by Karen Miller
He bowed. ‘Thanks, Your Majesty. It’s an honour.’
Borne grinned. ‘It’s a cup, actually,’ he said and gave it to him, a glittering golden affair studded with a few careless gemstones and not much good for anything except maybe a daffodil or two. As the prize changed hands the band struck up a lively jig, the crowd cheered and Jarralt accepted the king’s commiserations and made his escape. Onto the tourney field danced a troupe of gymnasts, acrobats and clowns, and under cover of diversion Borne leaned close and said, ‘Come. My son wishes to congratulate you in person. A short delay, and then you’ll be free to celebrate with your friends.’
Matt and Dathne would be waiting for him under the Cobbler’s Tree, as arranged last night in the Goose. But work always came first. ‘Aye, sir. Of course.’
Together they walked towards the royal pavilion. One jewelled royal hand found a place on his shoulder; surprised, Asher slowed a little to match the king’s easier pace. Without warning, Borne stumbled. For two strides and a heartbeat Asher carried the king’s full weight. Then Borne regained his balance and held up his other hand to silence concern. His face was marble white and sheened with sudden sweat.
‘I’m fine, Asher,’ he said curtly. ‘Perhaps a touch too much wine at luncheon. All those birthday toasts. Our little secret, yes?’
Asher opened his mouth to argue. The king looked abruptly unwell. His clear green eyes were fogged with discomfort, his tightly gripping hand palsied with strain. ‘Your Majesty—’
The king frowned and removed his hand. ‘Asher. I am fine.’
He lowered his eyes. Nodded. Clasped his hands behind his back lest anyone presume to think they hovered in case the king should misstep himself a second time. ‘Aye, sir,’ he murmured dutifully. He’d mention it to Gar, once they were safe inside the pavilion. Gar wouldn’t get tossed into one of Pellen Orrick’s prison cells for arguing with his own father.
He scowled as his entrance into the royal pavilion was met with a hailstorm of applause. Lords and ladies, who’d be hard put to give him the time of day anywhere else, crowded forward to congratulate him, to proclaim his prowess, exclaim his skill, to reassure themselves and any royal personage who happened to be watching that they had nothing but respect and admiration for the lowborn Olken who rode so high in the royal estimation.
Well used to it by now, he accepted their compliments as though they meant something. Caught sight of Gar’s amused face, imperfectly hidden behind a glass of wine, and rolled his eyes.
Elegant in azure and silver brocade, fine gold hair swirled and savaged with gemstones, the queen came forward to greet him. She passed the King’s Cup to a servant to mind, took his hands in her own and pressed a sweet-smelling cheek to his sweat-grimed and stubbly one.
‘Dear Asher,’ she said, ocean eyes sparkling. ‘And to think that a year ago you didn’t even know one end of a lance from the other.’
Borne laughed. ‘Or a horse, for that matter.’ He still looked pale. Surely somebody would notice?
Not Gar, too busy scoring points. ‘I confess he’s been an adequate pupil.’
Despite his concern for the king, Asher grinned. ‘And Stable Meister Matt’s been a damn fine teacher!’
Amidst the dutiful laughter Dana protested, ‘Really, Gar! The least you can do is say “Well done, Asher”.’
Gar offered him a mocking bow. Hidden beneath it was genuine admiration. ‘Well done, Asher.’
He bowed back. ‘Thank you, sir. You owe me a hundred trins.’
Gar groaned. ‘I know. That’ll teach me.’
‘Aye, sir. It will.’
‘Well,’ said Dana, still holding his hands, ‘I think it was a thrilling competition. We’re all so pleased you won, Asher.’ Around the silk-walled pavilion, blond Doranen heads nodded their vigorous agreement.
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ he said, and raised her fingers to his lips: the queen was a fine liar and he loved her for it. Kissing her thus was a daring gesture, almost improper, but she was smiling and so was the king, so what did it matter if Durm looked thunderous? Then Lord Jarralt entered the pavilion and politics demanded that the queen greet him in a scented cloud of sympathy. As the noble lords and ladies gathered around their fallen comrade Asher stepped aside and lost himself amongst the fernery along the far wall.
A razor voice dipped in honey said sweetly, ‘Well, well, well. Who’s a clever little Assistant Olken Administrator, then?’
Fane.
Concealed in a high-backed chair drawn out of the mainstream, she sat straight-spined and elegant in gold silk, her slender white fingers juggling three balls of glowing glimfire. Her blue eyes watched him sideways and carefully over and around the spinning magical spheres. She was so beautiful, the way splintered ice and a new harpoon and sea storms were beautiful, and just as dangerous. What she’d be like once grown out of adolescence and crowned WeatherWorker, Asher didn’t like to think.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Jealous, Your Highness?’
Anger danced beneath the surface of her face, but her voice was placid and bored as she replied, ‘Desperately. It is my life’s ambition, Asher, to stick sharp metal spikes into eensy teensy bits of wood.’
He was impressed with the juggling, even though he didn’t want to be. Glimfire was unchancy stuff. Useful if your candle snuffed out, to be sure, and you were Doranen and able to conjure it, but in the last year he’d seen more than one nasty burn when some humour in the air ignited a flare-up.
She was her mother’s daughter in some things, Fane, and could read in his face what he was feeling. ‘Now who’s jealous?’
‘Of parlour tricks?’ he retorted, and thought ha as her eyes sparked fire. She hid the lapse quickly, smoothed over the annoyance with a spurious, friendly smile and leaned a little closer to him, confidingly.
‘Come now,’ she encouraged him. ‘You can confess to me, Asher. I won’t tell. Have you never been tempted, even the tiniest bit?’
‘To try my hand at magic?’ Deep-sunk memory surfaced, flashing like the belly of a breaching fish. Timon. He felt his expression freeze. ‘No.’
She leaned closer again and lowered her voice. ‘I’ll bet you have.’
Slapping her would be a mistake even if she did deserve it, so he swallowed the impulse and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I like my head where it is, Your Highness.’
She pretended surprise at that; the glimfire balls danced a little, echoing. ‘Asher! You don’t think my brother would let someone cut off his best friend’s head, do you? Even for breaking Barl’s First Law?’ She laughed, a tinkly little sound with shards of ice in it. ‘I don’t think even the king would let it happen!’
Now what was the little minx playing at? There was a glitter in her he mistrusted to his marrow. ‘With respect, that’s a foolish thing to say. His Majesty holds no man above the law.’
She pursed her pretty pink lips. ‘I’m not so sure. You should’ve heard him singing your praises before, Asher. Do you know, if he could I think he’d embrace you as a second son. Barl knows you’ve more in common with Gar than I could ever have.’
Bitch. With an effort he kept his expression bland and offered her a bow. ‘A man could do a lot worse than have qualities in common with your brother. Now, it’s been delightful chatting with you, Highness, but I got some friends outside tappin’ their toes, so if you’ll excuse—’
In other, maybe more important ways she was her father’s daughter. Discarding one line of attack, she chose another. It was in the shining of her eyes and the set of her chin. ‘Oh no, Asher, you musn’t leave!’ She blew on the balls of glimfire with her mint-scented breath; they turned into little dancing butterflies and fluttered away. ‘Gar and I have a special gift for the king.’ Leaning around the edge of her chair, she searched the room for her brother, found him, and raised her voice: ‘Gar!’
In the midst of conversation, Gar lifted a hand in apology to his audience and turned a little in her direction. ‘Yes, Fane?’
&nb
sp; ‘I need you!’
Gar excused himself and threaded his way through the talking, laughing, eating throng to stand a cautious pace from her side. ‘What do you want?’
Fane’s eyes glowed with anticipation. She leaned closer to her brother. ‘Did you find one?’
‘Yes,’ said Gar, ‘but—’
‘Excellent,’ she replied. ‘Fetch it.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ muttered Gar, but he went to his official chair, dropped to one knee and groped beneath it. A servant paused and offered help; Gar waved her away and came back a moment later clutching a dead brown stick.
‘Show me,’ said Fane. Took the stick, inspected it, and handed it back with a glowing smile of approval. ‘Perfect.’
‘For what, exactly?’ Gar said, exasperated. ‘I wish you’d stop being so mysterious and just tell me—’
‘If I told you,’ said his sister severely, ‘it would ruin the surprise.’ She unfolded gracefully from her chair, wrapped her skilful fingers around his wrist and tugged him after her. ‘Come on.’
As brother and sister cleared a path to their father, Asher stepped further into the fernery and chewed his lip. Whatever she had planned, he wanted no part of it. Bad enough he’d have to cope with Gar afterwards. The prince always came off second best in Fane’s little schemes. Why Gar allowed himself to believe she’d ever mean him anything but hurt, he never knew. He’d long since given up arguing about it.
With one overhead sweep of her arm Fane ignited a starburst and effectively silenced the room. Every eye fixed itself upon her, and she smiled. ‘Your Majesties. Master Magician Durm. My lords and ladies. On this day of celebration my brother and I would honour the king with a special gift. Gar?’
Bemused, Gar stared at her. Asher watched the assembled nobility, searching for the expressions that were too still, for lips that twitched or eyes that shone with sudden, undimmed hilarity. Noted faces, and names, and held his breath as his friend trembled on the brink of a new disaster.
Gently, Fane prompted her brother. ‘Our gift, Gar. You’re holding it.’
Gar stared at her. At the stick. No escape. ‘Happy birthday, Your Majesty.’
Borne took the offered stick. ‘Thank you, my son. I don’t quite know what to say.’
‘Please,’ said Gar, cheekbones sharp beneath the skin, ‘don’t say anything.’
Fane broke the anguished silence. ‘That stick, Your Majesty, represents our lives without you. Dead. Dry. Lifeless. Gar chose it himself. Now, if I may?’ She took the stick from her father. Held it between her hands, closed her eyes and concentrated.
At first nothing happened. Then the stick shivered. Rippled once along its dry, brown length. Rippled again. A flush of green rolled along it, as though someone had upended an invisible beaker of paint and poured it from end to end.
‘Ah,’ breathed her spellbound audience, and crowded a little closer.
Gar curved his thinned lips in the semblance of a smile and kept his unclenched fists forcibly relaxed by his sides. Asher groaned under his breath and closed his eyes briefly.
The dead brown stick, now green and supple, swelled with buds. The buds blossomed. Delicate leaves unfurled. One end of the stick swelled, larger and larger, until it exploded into petal and drenched the room with a glorious perfume. Silver and gold and shimmering, it glowed with vibrant life and bloomed in perfect symmetry.
As Fane’s audience erupted into wild applause she held out the living miracle to her father and curtsied. ‘And this sweet rose, Majesty, represents all that we have with you as our king.’
Borne took the vibrantly alive flower, his green eyes dark with emotion. ‘Well. Now I truly am speechless. Thank you, daughter. And you, too, Gar. Thank you both.’
‘It was nothing, sir,’ said Gar. And stepped back as Fane entered their father’s embrace, trembling with triumph.
‘I was so afraid it wouldn’t work!’ she exclaimed, watching as the rose was passed from hand to eager hand and the gathered nobility chorused its admiration. ‘Durm and I have been practising for weeks, haven’t we, Durm?’
The Master Magician was smiling, his habitually stern expression softened into something more approachable. ‘I never doubted your skills as a student, Highness.’
Borne punched him lightly on one elaborately robed shoulder. ‘Or your own as a teacher, you old rogue! Thank you! It is the most beautiful gift.’
Under cover of exclamation, Fane turned a little in the proud circle of her father’s arm and smiled at her brother. Then she caught sight of Asher’s face. He couldn’t have said exactly what she saw there but it killed her smile stone dead. For a moment an unfamiliar blush of shame stained her cheeks. Then her chin lifted, her eyes cooled and she turned her back on them both. The voluble crowd closed in around her, around the king and Durm, and mercifully hid them from sight.
Asher made a move towards Gar then, his own breath painful in his lungs. The prince held up a hand, sharp as a blow.
‘Don’t,’ he said. His voice could have shattered ice.
After more than a year, Asher was impervious. ‘Smile, or she wins,’ he said, barely above a whisper.
‘She’s won already,’ Gar replied distantly. He was very pale. ‘As always.’
‘Only if you let her. Only if you show that it matters.’
Gar shrugged. ‘It does matter. Pretending otherwise only makes me look more foolish.’
‘And not pretendin’ makes her happy!’ Asher retorted.
Gar looked him up and down. ‘A churlish brother I would be, to begrudge a sister’s happiness.’
‘Gar—’
‘Enough,’ said Gar. ‘You don’t understand. I doubt you ever will.’
Scowling, Asher looked elsewhere for help. Captured the queen’s stricken gaze with his own. She understood. Dana took a step towards her son, her eyes stormy – and was halted by a cry.
‘Help here! The king! The king!’
It was Durm’s voice, almost unrecognisable in its dismay. The clustered nobles staggered backwards, aghast, to reveal Borne, ashen-faced and swaying on his feet. Clutching at his chest. With the stunned room watching he collapsed at Durm’s feet.
‘Majesty!’
As Gar leapt to his father’s side and Durm fell to his knees to take Borne in sheltering arms, Dana turned to Asher.
‘I’ll find the pothecary,’ he said.
Her eyes were enormous, and brilliant with fear. Her voice was faint. ‘Quickly.’
He looked back once from the door of the royal pavilion. Borne was unconscious, grey and slimed with sweat. Durm held him in a close embrace, furious with fear. Fane wept on her father’s still chest. Gar supported his mother, or she supported him. They were too closely entwined to tell. The servants clustered together against one wall, wide-eyed and horrified. Their expressions were mirrored in the faces of the noble guests.
Well. Most of them anyway.
And abandoned on the floor, crushed and trampled and broken, the beautiful birthday rose.
Asher let the heavy curtain drop down behind him and ran.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The palace runner caught Willer as he was going out to lunch.
‘A message for His Highness,’ piped the child. ‘From the Master Magician.’
Willer snatched the rolled letter from the boy’s hand and waved him away. Curse it, now he’d be late, and if you didn’t get a luncheon table at Fingle’s within the first ten minutes you might as well not bother getting one at all.
He cast an unenthusiastic glance up the Tower staircase. Even worse, he’d have to go and disturb His Highness with this missive, which doubtless meant he’d have his head bitten off for daring to put his nose across the library threshold. There’d been shouting and banged doors already this morning, and Darran disappearing into their office in a secretarial huff. For a whole week now, ever since the poor dear king’s collapse, His Highness had been a positive bear to live with.
Not that one could comp
lain, or would. His Highness was beside himself with worry for the king, which he supposed was only to be expected. But the gloom and despair were infectious. Even the Tower maids kept dashing into linen closets to cry. And if he tripped over one more snuffling boot-boy he really was going to scream. Or take off his belt and give someone a thrashing. Or both. Really, it was so unnecessary. Hadn’t Pother Nix announced officially that the king would make a full recovery? Yes, he had. So what was the point of all this temperament? There wasn’t any, but it had Darran in as fractious a mood as the prince. Really, between the pair of them life was hardly worth living.
Willer heaved a put-upon sigh. He did hope the king would make his full recovery soon, so that life could get back to normal.
Behind him the Tower’s heavy oak front doors banged open. Swallowing a startled shriek he whirled, the message clutched protectively to his velvet-swathed chest.
Asher grinned as he sauntered into the lobby, stripping off his sweat-stained gloves as he came. ‘What’s that then, Willer? Not another love letter? Does Darran know?’
Hot with dislike and humiliation, Willer uncrumpled the rolled parchment. ‘You,’ he said with awful disdain. ‘And where have you been?’ As if he didn’t know. Carousing. Gallivanting. Prancing about on personal business when his duty lay at the feet of their prince. Reprobate.
Asher tucked his gloves into the waistband of his disgusting leather britches and looked down his crooked nose. ‘Out.’
Willer sniffed. It was beneath him to rise to such obvious provocation. Instead he held out the Master Magician’s message. ‘This has just come from the palace for His Highness. Take it up to him.’
Insolence informing every grubby line of his face, Asher snorted. ‘Take it yourself, Willer. I ain’t your servant.’
A gentleman never resorted to violence, no matter how justified it might be. With rage thick in his throat Willer retorted, ‘No, you’re his, and more’s the pity for it too! I swear you’d know the meaning of good manners if you were answerable to me. If that were so you’d no more dream of entering His Highness’s official residence dressed like – like a highway rider than you would of flying over the Wall! Barl save us! Couldn’t you at least have bathed before coming in from the stables? You reek of sweat and horses!’