The Reluctant mage: Fisherman’s children

by Karen Miller

Bastard. “Your sister’s here, Rafel. When Morg wakes, he’ll kill her.”

  The tears this time belonged to the Olken. “No.”

  “Yes,” he said, brutal, because there was no time for mercy. “Unless you help me stop him.”

  Ghosting across Rafel’s face, disbelief. “You?”

  “Yes, Rafel. Me. But I won’t defeat him without you.”

  A long silence. Then Rafel managed to twitch a finger. “Can’t.”

  He wanted to leap up from the floor and shake the Olken ’til his teeth fell out. “You have to. I can’t do it by myself!”

  “Deenie.”

  He sneered. “She’s no mage.”

  “She is,” said Rafel. “Trust her.”

  Trust her? Trust Rafel’s drab little wallflower of a sister? With his life? “And why should I?”

  Another long silence. Rafel’s breathing turned to groans, as though the effort of surfacing, of speaking, was a physical torment.

  “Changed.”

  “She’s changed?” he demanded. “And how would you know?”

  “Arlin…” Another shallow, groaning breath. “Trust me.”

  He banged his head against the wall, choked with frustration. Trust me, said Rafel. And he’d have to, wouldn’t he? His nonsensical idea of poisoning Morg with herb lore had gone nowhere. This appalling Olken was his only weapon.

  But now he asks me to believe his sister’s a weapon too. Idiot.

  Except—except—she was Asher’s daughter and somehow, somehow, she had escaped Lur—and survived. Surely that argued some kind of mage ability, even though he vaguely recalled her as incompetent. And Morg had sunk no binding wards in her.

  So I suppose, if worse comes to worst she could always run a sword through him.

  He gave Rafel a sour look. “And how exactly can your paragon of a sister help me?”

  “Books. Arlin, books.”

  Books? What was that supposed to mean?

  And then he realised. “In the library? Morg’s warded books?”

  Almost Rafel’s groaning breath sounded like a laugh. “Yes.”

  “Rafel, you’re deluded. They’re warded. Changed or not she’ll never—”

  “She will.”

  So faint and sickly, and yet he sounded so sure. I must be mad, to trust him. “Which books?”

  Deenie’s brother didn’t answer.

  “Rafel! Which books!”

  Nothing. Nothing. Then another groaning breath. “Everry. Novil. Baden.”

  Baden? Then—“Those are the authors?”

  “Yes.”

  “And those books contain what I need?”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time in such a long time, he felt a surge of hope. “You’d best be right about your sister, Rafel.”

  He waited for Rafel to say, I am. Then he waited some more, for him to say anything at all. The fisherman’s son said nothing. His groaning died away.

  Tentative, disbelieving, Arlin leaned forward. “Rafel?”

  Morg’s eyrie stayed silent.

  When she could bear the hostile silence no longer, Deenie risked a touch to Ewen’s ankle. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Staring at the ceiling, Ewen didn’t reply.

  She tried again. “I swear, I had no idea anything like this would happen. If I’d known, I would’ve—I mean, I’d have tried—but I’m not sure if I could’ve stopped it even if I had known. But I am sorry. You have to believe that.”

  Still he said nothing, and his stony refusal defeated her. Folding her hands in her lap, feeling the cold seeping into her from the dungeon’s stone floor, she looked down.

  Why are you surprised, girl? He’s just seen his father die the most horrible death, and ’cause you didn’t tell him everything he’s convinced you’re to blame.

  And she couldn’t blame him for that, even though he’d been keeping secrets too.

  He’s not a barracks captain. He’s the King of Vharne.

  Well, it certainly explained some of the odd looks she’d seen Robb giving him from time to time.

  She heard nearby Charis stifle a small sigh, but didn’t look at her. Ranged against the dungeon’s opposite wall, Ewen’s Dirk Robb and the other barracks men sat with their eyes shut and pretended they weren’t listening. Separated from the other kings and their men, hustled into this smaller prison chamber, they were waiting to see what would happen to them next. But simply waiting wasn’t good enough. They needed to talk about what had happened. They had to make a plan.

  “Ewen,” she said again. “Please. This is important.”

  His grieving eyes flickered, one hand clenching to a fist. Beside himself because of his king’s beast-made hurts, Robb had insisted Ewen lie flat on the floor, insisted everyone take off their coats and jerkins to cushion him on the cold flagstones. And now everyone’s coats and jerkins were mucky with blood, even though Robb had stripped his shirt off as well and used it to staunch the wounds in Ewen’s shoulder and hip.

  “Leave him be, Deenie,” said Charis, sitting with arms crossly folded and her back to their wall. “Can’t you see Captain Noddyhead’s sulking?” And then she rolled her eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry. King Noddyhead.”

  “Clap tongue, girl,” Robb growled, glaring, as the other barracks men muttered. “Show some respect, you can.”

  Charis sighed. “I do wish you’d take that understanding spell off them, Deenie. I miss our private conversations, I do.”

  Charis’s tongue always sharpened when she was most afraid. And Ewen’s loss of his father cut too close for her to be kind.

  “It’s all right. I can’t complain. Da used to fratch at anyone who was rude to King Gar.”

  “From what Papa used to say, Deenie, your da fratched at everyone with no reason at all!”

  And because that was true, if ole Darran’s claims could be trusted, despite everything she grinned at Charis, and Charis grinned back. But not for long.

  “Deenie.” She let out a shaky breath. “Deenie, that was Rafe.”

  Deenie had to swallow hard before she could answer. “No, it wasn’t, Charis. That was Morg. Rafe’s not done a thing wrong. Not one thing.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what this is,” said Charis, her thin, pale face twisting. “This is Arlin Garrick’s doing.”

  And she really wanted to believe that herself, only—“I’m not so sure.” Troubled, she picked at a nick in her leathers. “He could’ve told those beasts to kill us. Instead he had them bring us back here. Why would he do that? And did you see his face, when—when—”

  But she didn’t want to say it, not with Ewen listening. Not after what had happened to his da. The killing of his brother was kinder. And if that isn’t an awful thing to think…

  Charis sat a little straighter. “Deenie, what are you getting at?”

  “Well, if you ask me, I’d say Arlin doesn’t want any part of what’s going on here. I’d say he’s desperate to find a way out.”

  “Desperate?” Charis hissed. “Arlin Garrick? Now who’s the noddyhead? He’s a Doranen. Isn’t this his dream? Finding Lost Dorana? Making his people great again?”

  “Yes.” She bit her lip, fretting. “Only I don’t think his dream included Morg. Honestly, Charis, weren’t you watching him? I mean, I don’t like him either, I sinkin’ well hate the poxy shit, but—I don’t think he’s fooling. I think he’s afraid.”

  “If you’re asking me to feel sorry for him, don’t waste your breath,” Charis retorted. “He hates Rafe, remember? He blames Rafe for his father’s death. I don’t give a fat rat’s arse about Arlin Garrick. All I care about is saving your brother.”

  “And so do I care about Rafe! Only—”

  “Only what?” Charis stared at her. “Deenie? Only what?”

  She didn’t want to say it. If she said it, out loud, then that might mean it was true. Goaded, close to tears, she scrambled to her feet.

  “Deenie!”

  Reluctantly she turned back. “Only I’m
not sure how much of Rafe is left to save.”

  Charis slapped her hand to the flagstones so hard she woke echoes. “Don’t you dare say that! Papa told me something of Conroyd Jarralt survived when Morg took him. And Rafe’s twice the mage that nasty Doranen ever was, I’ll wager!”

  “Darran told me and Rafe the same story,” she said. “But the thing is, I think that was different. I think there’s more of Morg in Rafel than was ever inside Conroyd Jarralt. Charis, I think Morg’s taken him over. I think—I think Rafe’s gone.”

  “You think? That means you don’t know, not for sure!” Charis scrambled to face her. “So how can you stand there and say you’re giving up? You’ve got Barl’s diary, haven’t you? There has to be a spell in there that can save Rafe and kill Morg!”

  “Oh, Charis, don’t you think I want there to be?” she said, shivering. “And don’t you think that if there was I’d have used it already? But there isn’t! I don’t know a single spell that will kill Morg and save Rafel. All I’ve got are the Words of UnMaking.”

  “Then use them!” said Charis. “If what we’re after is getting rid of Morg, use them! They got rid of him last time, didn’t they? All right, the spell was meant to properly kill him but I say getting rid of him for a few years is better than nothing. And while he’s all scattered bits and pieces again you and Rafe can work out how to kill him for good when he comes back.”

  Bumping her shoulder against a nearby stretch of wall, Deenie shook her head. “Charis, it won’t work. Morg didn’t die, but Conroyd Jarralt did. And so will Rafe.”

  “Oh, well, you’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?” Charis demanded, scathing. “Anyone would think you didn’t want to—” And then she choked back the rest of her hurtful accusation. “Fine. Then how about this? If you’re so sure Arlin Garrick is on our side against Morg, get him to help you fuddle with the spell. Isn’t he s’posed to be a great Doranen mage? Get him to fix it so Rafel stays safe!”

  Oh, Charis. “That won’t work either,” said Deenie. “I think fuddling with the UnMaking spell ruins it. I think that’s why Da couldn’t kill Morg when he tried. King Gar fuddled the spell so he’d die instead of Da, remember? But it only half worked. He died, Da lived—and so did Morg.”

  Charis blinked at her. “What are you talking about? I don’t remember any such thing.”

  “You don’t—you mean Uncle Pellen never told you? I thought he told you everything.”

  “No,” said Charis, and stepped back. “He never would talk about the magic that killed Morg. Not even at the very end. All he’d ever say was King Gar died helping the Innocent Mage destroy Lur’s greatest enemy. That’s all anyone ever said. I never heard anything different. You never told me.”

  “It was a solemn sworn family secret,” she muttered. “I couldn’t. I wasn’t meant to know, only Rafe found out and he told me and there was such a commotion.”

  But Charis wasn’t interested in old family ructions. “So what you’re saying is the proper UnMaking spell will kill whoever says it? You’re saying that the only way to defeat Morg is for you to die with Rafe?”

  And there it was, in the open. The one thing she’d never wanted Charis to know.

  “Deenie, you can’t,” said Charis, her voice breaking. “I won’t let you. I won’t—”

  “Clap tongue!”

  Startled, they whipped round to see Ewen shoving himself upright, his deeply lined face twisted with pain and rage. Realised a moment later that Robb and the other barracks men were gaping at them with their mouths wide. So upset, so lost in angry despair, they’d tipped out all their dirty linen… forgetting they weren’t alone.

  Barl’s tits. Deenie blinked at Charis, and Charis blinked back. Then she turned. “Ewen—”

  “Clap tongue, I say,” he snapped at her, struggling to prop himself against the wall. Robb moved to help him and was glared at for his kindness, so he raised one hand in apology and made no further attempt to help his king.

  When at last he was sitting up, more or less, his hurt shoulder hunched, one hand pressed to his hurt hip, the scabby talon-wounds in his cheek and forehead split a little, and weeping blood, Ewen let his head fall back against the stone wall and narrowed his eyes in a cold glare.

  “I knew you were hiding secrets, I did, girl. I knew in my gut they had to do with Morg. But you saved my men, you did. You saved the people of that village. You saved me. So every time I shivered, every time I had a doubt, I wouldn’t let myself hear it.” He swept that cold glare round the dungeon. “Now look where we are.”

  Deenie felt her face heat. “You’re not fair, Ewen. This isn’t my fault.”

  “You’ve the power to kill Morg, you say,” he spat. “You let him live. I should trust you?”

  “Don’t you understand? He holds my brother captive!”

  “And he held my brother captive, he did. He did worse, girl. He rotted him. Girl, I put my knife in Padrig. I held him as he died.” Ewen thrust his hand at her. “My fingers sifted his burned ashes, they did. Don’t you rattle to me about dead brothers. Not when yours is still alive.”

  “Except he might not be,” she retorted. “Or else what he’s living through is worse than death. Worse even than brain-rot.”

  Ewen’s green-gold eyes were pitiless. “Then put him down, you should. That’s if you love him.”

  She heard Charis’s angry gasp and gave her a sharp look. Don’t. Then as Charis bit her tongue, she made herself again face Ewen’s ice-cold anger.

  “I was afraid to tell you everything. I didn’t think you’d understand. I thought you might think we were somehow in league with Morg. I thought you might not believe our story. I know it’s outlandish. And knowing what Vharne has suffered, I know you’ve reason to fear.”

  Ewen eased himself against the dungeon wall, wincing. “Your father killed Morg?”

  She grimaced. “Apparently not.”

  “He killed a king?”

  “He didn’t want to,” she said, hearing herself defensive. “That king was his dearest friend.”

  Ewen’s lips pressed tight. There was no softness in him anywhere. He’d turned into a sword. “Morg never ruled your land, you said.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then girl, how do you know him?”

  So she told him Lur’s story, all of it, no more secrets. He didn’t look away from her once. When she was finished, she dropped to one knee and tentatively took his hand. He let her. Even curled his fingers lightly around hers. And then he smiled, his eyes thawed to a gentle warmth.

  “That’s a tale, that is.”

  Her heart was beating so fast it was hard to breathe. “But do you believe it?”

  “Yes, girl. I do.”

  The relief nearly drowned her.

  “So these few years we’ve had without the sorcerer,” Ewen murmured. “They’d be owed to your father, they would.”

  “To Da,” she said, struggling to hold back a flood of tears. “And Mama, and Uncle Pellen, and King Gar.”

  Ewen frowned. “A Doranen.”

  “They’re not all bad, Ewen. I don’t like them very much, the ones I know at home, most of them, but that’s not the same as saying they’re bad.”

  “This Arlin Garrick’s not bad, you say?”

  Arlin. Oh, her head was spinning over Arlin. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, not any more, maybe, but—I don’t know what happened in the blighted lands. I don’t know how Rafe ended up Morg’s prisoner.”

  Cross-legged on the floor again, Charis snorted. “I do. Arlin betrayed him.”

  “Could be he did,” said Ewen, looking at her. “But it’s trained, I am, to read a man’s face. Deenie’s right, I say. Your Arlin’s tormented.”

  “He’s not my Arlin!” said Charis, offended. “And I’ll thank you to remember it!”

  The merest hint of a smile tugged the corner of Ewen’s mouth. “Yes, Meistress Orrick.”

  “Ewen.” Deenie lifted his hand and kissed hi
s bruised fingers. “I am so sorry. For everything. I clapped tongue because I thought it was for the best. But if I was wrong, if by keeping my secrets I made things worse for you, for Vharne, for—”

  He slid his other hand behind her neck, leaned forward, and pulled her lips to his. She was startled, just for a moment, and then she relaxed. Didn’t care about their barracks men audience. Didn’t think of Charis, teasing giddycakes under her breath. Amidst the pain and the terror and the grief here was one moment of pleasure. Of love.

  And then the still-simmering blight burst into hot, dark life. A familiar, horrible presence. A sudden, crushing certainty.

  It’s coming for me.

  She wrenched free of Ewen’s lips and gentle hands. “Winged beast!” she gasped. “On its way.” She pulled Barl’s diary from its safe home against her ribs and thrust it at him. “Keep this hidden. If things go wrong try and get it to Arlin. If I fail he could be our last chance to defeat Morg.”

  Ewen didn’t even glance at the diary as he shoved it inside his bloodied shirt. Beyond the dungeon, faint sounds of beast doings. “The sorcerer wants you?”

  She tried to smile at him. “Someone does. And if it’s Morg, he’ll soon regret it.”

  “Deenie, no,” said Charis, her voice cracking. “There has to be another way, you can’t—”

  “Charis, I have to,” she said gently, pushing to her feet. “How can I be Asher’s daughter and say the world can die for me?”

  “And if you do this, girl?” said Ewen, his voice close to breaking, “Say these Words of UnMaking? How will we know?”

  She wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. “Don’t worry. You’ll know.”

  Grim-faced, Robb and the other barracks men got to their feet. Charis stood too, tears streaking her cheeks. When Ewen tried to stand, Robb moved to help him and this time wasn’t rebuffed. Turning from him, Deenie flung her arms around Charis in a convulsive embrace.

  “I don’t know if it’s possible, Charis,” she whispered. “But if it is I’ll save Rafe for you.”

  Sobbing, Charis nodded. “I know you will, you slumskumbledy wench!”

  As she eased free of Charis, they heard the bars on the dungeon door being lifted. Ignoring that, Deenie looked at Ewen, standing uneven from his hurt, grief and rage stark in his face. Dark red hair. Green-gold eyes. The man of her dreams. She kissed him again, desperate. Hello and goodbye. A last taste of what might have been, if things were different. If she’d not been born who and what she was.