Rafel swallowed. Goose sounded so frighted he was sorry he’d said anything. Sorry he’d made the fishes dance, and the riverpond make shapes, and told his friend his burning coal secret. “I don’t know. Prob’ly it’s nowt, Goose. Prob’ly I’m being a girl.”
“Prob’ly,” said Goose, and tried to laugh. But it didn’t work. He tugged some grass, too, and stared down the sloping riverbank to where Stag and his pony stood in the meadow side by side, rump to nose, dozing and swishing each other’s biting flies.
Just like us. Best friends.
“Rafe…” Goose whispered. Still staring someplace else. “What you felt. It’s real, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“And—and it means Lur’s in trouble?”
For the first time ever, he was sorry he could feel things. “I ain’t sure, Goose. Prob’ly.”
“You frighted?” said Goose, letting his tugged grass slip through his fingers.
“No!”
Goose rubbed his eyes. “Me too.”
“I ain’t!” he insisted, and banged a fist on his knee. “Ain’t nowt to be frighted on. My da, he’ll fix it. That’s what he does.”
“I could help,” said Goose, almost a whisper. “I could try feeling it. If you want, Rafe. Then we could—”
Rafel scrambled to his feet. “No, Goose. Don’t you dare. You might do yourself a mischief.”
“You don’t have to say that,” said Goose, glaring up at him. “You don’t have to be like that. I know I can’t crack stones, like you can, or make fish jump into the air just by thinking. But I’ve got magic, Rafe. I can do things. I can—”
“No!” he said again. Sink me, if I get Goose hurt… “I told you, Goose. It feels bad. You’d hate it. I hate it. I wish—” But he didn’t want to say that. “You might feel it one day, Goose. By chance. When you’re doing your own magics. But don’t you go looking for it. Reckon that’d get us both walloped, if my da or yours found out.”
Goose sighed. He almost always gave in when they fratched. “Don’t bite, Rafe. I only wanted to help.”
“I know.” Then he frowned. “Goose, if you want to help, swear you won’t tell anyone about this. Not ever.”
“I swear,” said Goose. “But are you going to tell your parents?”
“I have to,” he said, nodding. “I promised. Only—not all of it. I won’t tell them you know. That’s got to be our secret.”
“Our secret,” said Goose, all solemn. “I swear.”
Relieved, he flopped himself back onto the riverbank. “And I swear I’ll never tell about the beer.”
Fizzy with relief, they grinned at each other.
“Hey,” said Goose, and again dug his fingers inside his leather jerkin. Pulled out the lumpily folded parchment he’d been safekeeping. “Want this back?”
Tollin’s adventures! He’d clean forgotten, what with the earth crying out and nearly getting himself drownded. “Thanks.”
“What is it?” said Goose with a wicked snicker. “A love letter from Charis?”
Ever since he once saw Uncle Pellen’s Charis making google-eyes at him, Goose thought it was funny to niggle on it. Rafel used his Doranen magic to push his friend flat on his back.
Take that! “No. It ain’t.”
Goose howled in protest, kicking at the sky. Then he sat up. “So what is it?”
Finished unfolding the parchment, he laid it flat on the grass and smoothed out its wrinkles, gently. There was prob’ly Doranen magic to make it good as new, but he didn’t know it. He would one day, though. One day he’d know it all.
He looked up. “It’s the story of what Tollin and the others found when they crossed over the mountains.”
Goose’s mouth dropped open. “It never is!”
“Is too.”
“Where did you get it?” Goose breathed.
He almost told. Almost. The boasting words were tickling the tip of his tongue. But then he swallowed them. “Best I don’t tell you, Goose,” he said, his sly smile dying. “Not ’cause I don’t trust you!” he added quickly, as Goose’s face fell. “It’s just… best you don’t know.”
Goose’s eyes opened so wide he looked like a string-puppet. “Oh, Rafel. What did you do?” He swallowed. “Something… Doranen?”
He stared at the uncrumpled parchment spread on the grass, feeling the fizzy triumph of breaking Da’s lock. Feeling the stir behind his eyes where his Doranen magic lived. He wanted to tell Goose so bad…
’Cept I can’t. Ain’t nobody meant to know about that trunk and what’s in it. That’s Da’s secret. It ain’t mine to tell.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What counts is I found the parchment. And I’ll read it to you, only—”
“Rafel,” said Goose solemnly, “I won’t never, ever tell. Not ever. Not even if Arlin Garrick pokes me full of pins.”
He scowled. Arlin Garrick was the kind of Doranen who’d do worse than poke pins if he thought he could get away with it. “You better not, Goose. This has to be just ours.”
“It will be!” said Goose. “Catch me telling Arlin Garrick anything.”
True. They might go to the same City school, him and Goose and Arlin Garrick and the other Doranen boys, but that didn’t mean nowt. Didn’t mean they had to like each other. Which is good. ’Cause we don’t. He’d never pinch spells from a boy he liked.
“So what’s it say?” said Goose eagerly, nudging the parchment. “Start reading. And when you’re done, we can be explorers!”
Being explorers was one of their favourite games. “You still want to do that?” he said, leaving the parchment where it was. “When you’re growed up? Ain’t you going to be a brewer, like your da?”
“No law says I can’t be both,” said Goose. Then he grinned. “When I’m growed up I’ll brew the best beer and ale in Lur and take it over the mountains to sell. I’ll be the richest brewer in Lur, I will. No, I’ll be the richest Olken in Lur. The richest man in Lur. That’ll be me. I’ll be so rich, that Arlin Garrick, he’ll have to bow when I ride by.”
“Ha!” he said. “Only way you’ll get Arlin Garrick to bend in the middle is if you kick him in the chestnuts.”
Goose’s grin got wider. “I could do that, too. Wearing boots made of solid gold.”
The thought was so naughty they crowed and rolled around on the grass for a bit. Their amusement startled the ponies, and that made them laugh even harder. But the laughter dribbled dry eventually, until it was just them sprawling silent under the warm sun. Slowly but surely, the fear of what he’d felt faded.
“So go on, then,” said Goose, breaking the hush. “Read it. ’Cause I want to know what really happened to Tollin and the others. I want to know why most likely I never will get to sell my beer and ale on the other side of the mountains.”
His clothes gently steaming, his damp hair full of grass, Rafel reached for the stolen parchment. Held it up between his face and the sky, so he wasn’t squinting into the sun.
And started reading.
Tired of waiting for the kettle to boil a second time, Pellen Orrick was sorely tempted to ask Asher if he’d stir the water along. Just a bit. But he refrained, because asking Asher for a frivolous use of his magic would do nothing to sweeten his friend’s sour mood. Three hours this morning, they’d spent, he and Asher and Dathne, thrashing through the dangers that may or may not lie in wait for the kingdom, reaching no firm conclusions or decisions, certain of only one thing: that should the worst come to pass then surely every man, woman and child in Lur—Doranen as well as Olken—would look to Asher of Restharven for rescue.
And is he sour because he resents the assumption… or because he knows he has no hope of saving us?
He’d not asked the question, though it did crowd his thoughts. He was ashamed of himself for thinking it. Ashamed that despite knowing what he knew, knowing the sacrifices Asher had already made, he could even consider asking for more. And perhaps, if he only had himself to worry about, he wouldn’t be ready to ask. Wouldn’t have the thought in his head at all.
But I’m a father now, and that makes the difference. There’s nothing I won’t do to see Charis kept safe.
Once he’d believed his devotion to Dorana City, and to Lur, was the fiercest thing he would ever feel. And now he knew that devotion was water-weak compared with the fury that rose in him at the thought of harm coming to his only child.
The kettle boiled, at last. But as he poured the steaming water into the second teapot, refreshments for his newly arrived guests, he heard Asher suck in a sharp, pained breath—and looked up.
“What? Asher, what’s amiss?”
Stood by the kitchen window, brooding through the open curtains at Ibby’s run-to-seed garden, Asher shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between tight thumb and forefinger. A grunt of discomfort escaped him, and he hunched over a little as though tormented by a belly-gripe.
Pellen put down the kettle. “Asher, are you sick? Should I call for—”
“Asher,” said Dathne, hurrying into the kitchen from the parlour, where she’d been talking with those four members of the old Olken Circle who’d travelled to Dorana circumspect to meet with them. “Did you feel that?”
Asher nodded, his eyes slitted against whatever ailed him. “Aye. Nasty.”
“We all felt it,” said Dathne. “Asher—”
Pellen raised a hand. “I didn’t feel a thing. Are you talking about—”
“Aye,” said Asher. “What I told you in the stable yard. That wrongness in the earth. It’s back.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes, over the years, as he watched his fellow-Olken discover their long-buried powers, watched them revel in Olken magic, he’d felt a pang that their joy was denied him. Not often. Just sometimes. But now, with Asher and Dathne so clearly distressed, he found himself grateful that magic, for him, was little more than a fizzle. He’d lived for years without it quite happily. He didn’t need it to make him a whole man.
Dathne gnawed at her bottom lip. “Rafel, Asher. Do you think he—”
“Prob’ly,” said Asher. “He’s felt it othertimes. We’ll ask him at supper.”
He blinked in surprise. Rafel could feel whatever was going on, too? Asher had kept that quiet. But Rafe was just a boy, barely tutored in magic. And if he could feel it…
Charis’s night-terrors. What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not Ibby she’s missing after all? What if—
With an effort he strangled his leaping imagination. If he wasn’t careful he’d smother his daughter. Little ones had bad dreams. No need to alarm himself into conniptions.
“At supper?” said Dathne. “I’d rather ask him now.” Fretting, she wrapped her arms about her narrow ribs. “But we’ve let him romp off on his pony for the day, without a care in the world. I hope he’s all right. If this is going to keep happening, if we can’t know when or where this feeling will strike, he might not be safe. Asher—”
“Hush,” said Asher, and pulled her to him. “Can’t keep Rafe cooped up in the Tower, Dath. Can’t stop him racin’ about the countryside with his friends. He’s a boy. He’s got to be a boy.”
She tugged free of his embrace. “But he’s not just a boy, is he? Not an ordinary boy, at any rate.”
“He is for now,” said Asher, insistent. “He is so long as we don’t start treatin’ him different.”
“He is different, Asher!” Dathne retorted. “And you not wanting it to be so doesn’t change a thing.”
Asher’s face darkened. “He’s only different if we let him be, Dath. Only if we think on him that way. And I won’t do it. I ain’t about to ruin his spratlin’ days with fuss and malarkey and makin’ him feel that he ain’t like his friends. Pushing him to do magic that he ain’t ready for. That he don’t need.”
A reluctant eavesdropper, Pellen looked away. There was such pain in Asher’s voice. Nothing to do with whatever trouble threatened Lur, and everything to do with being Rafel’s father. Pain in Dathne too, and fear. So much of it they’d forgotten where they were. That he was listening. But what did they mean about their son being different? This was the first he’d heard of it…
His guardsman curiosity reprehensibly piqued, he cleared his throat. “Ah—friends—”
Startled out of acrimony, they stared at him. Then they exchanged mutely horrified looks. Asher, his discomfited dismay forgotten, cleared his throat.
“Pellen—”
And suddenly he was ashamed again. He had no right to expect confidences. After all, he’d not told them about Charis, had he? “Never mind,” he said. “No explanation’s needed. Family business is family business.”
“It ain’t that we don’t trust you,” said Asher, suddenly awkward. “You know better than that. It’s complicated, is all.”
“But we will explain,” Dathne added. “We never meant to keep it from you forever. As Asher says—it’s complicated.”
Their assurances warmed him. In the wrenching aftermath of Ibby’s loss, ill-equipped to deal with grief and a baby and every grand dream smashed to jagged pieces, he knew he’d been in danger of foundering completely. Dathne and Asher had eased him. Sheltered him. Saved him, in truth, from too much strong drink and silence.
He shrugged. “When you’re ready. Let’s leap one hurdle at a time, eh? I’m not as spry as I used to be.”
He’d long since come to terms with the loss of his leg. But Asher never had, and seeing him wince at the joke was a jabbing reminder of that. Fool.
“So, what you both just felt,” he said hastily, with a glance towards the parlour. “You and those Circle folk in there. You’re sure it’s more of the same trouble?”
“Yes,” said Dathne, nodding. “And whatever it is, I fear it’s getting worse.”
“But why is it happening at all? That’s the question we’ve yet to answer.”
“You want to hold the rest of our meetin’ in here?” said Asher. “Only I don’t reckon this kitchen of yours be big enough for us and them Circle folk too, Meister Mayor.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” he said. “So let’s go through to the parlour and get started. I want this problem nipped in the bud. I’ve enough on my mayoral plate as it is. I don’t need more headaches.”
“You might not need ’em, but you’ve got ’em, I reckon,” said Asher. “Now, you done makin’ that tea like an ole besom?”
He was deeply worried, but still he had to smile. In a life full of upheaval one star remained constant: Asher was Asher, and would surely be himself without fear or favour until the end of his days.
“Besom yourself,” he retorted mildly. “I could use another pair of hands.”
He and Asher carried the brewed tea into the parlour, with Dathne bringing the tray of cups, milk, sugar and biscuits. They might well be here to discuss death and destruction but there was no reason to do it parched, or on an empty stomach.
The four summoned former Circle members sat eggshell-anxiousin his parlour. Two women and two men, only one of them younger than fifty, and all of them schooled in the mysteries of Olken magic. Sensitive, as Asher and Dathne and now, it seemed, Rafel—and maybe Charis—were sensitive to the subtle shiftings beneath Lur’s placid, well-ordered surface.
“You know I can’t feel this trouble,” he said, helping Dathne to hand round steaming cups of tea, “but I don’t doubt it’s real. What we must decide, here and now, is what’s to be done about it.”
“If anything can be done,” said Polly Marsh from Wynford, on the far side of the Saffron Hills. Plump as an apple puff, surprisingly dressed in baggy trews and even baggier shirt, with her salty dark hair clipped boyish short, she stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. “For it seems to me we’re at the mercy of chance. We had no warning that the earth was troubled. And there’s no hint of what’s causing it. We’re in the dark.”
“Polly’s right,” said the man beside her on the couch. Beale Lafton, who’d travelled the furthest to be here. All the way from Tamwold, he’d come, right close to the coast, near Salting Town. His hair and beard were silvered through, his face as crumpled as an old linen kerchief. But despite his great age his voice was energetic, his manner brisk. “Whatever’s stirring in this kingdom now, I fear we’re powerless to stop it.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Dathne, and dropped onto a footstool. “What kind of thinking is that, Beale?”
Beale eyed her narrowly from beneath extravagantly bushy brows. “The kind that comes from reading the earth for more than sixty years, young lady.”
“I don’t disagree this is—uncomfortable, Beale,” Dathne said, colour washing her sharp cheeks. “But to call ourselves powerless? That’s giving up before we’ve even started.”
“And what would you have us do, Dathne?” Jinny of Hooten Creek asked softly, her blind, gentle eyes darting side to side. She’d lost her sight during the battle with Morg, when the Circle’s binding link with Veira was severed. “We Olken might have our magic restored to us, but it’s no more than it ever was. We can’t bully nature. We can’t dominate with our powers, like the Doranen.”
Pellen, content to stand by the parlour’s cold fireplace and observe, watched Dathne flick a glance at Asher. He was perched on the edge of the room’s deepest windowsill, arms broodingly folded, his rough-hewn face set in that familiar, defensive scowl.
“I know that, Jinny,” Dathne said. “I’m not suggesting we try.”
“Then why send for us?” demanded Fernel Pintte, quarrelsome. Youngest of the four, somewhere in his thirties, and smoothly handsome. Nothing gentle about him, his manner was impatient and curt. “We dropped our lives and came running to you, Dathne, out of respect for who you once were. But—”
“Who she still is,” said Asher, stirring. “Jervale’s Heir. Mind your tone there, Fernel. Ain’t got much patience with them as disrespect my wife.”
Fernel put his cup down on the wooden arm of his chair. Some of his easy belligerence faded, and a wary look crept into his eyes. “There’s no disrespect here, Asher. I’m puzzled.” He glanced around at the other Circle members. “We’re all puzzled. And I think we’re owed an explanation for why we’ve been summoned.”
“You’re here to tell us what, if anything, you feel,” said Dathne. “And when you started feeling it. You’re here so we can work our way through what these stirrings mean, and how we can protect Lur if indeed it is in danger again so soon after Morg.”
Knowing that Asher and Dathne depended on his silent scrutiny, Pellen kept watching closely. Saw that dreaded name stab the Circle members. They breathed deeply, quivering, and briefly looked away.
“Of all the Circle that’s left now,” Dathne added, “you four are the strongest. You have the keenest senses, the sharpest intuitions. Between us, you four and me and Asher, I’m certain we can unravel this mystery.”
“And if we do unravel it?” said Polly, hands clasped to hide their trembling. “What then? Jinny’s right. We can’t forge new chains for Lur.”
“Not without making bargains with the Doranen,” added Fernel. “Is that what you’re thinking, Dathne? That we dance that sorry dance again?”
“That sorry dance saved us from Morg and his domination,” said Dathne, annoyed. “Remember?”
“What I remember is living twenty years of my life in terror of being discovered,” Fernel retorted. His narrow face pinched cold, and he reached for his tea-cup again as though he needed to hold on to something warm. “I remember twenty years of secrets and lies, of holding my breath every time I crossed paths with a Doranen, certain they’d sense the magic in me and cry traitor. I remember hearing of Timon Spake’s execution and weeping at the thought his death could be mine.”
On the outskirts, on the windowsill, Asher stirred. “Timon Spake’s dead and buried. You ain’t here to talk on him.”
Pellen, with his own memories, met Asher’s bleak gaze. Saw in his friend’s face a reflection of his own sickness, his own memories, never quite overcome or forgotten.
“We were all of us afraid, Fernel,” said Polly, and reached over to the armchair to pat his white-knuckled hand. “But it does no good to dwell. The bad times are behind us.” She sighed. “At least, those bad times are.”
Dathne, on the low footstool, rested her elbows on her knees and propped her chin in her hands. “Fernel, I don’t know how to answer you. It could be that whatever is wrong can only be put right by the Olken and the Doranen melding their magics again. I hope that’s not so. I want to look forward, not back. You think I can’t see how fraught with dangers such a choice would be?”
“Do they know?” said Beale. “About these… shiftings?”
Dathne shook her head. “I’m sure they don’t. We’ve said nothing to the Doranen on the General Council. Or the Mage Council. Nothing to any Doranen we know. And nothing has been said to us. But I think it’s only a matter of time before they realise—or learn—that something’s brewing. Our two peoples may still live mostly separate lives, but if what we’re feeling grows any stronger—”
“If it begins to reveal itself, you mean?” said blind Jinny. “If something odd starts to happen with the—the weather?”
And with that one word, all eyes turned to Asher.
“Ain’t no call to think it’ll come to that,” he said flatly. “Ten years without WeatherWorking we’ve had, ain’t we, and the rain’s come as needful. Snow and ice in winter, enough for the icewine vineyards and pond skating, but not so much folk find ’emselves buried. There’s food aplenty, no threat of famine. I don’t reckon there’s cause to start thinkin’ that’ll change.”
He sounded confident but Pellen saw something flicker between him and Dathne. Some misgiving, unshared. He knew them too well. His belly tightened, and his throat.
Lie to them if you must, but you’ll not lie to me. When we’re done with these four the three of us will keep talking.
“Asher’s right,” said Dathne, her chin lifted in the way that dared anyone to contradict. “This isn’t about the weather. Let’s not fright ourselves for no reason.”
“Then what is it about?” said Jinny. Her blinded brown eyes were wide open, as though she could see things the rest of them were denied. “What is causing the earth’s disquiet?”
“And are we going to tell the Doranen?” Fernel added. “Before the earth does the telling for us, and we’re accused of dreadful things?”
Like thunder on the horizon, the memory of fear teased the air. Ten years in the open wasn’t a long time, not after six hard centuries of secrecy.
“It ain’t your concern, Fernel, what they’re told and when,” said Asher. “That’s for me and Pellen to decide, seeing as how he’s Mayor of Dorana and we both be on the Mage Council.”
“Not my concern?” Fernel laughed, unpleasant. “Don’t be a fool, Asher. It’s every Olken’s concern. Until the day comes when the last Doranen leaves our land we’ve got to live with them. We’ve got to live with their magic, which overpowered ours once and easily could again.”
“No, it can’t,” said Dathne. “There are laws, Fernel, binding laws that keep us safe. And doesn’t Asher preside over Justice Hall, to make certain?”
“I feel Fernel’s not so misguided, to worry,” said Beale, gnarled fingers kneading at the arm of his couch. “It’s their own goodwill that keeps the Doranen bound to decency, not any fear of reprisals from us. They know we have none. Nor have we any guarantee that their decency will last.”
“You bloody have, y’know,” said Asher. “You got me. Reckon I’ll sit idle if a Doranen tries any funny business on one of us? Took care of that bloody Ain Freidin, didn’t I? Trust me, I ain’t forgot what I learned killin’ Morg. And I’ll use it quick as a fly’s fart if any Doranen breaks them laws we all agreed to.”
“And if they decide that us keeping secrets from them is a breach of law?” countered Polly. “What then?”
“Ain’t said we will keep it secret, Polly,” said Asher, almost snapping. “But I don’t see any use flappin’ our lips till we know what we be flappin’ about. Do you?”
Polly’s round cheeks tinted deep pink. “I’m sure there’s no need to be rude, Asher.”
He threw up his hands. “I ain’t rude. Why do folk always bleat that I’m rude? I’m just sayin’—”
“Perhaps a smidgin forcefully,” said Pellen, swallowing a bark of laughter. Asher’s lack of tact and his genuine bewilderment never failed to amuse. “Though I think the point is fair.” He nodded at Polly, letting her see his sympathy. “I understand your concern, madam, but after ten years as Dorana’s mayor, rubbing shoulders with the Doranen every day, I can promise you they’ll not take kindly to us talking about any kind of magical trouble without proof or a reasonable explanation.”
“They can hardly bring themselves to admit that what we have and do is magic,” said Dathne sourly. Then she shrugged. “I suppose it’s not surprising. Compared to them we’re glowing coals to their bonfires.”
Fernel snorted. “We’re subtle. They’re brash. It’s not the same thing. Shame on you, Dathne, for disparaging your own people.”
“She ain’t disparagin’ anyone,” said Asher, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Fernel, what be your problem? Eh? Mayhap you and I should step outside and talk on it private, like.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” said Dathne, leaping to her feet. “I don’t need you thumping Fernel or anyone else on my behalf. Fernel—”
“I speak my mind,” Fernel retorted. “It’s not my fault if you don’t care for what I—”
“Please, let’s not fight,” said Jinny, a little breathless with distress. “We’ve gathered here to talk of Lur’s troubles, not start new battles amongst ourselves.”
Pellen cleared his throat. “She’s right. Would you have me pull out my old Captain’s uniform and play City Guard beneath my own roof? Asher?”
“No,” Asher muttered.
“No,” said Fernel, his jaw tight with temper.
“Then leave be,” he said firmly. “Both of you. We’ve plenty to talk about without reopening old wounds, be they Timon Spake’s death or what life was like as a Circle member or what the Doranen did hundreds of years before we were born. None of that matters. All that matters is now.”
Asher and Fernal looked at each other, tomcat unfriendly, but held their tongues.
Letting out a sharp breath, Dathne dropped again to her footstool then nodded at Polly. “You go first. Tell us what you’ve been feeling in the earth.”
Taken aback, Polly shifted a little beside Beale, plump fingers fluttering to the pale pink stone hung on a chain about her neck. “I don’t know,” she said, almost whispering. “It’s hard to explain.” Then she half-laughed, half-sighed. “You’ll think I’m just a foolish old woman.”
“No, we won’t,” said Dathne, leaning forward. “I asked you here to share your impressions, Polly.” She swept her sharp gaze across everyone’s face. “Nobody will mock you, no matter what you say.”
Polly’s fingers tightened on her pink stone pendant. “The only way I can describe it is to say… it feels to me as though the flowers are crying.”
“The flowers?” said Fernel. “Oh come now, Polly. How can flowers—”
“I don’t know!” Polly cried, turning on him. “I told you it would sound silly. But I’m a gardener, growing things is my gift, and I tell you that when I’m planting seeds or tending bulbs, when I’m pruning or weeding or watering, I’m one with the earth and the flowers are crying!”
Beale took her hand and gave it a small, reassuring shake. “It’s all right, Polly. We believe you.”
“What about you, Beale?” said Dathne. “What have you been feeling?”
The old man sat silent for a time, holding Polly’s hand. Then he stirred, and let his eyelids droop half-closed. “When the Wall fell,” he said, his voice a hairsbreadth from trembling, “it was a dreadful shock. The air itself was torn and bleeding. The earth was bleeding, in my heart. But it healed. In time, it came to feel whole again. But lately… lately…”
“What?” Dathne whispered. “Beale, please. The truth now, no matter how difficult.”
Beale opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed with unshed tears. “This will sound foolish and fanciful, just like Polly. But I imagine we’re living inside an hourglass, Dathne. The sand is running out… it’s running out… and I don’t know why. I only know that when it does run out—may Jervale have mercy on this poor kingdom of ours.”
Pellen shifted his gaze to Asher, and what he saw in his friend’s face nearly stilled his heart. He knows. He knows what Beale’s talking about. For a moment he was so angry it felt like he was breathing fire. Asher, sensing it, looked at him… and then looked away. Shadowed swiftly in his eyes, a shamefaced regret.
Dathne, caught up with Beale, hadn’t noticed. “Please, Beale, don’t fratch yourself,” she said. “Whatever it means, I’m sure we’ll be all right.”
The old man nodded. “Yes. Yes.” He managed a painful smile. “With the Innocent Mage to fight our battle, I’ve no doubt we’ll prevail.”
If the Innocent Mage agreed with him, he wasn’t saying so. Asher’s scowling face was shuttered tight. Unfathomable to anyone who didn’t know him. But Pellen, who knew him so well, who had seen him in every extremity: rage and agony and despair and blinding grief, knew that what he saw now was fear.
Damn you, Asher. What do you know?