The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One by Karen Miller Page B

one of his stories. The storm at Westwailing. He said you’re the bravest man he ever knew. Oh,
Asher
…”
    Each word was a hammer blow, cracking his heart wider still.
That ole fool, that ole scarecrow, that manky ole man
. He couldn’t speak.
    Pellen rejoined them. “I’ll leave you,” he said, his voice rough with sorrow. “Send word when—send word. Between us we’ll see he’s treated right. Lur owes him a debt he never would let us repay.”
    On tip-toe, Dathne kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Pellen.”
    Asher nodded. “Aye. Thanks.”
    Pother Kerril released Darran’s wrist, straightened and turned. “I’m sorry,” she said, heedless of Pellen’s departure. “It’s doubtful he will wake again.”
    As the pother gathered up her bits and pieces, Asher opened his arms. Dathne leaned into him, sobs choking in her throat. “You should sit with him,” she said at last. “I’ll go to the children. They shouldn’t be without one of us.”
    “You’re right,” he said, and kissed her brow.
    Dathne stepped back. “He told the children he loves you. Make your peace with him while you can.”
    She and Kerril left after that, and he was alone in the sweet room with the old dying man. Taking hold of the chair beside the bed, he bumped it closer and sat.
    “Why’d you make me yell at you, ole crow?” he whispered, reaching for Darran’s ice-cold hand. “Ain’t I got enough regrets in my life, you make me yell at a dyin’ ole fool?”
    The palsy in Darran’s face had quieted. He looked peaceful, and painless, breathing so slowly, so shallowly, it was hard to tell that he breathed at all.
    “You want me to say it, don’t you?” he demanded. “You want me to say it so you can throw it back in my face.” He dragged a silk forearm across his burning eyes. “Fine, all right, you persnickety ole codger. I love you. You happy now? You got your last laugh? Come on, you meddlesome mugwort. Let’s hear you laugh. Let’s hear it. Come on.”
    The silence deepened, muffling as snow.
    “Aye, well, that’d be right,” he said. “Got to have the last word, eh? Got to put me in my place.” He tightened his fingers. “When Gar died, I didn’t hate him. You hear me, Darran? Are you listenin’? You see him, you tell him that. You tell him that from me.”
    Deeper silence again. A breath held… a waiting… and then, like a blessing, the cold fingers in his moved.
    But while he was weeping, Darran stole away.

CHAPTER FIVE
     

     
    A fter three days of folk saying how sorry they were he’d died, they put Darran in the royal crypt next to Da’s best friend King Gar.
    Staring at the marble effigy on top of the tomb, Rafel couldn’t believe it wasn’t ole Darran magically turned to white stone. He didn’t know which was more shocking: that the effigy was so perfect, or that Da had made it. Da
never
used magic. Only glimfire, and that didn’t count. He never talked of it, even. And if anyone tried to make him, well… that wasn’t a good idea.
    Only once he’d ever been frightened of Da, and that was the day he complained because other boys’ fathers did magic, so why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t fair. The boys he knew from the City, from school—Doranen boys like Arlin Garrick—they laughed at him and said mean things. Why didn’t Da care?
    Afterwards, Mama sat with him and let him cry a little bit into her lap. He’d been eight, too big for tears, but Da had been so fearsome angry he couldn’t help it.
    “If those boys laugh again then you walk away,” she’d told him, cuddling him close. “Stupid boys, what would they know? Magic’s a solemn thing, Rafe. It’s not for boasting, or for playing like a game.”
    “Goose plays,” he’d muttered, sniffing. “And that Arlin, he shows off all the time.”
    Mama flicked the end of his nose. “You’re not Goose, or Arlin Garrick. This family’s got its own rules when it comes to magic. Rafe…” She tightened her arms. “I hope you’re