Read Online The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One by Karen Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Miller
Tags: FIC009020
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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
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
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