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Authors: Karen Miller
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destroying Barl’s Wall!” retorted Gar. “Or of appointing Conroyd Jarralt my Master Magician!”
“You have to! Who else is there powerful enough to manage the job? You have to appoint him Master Magician, even if it’s only for a while! Until Durm gets better, since you’re so sure he won’t die or wake up an addled wreck. ‘Cause if you don’t, if you try WeatherWorking alone, without help, and somethin’ goes wrong, that more’n likely means you’ll be dead and Jarralt’ll be king and then what’ll the rest of us do?”
“Are you deaf?” cried Gar. “I will not do it! I have a Master Magician!”
“No, Gar! What you’ve got is a lump of bloody meat held together with catgut and pothering and prayers and you can’t—”
“Enough!”
Gar shouted, livid with pain. His arm came up, fingers fisted—and the room was filled with furious power.
Asher felt the magic hit him. Felt it lift him and toss him like a bundle of kindling on fire from the inside out He flew backwards. Hit the bed. Bounced off it again, slammed into the wall, then slid into a crumpled heap on the carpet. Every sleeping bruise woke and started screaming. Deafened, he lay there feeling warm blood trickle from his nose, his mouth. Smelling scorched air. Beneath the pain there was fear.
Bleached white and still as stone, Gar stared back at him. Watched as he groped his way to his feet and half sat, half collapsed onto the bed. Watched as he touched the blood on his face and considered his crimsoned fingertips.
“Asher,” he said at last. “I—”
Asher lifted a hand and Gar fell silent. Turned on his heel and disappeared into his privy closet. There came the sound of water running into a basin. The opening and closing of a cupboard. Then he came out again carrying the basin and a soft white cloth. Closed the immeasurable distance between them and waited.
Silently Asher took basin and cloth and cleaned his face of blood. The sharp pounding pain subsided, but the fear remained. Translated slowly into anger. Still unspeaking, he handed back the basin and stained white cloth, stood and pushed past Gar to stand once more at the window. His bones ached. Looking outside he saw a horse and rider draw to a halt in the Tower’s front courtyard. Saw a liveried servant—Daniyal—appear and take the animal’s reins.
He knew that horse. Knew its rider, too.
“Pellen Orrick’s here,” he said, not turning around.
“Asher.. .”
“I’ll go down and see what he wants while you finish tidying yourself ready to speak to the staff. After that you’d best get over to the infirmary. See how Durm’s doin’ this morning. And Darran. The ole man‘11 howl like a girl if you don’t make a fuss over ‘im, take him some flowers and a box of sweetmeats.”
“Asher…”
Still he refused to turn round. Couldn’t trust what his face might show. “Reckon that’ll be the first and last time you ever raise a hand to me, Gar. Reckon you do it again, with magic or without, and that’ll be the end of that.”
Subdued, his voice small in the large round room, Gar said, “Yes. Asher, I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
Now he risked revealing his face. Looked at Gar for long moments and saw that the prince’s contrition was genuine. He nodded. “You’re grievin’.”
“That’s no excuse.” He didn’t want to talk about it. Wanted to forget it had happened, forget that this Gar, magician Gar, wasn’t the man he’d made friends with in Dorana’s market square a lifetime ago. That this man was about to become a king, and contained in his fingertips the power to kill. “Anythin’ you need me to say to Orrick?”
Gar shook his head. In his eyes understanding and a reluctant acceptance. “No. Not that I can think of.” “Fine,” he said, and headed for the chamber door. “Asher!”
He slowed. Stopped. Waited. “I’ll think on what you said. About Durm. And Conroyd Jarralt.” “Good.”
“And I truly am sorry. It will never
“You have to! Who else is there powerful enough to manage the job? You have to appoint him Master Magician, even if it’s only for a while! Until Durm gets better, since you’re so sure he won’t die or wake up an addled wreck. ‘Cause if you don’t, if you try WeatherWorking alone, without help, and somethin’ goes wrong, that more’n likely means you’ll be dead and Jarralt’ll be king and then what’ll the rest of us do?”
“Are you deaf?” cried Gar. “I will not do it! I have a Master Magician!”
“No, Gar! What you’ve got is a lump of bloody meat held together with catgut and pothering and prayers and you can’t—”
“Enough!”
Gar shouted, livid with pain. His arm came up, fingers fisted—and the room was filled with furious power.
Asher felt the magic hit him. Felt it lift him and toss him like a bundle of kindling on fire from the inside out He flew backwards. Hit the bed. Bounced off it again, slammed into the wall, then slid into a crumpled heap on the carpet. Every sleeping bruise woke and started screaming. Deafened, he lay there feeling warm blood trickle from his nose, his mouth. Smelling scorched air. Beneath the pain there was fear.
Bleached white and still as stone, Gar stared back at him. Watched as he groped his way to his feet and half sat, half collapsed onto the bed. Watched as he touched the blood on his face and considered his crimsoned fingertips.
“Asher,” he said at last. “I—”
Asher lifted a hand and Gar fell silent. Turned on his heel and disappeared into his privy closet. There came the sound of water running into a basin. The opening and closing of a cupboard. Then he came out again carrying the basin and a soft white cloth. Closed the immeasurable distance between them and waited.
Silently Asher took basin and cloth and cleaned his face of blood. The sharp pounding pain subsided, but the fear remained. Translated slowly into anger. Still unspeaking, he handed back the basin and stained white cloth, stood and pushed past Gar to stand once more at the window. His bones ached. Looking outside he saw a horse and rider draw to a halt in the Tower’s front courtyard. Saw a liveried servant—Daniyal—appear and take the animal’s reins.
He knew that horse. Knew its rider, too.
“Pellen Orrick’s here,” he said, not turning around.
“Asher.. .”
“I’ll go down and see what he wants while you finish tidying yourself ready to speak to the staff. After that you’d best get over to the infirmary. See how Durm’s doin’ this morning. And Darran. The ole man‘11 howl like a girl if you don’t make a fuss over ‘im, take him some flowers and a box of sweetmeats.”
“Asher…”
Still he refused to turn round. Couldn’t trust what his face might show. “Reckon that’ll be the first and last time you ever raise a hand to me, Gar. Reckon you do it again, with magic or without, and that’ll be the end of that.”
Subdued, his voice small in the large round room, Gar said, “Yes. Asher, I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
Now he risked revealing his face. Looked at Gar for long moments and saw that the prince’s contrition was genuine. He nodded. “You’re grievin’.”
“That’s no excuse.” He didn’t want to talk about it. Wanted to forget it had happened, forget that this Gar, magician Gar, wasn’t the man he’d made friends with in Dorana’s market square a lifetime ago. That this man was about to become a king, and contained in his fingertips the power to kill. “Anythin’ you need me to say to Orrick?”
Gar shook his head. In his eyes understanding and a reluctant acceptance. “No. Not that I can think of.” “Fine,” he said, and headed for the chamber door. “Asher!”
He slowed. Stopped. Waited. “I’ll think on what you said. About Durm. And Conroyd Jarralt.” “Good.”
“And I truly am sorry. It will never
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