by Karen Miller
Laughing, Da joined him and together they cracked their muscles, smiling with the effort, as the catch came over the side in all its wet-scaled flapping glory. ..
“Da!” said Asher and sat up in his bed.
“Easy now,” said a comfortable voice to his right. “You might find your head’s gone all a bit whirligig.”
It had. Dizzy, he flopped back on the pillows and waited for the spinning to stop. The voice was female. Old. Unfamiliar, as was the room. “Where am I?”
“Safe.”
There were no lamps lit; he couldn’t see the speaker’s face. “Where?”
“In my house.”
“And who are you?”
“A friend. The friend of friends. Be easy now. Your enemies are behind you and they’ll not find you here.”
He touched clumsy fingers to his neck. “I ain’t dead.” It came as a kind of discovery, and a welcome surprise.
A breathy chuckle. “No, child, you ain’t.”
His mind was a jumble of memories. The cage. The Square seething with sound and faces. The executioner with his axe. The glimfire, which kept on sparking. How the wooden block felt pressed against his throat. The pain in his wrists and ankles as he walked towards his death. The stink of his own piss and sweat. Pellen’s grim, unfeeling face.
Gar.
He tried to sit up again. For the first time in forever his body was free of pain. “How did I get here? What’s goin’ on? Sink me, woman, who are you?”
A rough-palmed hand reached out of the darkness and held him down. “People call me Veira.”
His muscles felt like soggy bread. “What people?”
“Just people.”
“The folk who rescued me?”
“That’s right.”
He wished there were a few more candles burning, so he could see this Veira’s face. “I want to meet ‘em.”
“You can’t, child. Not yet. But one day soon, I hope. Prophecy willing.”
Prophecy? What was prophecy? “Who are you to say no to me? I want to meet ‘em, I said!”
“And I said not yet!” she snapped, her voice hardening.
Another snatch of memory: loud screaming, and a harsh, urgent voice in his ear demanding: “Do you want to live?”
Then he did sit up, never mind his weakened body or the hand still pressed against his shoulder. “I remember you now! You were there! You saved my life!”
“A lot of people saved your life, child,” the old woman said. She sounded suddenly sad. “And one man in particular. I’ll tell you about him, by and by.”
He sank to the pillows again, his body a traitor. “Call me Asher. I ain’t a child.”
A breath of amusement. “You are to me. To me, at my age, you’re a spratling.”
Spratling. “That’s a fishing word.”
“And you’re a fishing man. Or you were, and hope to be again. But if you want that dream coming true there’s a thing or two you’ll need to do first.”
“Show me your face,” he said, suspicious. “Why are we sittin’ in the dark? Can’t you light a lamp or somethin’?”
“Light one yourself,” said the aggravating old besom. “The glimfire’s in you, along with everything else.”
He stopped breathing. Didn’t start again till his lungs began clamoring for mercy. “That ain’t funny.” .
“And I’m not laughing. The time for hiding is past us, young Asher of Restharven. Though that’s not the name I know you by.”
He wasn’t going to ask how she knew him. Knew any of it. Wouldn’t say another word until she tit a lamp and showed him her face and explained what he was doing here.
She answered the unasked question anyway. “For six hundred years, Asher, me and mine have known you as the Innocent Mage. Prophecy named you in the days of Barl and the making of her Wall. When she sowed the seeds we’re reaping as weeds today. You’ve a birthright, child. And the womb of the world is ready at last to spit you out in blood and pain.”
He shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
“Am I?” she asked him. He heard a whispered word and felt a tremble of power. A tiny bloom of glimfire appeared hovering above her palm like a firefly. It illuminated the softly folded planes of her face and turned her dark eyes to gemstones. “You see?” she said, smiling. “You aren’t the only one after all. But you are the very best...”
He was too astonished to speak.
She frowned at the ghmfire. “Believe it or not this used to be ours. The Doranen took it, of course, just hke they took everything else. And our fool elders let ‘em. Made their short-sighted bargain and dropped us all in a stinky, stinky soup.”
He found his voice at last. “I ain’t got the first idea what you’re witterin’ about. You called glimfire. I thought I was—”
“Alone?” The old woman chuckled. “No, child. Not alone. Every Olken’s got magic in him. What did you think happens at your Sea Harvest Festival? You think the fish rise for a Doranen, singing? No. They answer the call of the Olken. Lur’s fisherfolk using the power they were born with, all unknowing.”
“What? What d’you mean, what—”
She raised her other hand. “Hush now. There’s not much time for story-spinning, so pin back your ears and I’ll tell you what’s most needful.”
The last time he’d let someone tell him a story he’d ended up with his head on a chopping block. He kicked back the blankets. “Don’t bother. I ain’t interested. And I ain’t stayin’ neither.”
She made no move to stop him. Just watched as betrayed by weakness he crashed to the rug-covered floor. Banged and bashed about finding his feet. Staggered to the bedroom door. Grabbed its handle. Wrenched it open—
“Hello, Asher,” said Dathne. Smiling. Shaking. “Please don’t go yet. We’ve a lot to talk about.”
———
After hours on the road the elderly donkey was exhausted, so they climbed from the cart and walked for a while. Matt kept to the poor beast’s head, guiding its tottering footsteps along the rutted roadway. Gar and Darran followed behind. It was the dark of the moon and the starlight was faint. Close ahead of them were the Black Woods and the mountains. This near to the Wall there should be a glorious wash of gold to help them find their way, but...
Cold, hungry, plagued with blisters and longing for this journey to end, Gar looked around. Apart from themselves the road was empty; it should be safe to speak. “Are my eyes playing tricks, Matt, or does it seem to you the Wall has... faded?”
Matt’s voice floated back to him out of the dark. “No tricks. If what you say is true—if Morg is really among us—then it’s my belief he’s working to bring down the. Wall from inside the kingdom.”
Envy prickled. Matt had already explained his peculiar sensitivities. His ... magic. It was all he’d explained; up till now the journey had been conducted almost in silence. “You can feel that?”
“I can. Now, Gar, it’s best we hold our tongues. Sound travels easier than we do, this time of night.”
Beside him Darran bristled, deeply disapproving of his prince’s instruction that Matt abandon formality and get used to calling him “Gar”. He chewed at his hp for a moment, debating. But it had to be said... before they reached then destination, which promised little relaxation. Now seemed as good a time as any.
He lowered his voice. “You hed to me, Darran.”
Limping just a little, likely nursing blisters of his own, Darran kept his gaze pinned to the road. “I’m sure I never did, sir.”
“Don’t make it worse, Darran. You lied. Asher doesn’t forgive me. He hates me. I think he’d kill me if he could.”
A fraught pause, then Darran rallied. “His Highness is mistaken. I distinctly recall—”
He raised a finger. “Don’t. Not if you truly love me.”
Silence, save for the creaking of the cart’s wheels, the thudding of then feet onto the road’s packed clay and the donkey’s labored breathing.
“I only sought to ea
se your pain, sir,” said Darran eventually, harshly whispering. “Asher was about to die, I saw no harm in—”
“I know why you did it,” he said, biting back impatience. “And I’m grateful that you care. But it doesn’t change the truth. Asher trusted me and I betrayed him to his death. He hates me for that... and I can’t say I blame him.”
“Well, I can!” said Darran, indignant. “You did what you had to, what any king would—”
“Exactly. I acted like a king... but what Asher needed was a friend.”
“You’ve been a friend without peer, sir! He was a nothing, a nobody, when he came to Dorana!”
Gar shook his head. “And now he’s a fugitive, destined for death if he’s discovered, and all because of me. I swore on my life I’d protect him, Darran, and instead of keeping my word I abandoned him. I just pray that when we see him again he’ll not let his hatred of me stand in the way of helping us against Conr—Morg.”
“He won’t,” said Matt from the gloom ahead. “He might hate you but when he hears what you’ve got to say, he’ll do what’s needful. What’s right.”
“How can you be so sure?” he said, shivering.
“Because he’s the Innocent Mage.”
He frowned. “And what is that, exactly, Matt? I think it’s time you told me what’s going on. You do know, don’t you?”
Darkly silhouetted, Matt nodded. “I do.”
“In the guardhouse you mentioned a circle. What did you mean?”
“I meant I’m not alone,” said Matt. “Me, Dathne, the folk who helped save Asher—we’re magicians. Not like the Doranen. Our magic’s different. But we have a power, like your people do. We’re joined in secrecy and silence, bound to serve Prophecy and Asher. The Innocent Mage.”
“And does Asher know this?”
“He didn’t, but I’d say there’s a good chance he does by now. By now he likely knows everything.”
When last Gar saw him, Asher was kneeling with his head on a block, waiting for a sharpened axe to fall. Remembering that stark, cruel moment he felt his bowels constrict. What would happen when Asher came face-to-face with the architect of his torment and near destruction?
Matt seemed certain he’d forgive and forget. For himself, he wasn’t anywhere close to confident. He had his own suspicions and they threatened to drop him where he walked.
He increased his pace till he fell into step beside his former stable meister. “I think, Matt,” he said, letting his concern show, making it an order and not a request, “that if we want to make sure Asher’s with us, not against us, it’s time I knew everything too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bundled back into the saggy single bed by that bossy Veira, Asher stared at Dathne as though she were a ghost. Nasty suspicions were stirring in his mind. Churning in his belly.
It didn’t help she was having trouble meeting his eyes.
“Dath?” he said softly, willing her to look at him. “Dath, what are you doin’ here? What’s goin’ on?”
Still she kept her gaze pinned to the floor. Now a lamp was lit and he could see her clearly. She looked frightened. He’d never seen her frightened before. Angry. Impatient. Uncertain. But never rigid with fear like this. She stood with her back pressed hard to the closed bedchamber door, her fingers fisted by her sides.
Retreated to the bedroom’s shadows, Veira sat like a pile of laundry in a ratty overstuffed armchair shoved in a corner and watched them.
He ignored her. “Dath—talk to me. How did I get here? Who’s this Veira and what’s she to you? To me? Tell me!”
In her dark corner, the old woman stirred. “Well, child, you started this. Seems to me you should finish it.”
Dathne looked up. Her eyes were enormous. “Asher, do you love me?”
He scowled. “I married you, didn’t I? Though it’s star-tin’ to look like I made a mistake.”
She flinched as though he’d struck her. In a way he had. He didn’t care. If she was frightened, he was terrified.
“I’ve a story to tell you, Asher.” Her voice was a whisper. “Will you promise to listen, not judging, till you know all the facts?”
It was the first of Tevit’s Principles of Jurisprudence. Anger burned him. Did she think it was funny, throwing Justice Hall in his face now? After everything he’d been through?
She saw her error. Reached out to him, alarmed. “Please, Asher! Listen! You’ll understand everything by the time I’m done.”
“Understand what I’m doin’ here? What you’re doin’ here? How I escaped, and how she can do magic?”
Dathne crept to the chair beside the bed and slid into it. Looked where he was pointing, at the silently watchful old woman, and nodded. “Everything. I promise.”
“Dathne...” He felt sick, his heart was beating so hard. “Can you do magic?”
Tears flooded her eyes. Overflowed down her cheeks. “I couldn’t tell you, any more than you could tell me. Secrecy was the only thing that saved us. Remember that, before you judge me.”
She could do magic. Everything about her was a lie. He turned his face away. “Reckon I’d rather forget.”
“You can’t. You mustn’t. Or the kingdom will fall into chaos and nothing you love will survive.”
Without another word spoken he knew what went on here was dangerous. Madness. Worse than anything Gar had tricked him into. He didn’t want to know more. Wished almost he was dead, his head and his body in two separate pieces. Fed to the dogs, as Jarralt had promised.
Jarralt.
As always, Dathne read him. “You’re safe, Asher. I promise. No one’s hunting you. Conroyd Jarralt believes you’re dead.”
Still he couldn’t look at her. “He’d need a body for that.”
“He’s got one.”
Now he looked. “You murdered someone?”
“Jarralt’s the murderer, not Dathne,” said Veira from the shadows. “Rafel was one of us. He gave his life willingly, because it was needful. And his birthright.”
He kept his gaze pinned to Dathne. “So all this is part of a plan?”
She nodded. “Yes. One set in motion centuries before either of us were born.”
“And me? What am I?”
She sat a little straighter in her chair. Unclenched her fingers and laid them softly on her knees. “You are the Innocent Mage, Asher. Born to save the Kingdom from blood and fire.”
He couldn’t answer. Could only lie there and stare at this woman, this stranger. Had he kissed her? Had he married her? He’d never seen her before in his life.
“I know this is difficult,” she said. “It’s not easy for me either. Things happened I should’ve ... prevented.”
“Like spreading your legs for me?”
She blanched. “Like falling in love.”
“Is that what you call it?” he said, and laughed. His stomach was full of acid, churning.
She turned her face from him. “Matt warned me this would happen. I was a fool not to listen.”
“Matt warned—” He struggled to sit up. “Matt’s a part of this?”
“We’re all of us a part of it, child,” said Veira from the darkness. “Whether we know it or don’t. What’s coming comes to everyone trapped behind the mountains. And unless we work together, no matter our pride and hurt feelings, the thing that’s coming will kill every last one of us. Is that what you want on your conscience?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about! I don’t know what you mean!”
“Then let me tell you,” said Dathne. “Forget what hurts I’ve done you and just listen to the words. I swear they’re true.”
All the wounded places in his body were awake again, and burning. His head pounded. He wanted to flee but his legs were too weak. He was pinned beneath the blankets, captive. As he’d been captive one way or another all his damned life.
“Have I got a choice?” he said bitterly.
Veira answered him. “Always, child. We can’t compel you to do what�
�s right.”
No, they bloody couldn’t. They couldn’t compel him to do anything, magic or no magic, and woe to them if they bloody well tried. He had a little magic of his own.
As for right and wrong—Dathne had a hide to think she could give him a lecture on that. All these secrets ... the people in his life he’d trusted, leaned on ... and none of them what he’d thought they were.
Veira said, quite kindly, “Your pricked pride is the least of our worries, child. Hear Dathne out then tell me we were wrong.”
Pricked pride? Pricked pride? He nearly flung the words back in her face, came close to kicking aside the blankets and getting out of there, no matter if it meant crawling on hands and knees... but curiosity won over outrage, just.
“Fine,” he grunted, and folded his arms. “I’m listenin’.”
The Doranen who came over the mountains six centuries ago were nothing like the Doranen he knew today, Dathne told him. Those Doranen were a bright and brittle people, weary and battle-scarred and desperate for peace. Their magic was a thing of violence. With it they called nightmares out of hiding and gave them hfe, gave them teeth to bite and talons to tear. Flattened buildings. Razed whole towns. Slaughtered thousands. They were warriors. And in their eyes were memories of the homeland they’d left behind them. Memories of carnage, and what it had cost them to escape.
Led by a young woman named Barl, they’d fled then war-torn Dorana in terror, crossing countless miles of country burying loved ones as they came. Confronted by the mountains they’d not turned back but instead clawed then way over them and down into Lur. And there found the safe harbor for which they’d long been searching.
They had no intention of giving it up. Of struggling back over the mountains, losing even more of their friends and family on the way, so they might die in the monstrous mage war they’d so narrowly, so dearly, escaped. No matter that this new land wasn’t theirs to take. No matter it already had inhabitants who loved it. They were a race for whom wanting became having without a second thought. And they wanted Lur.
The people they found here called themselves Olken. They were a gentle race with magic of their own, an earthbound power tying them to the land, to green and growing things. To the ebb and flow of natural energies. They lived in loosely allied independent communities scattered from coast to coast, with no central government, no king or queen. They had no hope of defeating the warrior Doranen. No chance of resisting the lure of Doranen magic. It was splendid. Miraculous. There was nothing it couldn’t do. It even let the Olken understand the beautiful invaders, and be understood in return.