by Karen Miller
His charade as WeatherWorker was over.
With Durm mere days—maybe hours—away from dying, he had nowhere left to turn. Conroyd would now demand he be made Master Magician and with no reasonable way of denying the appointment the truth of his magical lihghting would come out. There was no way he could hide it any longer.
He’d gambled, and he’d lost.
Duty demanded he go to Conroyd this very morning, admit his magic had deserted him, and offer the man his crown. His kingdom. To do otherwise would not only be a betrayal of his sacred oath, it would put Asher in danger of discovery.
And that was out of the question.
Making Conroyd king. The merest thought of it was enough to close his throat, stifle his lungs, make him sweat and sweat. Everything within him resisted, strenuously, the idea of making Conroyd king.
Groaning, he rolled out of bed. Relieved himself—it reminded him of Indigo Glospottle, and coaxed a fleeting smile—scraped overnight stubble from his chin and cheeks, fumbled his hair into a rough-and-ready plait then found clothes to cover his nakedness. His belly rumbled but the thought of food made him nauseous. He sat in an armchair and returned to his brooding.
What would his father do, faced with this dilemma?
The answer came swiftly. Fight.
Borne would fight this, as he’d fought when his son’s lack of magic could no longer stay a secret. The law was clear on the question of royal children. One heir to the throne. But Borne had known then what his son knew now: that to meekly submit to the law meant the ascension of House Jarralt and the fall of his own. Meant surrendering the care of the kingdom and its peoples to a man half convinced that Olken weren’t people at all. Just slightly intelligent cattle. They weren’t. And to treat them so would lead to civil war.
So Borne sidestepped the law. Fought with his councils, both Privy and General, until they saw things his way and gave him an heir, not an error.
Yes. Faced once more with the prospect of Conroyd as king, Borne would do anything, everything, to thwart the lord’s burning ambition. But what? What? What could Borne’s son do that might deny Conroyd the crown?
Shining in the darkness, a glimmering, ghostly idea.
Perhaps ... risk a schism?
Chewing on a thumbnail Gar let his thoughts race along unfamiliar paths. He’d always assumed that, as the acknowledged, superior magician, Conroyd must be named king. And that to widen the field of candidates for the crown would be to invite disaster. His father had believed so. And he trusted his father’s instincts implicitly. Accepted his conclusions without question.
But Conroyd had two sons. Give him the crown and he would have to choose his heir. Elevate one ... disappoint the other. Be it now or later, schism was again the likely outcome.
Could there be another choice for WeatherWorker? Someone other than Conroyd? Was there in his kingdom a Doranen of another house fit to wear the crown? A magician of sufficient power to wield and control the tormenting Weather Magic? Who might... just might... share Borne’s affection and respect for the Olken and so preserve amity between the races?
He had no idea. Only Durm would know. As Master Magician he knew intimately the strengths and weaknesses both magical and personal of every Doranen living in Lur. It was from them he would appoint his own successor. It was his duty to know.
A pity he’d not also thought it his duty to record his conclusions for posterity in writing, so someone else might read them and use the information to avert disaster.
If he could find someone other than Conroyd ... assure himself beyond all doubt that he or she was fit to rule ... he could sidestep Conroyd altogether. Crown this unknown Doranen in private and present Privy Councilor Lord Jarralt with a king or queen he couldn’t replace.
“I think I have it, Father,” he said to his empty bedroom. “A solution that answers all dilemmas ... and shows, perhaps, that I’m still your son.”
It meant he’d have to see his Master Magician today. Bully Nix into rousing the dying man long enough to get some idea of where to find this Doranen paragon, this uncrowned monarch of Lur. Because one thing at least was certain. The longer he delayed taking action, the more likely it was that Durm would die unconsulted.
And that would be . .. unfortunate.
Fired with a desperate enthusiasm, but still mindful of what else was happening today, Gar went downstairs to find his Olken Administrator.
Asher was in his apartments, vomiting.
“I don’t know why you’re letting yourself become so overwrought,” Gar told him, watching as he blotted his pale sweaty face with a towel. “You’ve been in Justice Hall a score of times. And it’s not as if Glospottle’s case is a matter of life and death. It’s piss, for Barl’s sake. The dispute never should’ve gone this far in the first place!”
Asher straightened, glaring. “You sayin’ this is my fault?”
Gar raised a placating hand. “No. You handled the matter as well as anyone could have. Glospottle’s a stubborn fool and the guild is just plain greedy. This was always going to end up in Justice Hall.”
Pausing in the middle of changing shirts from green silk to blue, Asher snorted. “Wish you’d said so sooner. I’d’ve chucked it all in and gone back to Restharven.”
“Why do you think I didn’t?”
That earned him a sharp look. “What’s amiss now?”
He didn’t want to say too much in case his idea came to nothing. “I’ve had a thought. About how to extricate ourselves from the mess we’re in without risking discovery.”
“Aye? And?”
“I’ll tell you later... if it works out. If it doesn’t, I don’t want to look foolish.”
Asher’s lips twitched. “Bit late for that, I reckon.” In all his life, nobody ever spoke to. him like Asher.
Like he was just another man. An equal. A worthy target for easy teasing. It made all the darkness ... bearable.
He cleared his throat. “I received a note from Conroyd last night. Requesting an urgent meeting with himself and Holze in their capacity as Privy Councilors.”
Asher finished pulling on boots buffed to an eye-searing shine. “Privy Council meeting? I weren’t invited.”
Gar smiled wryly. “I noticed. Which is why I’m yet to respond. I don’t know for certain what they’re after but I think I can guess. I’m going to ignore them for as long as I can.”
“Ignore them forever!” said Asher, indignant. “Who’s the bloody king around here, eh?”
“Yes... well... that’s the thorny question, isn’t it?” Gar allowed himself a brief and bitter smile, then changed the subject. “I’m sorry I can’t be with you at the hearing today. I’m sorry I wasn’t more use in helping you prepare.”
“Don’t fratch it,” said Asher, shrugging into an opulent gold and peacock weskit. “You had more important things to think on, and I had help enough. Besides, Dathne weren’t about to let me set foot in Justice Hall without I was stuffed full to indigestion with folderol and jurisprudery.”
He saw the way Asher’s eyes warmed at the mention of her name, and took refuge in a little gentle teasing of his own. “When are you going to do something about that woman? Declare your intentions? Sweep her off her feet? It’s clear to anyone with half an eye you’re as mad as maggots about her.”
Asher flushed. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered, and dragged his best dark blue velvet coat off its hanger. “I got to get goin’. Bloody Darran’s insis-tin’ I ride in a coach all the way to Justice Hall. Silly ole crow.”
“That was my idea,” Gar confessed, and laughed out loud at the look on Asher’s face. For a moment, just a moment, the ache in his chest eased a little. “It’s an historic day, Asher. An Olken, Law Giver in Justice Hall. I wish we could celebrate it the way you deserve.”
“Ha!” said Asher, rolling his eyes. “I’m bloody glad we can’t. There’s been enough botheration already.”
Gar shook his head. Struggled for words
that wouldn’t sound maudlin but reflected how he felt. “I owe you so much. I doubt there’s another man living who’d have done what you’ve done. Risked what you’ve risked just because I asked it. I want you to know it’s appreciated. And one day—I don’t know when or how—I’ll back up my words with deeds.”
He held out his hand. Asher stared at it, his expression a muddle of exasperated pleasure. Such a rough-mannered man, his fisherman friend. Brusque and bullish, impatient of so much, and so many. But with a heart as strong and as grand as his beloved ocean, and possessed of a courage as unbreakable as Barl’s blessed Wall itself.
“Get away with you,” said Asher and, to Gar’s surprise brushed his hand aside to clasp him in a brief and rib-bending embrace. “Stop wastin’ my time, eh? You want history to show I was late to my first big performance at Justice bloody Hall?”
Gar stepped back. “Of course not. Go. Good luck. You can give me a blow-by-blow account over a cold ale before dinner.”
Heading for the door, Asher grinned over his shoulder. “Provided you’re payin’.”
“Just do me a favor. Make sure the blows aren’t literal?” he added. “And Asher?”
Asher whirled. “What?”
“There’s a Working tonight. Remember?”
All the warm amusement fled Asher’s face. Stilled, chilled, he nodded. “You think I could forget?”
And then he was gone.
Abruptly sobered, harshly reminded of everything he most wanted to wipe clean from recollection, Gar returned to his apartments to prepare for his meeting with Durm.
———
Asher looked so resplendent in his Justice Hall finery it was all Dathne could do to stop herself from throwing her arms around him in front of all the Tower staff, shouting for everyone to hear: “He’s mine, he’s mine, all mine!”
Instead she allowed herself to meet his questing eyes with a single, burning look, and laughed to see it kindle fire in his face.
“Let me see now, let me see,” fussed Darran, bustling to meet him at the bottom of the Tower’s spiral staircase. “Olken Administrator or not, Law Giver or not, I won’t let you set one foot outside if you’re a disgrace to His Majesty.”
To Dathne’s surprise Asher bore the old man’s wittering with unpolished good grace. Let him tweak at his weskit, smooth down his sleeves, repin the diamond at the center of one expensive lapel. With half a smile and exaggerated patience he looked down his nose at Darran and asked him, drawling, “Well?”
Darran sniffed. Stepped back, thin hands folded across his black silk middle. “You’re as gaudy as a popinjay, but I suppose you’ll do.”
The maids, the messengers and the extra clerks Darran had requested from the palace broke into enthusiastic applause. Willer just smiled a strange, frozen little smile and fluttered his fingers, which could have meant anything. Miserable little sea slug. For herself, Dathne clapped until her palms were stinging.
“All right, all right,” said Asher. “Ain’t you lot got work to do?” Pretending to be cross with them, but inwardly tickled pink. If he was hurt by the conspicuous absence of the stable lads he didn’t show it. They weren’t speaking to him, on account of Matt.
Briefly, sharply, she felt a pang of guilt. If only she hadn’t lost her temper. If only Matt hadn’t lost his. If Asher had stayed out on his ride, instead of returning unexpectedly and catching them in conflict.
She hadn’t told Veira yet. Couldn’t,bring herself to expose her lack of judgment.
I am the Heir. I should’ve known better.
But it was done now, and too late for undoing. Matt hadn’t left for the Dingles yet, she knew that much. His letters of recommendation were still with Darran, uncollected. She’d give it another day and then go see him. Mend their broken fences. Convince him to stay longer while she eased Asher back to the idea of him being here. He couldn’t really believe Matt was in love with her. The idea was ridiculous. He’d see that himself, once cooled completely of temper. He had to.
And Prophecy would continue unhindered, taking its own sweet time as usual.
As the staff departed, chattering, Darran said, “The coach is waiting out front for you. Willer and I will see you in the Hall.”
Asher stared. “I don’t need you there.”
“Nevertheless.” Darran smiled. “We are attending.”
“Fine,” said Asher. “But don’t think I’ll sit still for a review after.” He looked at Dathne then and held out his hand. “Coming?”
She wasn’t expecting that. “Me?”
“To go over the last-minute details.” His voice and face were proper and polite, but his eyes promised wickedness. Her blood became honey, warm and voluptuous.
Ignoring Willer’s jealous glower and Darran’s avuncular simper, she pretended to boredom. Waved away Asher’s outstretched hand. “Very well. If you insist.” And marched off without him towards the foyer doors.
He followed, laughing.
As the carriage rolled down the driveway, Asher drew the curtains tight closed and stole her breath in a kiss. She let him thieve from her again, just once, then pulled away and wrenched the curtains open. The carriage had just turned out of the main palace gates and was heading down the long slow street to the City center.
“Oy!” he protested.
“There’ll be time for dalliance later,” she said severely. “For now, you look outside this carriage then tell me the curtains should stay shut!”
“Sink me bloody sideways,” said Asher, awestruck, and stared at the passing pavements. “What d’they think they’re doin’!“
It seemed there wasn’t an Olken man, woman or child in the City not crammed on the pavements to see him go by. They were shouting. Waving. All the young girls brandished flowers. Reaching across him she slid down the window and the crowd’s excitement poured into the carriage like a waterfall. “Asher! Asher! Asher! “
“Don’t just sit there,” she scolded, laughing. “Wave to them. They’re your people, they’re proud of you. For the first time since the coming of the Doranen we have one of our own at the pinnacle of power.”
“Did I say I wanted to be a bloody pinnacle?” said Asher, scowling. “Barl bloody save me!”
She watched him put his face to the window. Heard the roaring crowd roar louder, seeing him. Knew that this was right, felt it in her bones as she’d not felt anything so strongly since that morning—a lifetime ago now—when she’d woken to know that at last he was within her reach. The ties of blood and magic making her Jervale’s Heir rejoiced.
The Olken in the streets scant feet from their carriage, the Olken shouting and laughing and calling his name, they adored Asher for being their Olken Administrator. How much more would they adore him when he was revealed as their Innocent Mage?
Suddenly she no longer cared that she couldn’t see how that would happen. No longer cared that dreams and visions had fallen into slumber. Her desperate need to know had died. It was enough that she was here, beside him, in a royal carriage headed for Justice Hall where he would sit in the seat of the Law Giver and solemnly uphold the law. Enough to know that she had done her part in guiding him to this place, at this time, when the world trembled on the brink of change.
Enough that he was her husband and she his wife.
If Matt had been here he’d be moping. Frowning. Worrying that Prophecy had more to say than just there was an Innocent Mage. He’d be reminding her of danger, too. That Asher was born to face a fearsome darkness. That Prophecy was vague on what, or who, or how, and could be she should think on that.
She was tired of thinking on that. She’d thought on that for years of her life and what had it got her? Sleepless nights and a belly full of dread. A small and shabby apartment above a shop full of books and no one in the bed beside her.
Asher was here. Prophecy’s child. Soon enough he’d confide the last of his secrets to her, because he loved her. Trusted her. It was meant. Prophecy unfolded and they would do its bidding.
Asher took her hand, shaking her free of reverie. “Pellen told me there’d be a ruckus but I didn’t believe him. Now I owe him a beer, the bastard.” He laughed. “There’s even Doranen out there! Come to see me What would my da say, eh, if he could see this?”
Daringly, she raised his fingers to her lips. “He’d say he was proud,” she whispered. “As I am proud.”
The carriage trundled onwards.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” said Pother Nix unhappily. “I’ve seen this happen before, and there is no explanation for it that I or any pother can give. When a man is this grievously injured, logic oft disappears. For reasons known only to itself Durm’s body has given up the fight to live.”
Sitting close beside the bed, Gar chafed Durm’s cold lax fingers; it was like rubbing a bundle of sticks. “And you’re quite sure there’s nothing more you can do to save him?”
“Sir, as I told you last night, I have fed him every herb under the sun, in more combinations than I thought were possible,” said Nix. “And exhausted my supply of healing spells and incantations. Alas, for all his formidable skills, Master Magician Durm’s injuries have proven greater than his ability to survive them.”
Gar rested his gaze on Durm’s sunken, retreating face. On the graceless folds of emptied skin draped across jutting cheekbones, the thinned and shrunken lips, the pouched, sagging jowls. He’d never been a handsome man, Durm, but there’d been power in his face. A blunt brutality of character. Now there was merely absence. A fast-fading reminder of the man who once had lived there.
“How long does he have, can you say?” Nix spread his hands. “No, sir. He’s in Barl’s keeping.”
“Is he like to wake again, before the end?”
“Perhaps. I cannot say for certain, Your Majesty.”
Gar chewed at his lip. Now matters could become a trifle ... difficult. “Nix, I must speak plainly. I’m sore in need of Durm’s counsel before he dies. There’s the question of who he wished to succeed him, and other matters I’m not at liberty to discuss. Is there a way of... encouraging his waking? Some stimulating herb or incantation you can apply, that will rouse him enough to speak?”