The Awakened Mage (24 page)

Frowning, she held up a silencing hand. Matt felt his heart thud: he knew that look. She was searching within, listening for that small voice that only she could hear. That spoke to Jervale’s Heir and no-one else. These were the times she became a stranger. Her hair was unruly, loosened for bed. It billowed round her sharp face in a soft cloud. Made her look younger than her years .. .and she was hardly old to begin with.

“No. We have time yet,” she said at last, stirring.

He wanted to shake her till her teeth fell out. “Please, Dathne,
please.
For once in your life be guided. He’s the
Innocent Mage.
This kingdom’s only hope. We can’t risk him, we can’t leave him ignorant any—”

“I’m Jervale’s Heir!” she hissed at him, like a cat. “I can do whatever I see fit!” She pointed to the Wall, their silent golden witness. “Does the’ damn thing look unsteady to you? Trembling on the brink of destruction? No. Which means Prophecy is incomplete. I still have time.” ‘To do
what?”

She looked away. “To convince Asher he can trust me with all his innermost secrets. With
this.”

He decided to take a risk then. “You know he’s still in love with you.”

She wasn’t a stupid woman. She heard the silent criticism. The imphed accusation. Her jaw tightened and she folded her arms across her narrow chest. “Of course. Why else do you think he’ll tell me what I need to know?”

A hundred words, a thousand protests, clamored for release. He beat them back. Took another risk and let his hand return gently to her shoulder. “Be careful, Dathne. You think you’re oh-so-clever—and in some ways you are—but he’s not the only one in love.”

He’d shocked her. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened. Her sharp eyes dulled with surprise and all the passionate color fled from her face. “My feelings are none of your business, Matt. I’m Jervale’s Heir. I know what I’m doing. And anyway, I don’t have any feelings.”

Defeated, as always, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “If you say so.”

“I say so. And this too: don’t question my judgment again.”

“All right. If that’s what you want.”

Her eyes were cold. “Yes. It’s what I want.”

He thought she knew herself well enough to understand it was a lie. And that she knew him well enough, too, to realize he had no intention of holding his tongue if he thought he had to speak. This was a matter of saving face, of soothing hurt. She thought she’d kept her love hidden and was angry to discover she was wrong.

“Fine. I’ll go back to bed then,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”

“More than all right,” she snapped. “If anything else happens, I’ll let you know. Probably.”

“Aye, Dathne,” he said, walking away. “You do that.”

The memory of her pale, furious face chased him into sleep. Worry and dread made sure it wasn’t peaceful.

Gar walked back to the Tower in the dark, without benefit of glimfire. He was too afraid of what might happen should he attempt its conjuration. His chest felt tight, hooped with iron bands. His palms were sweaty, his eyes hot and dry.

Asher made it rain. Asher made it snow. Asher froze a river.

And 1 couldn ‘t.

Some sound caught in his throat then. A sob, or another expression of distress. Breathing was suddenly painful, as though the air had turned to knives.

He’d fallen into the habit of visiting his unburied family of a night-time, once the public were safely elsewhere. He couldn’t face them tonight. Not after such a catastrophic failure. Fane would jeer at him and call him names and his father … his father .. .

He stared at Barl’s magnanimous Wall, serenely shining in the distance. Emblem of his sacred oath. Victim of his inadequacy.

“Sweet lady, Blessed Barl,” he whispered, dropping to his knees beneath the indifferent sky. “Tell me how I’ve failed you. Show me how to make amends. From earliest boyhood my only desire has been to serve you. Why did you gift me with magic if not to make me your voice in Lur? Why did you take back the gift? Is my service now distasteful? Did I falter, or did you?”

Holze would say the question flirted with blasphemy, and perhaps it did. Too bad. He still wanted—
needed
—an answer.

None came.

A different question then. “Where does Asher’s magic come from? You? Or was it always in him? Is it in all his people? If so, what does it mean? And what should I do about it? If Conroyd Jarralt ever finds out, Asher is a dead man and perhaps all his people with him. Is that what you want? The Olken dead?
Asher
dead?”

Still no answer. A sudden wave of fear and fury drove him to his feet. “Well, I won’t have it! I won’t let you kill him!” he shouted to Barl’s last lingering presence, her Wall, implacable and uncaring. “I defy your First Law, madam! I defy
you!
No matter how I came to it, I am Lur’s king and I shall do what I must to protect it from harm. To protect the Olken from harm. From you, if I have to. Do you hear me, Barl? I would even protect them from yew!”

He returned to the Tower. Stripped and fell into bed to dream wildly of flood and fire and women weeping. Exhausted, he woke hours later to daylight and a dreadful understanding that needed nothing so crude as manifested proof.

Once more, he was empty. His magic was gone.

Willer had already been hard at work for nearly three hours when his prey finally deigned to come into the office. Ever since his… arrangement… with Lord Jarralt, that was how he’d thought of Asher. And of himself as the wily hunter, poised to bring him down. But as prey, damn him, Asher was proving elusive. Hidden in the false bottom of the right-hand drawer in his desk were his notebooks, filled cover to cover with the lout’s transgressions. He remembered them all. He’d practically crippled himself these last few weeks, painstakingly listing each and every crime. Just as soon as he could he was going to pass them along to Lord Jarralt. Lord Jarralt would find them fascinating reading, he was sure. They’d go a long way to seeing that Asher got his deserved comeuppance, he was certain. Almost certain.

Because while they were damning, they weren’t precisely … treason.

What he
really
needed was to catch Asher in the middle

of committing an act so heinous, so treacherous, so clearly illegal, that not even his nauseating friendship with the king could save him. It was the only way to save His Majesty.

Tragically, though, catching the bastard red-handed was proving harder than he’d anticipated. Asher was slippery, and disinclined to let anyone close. He doubted now if his offer of assistance would get him where he needed to be. Perhaps he’d have better luck working on the stupid bookseller; a woman that plain and unapproachable would surely be grateful for the attentions of a well-set-up and influential young man.

He did know one thing for certain. If he didn’t soon come up with some kind of evidence to seal Asher’s fate, Lord Jarralt would turn elsewhere for aid Someone else would be the key to Asher’s destruction. Someone else would get the glory.

He thought he’d rather die.

Some twenty minutes later Asher finally made an appearance in the office, looking ill and strained and altogether drained of his irritating arrogance and energy. He moved as though his head might topple from his shoulders at any moment. As though every muscle pained him, separately and in chorus. Willer felt his pulse quicken. The bastard had been drinking. To excess, to look as poorly as this. And now here he was, determined to make vitally important decisions that would affect hundreds of lives.

Splendid.

“Gracious me,” he said, unctuously concerned. “Are you quite well, Asher? You look positively
green.”

Asher barely glanced at him. Eased himself by inches into the nearest chair and scowled. “When’s Darran meetin’ with the market committee again?”

“Tomorrow.”

Asher grunted. “Make sure I get a copy of last month’s figures by end of day then.”

Willer swallowed a scream. “Certainly.”

“Have you seen Dathne?”

“I believe she had a meeting with the Midwives’ Guild this morning. I’m so sorry, I thought you knew.”

Asher’s expression was filthy. “Midwives’ Guild. Aye. That’s right. Course I knew.”

Liar.
Willer knocked a pen to the floor and dived beneath his desk to retrieve it. When he could trust his face again he sat up. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Preparations for the upcoming hearing in Justice Hall, perhaps?”

“No.”

Watching the bastard screw his thumb tips into his eye sockets, watching him wince, Willer felt his fingers tighten to crushing point around the pen. Rude, ignorant, arrogant…

Hurrying footsteps sounded on the staircase outside. Then a junior messenger, pink-cheeked and breathless, appeared in the open doorway and bowed. “Meister Asher, sir, His Majesty’s compliments and you’re to join him in the stable yard. Dressed for riding, he said.”

“Riding?” said Asher ungraciously, lowering his hands. “Now?”

The messenger darted a glance at Willer. “Yes, sir.”

Asher cursed under his breath. “Go back and tell him I can’t, Toby. Tell him—” Another curse. “Damn it. Tell him I’ll be there directly.”

“Sir!” squeaked the shocked messenger boy, and fled.

With an effort, Willer schooled his face to solicitude.

“I’ll tell Mistress Dathne you’ve been called away, sir, shall I? When she returns? And Darran? They’ll need to rearrange your appointments.”

“Rearrange ‘em?” snarled Asher, hoisting himself to his feet “For all I care they can—” He stopped himself, just Favored Willer with a look of intense dislike, and headed for the door. “Aye. Do that.”

Willer waited for the sound of his feet on the staircase to fade into silence, then indulged in a gust of silent excited laughter. Refusing a royal summons. Was there no end to Asher’s arrogance? How perfect for his purpose. And before a witness, too! Messenger boys’ tongues waggled faster than then knobbly little knees did when they ran. This story would be all over Tower and palace by sundown.

Lord Jarralt was going to be
thrilled…

Swearing viciously, Asher yanked off his fine indoor clothes and pulled on his riding leathers, boots and a second-best shirt. Meet Gar in the stable yard! As if he had time for riding! As if he felt well enough, with every inch of his body still screaming bloody murder after—after—

He could scarcely bring himself to think it When he’d woken a scant hour before sunrise, cold and stiff on the Weather Chamber floor, his face crackling with dried blood and his fine shirt ruined, he’d sniveled like a spratling, a girl, so monstrous was his fear and confusion and dread.

And now Gar wanted to talk about it

Well, he didn’t What was there to talk about? Nobody could ever know what had happened last night. They must never speak of it, not even when they were alone. That’s what he’d tell Gar while they were out riding through the poxy countryside.

And that would be the end of it.

The horses were saddled and waiting in the stable yard. Matt was holding them, chatting with Gar. Seeing Asher, his eyebrows flew up and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle. “I’ve seen healthier-looking drowned cats. What’s amiss?”

Smoothly, Gar answered for him. “Asher is proving himself my most hardworking and loyal subject.” Beneath the surface pleasantry, Asher saw he was brittle as sugar-glass.

“That’s our Asher,” Matt agreed, handing over Ballodair’s reins. “Dedicated to a fault. Now you have a good ride, Your Majesty, and mind yourself, because he’s feeling a bit fresh this morning.”

Proving the point, Ballodair humped and cow-kicked when Gar swung himself into the saddle, then bounded stiff-legged across the stable yard. As Gar fought to control him, gasping, Matt turned to Asher.

“You do look bloody awful,” he said, grabbing hold of the offside stirrup leather to keep the saddle steady.

Asher pulled himself aboard his patient Cygnet and nodded his thanks as Matt slid his boot home in the stirrup iron. ‘Too many meetin’s, not enough fresh air.”

“Ready?” Gar called out, Ballodair momentarily subdued.

Matt stepped back, frowning. “Come see me when you’ve done riding. We’ll talk.”

“Ain’t got time for talkin’ these days, less it be with poxy guild meisters and the like,” Asher replied, giving

Cygnet a nudge with his heels. Then he dredged up a smile, because Matt was looking right down in the mouth. “But thanks.”

And he followed Gar out of the yard.

They cantered side by side for miles along the barren Black Wood Road, not speaking, until they reached the turning for Crasthead Moor. Gar kicked Ballodair onto it, urging the stallion to go faster, faster. Standing in his stirrups, Cygnet’s long silver mane flogging his face, Asher pounded in their wake. Under clean blue skies, with cold air whipping their cheeks to color, they rode into the heart of desolation. When at last the rock-strewn moor spread bleakly in every direction, Gar lifted his hands and eased Ballodair back to a canter, then a trot, then a walk and finally a steaming halt. Panting, sweating, Asher gentled Cygnet to a standstill opposite, keeping his distance.

A wary silence filled the space between them. When it became unbearable, Gar spoke.

“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

Asher blinked away wind-whipped tears. “I can.”

“No,” said Gar, his expression as cold and remote as the moor. “You can’t. You see, we have a problem.”

“You reckon?” he said, and laughed. A pluming of breath echoed his derision.

Gar’s gloved fingers tightened on his reins. “If you laugh again I’ll pull you from your horse and beat your head to a bloody pulp with a rock.”

He looked Gar up and down. “You could try.”

With a cry of frustration Gar wheeled Ballodair in a churning of mud and small stones. The horse snorted, resenting the rough treatment. “Asher. Don’t. It doesn’t help us.”

He settled his gaze on the distant horizon. ‘True. There’s only one thing can help us. Me leavin’.”