by Karen Miller
‘Have I what?’ said Gar. ‘Pensioned off Darran? No, of course not. Much as I’d like to.’ He shrugged. ‘But I have hired myself an assistant.’
Fane speared a minted baby potato and nibbled it from her fork. ‘An assistant?’ She was looking especially pretty this evening, with her silver-gilt hair loose and gently curling round her face, and her soft skin glowing in the glimfire light. Her tunic was the particular shade of blue that brought out to perfection the diamond clarity of her eyes. ‘What for? You don’t do anything.’
Gar watched his father’s gaze sharpen and shook his head, fractionally. There was no point. Fane was Fane, and he’d long grown used to her viperish tongue. Voice determinedly light he said, ‘And now I’ll be able to do even less. Aren’t I lucky?’
Borne frowned into his wine. ‘What kind of assistance are you expecting this person to provide?’
‘The Olken Administrating kind.’ Borne looked up. Gar met his eyes steadily, and added, ‘I thought you might have it mentioned on Barlsday. Two announcements for the price of one, so to speak.’
Dana, spreading butter on a fresh piece of bread, smiled at him. ‘You always were an economical child. So who is this person? Do we know him? Her?’
‘Him,’ said Gar. ‘No. You’ve not met. His name is Asher, of Restharven.’
Borne’s frown deepened. ‘The fisherman you hired on as a stable hand?’ Fane choked back laughter, and he raised a swift hand, silencing her. ‘Gar, is this wise? Surely Darran—’
‘Darran has more than enough to do already,’ said Gar. ‘Besides, he’s not suitable for my purpose.’
Borne’s eyebrows lifted. ‘And a stable hand is?’
‘A man is not merely his employment, sir. Were you to start mucking out stables tomorrow, still you’d be who and what you are.’
‘Yes, dear, that’s true, but even so …’ Dana hesitated. ‘You must admit, it’s rather a leap. There’ll be a bees’ hive of gossip once the appointment is made public. It’s unusual to say the least, to elevate a stable hand so high. You can’t think there won’t be some … consternation.’
Gar shrugged. ‘People will talk no matter who I choose. Since it’s impossible to please everyone I decided to please myself and let the rest of the beehive buzz itself to strangulation.’
Fane turned to the Master Magician. ‘What do you think, Durm? Gar’s mad to hire some smelly ruffian he barely knows anything about to be his personal assistant, isn’t he?’
‘My opinion is irrelevant,’ said Durm, politely smiling, ‘given that this matter is unrelated to magic.’
‘Huh,’ said Fane with a toss of her head. ‘Well, I think he’s utterly deranged. I mean, what could a fisherman stablehand possibly know about anything besides horse manure and fish guts? Gar’s going to be a laughing stock. Which means I’ll be a laughing stock too, because it’s my stupid brother who hired this – this—’
‘Darling …’ said Dana, shaking her head.
Ignoring Fane, Gar stared at his father. ‘I assure you, sir, my decision wasn’t made upon a whim. I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought. I chose Asher carefully, and for good reason.’
The king sat back in his chair, one finger tracing the etched base of his wine goblet. ‘Indeed. And while you were ruminating on your choice did you happen to consider the reaction of a man like Conroyd Jarralt, once the news got out?’
‘There you go being rude about Conroyd Jarralt again,’ said Fane, pulling a face. ‘I wish you’d explain why you don’t like him. I like him. I think he’s very charming and terribly good-looking. Even if he is old enough to be my father.’
Gar turned on her. ‘Charm and good looks being in your tiny little book the most important attributes for leadership!’
She flushed and her eyes glittered dangerously. Lips curved in a poison-sweet smile she said, ‘At least he’s not a cr—’
‘Fane!’ said Borne. His fist crashed on the tabletop so that all their goblets and the silverware jumped. Wine splashed, scarlet, on the white damask tablecloth. Fane retreated into sulky silence.
‘It’s all right,’ Gar said, his voice low. ‘It doesn’t matter. Father, I’m truly sorry if I’ve displeased you. That wasn’t my intention.’
Borne’s expression thawed. ‘Then why did you proceed without first asking my advice? You’ve not even been officially declared, Gar. If you must have such an unlikely-sounding assistant, and I’m still not convinced you should, why not at least delay announcing him until—’
‘Because it wouldn’t make any difference, sir,’ said Gar. ‘A few days, a week, a month, even: in the end it would be the same. Regardless of how long I wait to announce Asher’s appointment, Jarralt will still carp and cavil at the idea of an Olken elevated to such a high position. So I choose to announce it now. And in proceeding as I have, without your involvement, his censure will fall solely upon me.’
‘You think so?’ said Borne with a smile that did not quite reach his troubled eyes. ‘You give him too much credit. He’ll say your poor judgement and want of conduct reflect a shabby discipline and a sad lack of upbringing.’
‘He may indeed say that,’ said Durm, stirring in his chair. ‘But not with impunity.’
Gar watched his father and his father’s best friend exchange swift grins. Opposite him, his mother sniffed.
‘At any rate,’ she said, ‘I’m sure I don’t see what concern it is of Conroyd Jarralt’s if Gar decides to appoint an assistant. If Con does complain, Borne, tell him to mind his own business and be done with it.’ Another sniff. ‘Besides, his real problem is that he’s never forgiven you the fact your great-great-great-grandfather bested his in the Crown Trials after Trevoyle died.’
‘I think you’ll find,’ Borne replied, ‘that his pique springs from a more … domestic source. If he is unforgiving, my dear, it’s because I won the prize he so desperately desired for himself.’
‘I neither confirm nor deny your theory,’ she said, dimpling. ‘Instead I would point out that poor Conroyd carries a grudge like a dog with a very old, very smelly bone. Somebody needs to smack him on the nose and tell him to drop it, once and for all.’
‘By all means,’ said Borne, his face alight with love and laughter. ‘Provided it’s not me expected to do the smacking.’
Dana smiled back at him. ‘Oh no. I’ll do it. Barl knows I smacked him often enough when he was courting me.’
Borne pressed a kiss to her palm. ‘It delights me beyond words to hear it.’
‘By the Wall,’ moaned Fane, spirits revived, and dropped her napkin over her face like a veil. ‘I’m going to be indelicately ill.’
Laughter banished the last of the lingering tensions. The remains of the main course were cleared away, a careless word from Durm removed the wine stain from the tablecloth, and dessert was served. Pushing aside his berry compôte and cream scarcely touched, Borne tapped his fingernails on the table.
‘If I may briefly and, I promise, sweetly, return to this matter of your new assistant, Gar …’
Gar nodded, masking his wariness with a smile. ‘Certainly, sir.’
‘I simply wonder why you’d choose an unsophisticated labourer to aid you in your duties when there must be dozens of polished, trustworthy Olken eager to serve you, and their people, in the position.’
Gar hesitated. How to explain a feeling? A tickle in the brain that said, illogically, irrationally, that in Asher he’d found a man who could be trusted with any secret, any sorrow, any task no matter how trivial or tremendous.
He couldn’t. At least not here, in front of Durm and Fane.
He said, obliquely, ‘Matt speaks very highly of him. He’s courageous, hardworking and forthright, with a refreshing lack of obsequiousness.’ Leaning over the table towards his father, Gar willed him to understanding. ‘Sophistication, sir, is an overcoat that any man may put on, but it can’t hide the flaws beneath. I’ll take honest unrefinement over sophisticated flattery any day.’
&nbs
p; Dana laughed. ‘Gracious, Gar. This young man sounds a positive paragon!’
‘Darran doesn’t think so,’ said Gar, grinning. ‘Darran is more appalled by him than Conroyd Jarralt could ever be, I promise you. Nor do I think he’s a paragon, either. But I do believe Asher of Restharven will be invaluable to me as I seek to deepen my understanding of his people, so that I may serve them, and His Majesty, more diligently.’
Fane sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘They’re Olken, Gar. What more is there to understand?’
‘That is an ignorant observation, madam,’ said Durm, his expression heavy with disapproval.
Fane turned to him, flushed and resentful. ‘That’s not fair! You’ve no opinion of them either, you know you don’t! “A race with little to recommend them save their muscle and a degree of business acumen.” That’s what you think, you said so not a week ago!’
Gar stared into the cooling remains of his berries and cream, unwanted now, for fear Durm should see the look on his face. It shamed and embarrassed him to hear his people disparage the Olken like that. How much worse did it sound, then, such sentiments coming from the kingdom’s Master Magician? It set a bad example. He wished he could say as much to Durm, point out to him the unfortunate impression he was making … but of course, that was impossible.
Once, long ago, he and Durm had been master and pupil, and friends of a sort as well. But then had come the dawning realisation that the king’s precious heir was, incredibly, devoid of magic, scarcely better than an Olken, and their circumstantial friendship hadn’t survived the ensuing frustrations and disappointments, the battles to wring from him even the smallest hint of magical ability. Bitter days.
Then the unthinkable happened. The WeatherWorker sired a second child. And with Fane barely walking and already showing promise of a talent unimaginable, he’d been discarded entirely. Left to the devices of mere scholars and bookmen. The pain of that abandonment had been shot through with a sobbing relief.
Now he and the Master Magician were courteous strangers whose paths crossed in Council, during official functions and at family dinners like this one. Because Durm was the king’s best friend and closest confidant after the queen, they maintained a superficial cordiality … but it was a sham, and they both knew it. He could not forgive Durm’s lack of understanding and compassion, and the Master Magician would not forgive his former pupil’s failure.
Durm said now, his full face glowering, ‘It is true that I described the Olken thus in private, because it is my private opinion and I make no apology for it. But I have never said the like in public. Nor have I ever said, madam, publicly or privately, that the Olken were not to be understood. One day, Barl grant it be long hence, you will be this kingdom’s WeatherWorker, charged with the sacred duty of keeping it safe. Therefore it is imperative that you comprehend the Olken’s place in Barl’s great design. Granted it is insignificant, but that is not the point. As WeatherWorker, every life in the kingdom will depend on you. Every life, Olken as well as Doranen.’
Eyes brilliant with tears Fane said hotly, ‘I know all that! You tell me almost every day! All I meant was—’
Durm raised his plump hand, silencing her midsentence. ‘Your meaning was lamentably clear. You are not interested in the Olken, and therefore you dismiss them as unimportant. But if they were unimportant, Barl would have deemed them so and she did not. You and I may fail to understand her reasoning, but we must never question it. That is blasphemous ignorance, and an ignorant monarch is to be abhorred. You know as well as I that your father relies upon your brother’s counsel and commitment in matters concerning the Olken. In due course, if you are wise, you will find yourself relying upon them too. Especially if you persist in this scandalous refusal to recognise what is important and what is not.’
Choking back sobs, Fane shoved her chair away from the table and stumbled out of the dining room. As the door banged shut behind her Dana favoured the Master Magician with a furious glare.
‘Why not send for a stick to beat her with while you’re about it, Durm? For certain she can’t be properly chastised until she’s bleeding on the outside as well as within!’
It was Durm’s turn to flush. ‘Majesty—’
‘Oh, never mind,’ she snapped. ‘I’d tell you to remember that for all her talent she’s still a child, but I’d be wasting my breath.’
Borne reached his hand out to her. ‘My love—’
She shook him free. ‘Yes, yes, you defend him, Borne, just as you always do. Are you as blind as he, then? Barl save us all! Why can’t you see her as she is, here and now, instead of what she’ll become one day? I’m not saying she was right. She was wrong, we all know that. She knows that. But there was no need to tear her down in such a fashion, not in public. Not in front of you.’
Borne sighed. ‘Dana, my heart, you must accept the truth. Fane is fifteen years old and the days of her childhood are dwindling. There is little time left for indulgence and excuses.’
Now the queen’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘But I don’t accept it,’ she whispered harshly. ‘I shall never accept it. Never.’
Borne’s face twisted with a sudden grief and he reached for her again. His hand trembled. ‘Dearest—’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I must go to her.’ Pulling away from him a second time she followed her daughter from the room, waving the doors open and then closed behind her with an impatient hand.
‘It is I who should apologise,’ Durm said into the stricken silence. ‘Perhaps I was too harsh. But Fane is so talented, so rare. When she says such ill-considered things I—’
‘It’s all right,’ said Borne wearily. ‘Fane has never been one to take a rebuke lightly, you know that. As for the queen, well …’
‘Indeed,’ said Durm.
‘You are dear to her, old friend, never doubt it,’ Borne insisted. ‘But she worries, and it makes her short of temper.’ With a barely stifled grunt, he got to his feet. ‘So I think, if you’ll excuse me …’
Durm shook his head and stood. ‘No, Borne. You and your son doubtless have more to discuss on this matter of his assistant, and any soothing of ruffled feathers is best done by the one who ruffled them.’
Slowly, Borne sat down again. ‘If you’re sure …’
Durm smiled. ‘I am always sure.’ He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed, favoured Gar with a noncommittal nod and withdrew, closing the dining room door quietly after him.
‘Well,’ said the king with a short laugh. ‘So much for our jolly family dinner.’
‘Mama has a point.’ Gar reached for the wine carafe so he could refill his goblet. ‘Fane is still young.’
‘There have been kings and queens of Lur younger than she.’ Borne massaged his temples, and between his closed eyes the skin was pinched with pain. ‘Weather Workers all. She needs to grow up.’
‘And so she will, in time,’ said Gar. ‘But youth isn’t the only pebble in her shoe.’
Borne’s mouth set in a thin, mulish line. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Of all the reasons there are to admire you, sir, your loyalty is the greatest. But loyalty needn’t be blind. Indeed it mustn’t be, for blind loyalty is no kindness at all. It’s a curse.’
‘I don’t wish to hear this from you,’ said Borne. ‘Fane is your sister. She loves you.’
Gar sighed. Fortified himself with a long swallow of wine. ‘My sister knows precisely why she was born, and what will be forever denied her, and given her, because of it. There are few things more wearing, Father, than an unwelcome obligation. Were Fane’s feelings for me contained in a coin, and were you to flip that coin, there’s no saying which side would land face up: love, or hate.’
Borne’s head jerked at that, and his eyes blazed. ‘That is a monstrous thing to say!’
Gar nodded. ‘I know. But it’s true.’
‘You are wrong.’
‘Father—’
‘She is young. Too young for the burdens placed upon her sho
ulders, too young for the knowledge Durm burns into her morning, noon and night.’
‘But not so young she doesn’t understand conversations overheard in corners, the scurrilous speculations repeated by those who should know better than to speak in the presence of a child.’ Gar tipped the rest of his wine down his throat.
‘You babble like a brook,’ said Borne, his face turned away, his fingers knotted on the table. ‘You make no sense.’
‘You think I’ve not heard the rumours too? The stories? The gossip?’ said Gar, knowing he failed to banish all bitterness and hating himself for it. ‘They say her talent is unnatural. They say she received the magic that should have come to me, as well as her own share. They say—’
‘“They” are fools, Gar! And Fane doesn’t believe the ignorant ramblings of—’
‘Yes, she does, Father,’ Gar said quietly. ‘You know she does. Even though she understands the tales are rumour, half-truths, distortions of fact. Deep inside she thinks she’s a thief. The sight of me is a knife in her heart, pricking.’
‘You are wrong.’
Gar shook his head. ‘No. You simply wish I was.’
Borne stood, his back turned, his head bowed. ‘It must stop, Gar. The bickering, the blame. It must stop.’
‘How? Will you tell her she can’t feel? She was born to correct a mistake and for no other reason. Every waking moment of her life is dedicated to that end. If you forbid Fane her feelings, Father, what does she have left that belongs to her and her alone?’
Slowly Borne turned. ‘And if you were not as you are? If you had your birthright? Would you feel as she does? Trapped and prisoned and born for a purpose not of your own choosing, but mine?’
Gar shrugged. ‘How can I know? I’m not the WeatherWorker-in-Waiting.’
Borne seized the back of his chair, gripping it with a white-knuckled ferocity. ‘Do you wish you were?’
Gar flinched. Reluctantly he met his father’s burning gaze. All his life a conspiracy of silence had shrouded this, his family’s festering wound. The wound he had caused by being born incomplete. That had only partially been healed by Fane’s birth and the discovery that she was a prodigy whose powers might one day rival those of Blessed Barl herself.