Asher lay so still he didn’t disturb his swaddling blankets, but Dathne smoothed them anyway. It helped her to feel she was doing something. Helping him. Nursing him, as a good wife should. But the gesture felt pointless. He didn’t know she sat beside him because he’d gone far away. How could he have walked so far ahead, leaving her behind? She’d always been the leader. From the day they met she’d led him where he needed to go. But then he’d abandoned her. And now Rafel was abandoning her too.
Like father, like son.
Salt water stung her eyes. She blinked it away. She was tired of weeping. Tears turned her from plain to ugly and they didn’t change a thing. Her husband was stupored and her son was leaving. Soon she would be alone, save for a daughter whose frights and imaginings were just one more burden. Once there’d been a Dathne who would have fought against that. Who would have rejected such a bleak future and instead pummelled the present until the future changed.
I don’t know where she is now. I don’t know how to find her.
In the past, when she’d been lost and uncertain, she’d had Veira to guide her back to the path. To show her where to find her courage. She’d had Matt, as well. But her dear friends were dead and the hand that had held hers during that crushing double grief—Asher’s hand—was cold and careless of her needs. She could hold it. She did hold it. But he could not hold her hand in return.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We saved the kingdom. We were meant to have a happy ending. We thought we had a happy ending. Now we’re faced with the real ending… an ending that will end us.
Unless Rafel prevailed.
“Can he prevail, Asher?” she whispered. “Or will the darkness that lies beyond those mountains swallow him, as it’s swallowed everyone else who’s challenged it? I know he’s like you. I know there’s a strength and a power in him unmatched in any other Olken. But Asher—look at you. You’ve been defeated. That means he can be defeated. He wants me to smile and wave him goodbye. He wants me to be proud of him. He wants that I should celebrate what he’s about to do. But I can’t. I can’t. He’s asking me to dance on his grave before he’s even buried in it.”
Asher said nothing. After so many years of his brash, vibrant presence, his absence was a gaping wound. The Innocent Mage had ruled her life since she was younger than Deenie. Was woven into her fabric like a thread of gold, glittering. Her touchstone. Her lodestar. Her lamp in the darkness, leading her home.
Now he’s being extinguished. And I am powerless to help him.
Despair was a grey tide, lapping at her feet.
“Oh, Asher…” Weary, so weary, she let herself fold to his bed. Rested her cheek on his blankets and imagined his hand, stroking her hair. Imagined his deep voice murmuring comfort. Imagined her body loved by his. Remembered the thousand small ways he gave her joy and the things he did that made her frown.
Make me frown again, Asher. Give me reason to scold.
And still he did not speak to her. For a moment she was so angry with him she wanted to shriek.
You promised me. You promised. Asher, how could you do this?
His silence reproached her.
“That was different,” she told him. “I was Jervale’s Heir then. I was part of the Circle, bound by oaths I couldn’t break. Not even for you. And we weren’t married when I… misled you. We had no children. I owed you nothing.”
Kerril kept tapers burning in the chamber. Claimed they had a healing effect. For herself, she found them revolting. But her desperation had reached such heights… if Morg himself appeared and offered to—
“I’d listen,” she whispered. “I would. I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you. Please, Asher, come back. Deenie’s hurting so badly, and I can’t help her. And Rafel—oh, Rafel—”
Aching, she sat up. Threaded her fingers through Asher’s lank, lustreless hair. Touched his closed eyes, his pale lips. Traced the length of his crooked nose. Once, only weeks ago, days, her lightest touch could stir him. Make him smile, and kiss her. And now she might as well be touching a marble effigy.
But she couldn’t afford to let herself think about that. She had something particular to say. Something to ask. A question she couldn’t leave unanswered.
“Jervale alone knows what dangers our son will face,” she said, forcing herself to fold her hands in her lap. “And he might have power, my love, but power won’t be enough. Should I…” She swallowed, feeling the heat of terror rise in her throat. “Asher, should I give him Barl’s diary?”
She wanted to. Jervale’s mercy, she wanted Rafe to absorb every last warspell in that book and arm himself to the teeth against whatever was waiting beyond the mountains.
“We know he’s strong enough to wield those magics. You made sure of that in Westwailing. And we can’t let him leave this kingdom without—without doing all we can to protect him. How could we do that? We’re his parents, Asher. Grown man or not, Rafe’s still our child.”
Sometimes Asher breathed so lightly her eyes tricked her into thinking he wasn’t breathing at all. She held her own breath, waiting to see his chest rise… waiting to hear that faint sighing of air as it fell…
“Asher,” she said, as he breathed, “should I give him the diary?”
And as though he’d spoken, she heard his answer.
No.
No. Loving Rafel wasn’t reason enough to reveal this last secret. The diary had to stay hidden. Because Doranen like Arlin Garrick must never learn of its existence. Once released, the warspells couldn’t ever be called back. And there were other magics written there, that must never see the light of day. Because—
Because he could use it to find the way to Lost Dorana. And once there, he might discover magics that make the warspells look… safe. I can’t risk it. Whatever dangers Lur faces now, they’re nothing compared to unbridled Doranen magic. Asher would never forgive me if I endangered this kingdom. And I’d never forgive myself if I put Rafe in harm’s way. If he can’t find that lost, forsaken country—then he’ll come home again. He will.
She felt sick. In protecting her child, in denying him what he needed for his self-imposed task, she was also betraying him. He believed so hard that what he planned to do was right. Was what his father would want. Was somehow his—his duty.
“We did that to him, Asher,” she said, staring into her husband’s beloved, secret face. “The Innocent Mage and Jervale’s Heir… between us we made our son think he’d be shown wanting if he didn’t throw his life away for Lur. Shame on us. Shame on us.”
Asher said nothing. She took his silence for assent. Felt the hot tears spill, and meander down her face. It was the only warm thing about her. She was so cold. And brutally alone. As a young woman, as the Heir, she’d learned to accept that her life must be solitary and would likely remain so. And then Asher had come and turned belief inside out. Shattered acceptance. Dared her to daring. She’d broken the rules. Broken his heart. Broken her own heart. And yet… they’d mended. Made a life. Made children. Found joy. Found peace.
But peace, it seemed, was nowt but illusion. Joy was fleeting. Children… left. And the man she loved more than peace and joy, more than life, was broken again—and she couldn’t mend him.
Beyond the hushed chamber’s uncurtained window the night sky was filling with clouds. Another storm brewing. Lur’s pain taking form. In the earth, in her blood and bones, she felt its vicious echoes. But that pain was dull. Her pain for Asher was sharp.
I am in my own death throes. If he dies… so do I.
Stranded in her chamber, curled up on her bed, kept dull and quiet with Kerril’s possets, Deenie felt the storm break like glass shattering in her blood. Its violence rushed through her, scouring her clean of herbs and conjured apathy. Whimpering, she pressed her hands to her temples to hold in the hurt. It did no good. Every beat of her heart pumped it through and through her shaking body. Like glass, Lur was breaking.
Am I breaking with it?
She wasn’t a child any longer, to run crying to Mama. There was no comfort there anyway. Mama was almost empty these days, all the fight poured out of her. She’d spent her whole life fighting and now she was tired.
I’m tired too. I’m tired of feeling things nobody else can feel. I’m tired of not being believed. I’m tired of being alone. Of being afraid. Of being a mouse waiting for the hungry cat to pounce.
Frighted and lonely, knowing she’d most likely regret it, she sought out her brother. He’d been home a handful of hours but they’d not spoken yet. She’d heard him and Mama, though, shouting. She’d not drowsed her way through that. So much hurt and anger, pins and needles in her heart. They’d shouted about him leaving again. About Da, and Barl’s Mountains. About Goose and the others who’d gone away… and weren’t going to come back. Because she couldn’t help either of them, she’d stuffed her fingers in her ears.
Rafe was in his privy chamber, hunched in the window-seat reading an old, tattered manuscript. Standing in the doorway, she waited for him to notice her.
“Go away,” he said, not looking up. “I’m busy.”
That manuscript—it was Tollin’s account of his expedition, that failed. The first time she’d found Rafe reading it—out in the Tower gardens, where he’d go to be alone and where she could always find him—they were both sprats. Nearly nine, she’d been, and sure as sure he wasn’t s’posed to have it. Had spied on him reading bits aloud to himself, playing parts, playing explorer, then crept away before she could betray herself, giggling. But he wasn’t a sprat now, and neither was she.
“Rafe,” she said softly, inching her way acrosss the carpet. “Do you really think Tollin’s records will help?”
“I said go away,” he muttered. The chamber’s glimlight sputtered, throwing shadows every which way, echoing the earth’s ceaseless unrest. “Don’t make me make you.”
But she persisted, because his threats didn’t scare her. Even with all that power in him, straining to burst loose, churning in his blood like the whirlpools down in Westwailing. He was her brother. She could never fear him.
“The others would’ve seen that manuscript, you know. Goose and Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden. If it didn’t help them, I don’t see it helping you.”
An exasperated sigh hissed between his teeth. “Deenie …” And then he let his head fall back against the wainscoting. “How did you know I’m going? Were you listening too?” He pulled a face. “Bloody girls.”
“I wasn’t listening,” she said crossly, because the way he said it meant something sneaky and sly. “I heard. You might think on keeping your voice down if you want to talk secrets on the stairs.”
“Ha. Right.”
The thought of him leaving was like knife blades sliding under her skin. “Rafe… do you have to do this?”
And now he shifted his gaze to meet hers. “Aye.”
If he’d shouted at her, like he’d shouted at Mama… if he’d rolled his eyes, tried to make it a joke… if he hadn’t just looked at her, so serious, so resigned…
I can’t fratch at him. I can’t.
Trembly, she dropped onto a handy footstool. Rafe. “So… that manuscript. Did you pinch it from Da? That time you did the really tricky magic, remember? Is that when you pinched it?”
“That was years ago,” he said, letting the worn parchment slide onto his lap. “What does it matter now?”
It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. ’Cept he was going away and they hardly ever talked. “I know, but…” She chewed her lip. “Did you?”
“What if I did?” he said, looking out of the window where the rain was pouring and the sky flashed with lightning. “Who you going to tell?”
“Nobody. I just wanted to know. That tricky magic. Did you make it up?”
She watched a memory play over his face. Watched some small, secret pleasure ease the strain in his eyes. Sitting so close to him, almost close enough to touch, she could feel his woken power burn. Like a bonfire, flames leaping, licking her with heat.
He nodded. “Aye. I made it up.” His gaze flicked sideways. “That’s a secret.”
When was the last time he’d trusted her with a secret? When was the last time they’d sat together like this, so cosy? The journey home from Westwailing. Those few moments she’d rested her head on his shoulder. And before that? She couldn’t remember. They weren’t close. They never had been. And yet she could feel him, like the blood in her veins.
“You been to see Da yet?”
In a finger-snap, like magic, his pleasure froze into pain. “Aye.”
“And did you feel it?” she said, heart thudding. “What’s in him? Please tell me you felt it this time, Rafe. I don’t want to be the only one who can feel it.”
“Sink me,” he swore. “Deenie—”
“Please, Rafe, don’t shout. Everything’s awful already, don’t shout.”
He tossed the manuscript aside, slid out of the window-seat and thumped to his knees on the carpet in front of her. Took her by both shoulders and shook her. Not hard, not to hurt her. He was trying to change her mind.
“Deenie, you’ve got to stop this,” he said, so earnest. “No, I don’t feel any blight in Da. And you don’t, neither. You’ve got yourself stirred up, is all, the way you did when we were sprats. Don’t you remember how it was? You’d wake yourself screaming in the night, pointing at ghosts and ghoulies no-one else could see. You’d swear upside down they were real, but they never were. They were just bad dreams. This ain’t no different.”
“That time Da dreamed the warbeasts,” she retorted, and knocked his hands aside. “That was real.”
“That was one time,” said her brother. “You were right once, Deenie. And never again. You can’t—”
She scrambled to her feet, tipping the footstool on its side. “Shut up, Rafe. Just ’cause you did some clever magic down in Westwailing you think no-one else can be special? Is that it?”
“No. But—”
“I ain’t a sprat now,” she said, glaring. “And I bloody well ain’t dreaming. Why won’t you—”
“Can Pother Kerril feel it yet?” he demanded, and stood. “Best pother in the kingdom, she is. Cured folks as were gasping their last. What’s she say, Deenie?”
She felt a single tear snail its tickling way down her cheek. “I don’t care what Kerril says. I feel things, Rafel. That’s what I do.”
He stared at her, silent. Outside, the thunder boomed. Lightning lashed the sky. “I know,” he said at last. “It’s just… I want you to be wrong.”
“Don’t you think I want to be wrong?” she whispered. “Don’t you think I’d give anything to be wrong?”
And then they both jumped, startled, as a deafening clap of thunder crashed overhead. All the glimfire blinked out, plunging them into darkness.
“I got it,” said Rafel, and reignited every lamp. “We’re fine, Deenie.”
“No, we’re not. Oh, Rafe, do you feel as awful as I do?” She pressed clenched fingers to her chest. “I’m all—broken—inside.”
The earth’s pain was in his eyes, bright as shattered glass. “Me too.”
“It’s going to be bad like this, over the mountains. Prob’ly it’s going to be worse.”
“I know. Deenie—”
“I’m not saying don’t go,” she said quickly. “I know you have to. Only… don’t try to pretend you ain’t afraid. If you stop yourself feeling fear, you might stop yourself feeling other things, Rafe. Things that could keep you alive.”
“Like what?” he said. Fratched and grudging, yes, but at long last listening.
She wanted to lie, but she couldn’t. “I can’t tell. Lur’s screaming so loud it makes my head spin.”
Beyond the chamber’s window rain hammered the already hammered Tower gardens. More thunder rumbled, marching somewhere distant. Prob’ly over the Flatlands. That felt about right.
“A big bloody help you are,” he said, scowling. He looked like Da. “If you’re going to witter warnings at me, Deenie, witter something I can use.”
“I wish I could,” she said. “But I don’t know how to save you, Rafe. I don’t know how to save anyone. Or Lur. All I can do is feel smashed to pieces.”
He was her big brother and he loved her. Not easily, she knew that. His love was well-peppered with impatience. Her fears had always gritted him, like sand in his boots… just as his brash boldness always made her feel small. But he hugged her now, adrift on the carpet, and she hugged him back. Breathed in the sweat and horse of him, the faint yeastiness of strong ale, the sweet tint of sickroom incense. All the different smells that made him Rafe.
He’s leaving. He’s leaving. I don’t want him to go.
“Rafe,” she said, muffled against his shoulder. In that moment knowing everything about him. “Don’t fret over Mama.”
His arms tightened. “She’s so fratched at me, Deenie. I thought she was scalded when I rode off for the Home Districts. But now I’m going over the mountains—” His voice cracked. “I reckon she might let me ride away without another word.”
He was trembling. “No, no,” she said, holding him harder. “She’s frighted for you. We both are. What you’re trying to do? And with nobody to help you but that Arlin Garrick? Of course we’re frighted.”
Rafel let his arms drop. Took a half step back. “I ain’t getting lost, or worse, over them mountains. I’ve got power and I’ll use it.” His eyes were fierce. “I’ll burn anyone as gets in my way. I’m saving Goose, I’m saving Lur, and I’m coming back.”
She didn’t know if he was right. She only knew he thought he was, and that not even Mama’s rage and tears would change his mind. Not even Da lying in his bed so still and pale, with the blight in him only she could feel, poisoning his veins. Rafe thought he was born for this… and nothing else mattered.
“You always were stubborn,” she murmured, pressing her palm to his cheek. “You always did what you wanted, no matter what anyone said. No matter if you were being naughty or not.” She tried to laugh. “And most times, Rafe, you were being naughty.”
“True,” he admitted, and covered her hand with his. Then his wry smile faded. “Deenie, I’ve got things to do. I want to read that manuscript again. I want to—” Hesitating, he let his hand drop. “I’ve got some thinking as needs doing.”
He wasn’t telling her the exact truth. There was a sudden tartness to him, like the scent of fresh lemons on a warm breeze. Prob’ly he intends on being naughty again. But since she had no hope of stopping him, best she be gracious.
“It’s all right. How long before the Council gives you formal leave to go?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, shrugging. “But I’ll wager not long.” He looked out of the window at the still-blustering storm. “ ’Cause Lur ain’t got long. You and me know that, if nobody else does.”
“True,” she said quietly. “Lucky us, eh?” She tried to smile. “Don’t work too late. You need your rest.”
“Deenie…”
Stopped halfway to the door, she turned. “Yes?”
There were tears in his eyes. Tears. And he looked so young. So vulnerable.
“What, Rafe?”
He shook his head. “Nowt. Nowt. Never mind me. Off you go.”
She closed the chamber door behind her, and went downstairs to the kitchen to see if Meistress Watt would let her dabble her hands in some pastry, or something else as might need baking. Maybe that would ease her troubled heart.
But she doubted it. She couldn’t imagine feeling untroubled ever again.
As the door shut behind his sister, Rafel breathed deeply a few times. Waited until all he felt was irritated amusement. Naughty, Deenie called him. And if he was, what of it? Just like he’d told Charis—meek men never got anything done.
Still. The word echoed in his memory, niggling, as he slipped into Da’s library and settled himself on the carpet in front of the trunk containing Durm’s secret magics. The scrolls and the diaries Da never showed him or even spoke of, even after Westwailing and the waking of his power. So much left unsaid between them. About Westwailing. About a lot of things.
The storm had passed but it was still raining. Sheets of water running down the library windowpanes. He’d conjured himself the tiniest ball of glimfire, not enough to alert Mama, who was sitting with Da three rooms round from this one. If he was careful and quiet she wouldn’t know he was here. After their shouting match on the stairs he reckoned they’d both be best off not laying eyes on each other till morning.
He rose and looked at his reflection in the watery window, the glimfire shadowing him mysterious and dark. Roiling inside him, so much pain. Lur’s. Mama’s. Deenie’s. Pellen and Charis’s, too. And his power churned. His woken, hungry, simmering power, that wouldn’t obediently go back to sleep. That he didn’t understand, and likely now never would.
Da should’ve told me. He should’ve taught me years ago how to control it. I don’t know if I can do this alone.
Grief like a bunched fist struck hard, stealing his breath. Eyes burning, throat closing, fire roared in his blood. Guilt like a snowstorm turned his bones to ice. He wasn’t naughty, he was wicked, to be angry with Da now, when his father was dying.
Not wanting to look at himself a single heartbeat longer, he turned away from the window and made his way back to the trunk. Dropped to sit cross-legged in front of it. Fuddled the lock, such a simple thing to do now. Easy as sneezing. Was anything beyond him? Easing the trunk’s lid open, he let the glimfire hover and picked up the first of Durm’s hoarded books.
The thing he needed most was a way to protect himself from whatever darkness lurked over the mountains. If the enemy was miasma, blight and foul enchantments, natural things turned lethal like the waterspouts and whirlpools now infesting all of Lur’s harbours, then he needed some way of banishing them. Collapsing them. Or shielding himself, at least. But if his enemy was flesh-and-blood, some race of men warped and twisted by Morg’s foul magics, or maybe even demons who’d not perished when the sorcerer perished, then the spells he was after would have to give him the power to kill. The way Da had killed the day the Wall came down.
I wish I had those magics. I wish they hadn’t been lost.
Killing with magic… the thought did give him pause. Pushed to it, could he kill a man? Smash him to blood and splinters with nowt more than words? Words… and the power burning inside him.
Da did it. And we’re the same. If it comes down to Lur and some man I don’t know… if I had to, I could kill.
One by one, reading quickly, he worked his way through Durm’s books and scrolls. He found spells of compulsion and transformation and deconstruction and repression. Magics that in the wrong hands could cause untold harm. That no Olken would have a chance of resisting, not even if they were strong in the earth like Meister Gamble of the Speckled Rooster in Riddleton. Touched by these magics, Gamble would burn like paper.
Heart pounding, Rafel saw how the spells might be used as weapons. And he needed weapons. Against the darkness, against the mountains. Maybe even against Arlin. So he snatched quill and paper from Da’s desk and started scribbling down the incants, scribbling any kind of magic that might be turned to his advantage.
He found five different spells for conjuring objects from one place to another. Of course he knew the Doranen did that—he’d seen it—but it was never an incant he’d managed to pinch from Arlin, and though he’d tried to fuddle it on his lonesome he could never make it work. Odd, that Da would’ve kept such commonplace spells secret. And then, reading more closely, he saw that while one conjuring spell was for objects, the rest were for the conjuring of living things, small to large. And that would explain them being locked in the trunk. Get one of these wrong…
He felt himself turn a little queasy, discomfort that had nothing to do with Lur’s suffering earth. But he scribbled them down anyway. Better safe than sorry.
Pity we daren’t risk ’em to get us over the mountains. That’d save a few blisters and uncomfortable nights. ’Cept then folk would know this kind of magic exists… and we’d likely get ourselves in all kinds of bother.
The next spell he read was for seeing things over long distances. He grinned. That could come in mighty useful. And then he chewed his lip, so tempted. It was late. He was hungry. And he should really make certain these magics would work…
Closing his eyes, he reached for his power. And there it was, waiting for him, dangerous and beautiful. So beautiful.
Drifting, his blood humming, he looked at the faded-ink words of the incant scrawled in Durm’s dashing hand. Let its lilting syllables sink into his mind. Breathed them out again, a whisper of words. A single sigil, caressing the air. Thought of the place he wanted to see…
… and was in the Tower kitchen. Glimlit, but empty. He could smell the spicy sweetness of fresh baking. On the wide shelf beside the window, that magical place where Rafel-the-sprat had loved to stand and sniff, a ginger cake on a pottery plate. Moist and golden brown. Still warm. A heady aroma. He heard his belly growl.
So, turning his mind to those other spells, he conjured it.
Warmth like kissing, coursing through his veins. A surge of bright power to drown Lur’s constant drone of pain. Beyond the library window the constant rain poured down. Barely noticing it, stunned, he touched the conjured ginger cake with his fingertips. Felt its stickiness and touched fingertips to his tongue. The taste burst through him, like magic.
He nearly ruined himself, trying not to laugh.
Next, he conjured a sharp knife and cut himself a fat slice.
After that, his growling belly silenced, he returned to the task of sifting through the rest of Durm’s books and scrolls. And even though this was serious, even though there was grief and anger and fright hovering, still… as his fingers scrawled spells, scrawled protections for his dangerous journey, whenever he looked up at the window he could see himself smile.
Word was sent from the Council early the next morning. A summons, no fancy folderol. No Your kind attendance is requested. Just Come now. Jaffee’s privy chapel.
Mama and Deenie were both still abed—or not venturing beyond their chambers. Rafel left a note, saddled Firedragon and rode through the mizzling rain down to the Market Square. Gave the stallion to the Barlschapel stable lads and made his quiet way inside, where a cleric led him to Barlsman Jaffee’s secluded rooms.
Arlin was there already, velvet and seed pearls gleaming gently in the glimlight. At the sound of footsteps he turned in his wooden chair, his dissatisfied expression tightening to anger.
“No need for cartwheels,” Rafel said, with his own sneer. “You ain’t the face I was looking for, neither.”
Arlin didn’t answer. Arms folded, eyes slitted, he stared stony at his knees.
Poxy little shit.
Propping himself against the nearest bit of stone wall, he lapsed into silence. Let his gaze drift about the chamber, with its plain stone floor and its plain wooden desk and chairs and the portrait of Barl in its beautiful frame. Somewhere in the greater chapel the acolytes were singing hymns. Learning, or practicing. Their sweet voices rose and fell, praising the mercy of Barl.
A short time later, Barlsman Jaffee swept into the austere chamber. He looked weary. Sleepless. His Barlsbraid was unravelling, its offering flowers fallen out. Creases and wrinkles marred his fine clerical robes.
“There will be no parade,” he announced curtly, taking his place behind the desk. “No public business of any kind that draws attention to your leaving. Nor will you be going alone.”
Arlin sat a little straighter. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sit, Rafel,” Jaffee ordered. “And you, Arlin, be quiet. I have had enough deliberation and argument for the time being. Accept the Council’s decision or go home to your vineyards. It’s up to you. Rafel, sit.”
Feeling sleepless himself, twitched with the leftovers of Doranen magic and too much ginger cake and the pain in Lur that wouldn’t leave him alone, Rafel glowered at Jaffee a moment then dropped into the privy chapel’s other wooden chair.
“I am not satisfied with this decision,” said Arlin. “I wish to present myself before the entire Council, not—”
“No,” said Jaffee, hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robe. More authority in him now than Rafel had ever seen. “I speak with the Council’s united voice. Accept or reject these terms as you like, Lord Garrick. No other terms shall be offered to you.”
“In that case,” said Arlin, standing, “I shall make my own arrange ments.”
“That would be pointless,” Jaffee replied. “Recall that Barl’s Mountains are warded. Not even you are strong enough to break them. If you wish to enter the pass at Gribley, then the official wardkeeper must clear the way. And she will do so only with specific instructions from the Council.”
Rafel watched Arlin wrestle with that, amused. Then he looked at Jaffee. “What did you mean, we’re not travelling alone?”
“The Council has chosen three of its own to journey with you across the mountains,” said Jaffee. His lips curved in a bleak smile. “It is felt your lack of friendship with Lord Garrick might prove to be a… hindrance to success.”
Arlin was breathing hard with temper. “And I am to have no say as to who—”
“None.” Jaffee’s eyes were cold. “Lord Garrick, we stand upon a precipice which even now crumbles beneath our feet. If you would save this kingdom, save the lives of its innocent inhabitants, do such service to Barl as makes you beloved in her eyes, I implore you: do not make this a matter of your pride and ambition. You would have tens and tens of thousands perish because you think yourself better than an Olken? Because you and Rafel cannot see eye to eye? Because you chafe against the Council’s authority and restrictions? If that is true—”
“Of course it’s not true,” Arlin snapped. “If I had no care for Lur and the lives here, would I be risking my own life?”
“No,” said Jaffee, gentle now. “You’re a good man and a brave one, Arlin, and we stand in your debt. But I urge you to set aside all personal considerations. The only thing that can matter is finding a way to save Lur and, Barl willing, the other expedition. For all your differences and difficulties, you and Rafel hold that belief in common. Let it be the start of a better, kinder understanding.”
From the look on his face, Arlin wasn’t anywhere near to being convinced. But he nodded. “Very well.”
Rafel hid his amusement. “So which councilors are coming with us, Barlsman Jaffee?”
“Nib Hambly, Hosh Clyne and Tomas Dimble,” said Jaffee. “Three good men. Dedicated, strong mages—” He cleared his throat, abruptly uncomfortable. “And unwed.”
“Three Olken?” Arlin choked, incredulous. “Are you mad, Jaffee? What use are Olken? Rafel’s power might be warped and unnatural but at least—”
“Have you forgotten, Arlin? No unwed Doranen might sit on the Council,” said Jaffee. “Our own people’s rule, and perhaps not wise.”
“Then choose a married Doranen; send—”
Jaffee shook his head. “There is no sending. No-one can be forced to this undertaking. Besides, Arlin—it would seem being Doranen is little or no protection against the dangers that lie beyond the mountains. Or is Sarle Baden not the mage we believed?”
And that shut Arlin’s trap good and tight. Rafel stood. “Seems we’ve a mite to do, then, Barlsman. Best we get to it, ’cause the sooner we leave, the sooner we get the good folk of Lur off that bloody precipice.” He turned to Arlin. “Agreed, Lord Garrick?”
“Have I a choice?” Arlin said sourly. “It’s agreed.”