The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (8 page)

He felt Rafe’s thin, wiry body tremble. “Like Dancer?”

“Aye,” he said gently. “Just like Dancer. He had a good long life and Darran has too. There ain’t nowt to be sad on for that. But don’t you go lettin’ your ma hear you measurin’ the ole fart to a pony. She’ll clip you round the earhole for that.”

“And she’ll clip you for calling Darran an ole fart,” said Rafe, swiftly smiling. He looked like his mother then, quicksilver mischief, their dark eyes the same.

“Aye, mayhap she will,” he said. “So that be our secret, eh?”

Rafe heaved a deep sigh. “Da…”

“Aye, Rafe?”

“Can’t—can’t you live forever?”

The plaintive question plunged through him like a harpoon meant for a shark. Breached his heart and stole his breath. Bleeding tears on the inside, for he’d not ever let his son see a weeping father, who should be strong, he shook his head.

“No, Rafe. But there’s nowt to fret on, I promise. I ain’t goin’ nowhere for years and years and years.”

“Morg lived forever,” Rafe said, his voice still broken and soft. “Nearly. He would’ve, ’cept you killed him. Can’t you…” He sniffed. “You know.”

Stricken, Asher stared through the open foyer doors. Dathne and Pother Kerril still stood on the Tower steps, gossiping like women did, praise Barl. For if Dath were here, and caught Rafel in such a question…

He tightened his arm hard around his son’s slight frame. “No, Rafe.
No
.” Fear had him by the throat, squeezing it almost closed. “We talked on this before, remember? That kind of magic is
wrong
. And it don’t exist any road. Not any more.”

“Maybe. But Da, you’re a great mage,” said Rafe. He was stubborn, so stubborn, he never knew when to leave well enough alone. “You could find it. You could never die.”

Swamped, Asher hauled his son closer still, wrapped both arms around him and hung on for grim life. “I told you, sprat, I ain’t dyin’,” he said, muffled against Rafel’s dusty, disordered hair. “I know you’re fratched ’cause of Darran, but that’s
him
. That ain’t
me
. Now, you put that kind of magic out of your head, you hear? It ain’t never to be spoke of again. Not to me, not to your mother, not to a living soul. Understand?”

Rafel nodded. “Yes, Da.”

Leaning back, Asher stared into his son’s vivid face. “You just sayin’ that, Rafel? Or are you hearin’ me? Do you promise? Is this your proper word, given man to man, and no breakin’ of it for nowt?”

The tears Rafe had held back were sprung free now, and sluicing his cheeks. “Promise,” he said, choking. “My word, Da. Man to man.”

“All right then,” he said, still terrified because Nix, who knew such things, had told him and Dath seven years ago that Rafel, their precious son, had magic in him like his father. No tame Olken mage, this boy, but a child of both worlds who could scorch as well as soothe. “All right. So that’s your word sworn to me, and we’ll not speak on this again.”

“No, Da,” Rafel whispered. “Da, I was just asking. I didn’t mean to do wrong.”

And there was another wave crashing over him, stealing his breath again. “I know. I know. You’re a good sprat. I know.”

He felt Rafel’s arms curl round his neck. Felt his son’s wet, grimy cheek press against him. His own da had been a good man, a kind man, a man to love with all his heart. But fishing were a hard life; he never was one for hugs and kisses. Love was food on the table, a bed to sleep in, and no leaky roof.

Ma had hugged him, but Ma died young. He’d had to wait until Dathne to feel that loved again. And as he’d stood by her bedside ten years ago, as he’d watched her hold their squalling newborn son, indignant and outraged, still sticky with birthing blood, he’d promised himself:
He won’t doubt me. He won’t wonder. He’ll have hugs and kisses every day
.

“I got to go, Rafe,” he murmured, holding on tight. “I got to see that ole fart up there, that ole man what’s dyin’.”

“Can I come too?” said Rafel. “Darran and me, we never finished our game. We couldn’t find a good book to buy so we were playing hop-poddle and I was winning, for real.”

“Mayhap you can see him later,” he said. “For now there’s words as need sayin’ between him and me and no-one else.”

Sniffing, Rafe wriggled free. “What if there ain’t a later, Da?” he said, and dragged a grubby sleeve across his woeful face. “He might die of a sudden. Goose’s ma went like that.”

“If I reckon he’s goin’, I’ll say somethin’ for you,” he promised. “What should I say?”

Standing on a lower step, head down so his eyes and his slow tears were hidden, Rafel shrugged. Then he looked up. “Tell the ole fool I love him, Da. Tell him thank you for his stories.”

He tousled his son’s hair, then pushed to his feet. “I will. Now go find your ma, Rafe. I’d say she’s worrited for you.”

But instead of leaving, Rafel stared up at him, so solemn. “I’m sorry, Da. It ain’t fair, how your friends die.”

“Don’t you fret on me, Rafe,” he said at last, when he could trust himself, so close to breaking. “I got you and your mother. I got your sister. You’re my best friends, you are. I be fine.”

Rafel’s smile broke through the grief and tears. It was his own mother’s sunlight smile, found its way to his small son’s face. “Don’t you fret on me neither, Da. I ain’t leavin’ you. I ain’t goin’ no place.”

He watched Rafel bound down the foyer stairs, leap lightly across the marble floor and run to Dathne, alone now on the Tower’s sandstone steps. He watched them embrace, and for a hurting heartbeat saw Dana and Gar, who’d loved one another the way Dath and Rafel loved.

And then he turned and trudged his way up the Tower’s spiral staircase, sorrow a dreadful weight bowing his spine.

*   *   *

Pother Kerril had left glimfire burning in Darran’s chamber, and scented tapers so the air smelt of spring. The curtains were drawn against the window, dark blue velvet echoing a summer night sky. Darran had slept in this small space for more than ten years. It was the room he took when Jarralt—Morg—banished him to exile here with Gar. When that business was done with, and Lur had been saved, he’d been offered the whole floor of the Tower where Gar used to live, the king’s privy chamber and his study and his library too.

Shocked, offended, Darran had refused. That floor was Rafel’s now. And Darran lived here, a chamber less than one-quarter of a single floor, so simple and spare. No fancy tapestries and folderol for Darran, who dressed in black every day of his life. He’d sleep in black nightshirts, if that were something that got done.

But it weren’t, so there he was beneath his blankets, white nightshirt buttoned to his scrawny throat. His lank hair on the pillow was pure silver, the echoing colour of old Cygnet’s mane and tail. His hands, their skin gauze-thin and wrinkled, blotched with spots, fingers gnarled, rested on his toast-rack chest; he’d never got fat, not by an ounce. He still looked like a stork. He still scolded and sighed. His breathing barely stirred the air as his palsied face spasmed and ticced.

Asher eased the door closed and crossed to the bed. A plain chair stood beside it. Sitting, he reached for Darran’s thin hand. It was icy cold, as though winter’s grip on Lur hadn’t loosened and he’d been outside with no gloves.

“Hey there, ole man,” he murmured. His eyes burned. His throat felt tight. “Lazin’ about like there ain’t no work to do. What kind of example is that to set, eh?”

Looking more closely, he saw that glimfire shadows hid the worst of Darran’s twisted left cheek, his drooped eyelid, his sagging mouth. Spittle dribbled down his grey-stubbled chin. Letting go of Darran’s hand, he took the cloth from its bowl of water on the bed’s posset-crowded nightstand, wrung it to dampness and wiped the old man clean. Then he put the cloth back and took possession of Darran’s hand again, hoping his own warm blood would warm this dying man’s frail flesh.

“Asher,” said Darran, his eyes still closed, his voice slurred, and so soft. As though speaking were as hard a task as calling down the rain. “Have… some respect.”

He tightened his fingers, just a little. “Oh, aye. Like you’ve earned it, eh, you ole crow?”

“Reprobate,” said Darran. His eyelids lifted, painfully. Beneath them his clouded eyes swallowed the light. “Rapscallion. Ruffian.”

“Aye,” he said, scowling. “Reckon I be all those things, do you?”

Darran’s fingers tightened, no stronger than a baby’s. “All those and more.” He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Nigh on twelve years ago now, he’d met this man. In nigh on twelve years they’d danced a dance or two. Hated each other. Hurt each other. Wept in silence side by side.

“What’s the matter?” he echoed. “What d’you reckon, you ole fool?”

“Yes, I’m dying,” said Darran, acerbic, not even frailty able to sweeten his tart tongue. “But I’m not such… an ole fool I think… you’re grief-struck because of it. There’s… something else, don’t… deny it. I’ve lived… my whole life watching… great men of power. I know when aught’s amiss, and setting them… on edge.”

Great men of power.
His palsy’s addled him.
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I ain’t pleased to see you go.”

“Asher… Asher…” Darran managed a lopsided smile. “You’d keep me here, in this… faded, failing body? That’s cruel… even for you.”

He looked away until he was certain he could speak without letting loose words he’d come to regret. “You want to die? Is that it?”

“I want you… to tell me… what’s wrong,” said Darran, still slow, still soft—but with as much iron in him as Dathne. Dying hadn’t rusted him, that much was clear. “Perhaps… I can help you. I’d like… to think I can. One last service… for the kingdom. I think… you owe me that much.”

There was no repaying what he owed this persnickety Olken. No undoing of past mistakes, no healing old wounds.

But how can I tell him what me and Dath think? His light’s goin’ out. He deserves an easy death, not doubt and fear and frettin’ over what he can’t help
.

“Asher…” Darran closed his eyes, just for a moment, then dragged them open again. “If I make it… my last wish? If I beg you? Shall I… beg?”

“Why d’you want to know?” he said roughly. “There ain’t nowt you can
do
.”

“I can listen,” said Darran. “And whatever… you tell me, I can… take it to my grave. I’ll do that… best of all.”

Sighing, he let his chin drop to his chest. The ole man weren’t entirely wrong… and he could say things to Darran he couldn’t say to anyone else. Not even Dathne. Especially not Dathne. She was brave, she was so brave, but he’d kill her, saying this. He’d given her a promise, knowing that he lied.

“Asher,” said Darran, his fingers tightening a little more. “If this is about… the kingdom’s safety… you can’t spare me. You can’t… spare yourself. Gar
died
… for Lur. Will you sit there… and not speak?”

The ole
bastard,
skewering him like this. Twisty, sneaky, bringin’ up Gar.

Bitterly he stared at Darran. “Since when did I spare m’self, you manky ole man?”

“Never,” Darran whispered. “So… don’t start… now.”

Sink me. Sink me. I ought to walk away. I ought to keep my mouth shut. If I don’t say it then it ain’t true.

“You’re not… a coward,” said Darran, relentless. “Barl knows you’ve… more faults than a cur dog… has fleas, Asher, but…” He broke off, his breath catching in a cough, that ague in his chest not done with him yet. “A problem… denied is a… problem unresolved. Borne’s father… taught me that. A lesson… well learned.”

He stared at his fingers. If he closed his eyes he might think he could still feel that sizzle of power in them, from touching Barl’s map. If he closed his eyes he’d feel the flogging might of her magic…

“Asher,”
said Darran, his voice tight with pain. “Is Lur… in danger? Is that your dread?”

On a gasping breath, he nodded. “Aye. Feels like it. And if it is… could be I’ll have to do somethin’. Somethin’ I don’t want to do, as might cause as much trouble as it’ll fix.”

“Ah,” said Darran, a long slow sigh of regret. “WeatherWorking… you mean?”

Startled, Asher stared at him. “I never said that. Why d’you think that? Ain’t no such thing as WeatherWorkin’ no more, Darran.”

So feeble, the ole man was now. His eyes sunken, his colour bad, the palsy dancing in his cheek. A fresh thin thread of spittle crept down his chin. Weakly he swiped at it, then weakly snapped his fingers for the damp cloth. Wouldn’t take help in cleaning himself, this time.

“No… such thing?” he said, handing the cloth back. His clouded eyes couldn’t mask his temper, or the disgust he felt at his body’s slow decay. “Of course… there is, Asher. You never… lost that power. You just… lied and said… you did. For the… greater good, of course. Because Lur needed… to hear it. I always… knew better.” Blinking slowly, he pressed withered fingertips to the flickering muscle beneath his cheek’s lace-thin skin. “But what makes… you think now… our kingdom might need to hear otherwise? Is it the… uncertainty you’re feeling… in the sleeping… earth?”

“What?” he said, choking. “How’d you know that? You ain’t—you said you felt nowt of Olken magic in your blood. Were
that
a lie, Darran? You been lyin’ to me?”

“And if… I was?” Darran retorted, an echo of his younger, vigorous days sounding in his voice. “About myself? About something… so personal… and private? Whether or not… I was born gifted, is that any… business of… yours? I don’t think so. I think—” He broke off, coughing again, sunk too low for indignation.