. Was it worth the risk?”
Breathing easier, he slowly straightened. Some Doranen or other had conjured glimfire; a floating flotilla of magical lights turned the new night into a pale imitation of day. He looked into the Guard captain’s shadowed, hatchet face and nodded again. “Aye.”
Orrick’s expression tightened. Then the tension left him and he sagged, just a little, and only for a heartbeat. “You found them.”
There was nobody else within earshot. Orrick had set a line of guards to keep everyone away from the Eyrie’s treacherous edge and further calamity. Beyond them, by the side of the road, clustered a group of agitated Doranen. Staring, Asher recognized Conroyd Jarralt and Barlsman Holze; Lords Daltrie, Hafar, Sorvold and Boqur: Jarralt’s General Council cronies. No sign of Gar or Master Magician Durm, though. Doubtless they’d been rushed back to the palace and the eager bone-bothering of Pother Nix.
Further along the road stood two wagons, a fancy Doranen carriage and one of Orrick’s men guarding coils of rope. With a pang of relief he saw Cygnet, still safely tied. An uneasy silence muffled the scene, broken only by the stamp of a hoof and snatches of sharp speech from the gathered Doranen lords.
“Asher?” said Orrick.
“Aye,” he said. “I found ‘em. The family, any road. Coachman Matcher’s lying at the bottom of the valley, I reckon, along with one of his precious horses.”
“And you’re certain they’re dead?”
He laughed. Was he certain? Red blood and white bone and black flies, crawling... “You want to go see for yourself?”
With a deep sigh, Orrick shook his head. “Can their bodies be retrieved?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Reckon it’ll take a hefty dose of magic and some luck, though.”
“Their position is precarious?”
“They’re on a bit of a ledge stickin’ out over the valley. You tell me if that be precarious or not.” Swept by a sudden, obliterating tide of exhaustion, Asher felt all blood drain from his face and staggered where he stood.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Easy now,” said Pellen Orrick, once more taking his arm. “You’ve had a nasty shock.”
The captain’s kindness was almost his undoing. Grief and rage and a hot swelling helplessness blurred his sight. He could feel his heart’s brutal beating, solid blows against his ribs like the tolling of a funeral drum. The cold night air seared his struggling lungs and his teeth began to chatter like bones in a breeze. He felt wetness on his cheeks and looked up. Was it raining?
No. The starry sky was clear of cloud. And anyway, how could it be raining? Lur’s WeatherWorker was dead. Furious, he blinked back the burning tears. Tears? Fool. Tears were for folks with time on their hands ...
A shout went up from the cluster of Doranen dignitaries. Lord Hafar had spotted him. Pointing, he tugged at Conroyd Jarralt’s brocade sleeve. Jarralt turned, frowning, mouth open to snap or snarl. Then he saw too. His chin came up, his shoulders braced and his teeth clicked closed. Vibrating with angry self-importance he broke away from the group ... and so revealed its center.
Revealed Gar.
Awoken to a fragile consciousness, the prince—no. Not any longer. Not after today. The king was sitting on a cushioned stool at the side of the road, draped in a blanket with a hasty bandage wound tight about his head. His left arm had been bound hard against his battered body to safeguard the broken collarbone. In his right hand he held a mug of something steaming, and stared into its depths as though it contained all the secrets of the world.
Conroyd Jarralt took another step forward, his jeweled fingers fisted at his sides. “Asher!”
The sound of his name rang like a chapel bell calling for silence. The lords’ muttering voices faltered. Stumbled. Stilled, as step by step Asher shrank the distance between himself and his friend. His king.
Gar looked up. One pale eyebrow lifted, seeing him. And he realized there was no need for anything so crude as words. The truth was in his tears, still drying amidst the dirt, and the telltale pallor of his cheeks, nipped as cold as frostbite.
He reached the tangled knot of Doranen lords. Reached Gar, who looked into his rigid face with an air of calm inquiry. A polite patience. An absence of anything more powerful than a mild curiosity. He stopped and dropped to his knees. There was pain as his bones met the unyielding road. It scarcely registered. Hands by his side, shoulders defeated, filthy with dirt and sweat and little smears of other people’s blood, he bowed his head.
“Your Majesty.”
From the watching lords, gasps. A cry, quickly stifled. A sob, smothered.
Somebody snickered.
Asher snapped up his head, disbelieving.
Gar was laughing. His face was mirthless, and his eyes, but still he laughed. The blanket around his shoulders shivered free. The scarce-touched contents of the mug slopped over its sides to splash dark stains on his ruined breeches. His nose began to run, and then his eyes, tears and mucus reflecting glimfire, glittering like liquid diamonds. And still he laughed.
Jarralt turned on him. “Stop it!” he hissed. “You disgrace yourself, sir, and shame our people! Stop it at once, do you hear?”
He might as well have saved his breath. Ignoring him, Gar continued to laugh, not stopping until Barlsman Holze came close to touch his unhurt shoulder with gentle fingertips.
“My boy,” he whispered. “My dear, dear boy. Hush, now. Hush.”
Like an Olken toy running down its clockwork, the giggles bumped erratically into silence. Asher dragged a kerchief from his pocket and held it out. For some time the former prince just sat there, staring at the square of blue cotton. Then he took it and wiped his face. Handed back the s
oiled kerchief and said, “I want to see them.”
The lords broke into a babble of protest.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Conroyd Jarralt. “It’s out of the question.”
“Conroyd’s right,” added Holze, and tried to lay a calming hand on Gar’s arm. Gar shook him free, heedless of the pain, and stood. His expression was ominous. “Truly, the idea is most unwise!” Holze persisted. “Dear boy, think of the danger. You heard what Pother Nix’s assistant said! You need warmth. Rest. More rigorous physicking. We must get you indoors, immediately. Come now. Listen to your elders, Your Hi— Your Ma— Gar. Be wisely guided, and leave this unfortunate place.”
The other lords echoed the demand. Asher, aware of Pellen Orrick now standing close behind, grunted to his feet and exchanged uneasy glances with him as the lords closed ranks about Gar and raised their voices in ever more vehement argument.
Gar let the storm of words rage unchecked. Seemed almost not to hear his clamoring subjects. His frowning gaze was focused somewhere distant, pinned to something only he could see. Then, at last, he stirred. Lifted his hand. “Enough.”
Ignoring him, the lords continued their clamor.
“Enough, I said!” The lords fell back, shocked. Stared at the glimfire flaring from Gar’s fingertips as his newly focused gaze swept all their dumbfounded faces. “Is this how you speak to your king?”
Conroyd Jarralt stepped forward. “You presume a title not yet conferred, Your Highness.” He turned to Asher. “You.”
This was no time for lord-baiting. Asher bowed. “Sir.”
“Borne’s death is not in doubt?”
He shuddered. “No. King, queen and princess. They’re all dead down there.”
Grief rippled through the Doranen. Jarralt, the only one unmoved, stared at him with eyes like frozen silver. Then he glared at Gar. “Even so. Until both councils have met and the proper ceremonies been observed, you are yet a prince, sir. Not king.”
Gar clenched his fingers and the glimfire died. “You challenge my claim?”
“I challenge your presumption. Scant hours have passed since your father’s death. Before the succession is settled there are questions to be asked, and answered, in the matter of His Majesty’s destruction.”