The Innocent Mage by Karen Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

could’ve —’
    ‘No. You couldn’t,’ she said gently. ‘Besides, I didn’t know you then.’
    ‘You know me now! You’ve known me for years! You should’ve told me!’
    Her smile cut him like a razor. ‘Matt, Matt. Why would I weigh you down with such cruel knowledge a heartbeat before you needed to know it?’
    He could’ve wept. T still say you might be wrong. We should talk about this properly, we should —’
    ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ The iron was back, in her voice, her eyes. ‘I am the Heir. You swore an oath to follow wherever I might lead. So I ask you here and now, and on my oath to the Circle I will never ask you again: a you with me?’
    Helplessly he stared at her. Was he with her? He’d I with her from the moment they’d met, when he was new to the king’s stables and she was setting up her bookshop, and word had come from Veira that he’d been chosen to stand by Jervale’s Heir and do his duty however she saw fit.
    Was he with her? He was with her even as he despaired of her, when she rode roughshod over his cares and concerns, acted out of impulse or instinct or sheer bloody-mindedness, when she danced down pathways that he, unsighted, could never glimpse.
    Was he with her?
    He was with her till the bitter end, whatever that might be.
    He brought his other hand to rest lightly on the finger that still held his wrist with a desperation she’d die befon admitting, and nodded. ‘Aye, Dathne. With you, for yoi behind you. Always.’
    For a moment he thought he might see her shed a teat, for the first time ever. Her lips softened, and her gaze, and the fingers on his wrist tightened hard enough to tingle. And then she laughed and let go of him, the mocking light returned to her eyes. ‘Good. Now put a smile on old Derrig’s face and fetch yourself an ale, Meister Matt. Fetch me another one while you’re at it, too, for I think I’ve a mind to get drunk.’
    Almost he opened his mouth and asked if she thought that was wise. Just in time, though, he caught the words behind his teeth. Swallowed them. Said instead, ‘As my lady commands.’
    There was, after all, more than one way of crying.

CHAPTER THREE
    Asher’s days trotted briskly by, filled sunup to sundown with the exacting business of horses. Aside from Barlsday mornings in the palace chapel, and those times when the prince came into the stable yard to discuss stud business with Matt or fetch Ballodair to go riding, he scarcely saw his employer.
    Which suited him just fine. What did a fisherman and a prince have to talk about anyways, eh? Nowt, save for the weather. And once you got past ‘That were a nice drop of rain your da organised for last night, eh?’ ‘Oh yes, wasn’t it?’ there wasn’t much left to say. So let the prince keep hisself to hisself up in his fancy Tower. Asher of Restharven was happy to perform his horsekeeping duties untroubled by princes, count twenty of his twenty-five hard-earned trins into his own personal and private chest at the Royal Treasury at the end of each week … and gloat on the thought of returning home to Restharven the same time next year a rich, rich man. At first his nights were tossed and turned by dreams of the life he’d left behind. The sweet salt air, and the slap and suck of the tide against the hulls of the fishing fleet in the harbour. Jed’s mad giggling. The wheeling, whirling gulls and the music of the village’s menfolk come singing home from sea. Da’s cracked baritone, butchering another ditty and making them all laugh.
    Barl save him, there were mornings he’d wake with the memories so fresh it would be several pounding heartbeats before he knew where he was, and why the world smelled of horses. Before he remembered the names of the lads roused grumbling from their dormitory beds by Matt’s merciless cowbell, and why they weren’t his brothers.
    Then he’d have to wait, hands fisted in his blankets, treacherous face hidden in the pillow, until he