The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (10 page)

“Your father said you’d be called if Darran was in the mood for visitors,” she retorted. “Truth’s not an ivy-plant, Rafel, to be grown any shape that suits you. And you, Deenie,” she added, frowning at her daughter. “You’ve run off from Cluny too? For shame.”

Deenie was small for her eight years, slender like a poplar sapling, a child of thistledown and whispers. Eyes as round as pansies in her narrow, secret face. Where scolding made her brother cross, she wilted under the mildest scrutiny.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said, her voice hiccupping with dismay. “I only wanted to say goodbye, like Rafel.”

Dathne felt her heart break.
No, no, she’s too young.
“What do you mean, goodbye? What a nonsense that is.”

Deenie glanced up at her brother, fingers twisting in her bright blue cotton smock. “Rafe said—”

“ Tattle-tale!” Rafe spat at her, and shoved his shoulder against hers. “Hold your tongue, I told you. Now look what you’ve done, Mama’s fratched!”

So Rafe had told Deenie the old man was dying. Anger nipped at heartbreak’s heels, that he’d so carelessly shatter his small sister’s innocence.

Rafel’s chin was up, his brows knit together in a belligerent scowl. And oh, it was his father’s face he was showing her now, all bark and bite, their tempers two bright mirrors reflecting each other.

“ No-one said not to tell,” he muttered. “Da never said I weren’t to tell.” And neither had she said it, never dreamt she’d have to. She glanced sideways at the bed, at Darran, and saw that he was roused from drowsing and watching her from beneath half-lifted eyelids. His sunken eyes, age-fuddled and dimmed with his slow dying, still reflected a gentle amusement. Oh, he loved her children. If she hadn’t discovered an exasperated affection for him before Rafe was born she’d have lost her heart to him after, in his doting on her child. On both her children, who loved him for his kindness and his stories and the way he poked gentle, impolite fun at their father.

“Dathne…” Darran’s voice was the threadiest whisper. “You’d ease me… if you let… them stay.”

She wanted to deny him, but only because she would shield her children. Yes, Rafe and Deenie had both encountered death, but it had been the small deaths of animals. This death was not small. Darran had grown to be a loving part of their lives. She feared so much the wounds his dying would inflict upon her son and daughter.

Did I mean to let him become so important? Did I not notice how we all grew to lean on him, even Asher? When did I start to love him? When was the first time Asher turned to him as a friend?

She couldn’t remember. She only knew it was true, that this ole man, this ole fart, ole scarecrow, ole trout, was part of her family. And that his death would cause her beloved Rafel and Deenie pain. But she couldn’t protect them, she knew that. No mother could, though she gave her own life to save their innocence from harm.

“Please, Mama,” said Rafel, so stubborn. He never once let go of a coveted thing, not even in his cradle. “I want to stay.”

She looked at her son. Saw with a pang, with grief-sharpened eyes, that he wasn’t a little boy any more. Ten years old and growing fast. Sturdy, like his father. A promise of charming good looks contained within the childish framework of his face.

But his eyes are far from childish. He knows things. He feels them. Pretending he doesn’t makes no difference to the truth. We’ve cursed him, Asher and I. When we made him, we gave him power
.

It galled her, to think that Darran knew things about her son that she didn’t. That Asher didn’t. That she needed to be told by a dying old man that her son had a secret which was causing him hurt.

“Please, Mama?” said Rafel. “Don’t make me go.” He glanced sideways at Deenie and pulled a little face. “Can’t we stay?”

If Asher were here she was almost certain he’d say no. Not to spite Darran, but to protect his children.

And he would be wrong.

“Yes, Rafe,” she said, feeling her eyes sting. “You can stay… and say goodbye.” Then she shifted and looked down at the old man. “But you mustn’t be long.”

“Thank you, Dathne,” Darran breathed. “I’ll not… keep them.”

She nodded at her children, then stepped back from the bed into pooled shadows, as Rafe and Deenie moved to Darran’s side. At the old man’s smile Deenie clambered onto the blanketed mattress and took his withered, age-spotted hand in hers. Rafel, scorning such babyish scramblings, echoed his father with thrown-back shoulders and a fearsome scowl and stayed standing.

“Rafel,” Darran whispered. “Deenie. Shall I… tell you a… story?”

Still scowling, Rafe shrugged. “S’pose. If you want to. I don’t care.”

But Dathne, watching, knew that he did. He was desperate for a story. He loved Darran’s tales. So did Deenie. Asher never looked back, not even for his children. Darran’s stories taught them about their father, who loved them beyond all things but kept so much of himself a closed book.

Darran gestured to the chair at his bedside. “Make yourself… comfortable, then, Rafe,” he invited. His rheumy eyes looked feverish now. She could see he was burning the last of his guttering candle for her children’s sake. She should in conscience send them away.

But I can’t. I can’t. They need this. And so does he, I think. And so do I.

Rafe dropped onto the chair beside Darran’s bed. Trying hard to be brave, though his small heart was breaking.

“Your father,” said Darran, his gaze shifting from Rafe to Deenie and back again, so much love in him she could feel it like a furnace, “is a rowdy… and a ruffian… and the bravest… man I ever… knew. Braver… even than our dear… late king, and Gar… had courage enough… for twenty men.”

The bravest man? Braver than Gar? Dathne heard her heartbeat drumming in her ears. He’d never said that before. He’d praised Asher, yes, but never once above his precious prince, the boy he’d looked on as a son.

“Rafel, I know… I’ve told you… before,” said Darran. His voice was raspy, the chamber’s scented air wheezing in his throat. “The story of… how your father… saved Gar’s… life. But… I’ve not told… your sister. I think… I think…” His gaze drifted to the shadows. “It’s time… for Deenie… to hear this one.”

Dathne folded her arms against a sudden shiver. Deenie knew her father was counted a hero of Lur. How could she not know it? But they’d kept her sheltered from the details. She was still a little girl. She had the rest of her life to discover Lur’s harsh, recent past.

Except… there was something important about her hearing such stories of her father from Darran. For one thing, Asher would never tell them. He squirmed and scowled when anyone tried to praise his doings. Not only because he’d never relished public acclaim, but because his victory over Morg was tainted by those other deaths. By Gar’s death especially, which quietly haunted him and robbed him of peace.

But Deenie, like Rafel, was entitled to know his worth. And there was something special about stories that were told not by a mother and a wife, but an outsider. She understood that. She knew what Darran’s stories meant to Rafel. Coming from the old man, the tales were somehow more—more
true
.

And Deenie deserves that truth no less than her brother. She deserves to know her da’s a great man.

Darran was watching her, his gaze anxious. Eager. He wanted to gift her children with one last story and his time was dwindling. How could she refuse?

When she nodded, his pale, palsied face flushed with pleasure. A tear escaped his drooping left eye to trickle down his twitching cheek. Deenie pulled a kerchief from the pocket of her smock and gently patted his face dry.

“Thank you, Deenie,” Darran whispered, when he could speak again. Then he smiled. “Deenie. Gardenia. Do you know… Dathne… when I said… you should call… a girl-child that… I was teasing.”

She nodded. “We knew.”

“Ah,” he said, and didn’t speak for a moment. Then he turned again to her children. “Very… well. A story. This happened… when your father… was a brash… young man. The… old king, Borne… was unwell. He sent… his son… the prince Gar… to Westwailing in his stead…”

After walking off the worst of his temper, Asher made his way to the Tower stable yard. The lads were bustling about evening stables, doors rattling, the water pump’s handle groaning, filled pails sloshing, glimfire lanterns gilding the air and throwing shadows. Though he were fratched, he smiled at the horses’ impatience, whickers and snapping teeth, and hooves banging and scraping. The cool air smelled of hot horse porridge and fresh manure. He found Jed in the feed room, painstakingly counting carrots into seven waiting feed buckets. Seeing Asher, his oddly young and unlined face split wide in a smile.

“See?” he said, pointing proudly. “See?”

“Aye,” he replied, and clapped his boyhood friend on the shoulder. “I do see. You be a great help, Jed.”

Jed nodded, tongue-tip held fast between his teeth. The cruel, dented scar in his forehead caught the glimlight, flatly shining. “Great help. Great help.”

The lingering embers of Asher’s resentment died. Poor Jed. So much lost to him. So much stolen by bad luck. Now he was about to lose Darran, who fussed over him like a hen with one chick. Who’d have thought the ole fool had so much love in him, eh?

Not me. I never thought it. Sometimes I reckon I never knew him at all
.

After a quick stir of the horse porridge, pungent steam stinging his face, he perched on the edge of the oat-bin, arms folded. “Jed. Jed. Are you listenin’ to me, Jed?”

Jed nodded, industriously counting carrots. That blow to his drunken head hadn’t stolen all his life. Just most of it.

“Jed, I got to tell you somethin’. About Darran.”

Jed’s face lit up. “My friend Darran. Ole crow. Ole fart.”

“Yeah, the ole fart,” he said, pain like a vice crushing his chest. “Jed… come along, you got to listen to me.”

Beyond the almost closed feed-room door, the lads whistled and laughed. On their own tonight, with Meister Divit away to Crackby for a family funeral. More death. More despair. People ought to live forever. Jed was counting carrots again, lost in his misty mind.

“Jed!”
he said sharply, and kicked one heel against the oat-bin. “Bloody
listen,
would you?”

Jed startled at his sharp voice and the boom of the oat-bin, carrots tumbling from his fingers. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Abruptly remorseful, Asher dropped to a crouch before his addled friend and took hold of his wrists. “Ain’t no need for sorry,” he said gently. “You ain’t done a thing wrong, Jed. I just need you to listen.”

Wide-eyed, his untidy dark hair streaky grey, his cheeks and chin stubbled grey and black, Jed nodded. “I be listenin’.”

He couldn’t say Darran was dying. Even if Jed understood, the words would only fratch him. “Darran’s goin’ away for a bit, Jed. He asked me to say goodbye for him.”

“Away?” Jed said vaguely. “Where?”

Good question. Who knew if the Barlsmen were right? Who knew if there was a life beyond death? “To the countryside, Jed.”

Jed frowned. “Can’t I go? I like the country.”

“I know you do,” he said. “Only not this time. Another time, mayhap.”

“Another time. Aye. Aye.” Jed stood. “I have to look at Cygnet’s water,” he announced. “That’s my job. I look after Cygnet.”

The feed-room door banged closed behind him. Asher stayed crouched on the brick floor a moment longer, a hot pain pulsing at his temples. Then he pushed to his feet and started dishing out the evening feeds, scoops of oats and chaffed hay dropping into the feed buckets. Taking refuge in a task that had once meant so much.

“A sad night,” said a familiar voice.

Bloody Pellen. Stealthy like a cat he was, even with one good leg and one carven-wood stump, to take the place of the shin and foot he’d lost to Morg.

When he could trust his face, he turned. “Aye. How’d you know?”

Ten years of mayorin’ Dorana had left Pellen Orrick grizzled and inclined to sharp-tongued sarcasm. Fatherhood had warmed him. Buryin’ his wife had lined him deeper. Two years on and he still grieved. Of course he did. He’d loved Ibby with his whole heart, a heart that never thought Lur held a woman for him.

Good thing he’s got little Charis, I reckon. Reckon he’d have followed his Ibby into the ground elsewise
.

Leaning against the feed-room’s doorjamb, his brass-buttoned blue and crimson guard uniform long since given way to sober, respectable brown wool, Pellen cleared his throat.

“Dathne sent word. Seeing Darran’s importance, she thought I should know.”

Trust Dath to think of it. He’d been too angry. Too sad. “She were right. You should.”

“Hard to believe we’re losing him,” said Pellen. “Seems he’s as much a part of Dorana as the palace itself.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“You don’t talk of it, but I know you and the old man have grown close, these past years,” Pellen said quietly. “I’m sorry, Asher.”

Drat the man and his bloody sympathy.
Go away, Pellen. Did I ask you to poke your nose into how I feel? Did I?
“Aye. Well, that’s the way of things, ain’t it? Nowt lasts forever, though you reckon it will.”

Pellen’s hatchet-face stilled, its kindness freezing. “Asher? What’s going on? It’s not just Darran, is it? There’s something else rubbing at you.”