So. Morg might be defeated, but nowt else had b.l.o.o.d.y changed.
He sat up. Scrubbed a hand across his face. Stared at the Weather map with sour dislike.
Barl, Barl Ill tell you this for nowt. Dathne aint the only slum-sk.u.mbledy wench I know.
His breathing hard and harsh, he flattened his palms a second time to the blighted Weather map. This time didnt fight the sickness roiling through him, the memory of Morg, but instead sought what little remained of Barls miraculous magic.
Aye, there it was, a feeble candle-flicker in the dark, valiantly struggling against Morgs creeping malaise. Sweet where the sorcerers touch and taste were poison bitter. Flavoured with hope and not despair. He heard his breathing falter, for as hard as ever he tried to deny it hed missed this. Hed missed it. And so, for the first time in more than ten years, since hed let the fury of UnMaking flood through him, Asher surrendered himself to magic.
And shouted wildly as the sleeping power in his blood caught fire.
Twice beforewhen he took the Weather magics into himself, and the time he stood before Matt in the Black Woods, so angryhe had felt the same kind of breathless unfolding inside himself. Had felt this soaring invincibility, as though he had wings and were suddenly made a new man. Even as he fought against its seduction he laughed, because now he felt whole again. For ten long years hed been incompleteand now he felt whole. He didnt want that to be true. He wanted that to be a lie.
But it aint. It aint. Barl b.l.o.o.d.y save me, it aint.
It was the reason why he denied his power. He knew that. Hed always known it. It was why he fought so hard to make sure that power stayed sleeping in his blood. Because even in the instant his magic burned through Gar, killing him, hed felt its savage glory. Felt a kinship with Morg.
No. No. I aint him. Its Barl in me, not him.
Except they were both in him now. As he shuddered over the Weather map, his scarred hands roaming its ruined surface, he could feel both Doranen sorcerers battling in his blood. Every time he touched a patch of Morgs blight he felt his belly heave and bile rush into his throat. Felt Morg, vile and gloating. But when he touched an unblighted part of the Weather map he heard a different voice whisper in his mind, striving to be heard over Morgs rotten mutterings. A sweet voice, a young voice. A womans voice hed heard before, in his dreams. But not Dathne.
It was the voice of the Weather Orb, carving secrets in his bones.
I be here, Barl. I be listenin. Tell me what Im sposed to do.
Opened fully to her Weather Magic, feeling it dance like a dagger through his veins, he could feel as well the wounds in the Weather map, more keenly than ever. Its screaming shuddered through him, slicking his cheeks with tears. His labouring heartbeat thundered in his ears. Buried beneath its pain he could feel something else, some unravelled, unravelling link between the map and Gars kingdom. The connection between Barls magic and Lurs earth, not severed yet. Not quite yet. But it trembled on the brink of breaking And he knew then, without knowing how he knew it, that the power was in him to save the Weather map. To pour fresh life into it, fresh magic. To beat back, if not defeat, the worst of Morgs ravages and sing Lurs distressed earth back to painless sleep. He had the power to buy the kingdom some brief, precious time.
But sink me b.l.o.o.d.y sideways this is goin to hurt.
All restraint abandoned, all doubts and fears and resentments discarded, Asher drowned himself in magic. Drowned the Weather map, too. Everything the Weather Orb had poured into him in that long-ago moment of Transference, spells and sigils he had never looked at, let alone used, they flooded to his tongue and the tips of his fingers. Flooded out of him in cataracts of heat and light and pain.
Time melted like b.u.t.ter. It dripped and poured around him, golden as glimfire.
For hour after hour he shouted the ancient words, over and over and over again. Shouted their syllables and his suffering. Aravnakai te ramakari. His fingers burned the air. Shaso shaso ahani. Blood dripped down his face. Tolnek rusta. Rusta tolnek. Ta rastu. Ta rastu ne. His carved bones were dissolving. His throat was worn away. His voice grew ragged. He was shouting it to shreds.
Beneath his left hand he could feel the Weather map shaking. Overhead, through the gla.s.s dome, the stars grew shy, then one by one vanished as night fled before the approaching dawn. Hours of magic, and still he hadnt finished. Still the link between Lur and the Weather map was in danger of breaking. Morgs dark-hearted corruption was not defeated. For all his shouting and sigils, the Weather maps wounds were not cleanly healed.
He couldnt see for the blood in his eyes. He had to breathe through his mouth because his nostrils were clogged red. There was blood on his coat-sleeves and his trembling hands. Barls Weather map was daubed wet and scarlet.
Am I bleedin to death? he wondered. Is all my blood on there?
He thought it might be, but he couldnt stop. Not now. Not when he was close enough to taste victory, salt and iron mingled bitter on his tongue.
If I die doin this I reckon Dathll b.l.o.o.d.y kill me.
His senses had long since blunted beneath the unrelenting onslaught of magics pain. The worst calling of rain had been nothing compared to this. This magic sliced him like a razor, like pitiless Dragonteeth Reef. He could almost believe he was being UnMade just as hed UnMade Morg. Thought he was being pulled apart to specks and flecks of blood-soaked dust.
At last at long last as the climbing sun spilled warmth and golden light through the chambers gla.s.s dome and onto its floor emptied, exhausted and battered to a pulp he slumped across Barls Weather map. Dragged his crusted eyelids open and saw, blurred and bleary, that the map was almost healed. A smear of blight here a touch there Hardly enough to notice. Practically nowt, compared to before.
We did it, Barl. We b.l.o.o.d.y did it.
The Weather Chamber swirled around him, and headfirst he fell into the fast fleeing night.
Asher Asher for the love of Barl, man, come to your senses! Come on!
Irritated, he tried to swat aside the wet cloth dripping on his face. Gerroff.
Asher! Oh, praise Jervale. Praise Barl.
He sucked in a quick breath, wincing. Dathne? That were Dath. And the other voice that were Pellen. Pellen Orrick, pretty well the last of his friends that hadnt managed to die. Groaning, he opened his eyes.
Here, said Dathne, her face wet with tears. Drink this. No fratching.
Pellens strong arm eased his shoulders off the Weather Chamber floor and held him tight so Dathne could press a wooden cup against his lips.
Drink! she said again.
It was Dathne, so he drank.
Sink me, woman! he spluttered, his mouth on fire, his belly heaving. The stuff was foul, worse than any potion Nix had ever forced on him. You tryin to b.l.o.o.d.y poison me?
Here, take this, said Dathne, ignoring him and thrusting the emptied cup at Pellen. And give me that cloth. A moment later shed taken over where Pellen left off, dripping water on him and tryin to bathe him like a baby. Sinkin b.l.o.o.d.y woman, did she think hed turned feeble? Stop fratching! she scolded. If Id brought a mirror with me and you looked in it, I swear youd drop dead from fright.
Hows Deenie? he mumbled as she slopped his stubbly face clean. Sunlight dazzled his eyes, and warmed his cheeks. He was ravenous. And Rafe?
Theyre fine, she said. She sounded breathless with temper or fright. Deenie woke fresh as new milk an hour ago, and Rafes spent the day tearing the Tower down to get out into the countryside on that pony of his.
He looked up at Pellen. Charis? Hows Charis?
Shes fine too, Asher, said Pellen. His face was carved deep with worry-lines, and his smile was half-hearted. She saidshe said His voice broke. She said she heard the earth singing.
He closed his eyes. Singin, eh? Aint that poetical.
Deenie said the same thing, Dathne added. Peas in a pod, those two.
He listened to her swish the cloth in a bowl of water, and wring it out. And what does Rafe say?
Ah well, you know our Rafel, she said, sounding amused now. No poetry for him. But he said he thought the earth was happy. Which for Rafe is dancing close to poetry.
With an effort he opened his eyes again and sat up, Pellens arm helping. Every bone ached, every muscle shrieked a loud complaint. He looked at them in turn, his wife and his friend. How long have I been here?
Not so very long, said Dathne. There were still tears on her cheeks. Itll be sunset in an hour.
That meant not quite a full day. He thought he remembered the sunrise. He did remember the magic. His head was pounding and his throat was sore.
What happened? said Pellen. What did you do? Can you recall?
Shifting on the hard floor, he turned to look at Barls Weather map. Blotched a little here and there, but mostly whole. Mostly remade. Some kind of miracle, surely.
You were right, Pellen, he said, his battered voice thin and scratchy. The magic was in me. All I had to do was let it out. He shivered, memory stirring more keenly. So I did.
Let it out how? said Dathne. What did you do with it, Asher?
Frowning, he touched the Weather map. Sucked in a quick breath, feeling warmth and strength and an odd kind of peace. Feeling the Weather Magic soaked into its bones. The blight still tried to whisper, but it was faint. Almost killed. Encouraged, he pushed his feelings out further, ignoring the resentful pain, and felt an echo of that warmth and strength in the kingdoms earth beneath them.
I aint ezackly sure, he said slowly. I reckon could be I fed it into the Weather map. Into Lur.
In silence they looked at Barls amazing creation.
And sinkin near emptied yourself of life doing it, said Dathne, at last. You fool.
Dont fratch at him, Dathne, said Pellen quickly. Not after hes nigh on killed himself to save us.
Dont lecture me, Pellen! she snapped. Hes my b.l.o.o.d.y husband and the father of my children and if I want to call him seven different kinds of sapskull for coming within a hair of making me a widow and his children orphans then thats what Ill do and youll not gainsay me!
Asher grinned tiredly at his troubled friend. Dont fret, Pellen. Think I aint used to it after ten years of marriage?
Dathne slapped him. Watch your tongue, you rapscallion.
Catching her hand, he pressed it to his dry, chapped lips. Sink me, but youre beautiful when you be angry.
Asher, said Pellen, as Dathne spluttered. Silenced for once, though her eyes promised retribution. Is it enough? What youve done? Is Lurs trouble settled once and for all?
Barl b.l.o.o.d.y save him, he hoped so. I dknow. It better be. I couldnt do any more.
No, said Pellen, solemn. You couldnt. As it is you came close to doing too much. Never again, Asher. Do you hear me? Never again.
Trust me, Pellen, he said, shivering, you wont get no fratchin from me on that.
It was true. There was an emptiness inside him hed never felt before. He felt almost almost broken. Used up. Hollowed out.
You know how we got to handle this, dont you? he said, looking at Dathne, then at Pellen. Total b.l.o.o.d.y secrecy. This never happened. I aint been here for years. Same goes for you, Pellen. And you aint never been here, Dathne. You forgot the b.l.o.o.d.y Weather Chamber existed. And we dont never talk on this. Agreed?
Silence, then they nodded. Agreed, they said, a Dathne and Pellen duet.
Good, he said. If he werent so b.l.o.o.d.y tired, and in so much pain, hed be well-pleased. So thats settled. Now lets get out of here, eh? Reckon there be a bottle or three of icewine in the Tower somewhere with my name on em. You two get ale.
Between them, Dathne and Pellen levered him onto his feet. Groaning, every inch of his body voicing new and shrill complaints, he turned his aching back on Barls Weather map and shuffled out of the Chamber. Stumbled down its one hundred and thirty b.l.o.o.d.y steps and outside into spring afternoon sunlight.
Beneath his tired feet, the replenished earth slept.
Dathnes arm slipped round his ribs. Her warm lips pressed his cheek. Come along, you, she whispered. Lets see you home.
PART TWO.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
Setting aside partisan squabblingchoosing to overlook the four complaints that waited to be heard in Justice HallLurs oftfractious Olken guilds joined hands with each other, and the Doranen, and held a ball in the Citys Guildhouse on the high summers night of Pellen Orricks retirement, to thank him for twenty years of steadfast mayoral service.
The farewell gala was a grand and glorious affair. Lit broad floor to lofty rafters with golden glimfire, decorated with flowers and streamers and tricky bits of Doranen magic, the Guildhouse echoed to the lilting strains of genteel music, the swish of silk skirts, the measured tread of jewelled slippers and polished boots. Almost everyone who was anyone in Lur had come here this night to dance and flirt and gossip and drink and nibble away the frolicsome hours until dawn.
Catching her breath, Dathne s.n.a.t.c.hed a gla.s.s of bubbled sweetwine as it pa.s.sed her on a tray. Look, Asher, she murmured, sipping. Dont Rafel and Charis make a charming pair?
Asher grunted, scowling into his tankard of spiced cider. After four dances in a row hed had enough to be goin on with, so now he and Dath were squashed out of the way in a corner where he could keep an eye on things without folk comin up to natter. Out on the dance floorthe Guildhouses meeting room, made overhis troublesome son and his best friends daughter leapt and whirled and made fools of emselves rompin through some newfangled highsteppin jig, alongside a hundred or so other Olken and Doranen as ought to know better. Fernel Pintte was one of em, Barl rot his socks.
Asher! said Dathne, and niggled him in the ribs with her elbow. Stop sulking. Fernels chosen. Its done and done.
Aye, it b.l.o.o.d.y was, though it griped him something fierce to admit it. Despite hed nigh on talked his tongue loose, and made sure to monitor the vote-counting on the day, Fernel b.l.o.o.d.y Pintte were Dorana Citys new mayor. And if that werent a sinkin disgrace So I suggest you get used to it, added Dathne, tired of his grumping. The Guildhouses glimlight glowed on the ruby-red silk of her dress, and the ruby necklace hed gifted her. Like it or not, the chain of office is his.
Well, he didnt b.l.o.o.d.y like it, did he? Fernel Pintte were a trouble-makin, rabble-rousin upstart of a jackanapes. Arrogant as a Doranen and twice as nasty. How he thought he could step into Pellen Orricks shoes Right to the last moment hed thought Gooses da could win the race for mayor. Werent Ned Martin born and bred in the City? A lifetime in the brewin game, with enough prize medals to sink him down a well and five turns as Guildmeister to show he could keep good order? That made up for his p.r.i.c.klesome nature, didnt it? Shouldnt it?
Hed thought so. Hed hoped so. But there werent never no tellin what folk might up and do. Three years ago Fernel b.l.o.o.d.y Pintte had arrived in the City to take over The Weary Traveller, one of its oldest and best-loved inns. Straight into the Hostlers Guild hed walked and the next thing anyone knew his busy fingers were dabbling in every Dorana City pie and even some beyond it. Pellen were dismayed on that too, and did his best to uncover good reason to clip Pinttes wingsbut there was nowt he could find to prove the man a problem. So Fernel b.l.o.o.d.y Pintte went on his merry way, turning hisself influential, charming witless fools hand over fist, leaving em sundazzled so they couldnt see the jackanapes behind the smile, and telling em ezackly what they wanted to hear.
Not once since the day he was sent packing from Pellens house had they heard another peep of a word from the man about chasing the Doranen out of Lurand theyd been listening close. Anyone might reckon hed abandoned the notion. Pellen was inclined to think it. But Asher wasnt so sure. Pintte might not be talking on it, but men like him didnt give up that kind of dream.
And then, with Pellen announcing he was stepping down, Pintte announced hed be running for City Mayor.
Briefly Asher thought of tossin his own self in the race but Dathne had flat forbade it.
Youre not strong enough, shed raged at him, tears in her eyes. Curl your lip at me all you like, Asher, but we both know its true. And I wont stand for you risking yourself. For what? To be mayor? No. Its not worth it.
That were the trouble with Dathneshe had the bad habit of bein right. Ever since that night hed poured himself into Barls Weather map, poured his magic, his terror, his hope and desperation into the sinkin thing so Lur wouldnt founder, hed beendifferent. More grey in his hair. More ache in his bones. More bad dreams in his sleep and less sleep to have em in.
Asher, Dathne said again, softly this time. Her hand stroked his green-sleeved arm, pulling him out of harried thought. Pellen had to step down.
He swallowed another mouthful of spiced cider. Pity it werent a tad bit stronger. He needed strong drink tonight, with Pintte boastin about the Guildhouse in Pellens chain of office, trailing his cronies after him like a bad smell.
I know, he said, still frowning, as Rafel galloped Charis round the dance floor with both hands clasping her slender waist. He looked mighty fine tonight, in blue silk and dark green velvet. Every la.s.s he smiled at sparkled. But I dont have to like that, either.
An aguey chest had brought Pellen low early this past winter, turning him pale and listless, sapping his strength. By winters end, with Kerril making dire predictions, hed had no choice but to call it quits. Twenty years. Pellen were the longest serving mayor in the history of Lur.
With his friend retiring, and confident Gooses da would be Doranas next mayor, hed thought mayhap, at long last, he could leave the City for good and settle down along the coast with a fishing boat. Not in Restharven, with his brother Zeth still there, a cantankerous ole man, but somewhere. Him and his family, safe and happy and never havin to think on magic again.
Hed really thought he could do it. Just over ten years had slid by since that night hed saved Lur a second time. Ten peaceful years and no hint of trouble. He werent old yet, but for certain sure he was getting older. Hadnt he earned the right to live his life for himself?
Cept now here was Fernel Pintte and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was starting to stir trouble again. Starting to make his noises about the Doranen, and who did Lur really belong to, eh?
He might be more polite about how he says so, compared to last time, but he aint changed his b.l.o.o.d.y tune. And now hes got folks startin to hum along with him.
And seein as how hed so neatly got hisself made mayor, well, that meant trouble were only just got started. The Mayor of Dorana had a lot of clout, not only in the City but most places in Lur. Folk paid attention. With Pellen that had meant trouble got sat on till it ran out of air. But he knew, he knew, alarm humming in his bones, that Fernel Pintte were about to start fanning flames, not smothering em.
Cause that be the kind of manky man he is. And once he starts stirrin in earnest, Barl b.l.o.o.d.y save us then. I was right. He werent ever to be trusted.