by Karen Miller
She stopped and swung about then, bony fingers closing hard on his wrist. In her face, a riot of uncertainty. Her eyes, plain brown and piercing, searched his face over and over as though looking for answers to a question she didn’t care – or dare – to speak aloud. Her brows were knitted and her teeth pinched her lower lip bloodless. There was a blazing ferocity in her he didn’t understand … but the heat of it backed him up a pace.
And then she smiled, the heat snuffing out of her like a wind-blown candle. Stepping back again, she let go of his wrist. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she said lightly. ‘It never hurts to let people know you won’t be trifled with. Now come on. I really don’t have all day.’
At length the gravelled path led them to another wall, this one of rough-hewn bloodrock speckled with some kind of crystal that winked and flashed in the sunshine. An elaborate cast-iron gate stood wide open in welcome; passing through it, Asher saw the blue tower much closer now, yet still partly obscured by the oaks standing tall around its base. Straight ahead, though, was a grand curving archway of cream and ochre sandstone connecting two long, low ochre brick buildings. There were windows ranged at intervals along their walls, the open shutters painted a rich dark green. Through several of them horses poked long faces of brown and chestnut and grey, nostrils quivering, ears pricked, dark eyes wide and curious. Ringing into the surrounding quiet, a hammer struck echoes from an anvil.
‘And here we are,’ said Dathne. ‘Matt’s little kingdom.’ When Asher looked at her askance she added, ‘You think I’m jesting? Trust me, I’m not. The horses are his heart, and he protects them as keenly as any king does his subjects. Keep that fact pinned to your mast in plain sight, Meister Fisherman, and you’ll not go far wrong.’
‘Ha,’ said Asher.
They passed beneath the sandstone archway and into the rich-smelling world of horses. The stables were arranged in a large square, each box opening onto an expanse of herringboned brick and dark red gravel. The yard was immaculate, swept and raked and clean as a cook’s kitchen. At its centre gloried a lavish, bee-buzzed flowerbed.
The sound of hammering was louder in here, but had changed. Off to the left in a covered, open-fronted alcove a massive grey horse stood snorting with displeasure. A young Olken lad gripped its plaited leather lead hard in both hands. A giant of a man, Olken and mountainously muscled, crouched over one of the horse’s raised hind legs, cradling the fetlock and hoof between his bent knees. His black hair was clipped neat as a hedge. One large hand held a hammer and pounded nails into the horse’s hoof with such precise power that Asher, staring, had to wonder what it might feel like to be felled by a punch from him.
Be best, prob’ly, if he never found out.
Beside him, Dathne made a pleased sound. ‘There he is.’ She raised her voice. ‘Matt!’
Matt took a moment to tap the nail-head home with one final metallic blow, then shuffled carefully back to front, hand supporting the horse’s hoof, so he could finish off securing the shoe. Settling into his new position, hitching the hoof high onto his thigh, he glanced up. Saw Dathne, saw the stranger with her, and froze. His brown eyes widened, and his lips parted, sucking in an astonished rush of air. Then his expression smoothed, became completely noncommittal.
‘Dathne.’ His voice was deep and instinctively soothing. ‘Be with you directly.’ He glanced at the lad clutching the horse’s lead rope. ‘Make sure you’ve got a good grip there, Boonie, he’s tensing up.’ He made a hissing sound and jiggled the horse’s leg gently. ‘Settle down, old son, it’s nearly over.’
Quickly, with an economy of effort and a minimum of fuss, the stable meister resumed his task. Asher, watching closely, was impressed. You could trust a man who knew his job and did it well, without boastful flourishes.
Finished at last, Matt guided the horse’s hoof back to the ground and nodded at the lad. ‘Put him in his paddock now, Boonie, and mind he doesn’t kick you when you turn him loose.’
The lad bobbed his head. ‘Aye, Meister Matt,’ he said, eyes aglow with respectful worship, and led the grey horse away. Matt watched them for a moment, eyes warm, then stuck his hammer through his belt and crossed the yard to Dathne and Asher.
As he opened his mouth to speak, Dathne said brightly, ‘Matt, this is Asher of Restharven. His Highness has hired him to replace Tolliver.’
Matt looked at her. ‘Oh he has, has he?’
‘There was an incident in town, you see. Ballodair—’
‘Ballodair!’ Matt exclaimed. ‘Dathne, if you—’
She clapped her hands under his nose. ‘The horse is fine, Matt! Stop fussing!’ She rolled her eyes at Asher. ‘Now do you believe me?’
Matt took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Just tell me what happened,’ he said with gritty patience.
Asher decided he’d had enough of other people speaking for him and deciding his fate. ‘Some fireworks went off, the horse took fright, tipped the prince onto his arse and tried to bolt. I caught it, and the prince offered me a job.’
Matt was staring at Dathne, the warmth in his eyes chilled now. ‘Fireworks?’ His voice was ominously quiet.
‘One or two rockets,’ she told him, equally ominous. ‘No harm done.’
‘This time.’
Asher scowled. From the looks of them, these two were set to start brangling like cats any tick of the clock. Something was going on here, some kind of lovers’ spat, most like, and he wanted no part of it. Let ’em tussle on their own time. ‘Who do I see about recording my wages? Twenty-five trins a week I’m to get.’
‘Twenty-five?’ Startled, Matt turned. ‘That’s—’
‘What the prince said he’d pay me,’ said Asher, truculent.
‘He did,’ agreed Dathne.
‘That’s as may be,’ said Matt, still glowering, ‘but is he worth twenty-five trins a week?’
‘Why should you care?’ Dathne replied. ‘It’s not your money, is it?’
‘No,’ said Matt, ‘but it’s my yard and my headache if the other lads hear—’
Her hand lifted, silencing him midsentence. Turning to Asher she said, ‘Are you going to blab to the other lads how much you’re being paid?’
Asher snorted. ‘Course not. What kind of a fool d’you take me for?’
She turned back to Matt. ‘There. You see? He’s the soul of discretion.’
Matt gaped at her for a moment, then closed his mouth with a snap of teeth and glared at Asher. ‘What do you know of horsekeeping, any road? You’ve not the look of a horseman, that much I can tell.’
Asher glared right back. ‘Reckon I know enough. His Highness went and hired me, didn’t he? Don’t reckon I need to give you more of a recommendation than that. Why don’t y’wait and see what kind of a fist I make on the job afore you count me no good, eh? Mayhap you’ll get yourself a pleasant surprise.’
Matt shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m already surprised, Asher of Restharven.’ His scowling gaze snapped sideways to Dathne, and the air fairly sizzled between them. ‘Whether or not it’s pleasant remains to be seen.’
Definitely, something was going on there. Asher took a small step to one side, putting distance between himself and the bookseller. ‘Y’won’t regret hirin’ me on,’ he said. ‘I ain’t a wastrel, nor a shimshammery tyke neither. If I take a man’s money, I give ’im proper weight for it.’
Matt looked at him then, really looked at him. In his piercing regard there was a strange echo of the way Dathne had stared at him earlier. After a long moment, the stable meister nodded. ‘So you say. But words are cheap. I’ll judge you on deeds, if I judge you at all.’
‘And I’m sure nobody could ask for better than that,’ said Dathne briskly. ‘Now, Matt, once Asher’s settled in His Highness wants Nix to have a look at that cut on his head. Your precious Ballodair did that, so probably you owe Asher an apology. I must be off, I’ve to go see the queen, and then it’s back to my little shop before I lose any more business today!’ She waggled her fingers at them
and turned on her heel.
Matt took a thunderous step after her. ‘Dathne!’
Striding away, she called back to him, ‘Tonight in the Goose, Matt, remember? No later than seven or you’ll be paying!’
Matt stared after her, face stormy. Then he raised his fisted hands, stamped one booted foot to the gravel and exclaimed in heartfelt tones, ‘Barl save me! That bloody woman!’
‘Aye,’ said Asher, and shook his head. ‘She be a slumskumbledy wench and no mistake.’
Matt blinked and lowered his fists. ‘Slumskumbledy?’
‘Brangling,’ explained Asher. ‘Contrariwise.’ He shrugged. ‘A pain in the arse, if y’must know.’
Matt shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at Asher. Asher stared back. Abruptly, spontaneously, they exploded into a duet of baffled, rueful laughter.
‘A pain in the arse?’ Matt echoed, eyes bright. ‘Asher of Restharven, I doubt I could’ve said it better myself!’
And just like that, though Meister Matt was the boss, and a handful of years older than his new stable lad, they were friends.
At five after seven that evening Matt shouldered his way into the Green Goose Inn, favoured watering hole and gossip mill of many royal staff, whether they served in the palace or the Prince’s Tower. The Goose was a popular meeting place for several reasons: it was only a short walk from the palace grounds, useful for when a body’s legs were all unsteady from an excess of cheer; the ale was cool and tasty, the food hot and plentiful, and their host, Aleman Derrig, could be sure to keep out any nuisances hoping to importune favours of a royal nature.
Though his name was called a dozen times as he ducked his head under the lintel, Matt just raised an acknowledging hand and did not stop to dally. All his attention was on Dathne, wedged comfortably in a corner booth with an ale-foamed tankard and a steaming bowl of soup keeping her company.
Sliding onto the bench opposite, he planted his elbows on the scarred, smoke-soaked table between them, leaned forward into the fragrant waftings from the broth bowl and said, his voice shaking with outrage, ‘That’s him, isn’t it? What in Jervale’s name d’you think you’re doing?’
‘Keep your voice down. There’s no need to tell the world and all his cousins what we’re about.’
Matt looked around the crowded inn. Humperdy’s Band was racketing away in the far corner, fiddle and pipe and tambourine and drum filling the spaces between floor and rafters with raucous music. Many of the evening’s rowdies were singing along, in tune and out of it. Heels banged away under benches and tables, more or less in time with the ditty, tankards thumped in counterpoint, and above that was the cheerful bellowing of friends gathered in good-natured banter. He doubted anyone standing even two feet away had overheard him.
He glared. ‘Stop trying to change the subject.’
Dathne sighed and shook her head. ‘I did what was needful, Matt. No more, no less. I’m sorry to fret you. It wasn’t my intention. But I must act when the push comes upon me, you know it, so don’t sit there like a frog on a log pulling faces. We have him under our noses now, which is exactly where he should be. What’s the rest of it compared to that?’
Matt bullied his face straight and stared at his freshly bruised knuckles, where one of the yearlings had tried its teeth that afternoon. ‘The rest of it?’ He lifted his gaze to look at her. ‘Fireworks and bolting horses and all those people watching? Dathne—’
She waved an impatient hand. ‘Nothing happened that shouldn’t have. And if you’ve a mind to bleat about your precious damned Ballodair again, I swear I’ll throw this tankard of ale in your face then get the price of it off you straight after!’
That made him scowl again. ‘It’s my job to worrit on the horses, Dathne.’
She leaned close, eyes slitted with temper. ‘Your job is to do what I tell you and see that all runs as it should. What we’re about here is worth a hundred Ballodairs, and our lives besides, and hating me for saying so doesn’t change it. So you’d best make up that flitterbug mind of yours once and for all whether you can stomach the task or not. I can’t do my part without a second pair of hands I can trust. If they’re not to be yours then I need to tell Veira so she can find me another.’
Stricken silent, Matt looked down. Around him the room heaved with laughter and eating and generous drinking. His friends, for the most part, folk he’d known half his life and longer. Simple, hardworking Olken, blissfully ignorant of the secrets he’d kept for nearly ten years. Good people who were set to suffer and die if he and Dathne and the others of the Circle failed. His stomach rolled over, thinking on it, and the room disappeared in a blur of anguish.
Cool strong fingers on his wrist brought him back.
‘Jervale’s Prophecy is fulfilled, my friend,’ said Dathne. The sharp edges were gone from her voice: she sounded sad and tired and not like herself. ‘The Innocent Mage is come, and we stand at the beginning of the end of everything. I know you hoped the Final Days would pass you by, that the folk called after us would be the ones to face the fire, but that hope’s dead and buried now. Digging it up and crying fresh tears on it won’t change the truth. Like it or not, Matt, you and I are the ones born to the days Jervale foretold.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Long enough.’
‘And you’re sure?’ he whispered. ‘There’s no doubt? No chance you might be mistaken?’
She shook her head. ‘Visions don’t lie.’
‘They might.’
‘That’s fear talking. Strangle it before it leads us all to disaster.’
Matt winced as his guts cramped. ‘You may be Jervale’s Heir, Dathne, but that doesn’t make you perfect. You could be wrong!’
‘I could be, but I’m not. I was three days short of my tenth birthday the first time I dreamed Asher’s face. The next afternoon I was told some cousin I’d never met had died overnight and it was my duty to take his place as Jervale’s Heir. And then I was told what that meant. I haven’t had an easy night’s sleep since.’
There was pain in her, fiercely denied. Matt wanted to reach out, to touch her, comfort her, but he didn’t dare. Something deep and dark and implacably cold inside her stopped him. He felt his heart break. ‘Dathne …’
Her chin came up, and in her eyes glittered a scornful self-derision. She mocked her own pain, even as she mocked his pain for her. ‘Since that first time I’ve dreamed Asher … oh, more times than I dare think of. Him, and other things.’
‘What things?’
‘Things,’ she said, and shivered. ‘They’re not import ant now.’
‘I say they are. I want to know.’
Hollow-eyed and direly foreboding, she stared at him. ‘No, Matt. You truly don’t.’
He had to persuade her. She shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone. ‘Tell me. Please. I’ve got broad shoulders, Dathne. I can help. Even the best of us make mistakes when we’re tired. Sad. Besieged.’
‘Not me. I’m never wrong, Matt. Not about this. Call my dreams visions, call them warnings, call them echoes of Prophecy. It’s all just words, whipped to nothingness on the wind. I am Jervale’s Heir and I know. Asher is the Innocent Mage. The Final Days are coming. And I am the last living of Jervale’s descendants, born to guide our ignorant fisherman to victory … or fail, and doom our world to death and despair.’
His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. ‘And me? What am I?’
She looked away, frowning. ‘My compass. My anchor. My candle in the dark.’
Warmed and angered at once, he lowered his voice. ‘Then if I’m all those things, why did you never tell me any of this when we met? Barl save us all, Dathne, I could’ve done more, I could’ve—’
‘No. You couldn’t,’ she said gently. ‘Besides, I didn’t know you then.’
‘You know me now! You’ve known me for years! You should’ve told me!’
Her smile cut him like a razor. ‘Matt, Matt. Why would I weigh you down with such cruel knowl
edge a heartbeat before you needed to know it?’
He could’ve wept. ‘I still say you might be wrong. We should talk about this properly, we should—’
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ The iron was back in her voice, her eyes. ‘I am the Heir. You swore an oath to follow wherever I might lead. So I ask you here and now, Matt, and on my oath to the Circle I will never ask you again: are you with me?’
Helplessly he stared at her. Was he with her? He’d been with her from the moment they’d met, when he was new to the king’s stables and she was setting up her bookshop, and word had come from Veira that he’d been chosen to stand by Jervale’s Heir and do his duty however she saw fit.
Was he with her? He was with her even as he despaired of her, when she rode roughshod over his cares and concerns, acted out of impulse or instinct or sheer bloody-mindedness, when she danced down pathways that he, unsighted, could never glimpse.
Was he with her?
He was with her till the bitter end, whatever that might be.
He brought his other hand to rest lightly on the fingers that still held his wrist with a desperation she’d die before admitting, and nodded. ‘Aye, Dathne. With you, for you, behind you. Always.’
For a moment he thought he might see her shed a tear, for the first time ever. Her lips softened, and her gaze, and the fingers on his wrist tightened hard enough to tingle. And then she laughed and let go of him, the mocking light returned to her eyes. ‘Good. Now put a smile on old Derrig’s face and fetch yourself an ale, Meister Matt. Fetch me another one while you’re at it, too, for I think I’ve a mind to get drunk.’
Almost he opened his mouth and asked if she thought that was wise. Just in time, though, he caught the words behind his teeth. Swallowed them. Said instead, ‘As my lady commands.’
There was, after all, more than one way of crying.
CHAPTER THREE
Asher’s days trotted briskly by, filled sunup to sundown with the exacting business of horses. Aside from Barlsday mornings in the palace chapel, and those times when the prince came into the stable yard to discuss stud business with Matt or fetch Ballodair to go riding, he scarcely saw his employer.