by Karen Miller
Beside her, dressed in the finest silks and brocades she’d ever seen him wear, Asher watched the ceremony in anxious silence. Fretting, she suspected, on things going wrong at the very last moment. Worrying that all his hair-tearing work with Darran would somehow come to naught. She let her fingers drift to his arm and lightly squeezed. Smiled when he glanced at her. He smiled back, but without enthusiasm.
Holze spread his arms wide and tipped back his head. “O Blessed Barl, look down upon this man, your child in magic, and hear now his solemn oath, sworn in this place before you and all his people. Anoint him with your beneficence, pour your strength into his heart and guide him to truth and wisdom all the days of his life.”
Gar looked up then. Folded his hands across his heart. “Blessed Barl, from whom all life flows, I solemnly swear to serve you and the kingdom you gave us, Doranen and Olken alike, unto my last living breath. I will keep your children in peace and prosperity, Working the Weather, keeping your great Wall strong and upholding your laws without exception until my last drop of blood is shed. May magic desert me if I am untrue.”
Holze nodded at a waiting acolyte. The robed assistant stepped forward, bearing the WeatherWorker’s crown. Handed it to him. Dathne held her breath as the intricately wrought silver and copper and gold was lowered onto Gar’s bowed, waiting head.
Booming from the square outside, the City’s great Barl’s Clock tolled the stroke of midnight. Signaling the end of night... the start of day.
It was all very symbolic.
A great sigh went up from the gathered witnesses: City guild meisters and mistresses, Captain Orrick, the General Council’s Doranen lords and ladies, mayors and mayoresses from the kingdom’s larger towns, select royal staff. Dathne saw in their faces the raw relief bubbling like stew in a hdded pot. Praise Barl, praise Barl, now life can get back to normal... She felt profoundly sorry.
Barlsman Holze began reciting the traditional WeatherWorker’s Blessing above the head of still-kneeling Gar. Glancing sideways, she saw Darran wipe away a surreptitious tear, dear old fusspot that he was. A stickler for protocol, inevitably irritated by someone like Asher, but a good man.
Not like Willer.
Further along the pew in which they sat, Willer hunched in his finery hke a dyspeptic peacock. Still sulking, the repellent little tick. Everything Asher had ever said about the slug was true. That he could actually think he’d be named Olken Administrator, or even the assistant! Was he mad as well as horrible? And the way he’d acted ever since the announcement of her appointment. Snide. Sneering. Uncooperative. He’d better get over his snit soon or Asher would dismiss him no matter how many more excuses Darran found for him.
Sick of the sight of him, she let her gaze wander elsewhere. Darran wasn’t the only one moved to tears: royal staff who’d known their new king as a babe in his cradle, as a toddler tumbling about the corridors of the palace and getting into mischief like any normal small child; guild officials who’d come to know him so closely this past year, and maybe mourned his loss to magic; noble Doranen, perhaps regretting that late-blossoming power and the madcap dreams it killed ... or dreaming instead of a nubile daughter’s chances of being crowned queen. They all had tears on their cheeks.
So many faces. So many hidden thoughts. So many lives that would wildly unravel once Prophecy was fulfilled.
Her grim musings were interrupted as Holze reached down and drew Gar to his feet. Turned the new king to face his silent subjects. Raised his arms and cried: “Behold a miracle! Behold our virtuous king, by Barl’s great grace, Gar the First, WeatherWorker of Lur!”
Now the assembled witnesses were getting to their feet, cheering. Well. Mostly cheering. Dathne scrambled to copy them.
Beside her, clapping along with everybody else, Asher leaned close.
“Barl bloody save me,” he said as, moved almost to tears, King Gar stood before them and accepted the rapturous acclaim. “Now life’s goin’ to get interesting!”
———
The unkempt, ill-favored denizens of the Green Goose were in diabolical form, rollicking and carousing and tipping their mugs of beer over their shrieking neighbors’ heads then laughing as though they’d just done something terribly clever and hysterically funny.
Funny? Willer sank further into his obscure comer seat, hugged his fourth tankard of ale closer to his chest and sneered. It wasn’t in the least bit funny. It was puerile. Juvenile. No, no, that was far too old for this unruly mob. It was infantile. Yes. Infantile and... and... mortifying. These rowdy sots were royal servants. His colleagues, loosely speaking. Very loosely. Supposedly they were the cream of Lur’s Olken population. Yet here they were carrying on like ignorant farmhands at a barn dance, getting drunk and singing bawdy songs out of tune and generally making fools of themselves.
Morg smite them all, was this any way to celebrate the crowning of a king?
And what was there to celebrate anyway? The day Gar’s family had carelessly fallen off the side of a mountain more than just a carriage had been wrecked. More than people had died. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he knew it now. His future had been wrecked too. His dreams had died, as bloodily as any king.
Quivering with overwhelming indignation, Willer swallowed another mouthful of his admittedly excellent ale.
He couldn’t understand it. How could Barl have done this to him?
Another inebriated toast to the new king rattled the inn’s smoke-soaked rafters. He winced. What in Barl’s name had brought him into this den of iniquity? He didn’t belong in here, he belonged in the Golden Cockerel where the only interruption one ever experienced was the gentle throat-clearing of the waiter, asking if sir required more wine. There was violin music in the Cockerel. There was an exquisite silk-swathed soprano in the Cockerel. There was cut glass and pohshed silverware and fine dining in the Cockerel. What had he been thinking, coming here?
A sly little voice inside his head answered, You were thinking that in here you’d be safe. In here, you wouldn’t have to laugh, and smile, and wear a brave face. In here, you could be invisible.
Which wasn’t the case at the Cockerel. He was well known there. Lauded and fawned on and minced after, importuned and flattered and visible. Anonymity there was impossible. Worse, waiting for him in the refined atmosphere of the Cockerel were his genteel royal colleagues, the other secretaries and assistant secretaries and undersecretaries and junior royal apothecaries who also frequented Dorana’s most fashionable establishment.
The ones who even now were saying:
“Poor Willer. Passed over twice. First in favor of the fisherman and then for that odd woman—you know the one, all skin and bone, hangs on the stableman’s sleeve, the bookseller. Yes, her. Without even his own precious superior to argue his case.”
“No! You mean to say Darran supports the appointments? Gracious! Ah well. They do say every man finds his level, and it seems poor Willer has found his. But who’d have thought it would be so low?”
Moaning, he took another deep swallow of ale.
Of course it was foolish to feel hurt by Gar’s decision. He should have expected the slight; everyone knew that where Asher was concerned, the pri— the king had all the perspicacity of a newborn babe.
What he hadn’t bargained for was Darran’s betrayal. After three years of faithful service, of uncomplaining drudge-work and utterly reliable discretion, of forgone private pleasures and curtailed private plans, to be publicly humiliated like that. To be ranked as just another dispensable pen-pusher. To see Darran standing shoulder to shoulder with that unspeakable Asher, their mutual implacable foe, and hear him praise the lout without stint or sarcasm. “Our good friend Asher, who’ll serve His Majesty and the kingdom superbly as Olken Administrator.”
Trembling with rewoken outrage, Willer tried to drown tormenting memory with more ale but instead spilled the tankard’s remaining mouthfuls down his shirt front. “Damn!”
He tried in vain to catch the eye of one
of the Goose’s three slatternly barmaids, but the useless wenches were too busy inviting Matt’s stable lads to ogle their dubious charms. Defeated, he slumped further in his seat and brooded into the emptied depths of his ale pot.
Somebody squeezed into the corner booth with him. Without asking. The cheek! “Kindly find another place to sit,” he said haughtily, not looking up. “I do not care for—”
A full tankard of ale thudded onto the benchtop before him. Now he did look up, into a face unknown to him. Long, thin, middle-aged. Olken. Unpleasant. The face smiled. “Evening to you, Meister Driskle.”
He frowned at the impertinent oaf. “Do I know you, sir?”
“No,” said the man. His clothing was covered by a long gray cloak, and in one hand he held a matching tankard of ale. “But I know you.”
“Many people know me. I am a well-known man.”
“You are,” agreed the stranger. “And an honor it is to be sitting here with you.” He nodded at the tankard he’d placed on the bench. “Will you share a toast with me, Meister Driskle? To our new king, may Barl bless his days among us!”
Well. One could hardly refuse to toast the king ...
“And to the memory of his family, Barl give them rest!”
Or his late parents and sister... “And to the swift recovery of our revered Master Magician!”
Not even Durm, though life was surely more peaceful without him.
Feeling a trifle bleary, Willer squinted at his new friend. “Who are you?”
The man smiled. “The servant of someone who’d like a word or three, Meister Driskle. If you’ve the time just now.”
He sniffed. “If this is some clumsy attempt to weasel a favor from a man with royal influence, then—”
“Oh no, Meister Driskle,” the man in gray said. His eyes were amused.
“Then what does this ‘someone’ want? Does he have a name? I’ll not set one foot outside this wretched tavern if you won’t tell me who—”
The man smiled. Lifted a finger and pulled down the edge of his cloak to reveal his collar. It was embroidered with a black and silver falcon: the emblem of House Jarralt.
Willer thumped backwards in his seat. “What is going on here?”
The man smiled more widely still and winked. His finger crooked, beckoning. Dumbfounded and mizzled with ale, Willer struggled from behind the bench and followed House Jarralt’s gray-cloaked servant out of the rackety inn and into the street, where a dark, discreet carriage drawn by four dark, discreet horses stood by the curb. The servant opened the carriage door, and Willer peered inside the curtained, glimlit interior.
There was only one occupant.
“Lord Jarralt!” he gasped. Snatching off his hat, he hastily offered an awkward, unbalanced bow. “How may I be of service, sir?”
Lord Jarralt was dressed in sober grays and blacks. He waved one ringless hand, indicating he desired his visitor to join him. Awed, Willer clambered up the carriage steps and bumped himself onto the empty black velvet seat opposite the Privy Councilor. His heart pounded painfully beneath its muffling layers of flesh.
“You may leave us, Frawley,” the lord said to his gray-cloaked servant.
Willer flinched as Frawley clicked the carriage door shut There came the crack of a whip, the slip-sliding clatter of shod hooves on wet cobbles, and the carriage moved off. To where or in what direction it was impossible to tell.
“My lord,” he said, breathless, “I don’t understand. Is something the matter? The king, is he—”
Jarralt lowered his upraised, silencing finger. “For the moment our beloved king is unharmed, Willer. And may I say how well it becomes you, that your first thought was for him and his safety. I am... impressed.”
Willer nearly swallowed his tongue. He didn’t know which was more exciting: that Lord Conroyd Jarralt knew his name, that he was sitting in the grand man’s carriage or that he’d just been paid an extravagant compliment by one of the most powerful and prestigious Doranen in the kingdom.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you, my lord. How may I serve you? Your man was most circumspect...”
“I am pleased to hear it” said Lord Jarralt. “Our business is of a private nature. I wouldn’t like to think of it as ... food for public consumption.”
Was that a warning? Yes. Yes, of course it was. “Oh, sir, you may rely on my complete discretion! I know the value of silence, I assure you. Why, in my capacity as private secretary to His Majesty, I—”
“Silence,” said Lord Jarralt. “Yes. Silence is often useful and so frequently underrated. It can even be a weapon, if wielded wisely. Do you follow me, Willer?”
He snapped shut his teeth and nodded eagerly.
Lord Jarralt smiled. “Excellent.”
Questions crowded Willer’s mouth like pebbles. Why am I here? Where are we going? What is it you want of me? Why are we meeting in secret? He was choking on curiosity, could barely breathe. His hands clutched the brim of his hat so tightly he thought his knuckles would crack.
Lord Jarralt said, “You don’t like Asher, do you.” It wasn’t a question. Still unspeaking, he shook his head.
“You’re not alone. Tell me ... were you asked to describe him, what would you say?”
What would he say? What wouldn’t he say? Feeling oppressed by all the savage words clamoring to be set free, he tittered. “I’d say he’s—he’s a bilious headache, my lord.”
That made Lord Jarralt laugh out loud. “A bilious headache! Yes. How true. But he is more than that. He is a noxious weed grown rampant and unchecked in our garden, this precious Kingdom of Lur. I’m told he’s been appointed Olken Administrator. A tragedy, to be sure.”
Willer swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
“To be truthful,” Lord Jarralt mused, fingers tapping idly on one knee, “I thought it might be you, but... alas. Doubtless Asher is to blame. He’s poisoned the king against you.”
A pang of hope seized Willer’s heart. He leaned forward, his crushed hat falling heedless to the carriage floor. “Oh, my lord,” he breathed. “I’m so afraid. His Majesty is so good, so kind, so trusting. I fear he has nurtured a viper in his bosom unawares. While Darran thought as I do I had some hope of Asher’s villainy finally coming to light, but now Darran has fallen under his spell too. I don’t like to seem immodest but I think I am the only one who can see—”
“Modesty is best reserved for those who have much to be modest about,” said Lord Jarralt. “For men like us, Willer, men of accomplishment and vision, it is a pointless conceit. You have no need to fear. You are not the only one who sees Asher for what he truly is.”
Willer released a silent sigh of ecstasy and sat back in his seat. The cold void within him was gone now, filled to overflowing with a bubbling warmth. Men like us. “My lord, I am relieved beyond words to hear you say so. But what can we do? We are two lone voices, crying in the wilderness.”
“I know,” said Lord Jarralt, and smiled so sadly Willer thought his heart might break. “It is a lonely road we walk, Willer. I take it you love our new king?”
Willer gasped. “Of course!”
Lord Jarralt twitched aside the curtain from the carriage window and for a long moment stared through it into the night-dark landscape beyond. Where they were now, Willer had no idea. The horses’ hooves no longer pounded cobblestones, he could tell that much. It meant they must have traveled beyond the City. Did it matter? Not at all. This incredible conversation had already taken him further than he’d ever gone in all his life.
“Gar is of an age to be my own son, you know,” said Lord Jarralt, sounding almost wistful. “It’s how I’ve always thought of him. And like any father, I worry. Imagine a host of dangers that might at any moment befall him.” His gaze flickered. A warning, or an invitation?
Willer took a deep breath to calm his booming heart “You think the king is in danger, my lord?”
Jarralt let the curtain fall again. “What do you think?”
Willer stared. �
�I—I don’t know.”
“I think you do. You said it yourself. A viper in the bosom.”
“Yes ... I did...” He frowned. “But Asher saved his life in Westwailing.”
Lord Jarralt smiled. “Or so we’re told.”
“I suppose,” Willer said slowly, “the story could be untrue. We only have Asher’s word, after all. The king’s recollection can’t be relied upon, he was drowning at the time. And the truth is a mirror, isn’t it? What you see in it depends very much on who’s looking, does it not?”
Lord Jarralt sighed. “I am a plain man, Willer. Plots and puzzlings and devious designs are foreign to my nature. Therefore allow me to speak plainly, in the hope that you will speak plainly in your turn.”
“I will, sir.”
“Speaking plainly, then, I am afraid Asher wields an undue influence over the king. I am afraid His Majesty has been duped. Deceived into believing the lout is harmless. On the contrary, he is baleful. He holds the Doranen, Barl’s own people, in contempt. And now that his power is unparalleled in the kingdom I am afraid he will use it to manipulate our gentle, trusting new king for his own ends.”
“What ends, my lord?” he said, trembling.
Lord Jarralt shrugged. “What is the ambition of every noxious weed?”
The question seemed to suck all the air out of the carriage’s interior, so that Willer struggled to keep his lungs inflated. He felt hot and cold, terrified and vindicated, brave and confronted, all at the same time. “To take over the garden,” he whispered.
“Exactly.”
“But, my lord...” He was anguished. “We have no proof.”
“What is proof, my friend, but a coat of paint required by fools who cannot see that a house unvarnished is still a house?”
“I know ... I know ... but His Majesty will never believe us without it.”
“That’s true,” Lord Jarralt admitted. “So we must find it. Or, should I say, you must find it.”
He sat back. “Me, my lord? How? I have no magic, no authority. I’m a mere Olken, a cog in the royal wheel, I—”