After a long silence Gar sighed. “You don’t know that I don’t know that. And it hardly matters now. If it’s any consolation, Darran, I don’t blame you. I think Willer and Asher would’ve been enemies regardless. They’re cut from different cloths.”
Subdued, Darran folded his hands in his lap. “You’re very generous, sir.” He cleared his throat. “Is there nothing you can do for Asher?”
“No,” Gar said tiredly. “I wish there was. I’d die in his place if Jarralt would let me. But the kingdom comes first, and your people must be protected. If Willer hadn’t been set to spy on him—if our mad plan hadn’t been discovered—we might have weathered this storm. Found a way to calmer waters, or a cure for my affliction. But it’s too late now. I can’t save Asher. I can’t even save myself.”
Darran shook his head. “It’s beyond all comprehension sir. That an Olken could do such things...”
“I know,” said Gar. “And now you must forget what I’ve told you. I should’ve held my tongue. Not burdened you with the truth. It’s just—” His voice cracked. “I don’t want him to die without another person knowing the good he tried to do. Knowing that no matter what is said of him once he’s gone, he was never a traitor.”
Darran moistened dry lips. “Yes, sir. I understand. It’s been a shock, I won’t deny that.’.. but I’m glad you confided in me.”
“Are you?” The prince shook his head. “Let’s hope that doesn’t change.”
“It won’t,” he promised. “Sir... this is all indeed a tragedy, but nothing can be gained or changed by you making yourself ill. Please. Won’t you eat?”
Gar sighed. “I’ll try. But I make no guarantees, Darran. I’ve a speech to write and the thought of it makes me retch. Leave me be, and I’ll do my best with your damned chicken.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, his heart all in pieces, and left the prince alone.
———
The palace’s Great Assembly Hall was humming with a score of different conversations as Morg made his eloquent entrance, cripple in tow, a few minutes before two o’clock. Once passed through the hall’s open double doors he paused, considering the scene before them. Filling the left-hand pews were Doranen lords and ladies of varying talents and influence, who fondly imagined that a seat on the General Council equated with having some sort of power. He smothered a smile; ignorance could be such a comfort. Clustered together, as usual, in the pew closest to the speaker’s chair were Nole Daltrie, Gord Hafar and Tobe Boqur: Jarralt’s deluded friends. How disappointed they’d be to learn they weren’t the kingdom’s next Privy Council.
Gord saw him and raised a discreet hand in acknowledgment. Noticing, Nole and Tobe followed suit. He nodded back, briefly smiling.
The hall’s right-hand pews were the province of the Olken guild meisters and mistresses. According to Jarralt’s plundered memories they were normally a noisy crowd, but this afternoon they sat in silence or conversed in low, uneasy voices. Their cattle faces were tight with worry, their eyes shadowed, darting uneasy looks across the hall at their Doranen betters. They were magickless, but not quite stupid. Word of loutish Asher’s arrest had clearly spread. Dealing a cruel blow to their pretensions and raising a host of fears.
They were right to be afraid.
Directly opposite the hall’s entrance was the speaker’s chair and behind that the specially reserved seats for the king and his Privy Council, placed on a raised dais. How bare it looked now, with only one other chair occupied. No Borne. No Durm. Only Holze, who’d arrived earlier and sat now in silence, his bare head bowed in prayer or sleep.
Such a reduction of power. A thinning of the ranks. But they’d get no fatter. King Morg would have no Privy Council, no chorus of fools. His rule would be absolute. No dissenting opinions, no bleating naysayers. Now ... and once the Wall was fallen. One king. One voice. It was the only sure way to rule. Six hundred years of absolute mastery had shown him that.
Jarralt’s other dear friend, Payne Sorvold, the current Council Speaker, caught their arrival and met them halfway across the hall’s central floor space. “Your Majesty. Conroyd. Welcome.”
The cripple nodded. “Lord Sorvold.”
“Forgive me, sir, but we had not expected you. It was Lord Jarralt here who requested this extraordinary—”
“I know. I desire a brief word with the Council,” said the cripple. “Before you attend to ... other business.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty. Conroyd, if I might ask for an inkling of the matter you wished to raise, then—”
“Once His Majesty has had his say,” Morg explained, gently smiling, “I think you’ll find the other business self-explanatory.”
Sorvold’s pale green eyes narrowed and his thin lips pursed. “Indeed? All respect, but as Speaker I—”
“Should practice silence,” he said.
Flushed, taken aback, Sorvold turned to the cripple. “Your Majesty, if I might have a brief word in private?”
“You may not,” said Morg before the cripple could answer. “Call the Council to attention, Payne. We are all busy men.”
As Sorvold withdrew, offended, the cripple said, “I’ll thank you not to speak for me just yet. I’m still king here, Conroyd.”
He smiled. “So jealous of your dwindling moments, little runtling?”
Leaving the cripple to make his way to the speaker’s dais, Morg joined Holze. The Barlsman stirred at his arrival and sat up. His face was wan. Worn. Doubtless he’d come here direct from overseeing the disposition of dead Dunn’s body. There was grief in his eyes and in the way his hands clasped each other tightly in his lap. Such a wasteful emotion.
“Conroyd.”
“Efrim.”
Just below them, Sorvold picked up his little hammer and tapped it on the Assembly Bell. All around the hall surreptitious conversations ceased. Those standing assumed their seats. The air of restrained dread, of watchful curiosity, intensified.
With silence achieved, Sorvold sounded the Assembly Bell a further three times. Nodded to the young woman acting as secretary, so she might trigger the recording spell for the meeting’s minutes, then cleared his throat.
“With the authority vested in me as Speaker of the Assembly I declare this meeting open. May Barl’s mercy attend us, her wisdom guide us, her strength sustain us. All silence, please, as His Majesty now addresses this august body.”
“Thank you, Lord Sorvold,” said the cripple. His face too was wan, thoroughly bleached by the black tunic he continued to wear in honor of those dead fools, his family, and the thankfully abandoned Durm. “My good councilors, I appear before you today with a heavy heart, bearing news I know you will not welcome, as I do not welcome it But I trust in your restraint and acceptance of Barl’s will... no matter how hard acceptance may be.”
Well, he certainly had then attention. Long denied a good piece of theater, Morg sat back and prepared to enjoy himself.
“Firstly,” continued the cripple, his hands resting before him on the speaker’s lectern, “it is my sad duty to inform you that Master Magician Durm has passed from life and into Barl’s mercy. I ask now for a minute’s silence in honor of his greatness and a hfe spent in service of our kingdom.”
The minute passed, tedious slow.
“Thank you,” said the cripple. “Of his life and dedication, more shall be said in due course. Secondly, I must now tell you that due to irreparable health concerns I forthwith abdicate our kingdom’s throne and withdraw from public life indefinitely. Be it known I have chosen my lawful heir and successor, Lur’s new king and WeatherWorker, and name him Lord Conroyd Jarralt.”
Sensation. Cries. Lamentations. Shock, and a rising furor of voices both Doranen and Olken crying, “No! No! We do not accept this! You are our king!”
The cripple let them continue unchecked for a short time, then nodded at Sorvold, who again hammered his little bell. Gradually the uproar subsided.
“Good people,” said the cripple, hands raised in supplica
tion. “I can no longer serve you as your king. The magic that so lately flowered in my breast has withered and died. In memory of the love you bore my late and so lamented father—that you bear me, in his memory—I beg you to accept this decision without remonstrance and instead devote your loyalty to King Conroyd the First. And if anyone here should think to dally with notions of challenging his accession, be warned. It is my right and duty to name an heir and I have done so. A second schism hurts all and helps none. If you truly love me, be satisfied with my decision ... and Barl’s mercy on us all.”
More buzzing. Tears, and consternation.
“Lastly,” the former king said, raising his voice above the din, “I would touch upon the matter of my Olken Administrator.”
And silence fell like the blade of an axe.
“As many of you doubtless know, Asher is arrested for crimes against Barl and this kingdom and soon will pay the price in full. I think I need not say how grieved I am. What I will say is this: that no matter how heinous they might be, the actions of one Olken must never be counted the actions of all. To do so would be a gross injustice and a violation of Barl’s intentions in this land. Guard against revenge and retribution, my lords, my ladies and dear gentlefolk. Guard against it at the peril of your souls. I know King Conroyd will.”
A ripple of whispers through the watching Olken. There were tears in the cripple’s eyes now, leaking onto his cheeks. His hands were unsteady on the speaker’s lectern.
“I hope you know how I have loved you,” he added, his voice breaking. “Please believe that my actions today spring from that true devotion. Better that. I should die than any harm come to you and yours through me. Barl bless you all and guide King Conroyd to wisdom and mercy.”
One of the Olken leapt to his feet. “Barl’s blessing on you, sir! Barl’s blessing on Prince Gar!”
The cry was taken up at once, shouted by Olken and Doranen alike. Morg watched, amused, as all the councilors leapt to their expensively shod feet and roared their acclaim as Gar made his way towards the hall’s exit. Beside him, Holze said grudgingly, “Well. He managed that quite acceptably.”
He patted the cleric’s arm. “Dear Efrim. Do you think so?” And left the fool staring as he descended to the floor of the hall, meeting the cripple by the large double doors. “Thin ice, runtling,” he murmured. “Very thin ice.”
“I’m glad you recognize your danger, Conroyd,” said the cripple. “Are you a historian, sir? If not, I suggest you pick up a book. The past is peopled with unwise individuals who forgot that brute force leads to nothing but defeat. The name ‘Morg’ springs to mind.”
Startled, he stared more closely at the runt. “And what do you know of Morg, cripple?”
Gar shrugged. “Only what any half-intelligent person knows. That he was a small man who tried to make himself larger with violence ... and failed. I hope you learn from his example, for your sake.”
He laughed. Laughed until tears pricked his borrowed eyes, then patted Gar sharply on the cheek. “The carriage is waiting. Return to your Tower, boy. When I want you again, be sure I’ll send a lackey. And mind you remember the terms of your freedom, for I will not hesitate to change them. Defy me and I’ll place guards at all your doors and grievously punish those who seek to aid you.”
For long moments the cripple stared at him. Then he turned his back and left. Morg watched him for a moment, still vastly amused, then forgot him. Basked instead in the music of obedience and acclaim soaring upwards to the hall’s distant rafters.
“Hail our King Conroyd! Hail our King Conroyd! Barl bless our King Conroyd, WeatherWorker of Lur!”
Their desperate pleasure at his ascension floated him all the way to the dais the cripple had just vacated for the last time. Listening to their eager cries he felt a shriveling contempt They were all cattle, these peasants and their overlords. There wasn’t a man among them worthy of anything but slaughter.
Standing before them, hands folded on the lectern, he let his gaze roam their animal faces as they continued to shout and stamp. Cattle? No. Even cattle had a semblance of purpose. The Olken and Doranen of this pallid kingdom were sheep. Willing to follow anyone who could promise them peace and an endless procession of magical days. It made him ill to see it. That a race as majestic and proud as the Doranen should come to this! This bleating, following, milling flock.
Whatever strength Barl’s escapees had possessed it was bled to nothing here in their descendants. Their descendants were paper Doranen ... destined all to burn.
He unfolded his hands and held them up in modest appeal. “Good people, good people, I beg you: enough!”
Ragged silence fell. Those fools who’d leapt to their feet resumed their seats. Like penned sheep who heard the rattle of the gate unlocking, they stared and waited, hoping for food.
“My dear councilors,” he said, infusing his voice with sorrow. “These are dark days indeed. Our beloved kingdom has come to a pretty pass. Brought to the brink of destruction by the actions of one misguided man. I know—” He raised one hand in warning. “You loved your former king. Love him still as a prince and the sad representative of a fallen house. I commend your love, my subjects. I do. Your willingness to overlook his profound errors of judgment tells me all I need to know of your hearts. Good hearts. Stout hearts. But not, perhaps, as wise as Barl might wish them to be.”
A muttering now, and a flurry of exchanged glances. He waited a moment then rode roughshod over their objections.
“Blind devotion is a dangerous thing,” he told them. “It was blind devotion that handed power to the traitor, Asher, furnishing him with the means to dabble in forbidden magic.” Another pause, as a gasp rippled its way through the flock. “Only Barl knows the true intent of his black, unloving heart. Only Barl knows what damage he has wrought in the paradise she died to create.”
Nole Daltrie, always reliable, stood and cried out: “What are you saying, Com— Your Majesty? Do you think the kingdom’s in danger?”
“The kingdom was in danger from the day Gar elevated that stinking fisherman to heights he didn’t deserve,” he replied. Conroyd’s belief that, fervently and passionately felt. Shared. “Now I fear we face more than mere danger. I fear we face catastrophe.”
Not muttering now but cries of consternation. Daltrie exchanged horrified looks with the rest of Conroyd’s councilor friends. “Do you say the Wall itself is in jeopardy?”
The thought was so appalling it froze their voices in then throats. Stricken, Daltrie sank back slowly to bis seat.
Morg nodded. “Hard as I find it to say so, Lord Daltrie, yes. I fear it might well be.”
“No!” they shouted, thawed by terror. “Save us!” they begged him with tears in their eyes.
Holze stood, uninvited, and raised his voice above the lamentations. “Councilors, control yourselves! In Blessed Barl’s name, I command you, have faith!” As the noise subsided, he continued. “Barl will not let her Wall be defeated. Has she not delivered us from Asher’s evil and given us into the care of King Conroyd, in whom her power resides? Have faith, I tell you. And be guided by His Majesty.”
Ah, Efrim. Barl-sodden, but useful. Morg nodded to the cleric then turned back to the assembled councilors. “I am your king,” he said quietly as Holze sat down. “Of course I will save you. But I fear it won’t be easy, Thanks to Asher’s meddling, the balance of magical power in the kingdom is gravely disturbed. How badly the Wall is affected I don’t yet know ... but we must face the bitter truth. It is affected.”
The Olken councilors were moaning. Covering their faces with trembling hands and rocking on then haunches.
Every Doranen eye was upon them, and the looks were far from friendly.
“In his lust for a power that was never meant for him, Asher has endangered the life of every soul in this kingdom,” said Morg. Letting his words bite now, like the tip of a lash. “And every Olken who encouraged him to think he was more than an Olken bears a share of his guilt. Fear no
t—I will not punish the undeserving. But I tell you here and now, guild meisters and mistresses of Lur: look hard at your people. Examine their behaviors. For henceforth I hold you accountable, and will see you answer for their sins.”
Not a sound from the Olken. And if any one of them had harbored some lingering affection for Asher, the looks on their faces told him it was stone dead now. He hid a smile.
Holze said, “And what of the Wall, Your Majesty? What of the WeatherWorking?”
“History shows us we have a period of grace,” he replied. “Some short time to live without WeatherWorking before we are undone. Therefore I.shall withdraw from the public eye, that I might take into myself the Weather Magics and study how best to apply them. To undo the damage Asher has wreaked and avert a dire disaster.”
Now it was Payne Sorvold who spoke. “You’ll require a Master Magician . . . Your Majesty.”
He nodded. “I shall appoint Durm’s successor once this crisis is past, Lord Sorvold. For now all I need to help me restore our beloved kingdom is contained in his books and journals. Have no fear, sir. I shall prevail.”
Sorvold nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. And what of Your Majesty’s Privy Council?”
He felt his expression harden. “It too must wait until the crisis is past.” He unpinned his gaze from Sorvold’s frowning face and swept it around the hall. “Good people, do you not yet understand? By the merest whisper have we escaped a disaster of Asher’s making. Life as once we knew it has changed. Perhaps forever. Listen, now, as I explain more fully what I mean...”
———
Carted back to the Tower like so much lumber, Gar stifled a groan when he saw Darran waiting for him on his palatial prison’s front steps. Even dredged up a smile as the old man bowed and insisted on opening the carriage door for him. The gesture came hard, though. Any brief satisfaction he’d felt in defying Conroyd before the General Council, of warning him to leave the Olken alone, had faded. All he felt now was ill, and tired, and desperately sad.