by Karen Miller
“I thought Charis said—”
“Never mind what Charis said!” she shouted, and spun round. “Charis needs to learn when to hold her tongue. Yes, I’m Asher’s daughter. Yes, I’m Rafel’s sister. But that doesn’t mean I’m like them. I’m not. I can’t fix the weather. I can’t save Lur. I wish I could. Barl knows it needs saving!”
Ulys shrank in her chair, meal and tea forgotten. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—I’m sorry.”
“Deenie…”
Feeling cornered she looked at Charis, who hadn’t deserved that scolding. “No, I’m sorry,” she said unsteadily. “That was mean. It’s just—people keep asking, and I have to keep on saying no, I can’t help, and—” She had to stop again, her voice broken to pieces and cutting her throat.
“It’s all right,” said Ulys, full of sympathy. She wasn’t really a silly woman. She was very, very kind. “We understand.”
Except she didn’t. How could she? Deenie bit her lip. “It’s bad out there, isn’t it, Ulys? I wasn’t dreaming things.”
“It’s very bad,” said Ulys, and wrapped her fingers round her mug. “I’m—I’m frightened.”
“We’re all frighted,” Charis said. “But we can’t let fear rule us. There’s a way out of this. There must be. All we have to do is find it.”
“Yes,” said Ulys, nodding. Trying to be brave. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Now, Deenie, I think you and Charis should go, if you’re going. That way you’ll be back all the sooner. I know I’m needed here, but with so much suffering in the city and not enough pothers I’m needed everywhere.”
“We’ll be as quick as we can, I promise.”
“Good,” said Ulys. Then she cleared her throat. “Ah—Deenie—your mother. Might she need preserving, do you think? Only I’ve done hospice work in my training and—and I have a spell, if you want one.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d been trying her best not to think of Mama dead. “Yes.”
So Charis fetched Ulys pen and paper and the pother scribbled down the words then handed them over. “It’s not the easiest of incants, but you are Asher’s daughter. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble.”
She wasn’t sure at all, but she tucked the folded paper into her skirt pocket anyway. “Thank you, Pother Ulys. For everything.”
So great was Dorana’s upheaval that not even the pair of them trundling a handcart higgledy-piggledy through the streets roused much attention. A few people stared. A few people pointed. But most folk were too caught up in their own strife and misery to care what a couple of Olken lasses were about. Grimly determined, they pushed and pushed their way around the edge of Market Square until they reached the High Street. There they paused to catch their breath.
“It’s awful,” Charis whispered, daylight showing her the extent of the city’s destruction. “Like a toy town that’s been stamped on by a baby in a tantrum.”
Fanciful, but true. Turning away from the collapsed shops and buildings and the dispirited Olken toiling in the debris, Deenie looked up the High Street and heard herself gasp. “Oh.”
The glorious seagull-white palace really was gone. All their lives it had sat above the city, shining bright in the sunshine, a familiar and comforting presence. Now there was just an ugly gap.
Charis’s hand flew to her mouth. “Barl’s mercy. Deenie, what are we going to do if the crypt’s been destroyed too?”
She’d been trying hard not to think about that, either. “Don’t let’s borrow trouble, Charis. Come on. We need to hurry or we’ll land poor Pother Ulys in strife.”
Pushing the handcart up the High Street and into the palace grounds was a gasping, rasping, sweating affair. By the time they’d pushed it level with the fallen palace, dodging ripped earth and fallen trees, they were both cross and wishing they’d found a strong man to help. They stopped again, just to breathe and ease their aches.
Charis pointed. “Look.”
There were Olken and Doranen poking gingerly through the rubble of the palace, where most of Lur’s day-to-day governing had been done. All those important records, lost. Untold years of Lur’s history. And buried somewhere in there, chests and chests of money. The treasury. Those city guards risking themselves in the ruins would have to stay behind, surely, to keep that money safe.
“They haven’t noticed us,” said Charis, keeping her voice low. “Should we say something, d’you think?”
Deenie shook her head. “No. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I just want to do the right thing by Mama.”
So they pushed on to the Tower, but there were city guards there, too, risking their lives and limbs in the mass of fallen blue stone that used to be a home. The first man to see them called out to his three companions, then hurried to meet them on the carriageway. Wyn, his name was. He and Rafe were friendly.
“Meistress Deenie! Meistress Orrick!” he said, shocked and pleased. “And there’s us looking for you in all that tumbled rock.”
“We were here, but we got out in time,” said Deenie. “Most of us. Wyn—where’s my mother?”
Wyn’s pleasantly plain face sobered. “Meistress Dathne. I’m so sorry. We—we shifted her into the shade, there.” He pointed. “Have you come for her, Deenie?”
If she kept on staring at Wyn’s face, at his light brown eyes, at the deep, puffy cut along his left cheekbone, then she wouldn’t have to look at the Tower. What was left of the Tower. She wouldn’t have to remember what it had felt like, coming down. What the earth had felt like. How it had screamed in her blood as the pitch-black night flashed crimson with lightning.
“Wyn, I’m going to leave Mama at peace in the royal crypt,” she said. “That’s what my da would want. And it’s what she’s earned, with everything she did for Lur. I hope you’re not thinking to cause me trouble on that.”
“Trouble?” Wyn stared at her. “No. Why would I?”
“I don’t suppose anyone’s been to the crypt, have they?” said Charis. “To make sure it’s still there?”
“I don’t know, Meistress Orrick,” Wyn said, alarmed. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you could look for us?”
“I can do that,” he said. “You stay here, Deenie. I’ll run there and run back.”
“Thank you, Wyn,” Deenie whispered.
Sometimes Rafe used to tease about Wyn, calling him a bit countrified, a bit simple. But right now, by her lights, he was the most wonderful man in the world. She watched him head for the palace gardens in a shuffling run, then turned and looked to where he and his fellow guards had kindly moved her mother. There she was—and not just moved, but respectfully wrapped in a sheet. Had they found it in the Tower’s rubble? Or the palace’s? Or had Wyn and his friends brought it with them, expecting the worst? It didn’t matter. It was a blessing. The leather coat she’d left covering her mother last night had been folded and placed beside her on the uneven ground.
Charis took hold of her hand. “Come on. Let’s wait with her.”
Abandoning the handcart, they picked their way along the rest of the tremor-warped, tree-crowded carriageway. Now she had to look at the Tower. What was left of the Tower. A hole had opened up partway beneath it, so that half of its blue stones and windows and roof tiles and contents had fallen in.
Deenie heard herself sob, once.
“Be brave,” Charis whispered, her fingers tightening.
She didn’t want to be brave. She wanted to scream and howl. But what was the point? It wouldn’t bring her mother back. It wouldn’t rebuild her broken home, like magic.
The leather coat wasn’t big enough for both of them to sit on comfortably, so they got a bit damp from the rain-soaked ground. Cross-legged beside her mother, Deenie couldn’t bring herself to pull back the sheet. Not even the loosely wrapped linen could hide the doll-like stiffness in her mother’s limbs. If she saw the same awful stiffness in Mama’s face, she knew she’d lose control completely.
“Deenie?” Charis
cleared her throat. “I hate to say this, but if you’re going to use that spell Pother Ulys gave you…”
Yes. It would be best to use it now, while they were waiting. She pulled the folded paper from her pocket, flicked it open and read Ulys’s swift scrawl. The pother was right, the Doranen preserving spell was tricky. Especially for her, with no reliable control over her magework.
But the hardest part about it was that she’d have to touch her dead mother.
Oh, Da. Give me strength.
“Can I help?” said Charis, diffident.
No. “You’re here. That helps.”
Tears filled Charis’s eyes. “I wish I could do more. Deenie, I wish—”
“I know,” she said quickly. “It’s all right. Now hush, so I can do this.”
Heart racing, feeling faint, she laid her palm gently on Mama’s unmoving chest. Even through the sheet she could feel the unnatural chill. Mama. Oh, Mama. Clogged with grief, she recited the spell.
Please work please work please work please.
As she spoke the incant’s last syllable, sick with fear of failure, she felt the power ignite and surge through her, felt it soak into her mother. She thought she could smell spring flowers, and feel a tingling swirl of warmth.
“Is that it?” said Charis, after a moment. “I thought there might be—I don’t know. Sparks, or something?”
Sick with relief now, she drew back her hand. “No. That’s it. All very simple.” And I did it. For once I worked a Doranen spell first time. Was that you, Da? Helping? Her voice broke. “Mama, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Now Charis was staring. “Deenie, don’t. It was an accident.”
The other guards’ voices rose and fell amongst the Tower’s rubble. A crunching slide of stone against stone. A warning shout. A curse. A musical tinkle of broken glass, striking rock. Tickling her nostrils, the sharp scent of djelba sap from the uprooted trees. All the poor nightbirds with their homes fallen down.
And that’s me. Just one more lost nightbird.
“Deenie, I mean it!” Charis snapped. “Tell me you’re not being so foolish as to lay this tragedy at your own feet.”
Heavy-eyed and heavy-hearted, she looked at her friend. “I let her fuss about with Da’s clothes, Charis. I made her go down the staircase first. Then the storm, the tremors—I turned so inside-out I had to stop. But I made her keep going. And then the glimfire died. If I’d kept her with me, or if I’d been with her on the stairs, if I’d been holding her, helping her—”
“She might easily have tumbled you down with her!” said Charis. “I could be sitting with her body and yours!”
“Don’t fratch at me, Charis,” she muttered. “I can’t help how I feel.”
Charis poked her knee. “No, well, nor can I. And I feel like slapping you, Deenie. This wasn’t your fault.”
Maybe that was true. And maybe Da’s not waking wasn’t her fault either, even though she could feel the blight in him. Her not being mage enough to heal Lur, she wasn’t to blame there. She couldn’t help how she was born.
But is Rafel my fault? Leaving him to rot on the other side of Barl’s Mountains, wherever he is, when he needs me and he’s screaming for me and I won’t even try to get to him? Isn’t that my fault?
“Deenie?” said Charis, suspicious. “What are you thinking?”
Something I really don’t want to think.
“Nothing,” she said. And when Charis scowled at her, ferocious, added, “Nothing I want to talk about. Not ’til I’m ready.”
Before Charis could argue, or wheedle, Wyn came back from the palace grounds. His torn and stained uniform wore smears of fresh mud and his sturdy boots were dirt-clotted inches past his ankles.
“The crypt’s still standing,” he said. The cut on his cheek had opened again, bright blood dribbling. He didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry to say the Garden of Remembrance is mostly ruined, but—if you’re bound to put Meistress Dathne to rest with the royal family, I suppose you can. Could be there might be a law about it, permission you might need from the Council, but—”
“I don’t think there is a Council, Wyn,” Deenie said. “Not much of one, any road. And like I said, my mother’s earned this.”
Wyn nodded. “That she has. Deenie—” He fidgeted a little. “With your father still poorly, I’ve not seen you for months. I want to tell you I’m heartbroke over Rafel. He was my good friend. And so was Goose.”
Oh, Goose. She never let herself think of Goose Martin. All those girlish dreams she’d dreamed for nothing. She and Goose, they’d never kissed. Never cuddled. It was always one day. And now one day would never come.
“That’s kind of you, Wyn,” she said, not rudely, but in a way that would tell him he’d said quite enough. “Can you help us with my mother? And with what’s to be done in the crypt?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll get Grif to help.”
Watching Wyn and his friend Grif lift Mama like a bundle of sheeted cordwood into the back of the handcart nearly broke her, but she couldn’t not watch. She couldn’t turn away from any of this because that would be cowardly. It would disappoint her mother.
The young men took hold of the handcart’s shafts and started pushing, and she fell into step behind them with Charis, who held her hand again. It was a strange and sorrowful funeral procession, one that made Uncle Pellen’s funeral seem extravagant.
Oh, Mama, you deserve so much more than this. Hymns in the Barlschapel, prayers from Barlsman Jaffee, and every soul in Dorana crowded to bid you farewell.
Except now there was no Barlschapel, and Jaffee was dead. And every soul in Dorana had their own lost loved ones to mourn.
Charis leaned close. “Don’t fret, Deenie,” she whispered. “We’ll do it properly one day. When this is over we’ll make sure of it. I promise.”
She nodded, not daring to speak. Opening her mouth would have let loose wails of grief.
They reached the crypt at last. She paid scant attention to the wrecked Garden, with eyes only for Wyn and Grif as they gently lifted Mama from the handcart and carried her into the crypt’s cool darkness. Conjuring soft glimfire, she followed them inside with Charis her loving shadow.
Wyn and Grif said nothing, only nodded, when she pointed to Queen Dana’s stone coffin. They settled Mama with care on the flagstoned floor, then without any sign of fear or hesitation slid the effigied lid from the queen’s resting place. It was heavy, and made them grunt. Charis’s fingers curled around hers, so cold. She was cold too, on the inside, where no-one could see. Without Charis beside her she didn’t know what she’d do.
“You’re sure, Deenie?” said Wyn, his voice hushed. He was being very careful to look at her, not the coffin. “In here?”
“I’m sure,” she said. “And if you’re fretted on doing this, don’t fratch yourselves. I’ll not tell.”
She didn’t know Wyn’s friend Grif at all, a tall and rawboned young man with pimples on his chin. “I’m not fretted,” he said gruffly. “It’s your family. Your choice.”
With an effort she found a smile for him. “Thank you.”
As though she was their own beloved flesh and blood, they lowered Mama into the coffin. Then they replaced the effigied lid, grunting again with the weight of it, and stood back. Pressed their hands to their hearts and bowed their heads, paying silent respect.
“You need aught else?” said Wyn, after. “If not, me and Grif should—”
“No, no,” she said. “You go, and take my thanks with you. Da’s thanks too. I know he’d be so grateful.” She turned. “Charis, you should go with them. Go back home. We don’t want to keep Ulys from her pothering duties longer than we have to and—and I’d like some time to myself.”
Tearful, Charis kissed her cheek. “Of course.”
Alone at last, Deenie slumped to the flagstones and fell against Queen Dana’s coffin. Maybe Charis was right, maybe Mama’s death wasn’t her fault, but she still felt responsible. Sliding all the
way to the crypt’s cold floor, suddenly and shatteringly exhausted, she pillowed her head on her arms and let the tears come, belated, in a hot and steady rain.
At last, emptied of tears if not grief, she felt herself slipping into darkness and sleep… where Rafel found her again. Just his voice this time, desperate and much fainter.
Help me, Deenie. We’re running out of time. You can find me. You have to find me. If you don’t, the whole world will pay the price.
And then he screamed, and she startled awake.
Heart pounding, fresh tears rising to her eyes, she pressed her hands to her cold face. “And how am I s’posed to find you, Rafe? Do you think I can sprout wings and fly across the mountains? Or snap my fingers and break the reef, make the whirlpools and the waterspouts disappear?”
He didn’t answer.
Torn between despair and anger, she clambered to her feet and began pacing the coffin-crowded chamber. Agitated, distracted, she didn’t pay close attention and shouted aloud when her hip caught one coffin’s sharp corner. It belonged to King Gar. The effigied lid wasn’t sat in place properly, a hazard for the unwary. Muttering, rubbing her bruise, she pulled a face at Da’s best friend and kept on stamping.
Oh, this is just like Rafe. Help me, he says, but he doesn’t say how. If I can’t fly or walk on water maybe he thinks I can harness a waterspout and ride it to where he is!
As if she could. As if anyone could. Lur was fouled with dark magics and there was no escaping. How many boats had tried to defeat its blighted waters? Dozens—scores—and every one had sunk or been dashed to splinters against Dragonteeth Reef.
What makes Rafe think I’ll have any better luck?
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She was Deenie the mouse, only pretending to be a cat.
Except… except…
I feel things. It’s the only magic I’m really good at. And when it comes to feeling, I’m better than most.
Well. Better than anyone, according to Mama. According to Mama, nobody felt the twists and turns in earth and water the way her Deenie could. Until now the ability had been a curse, nothing more, but…