The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (64 page)

“That’s why I went!” he protested. “And it’s why I’ll cross the mountains with Arlin. How can she not know that? How can my own mother not know—”

“She knows, Rafe. But her instinct is to protect you. So you be kindly to her, d’you hear me? Don’t you—”

The unlatched chamber door swung open. “Rafel,” said Charis, politely smiling, her eyes coldly watchful. “It’s been so kind of you, stopping by to see how Papa’s faring.”

In other words,
get out now
. Mindful of his promise not to wheedle, he smiled at Da’s dying friend. “It was good of you to see me, Pellen. But Charis is right, you need to rest.”

Pellen beckoned him closer with one crooked finger. “Rafel…”

He walked round the bed and bent low. “Aye, Pellen?”

“Barl keep you safe, boy,” Pellen whispered. Pulled him down and kissed his forehead with hot, dry lips. “And Jervale watch over you too. You are your father’s son, Rafel. If anyone can save Lur, I think you can.”

Until Pellen said it, he didn’t realise how much he’d wanted to hear that.
Needed
to hear it. Knowing that a man like Pellen Orrick believed in him…

“Rafel,”
said Charis sharply. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

Pellen let his hand drop, and Rafel straightened. Looking down at the man he’d known as long as he’d known Da, suddenly he was a sprat again, on Darran’s bed. And he knew that when Charis closed the chamber door behind him he’d have seen Pellen Orrick for the last time. Just as he’d known, waving Goose goodbye, that—

No. I was wrong about that. I’ll see Goose again. I will.

Charis opened the front door so hard she nearly pulled it off its hinges. “Goodbye.”

“Why are you fratched at me?” he said, staring. “You said don’t wheedle you and I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t wheedle me,” Charis snapped. “But you made Papa cry. And that’s a lot worse, Rafel. I’ll not soon forgive you that.”

“Cry? He wasn’t—”

“You think a man has to shed tears to be weeping?” she demanded. “You broke his bloody heart, Rafel, and it’s not strong enough. Not any more.”

Silenced, he pulled a face. “Broke
his
heart, Charis? You sure on that? Could be it’s another heart you’re thinking on.”

She slapped him. And then she kissed him, a desperate pressing of warm lips to his. Startled, he tried to kiss her back but she broke free and stumbled out of his reach.

“You don’t love me,” she said, her eyes accusing. “You never even
saw
me. So don’t you think, just because you’re leaving, don’t you think you can—”

His lips were tingling. “How d’you know I’m leaving? Were you
listening?
”

“Of course I was,” she said, derisive. “Did you think I’d not make sure you didn’t upset him?”

“You were listening,” he murmured.
Slumskumbledy bloody wench.
“And? What d’you reckon?”

“I reckon you’ve got no choice,” she said, her voice threatening to break. “If things are as bad as you say… you’ve got to go.”

She’d taken off the apron and the headscarf. Before he could stop himself, he smoothed a lock of her long dark hair and tucked it sweetly behind her ear.

“I saw you, Charis,” he said, his voice hoarse. “There was never a day when I didn’t see you.”

Her mouth dropped open. “
Now
you tell me?” she said, almost breathless. “
Now?
When you’re going across the mountains likely to die in a ditch in a strange land all alone? You—you—
sapskull
. You
popster
. Go away, Rafel. I
hate
you.”

And she slammed the house’s front door in his face.

Women
.

Aggravated, he made his way round the back of the house, rescued Firedragon from the stable, swung into saddle and headed for home.

A
sher 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.