Read Online The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One by Karen Miller - Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Miller
Tags: FIC009020
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slight, still body on the snail-shell stairs.
“He’s asking for you,” said Kerril. “Stay as long as you like. I’ve eased him as much as I can, and left an elixir. If the shaking takes him again, a spoonful should help.”
With an effort, he wrenched his gaze from Rafel. “Will he see sunrise?”
“As I said, these things can’t be predicted,” Kerril replied gently. Then she sighed. “But there’s a good chance he won’t.”
“Go,” said Dathne. Her dark eyes were full of quiet misery. An iron core, she had, aye… but a lot more besides. “If business arises I’ll see to it. Don’t fret on that.”
He nodded, suddenly unable to trust his voice.
“If you’ve need of me, send to my infirmary,” Kerril added. “I have possets and so forth to see to. I’ll be working late into the night.”
“My thanks, Kerril,” he said. Shamed that he’d lashed out at her, looked to hurt when all she’d done was help.
I know better than that. I’m me, I ain’t my brother. Zeth hurts folk heedless. I’m better than Zeth.
“There be no pother in Lur could’ve cared more for Darran, I reckon. He’s old and wore out, that’s the sad fact of it. And I’m thinkin’ he’s walked a long road. Longer than most.”
“Indeed,” she replied. “Though that’s small enough comfort.”
It were no comfort at all. Barl save him, he was sick to death of death. With a nod for Kerril, and a small smile for Dathne that was all pain and no pleasure, he left the women on the Tower’s front steps and trudged inside.
Hearing his footsteps, Rafel looked up. With the evening drawing in, the foyer had been lit with glimfire. Sconces glowed against the circular wall, throwing shadows. Their warm light found the tears in Rafel’s eyes, that the boy was too proud to let fall. His face was grimy, his short black hair streaked with dust. Rafe charged through life as though it was a race, heedless of skinned knees and bruises, never frettin’ if he fell. Why would he? He’d find his feet all right. He always did.
“Da,” the boy said. His bottom lip quivered. “The ole fool’s dyin’, I reckon.”
“Aye,” he said, and sat himself on the stair beside his son. “Reckon he is. But don’t call him that, eh? He’s got a name, Rafe, and enough years in his dish you can respect him by usin’ it.”
Rafe twitched one skinny shoulder. “You call him an ole fool. You call him worse, I’ve heard you.”
“Aye, but that’s me,” he said, and draped an arm round his son. “What I call him be our business, Rafe. Mine and Darran’s. You know the ole man and me got history. You’re a spratling yet. You ain’t earned the right.”
“I never will, if he’s dying,” said Rafe, and his voice broke in a small sob. “He’s my friend, Da. I don’t want him to die.”
“I know you don’t, Rafe,” he whispered, and pulled his son close. “Nobody wants their friends to die. Friends is what makes the world worth livin’ in, even when it’s falling in flames around your ears. But you got to remember, Rafe, men don’t live forever. No-one lives forever.”
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,
“He’s asking for you,” said Kerril. “Stay as long as you like. I’ve eased him as much as I can, and left an elixir. If the shaking takes him again, a spoonful should help.”
With an effort, he wrenched his gaze from Rafel. “Will he see sunrise?”
“As I said, these things can’t be predicted,” Kerril replied gently. Then she sighed. “But there’s a good chance he won’t.”
“Go,” said Dathne. Her dark eyes were full of quiet misery. An iron core, she had, aye… but a lot more besides. “If business arises I’ll see to it. Don’t fret on that.”
He nodded, suddenly unable to trust his voice.
“If you’ve need of me, send to my infirmary,” Kerril added. “I have possets and so forth to see to. I’ll be working late into the night.”
“My thanks, Kerril,” he said. Shamed that he’d lashed out at her, looked to hurt when all she’d done was help.
I know better than that. I’m me, I ain’t my brother. Zeth hurts folk heedless. I’m better than Zeth.
“There be no pother in Lur could’ve cared more for Darran, I reckon. He’s old and wore out, that’s the sad fact of it. And I’m thinkin’ he’s walked a long road. Longer than most.”
“Indeed,” she replied. “Though that’s small enough comfort.”
It were no comfort at all. Barl save him, he was sick to death of death. With a nod for Kerril, and a small smile for Dathne that was all pain and no pleasure, he left the women on the Tower’s front steps and trudged inside.
Hearing his footsteps, Rafel looked up. With the evening drawing in, the foyer had been lit with glimfire. Sconces glowed against the circular wall, throwing shadows. Their warm light found the tears in Rafel’s eyes, that the boy was too proud to let fall. His face was grimy, his short black hair streaked with dust. Rafe charged through life as though it was a race, heedless of skinned knees and bruises, never frettin’ if he fell. Why would he? He’d find his feet all right. He always did.
“Da,” the boy said. His bottom lip quivered. “The ole fool’s dyin’, I reckon.”
“Aye,” he said, and sat himself on the stair beside his son. “Reckon he is. But don’t call him that, eh? He’s got a name, Rafe, and enough years in his dish you can respect him by usin’ it.”
Rafe twitched one skinny shoulder. “You call him an ole fool. You call him worse, I’ve heard you.”
“Aye, but that’s me,” he said, and draped an arm round his son. “What I call him be our business, Rafe. Mine and Darran’s. You know the ole man and me got history. You’re a spratling yet. You ain’t earned the right.”
“I never will, if he’s dying,” said Rafe, and his voice broke in a small sob. “He’s my friend, Da. I don’t want him to die.”
“I know you don’t, Rafe,” he whispered, and pulled his son close. “Nobody wants their friends to die. Friends is what makes the world worth livin’ in, even when it’s falling in flames around your ears. But you got to remember, Rafe, men don’t live forever. No-one lives forever.”
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,
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