by Karen Miller
He slumped again, anger spent. Unbidden, her hand drifted to rest on the nape of his neck; he made a pleased little sound deep in his throat and closed his eyes. She let her hand stay where it was, thinking hard.
Another schism. That would surely usher in the Final Days foretold by Prophecy. Indeed, for a time the Circle in Trevoyle’s time had thought they were the ones to face the fire. The idea made sense. Fitted all too neatly with her visions of death and destruction. A battle between mages for the crown, for the control of Barl’s Wall, would swiftly see the magical balances of the kingdom upset. And Asher would be in the middle of it, standing at Gar’s right hand as he fought to keep control, to stay king. Yes. It all made horrible sense.
What she couldn’t see was how Asher was supposed to stop it from happening. Not with Olken magic, which was a soft and subtle thing, cajoling and persuasive. Not when he hadn’t even discovered its existence within himself yet.
The not knowing was killing her. What about a hint, Jervale, she silently pleaded. Just a little hint...
No reply, and none truly expected. She’d have to learn the truth of things another way. Since Gar seemed at the heart of the mystery, and Asher was close to Gar, then she’d have to get closer to Asher. In the name of duty. In the service of Prophecy.
Yes, yes, she answered the critical voice within. And because I want to.
Beside her, Asher stirred. “I should go,” he muttered.
“Why? Is there a WeatherWorking tonight?”
“No. But he was all set to create his family’s effigies today. He’ll take it hard. I should—”
“Leave him be,” she advised. “Let him grieve without an audience.”
He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Aye ... maybe ... but you don’t want me clutterin’ up your livin’ room. I’ll—”
She drifted her hand from his nape to his shoulder, almost caressing. “Did I say that?”
Dark color flushed his weathered skin, and in his face she saw the deepening, the maturing, of all the feelings she’d seen there that night outside the Goose when he’d asked her to leave Dorana with him and go gallivanting off to Restharven. Uncertainly he said, “I thought—”
“You need to ease your mind, Asher. Like it or not you aren’t a fisherman any more. You’re a man of power and responsibility. A solver of problems, even unlikely ones drowning in piss. Gar’s not the only one who needs a friend to look out for him. Stay. Rest. Forget about Gar’s problems, and Justice Hall, and all the other worries weighing you down. Stay. Your company’s no hardship to me.”
She watched hope flare in his eyes. Felt guilt, and a wicked flaring of her own, and smothered them both. Some of the strain eased from his face. He smiled and her heart turned over. “All right,” he said. “I’ll stay. But only for an hour.”
———
In the end he stayed two hours, and took his leave in a far better mood than when he’d arrived. He hadn’t chased her away. If anything she seemed closer to him now than she’d ever been before. As though something inside her had surrendered to the feelings she fought so hard to deny.
He didn’t know why, and he didn’t much care.
She’s mine, she’s mine, and soon I’ll hear her say it.
He jogged back to the Tower, invigorated. Made it all the way up to his suite, had his fingers on the door handle, damn it, when a peremptory voice called out: “Asher! A moment if you please!”
Swallowing a groan, he turned. Darran stood on the landing below him, a frown pulling his face into tight lines of concern.
“Darran, it’s late,” he said, looking down through the staircase railings. “Whatever it is, can’t it wait till morning? I’m fair bloody knackered. What are you still doin’ here anyways? Nix’ll have your guts for garters if you keel over again after all his pills and potions. He’ll say you’re makin’ him look bad.”
“I’m not interested in Pother Nix’s reputation,” replied Darran. “And if it’s all the same to you I’d rather not stand here bellowing like a fishmonger in the markets. Kindly come down to my office where we can converse like civilized men.” Forestalling argument, he disappeared.
Swallowing another groan, Asher trudged downstairs. Just to prove a point he didn’t actually enter Darran’s office but leaned against the doorjamb instead. “You must be feelin’ poorly, callin’ me civilized.”
Darran looked up from behind his desk. “I was being polite.”
“No need to bother on my account.”
“Clearly not,” said Darran snippily. “Now do stop being obstreperous, at least for five minutes. Or is that too much to ask?”
Despite his crushing weariness, Asher grinned. “Prob’ly.” Then, to avoid a tongue-lashing, he did as he was asked. Kicked the door shut behind him and dropped into the nearest chair. “Well?”
Darran steepled his fingers against his chin. “I’m worried about His Majesty.”
He could’ve screamed. “Gar’s fine.”
“He is not fine,” said Darran. “He needs a Master Magician.”
“He’s got one.”
“The one he’s got is broken. He needs a new one.”
“He doesn’t want a new one!”
“This isn’t about what he wants, Asher! It’s about what’s best for him!”
Asher got up and started pacing, his heels thumping the carpet as though he were killing cockroaches. All the lovely lingering glow of pleasure from Dathne’s company was vanished. Now he felt prickled and badgered and shoved in a corner, hot and bothered and bullied.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Darran, I ain’t a Doranen. I can’t snap my magic fingers and make everything all right.”
“Perhaps not, but you can talk to him. Use your dubious influence. Make him see he must—”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried!”
“Then try harder!”
“How? What d’you want me to do, Darran? Lock him in a room alone with Willer till he begs for mercy and promises anything to be let out again?”
Darran slapped his desk. “If that’s what it takes, yes! Asher, are you blind? Have you seen how dreadful he’s looking?”
“Of course I bloody have.”
“Then do something. Don’t you understand? You’re the only person he’ll listen to! In short, I fear you are his only hope!”
“I don’t want to be his only bloody hope!”
“And that makes two of us!” Darran shouted back, surging to his feet. “But what we want is irrelevant! Al that matters is our king!”
Asher threw up his hands. “All right! All right! I’ll do it! Anything to shut you up! Barl’s mercy, you bang away like a bloody woodpecker, don’t you?”
Darran’s lips curved in a mocking smile. Slowly, he sat again. “Given you possess all the sensitivity of a tree stump, I thought it the wisest tactic.”
“Oh, ha ha,” he muttered, and threw himself back in the chair. A fresh headache was building behind his eyes thunderous as a storm.
Now Darran’s smile was mordantly amused. “I hear you’re to preside in judgment at Justice Hall. Extraordi nary. I must say Barl has a strange sense of humor.”
“You’re tellin’ me.”
“Such an undertaking will involve a great deal of preparation. You’ll require assistance.”
“I got assistance.”
Darran pulled a disapproving face. “As a legal expert I’m sure Mistress Dathne makes a very fine bookseller.”
He felt his face heat. “I never said it was Dathne.”
“You didn’t have to. And while I’m sure she performs her duties as Assistant Olken Administrator quite ad equately, clearly this is a very different situation. Therefore, in the interests of not disgracing His Majesty, I shall coach you in the duties and protocols expected of you in the matter of Glospottle and the Dyers’ Guild. No, no,” he added, lifting a hand. “There’s no need to thank me.”
“Trust me,” Asher said grimly. “I weren’t about to.”
&nb
sp; “Have you set a date for the hearing?”
“Not yet.”
“Best to make it sooner rather than later. This ridiculous Glospottle business has dragged on for far too long,” said Darran with a severe sniff. “We can begin work tomorrow morning. After you’ve spoken with the king. Yes?”
He glared. Darran smiled. Still glaring, he stumped out of the ole crow’s office and slammed the door as hard as he could behind him.
The loud bang of timber against timber didn’t relieve his feelings, or help his headache, in the slightest.
———
He tried to speak to Gar first thing the next morning. But Gar wasn’t in his apartment suite, or the solar, or anywhere in the Tower. Mildly disconcerted, he wandered out to the stables, where he found Ballodair eating breakfast. Which meant the king wasn’t out for an early ride. So where was he?
“What’s amiss?” said Matt, behind him.
He rearranged his expression and turned. “Nowt. Just stretching my legs.”
Matt was grinning. Pulling on his gloves, ready for riding. “I hear your little meeting with Glospottle and the Dyers’ Guild nearly came to blows. Make sure you save me a seat in Justice Hall, eh? I wouldn’t want to miss the sight of you in your crimson robes.”
“Sink me bloody sideways! Who told you?”
“It was the talk of the Goose last night. If you weren’t famous before, my friend, you will be after! An Olken sitting in judgment at Justice Hall? You’re a man of hidden talents, Asher.”
“I’m a man of many headaches, is what I am. I’ll see you later, Matt. I got some business to attend to.”
As he left the stable yard, frowning, a nasty thought occurred. Yesterday Gar had gone to his family’s crypt to create the effigies. But that wouldn’t have taken all day and night. Not unless—
—unless something had gone horribly wrong.
Brisk walking turned into a fast jog, then an all-out run as he headed for House Torvig’s private burial vault. He was panting, streaming sweat, by the time he reached it. Glimfire still burned in the passageways; not a good sign. He took four wrong turns before finally stumbling into the small glimlit room Gar had selected to house the coffins.
He found his king sprawled facedown on the flag-stoned floor.
“Gar!”
There was a pulse, praise Barl, and slow, measured breathing. Gar’s skin was dry, cold, his eyes gently closed Even as Asher poked and prodded and shouted his name he stirred. Coughed. Woke and stared around him, confused.
“Asher?”
“Barl bloody save me,” Asher muttered, and helped him to sit up. “Are you all right? What happened? Don’t tell me you decided to sleep in here! ‘Cause that’s takin’ reverence for the dead just a—”
“No, no,” said Gar, and pressed a hand to his head. “I was molding the effigies and—I can’t remember—there was pain, and a bright tight, and—” His expression changed, confusion to caution to sudden fear. “Help me stand.”
With a grunt Asher hauled him to his feet. Gar swayed for a moment, finding his balance, then looked at the three coffins. Sucked in a great gasp of air and blanched fish-belly white.
“Barl bloody save me,” Asher said again, and this time it was a prayer. Serene, peaceful, exquisite: the faces of the queen and her daughter slept side by side, a song and its echo. But Borne’s face was a monstrosity.
On the left side it was perfect. An immaculate representation of the man. The right side, though, was twisted. Melted. The stone eye in its socket had boiled and burst, dribbling marble tears down the sunken cheek. It was as though the effigy were made of wax, not stone, and some mad magician had breathed on it with fire.
“What happened? What went wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Gar whispered. “It’s all a jumble. Barl have mercy, Asher. His face!”
Asher stepped between Gar and the dead king’s coffin. “Don’t look at it. Just listen. This happened ‘cause you’re coming apart at the seams, Gar. Nix’s bloody potion ain’t fixing you, it’s just been keepin’ you glued together. Except now even that ain’t working. And folk are startin’ to notice.”
“What folk? What are you talking about?”
“Darran’s been on at me. He can see how poorly you’re looking, and so can everyone else.”
Gar frowned. “Don’t. Not in here.”
“Where then? Gar, it’s time you came to your senses. Durm’s no closer to gettin’ out of bed today than he was three weeks ago and a blind man can see you need a Master Magician now.”
“Must I make it a royal command? I said I won’t discuss it!”
“You have to.” Heart thudding, Asher shoved his fists in his pockets. “You’re so bloody worried about betraying Durm. What about him?” He stepped aside, revealing Borne’s disfigured face. “If you work yourself unconscious or worse, into a fit that kills you this time, you’ll be givin’ this kingdom giftwrapped to Conroyd Jarralt. And if that ain’t a betrayal of your da I don’t know what is!”
For a moment he thought Gar was going to hit him. Then fury faded, and Gar turned away. “I know.”
“You need help. With the WeatherWorking, your magic. You need someone who understands what it means to be Doranen. I can hold your coat for you while you make it rain, and mop you up with cloths and water afterwards, but I can’t tell you how to control your power.”
“I know that too,” said Gar, and turned round again. He looked shattered. “I know I’ve been postponing the inevitable. And I know it has to stop.” He looked again at his father’s ruined effigy and flinched. “This is a sign from Barl, I think. A warning.”
“Then take the hint.”
Gar nodded. “I will. Tomorrow. Today I must rest. There’s WeatherWorking tonight and I need to regain my strength. If what happened here should happen while I’m in the midst of a Working ...” He shuddered.
“Fine,” said Asher, and started backing towards the chamber door. “Tomorrow. And don’t think I won’t hold you to it. That bloody Darran’ll never let me hear the end of it otherwise.”
Pale again, and somber, Gar followed. As he passed his father’s coffin he paused, bent low and pressed his lips to the cold, marred stone of his brow. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll return soon and make this right. I promise.”
“Course you will,” said Asher, waiting in the doorway. “It only happened ‘cause you’re tired.”
“Yes,” said Gar, still staring at his father’s face. “I expect so.”
Something in the way he said it prickled Asher’s skin. He took a step back into the chamber. “Gar?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—”
“Gar, don’t. Magic ain’t like the spotty blisters. You don’t catch it then get over it. Even I know that much. If you start thinkin’ like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe... maybe ...” He couldn’t say it If the words remained unspoken ...
Gar’s lips twisted. “Like maybe my magic is failing?”
Damn. “No! That’s daft. How can magic fail? It’s magic. I mean, you’re the historian, Gar. Has there ever been a case of a Doranen’s magic failing? Running out? Drying up?”
Slowly, Gar shook his head. “No. But then there’s never been a ease of it manifesting at such a late age either.”
“So now you’re not just studyin’ history, you’re makin’ it,” he said, itching to shake sense into him. Shake out fear, and doubt. “You’re tired, Gar. That’s all. For the love of Barl, don’t you start lookin’ for things to fret on! We got problems enough as it is.”
Gar sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Aye, well, don’t be sorry. Just be walkin’, eh? Some people have got work to do.”
That made Gar laugh. “You are so rude.”
He grinned, flooded with relief. “I ain’t rude. I’m just me.”
“Yes, you are,” said Gar. “And praise Barl for it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
After
seeing Gar safe and sound to his apartments, and narrowly avoiding both Darran and Willer, Asher lost himself in yet another day crammed top to bottom and side to side with meetings. Decisions. Authority. Things he was getting used to, but slowly. He saw Dathne only in passing. She smiled at him, her eyes warm, and his spirits lifted. Telling her his secret was dangerous but he couldn’t be sorry. Nothing would make him regret feeling closer to her.
The day ended, at last. He ate his dinner down at the Goose, suffering with as much goodwill as he could muster the whooping and hollering and rib-tickling about his upcoming appearance in Justice Hall. Matt’s lads promised to fill his boots with manure for good luck. Behind all the joshing and jibing, though, was genuine admiration. A kind of rough-spun awe. He was one of them, one of their own, and yet he was different. Not better. Just... special.
The idea made him laugh. Tell that to my brothers.
With several hours to go before he was due to meet Gar for WeatherWorking he distracted himself playing darts with Matt and a few of Pellen’s lads. Hoped Dathne might stop by for a pint, but she didn’t show. Just before closing he paid out the money he’d lost in wagers, said his goodnights and made his circumspect way to the Weather Chamber.
Gar arrived some ten minutes after he did, brisk and rested and uninviting of personal inquiries. “Any crises occur today I should know about?” he asked, conjuring pale gold glimfire.
“None I couldn’t handle.”
“Darran told me about Glospottle,” Gar said with a sly smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you through Justice Hall.”
Asher nodded. “Appreciate it. What’s on the menu tonight then?”
“Rain on the Flatlands. Snow in the Dingles. And the River Tey is overdue for freezing.”
So. A long hard night then. Wonderful. Swallowing a sigh, Asher settled himself in the armchair conjured for his comfort and waited for the show to begin.
Braced for the coming onslaught, Gar raised his left hand. Closed his eyes, murmured a brief prayer and traced the first sigil on the waiting air. The magic ignited, feebly. Asher frowned.