by Karen Miller
She shrugged free of him. She couldn’t risk his sympathy. Not now. She had to stay strong.
Da, please. Don’t be dead.
“Arlin, do you know Billington?”
Wary, he shifted his gaze from the ruins. “I know of it. Why?”
“Da’s there. Will you take me? Is it safe to use the incant again so soon?”
“Safe?” He raised an eyebrow. “For me or for you?”
She bit her lip. Poxy shit. “For us all, Lord Garrick.”
“I don’t know,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Shall we find out?”
And it was safe enough, though the journey left them twice as dizzy.
They found ruin in Billington, too. Uprooted trees, a handful of toppled buildings. Maybe half the township’s streets turned into humps and holes. Not as bad as Dorana City, but even so…
Seeing it, Deenie felt a welling of despair. Was all of Lur ruined? If she took the ancient Doranen incant and magicked herself the length and breadth of the kingdom, would she find nothing but heartbreak and destruction?
I think I would. I think Lur’s truly dying.
And yet again, she was fighting back tears.
Standing in the middle of the township’s main street, pointed and stared at by cowering, startled Olken, Ewen ran a hand down his scarred face.
“Morg did this, you say?”
“Not directly,” said Arlin. “But when he broke Barl’s Weather Magic he started the rot.”
“I thought Vharne was troubled, I did. But this?”
“Yes,” Deenie said shortly. “It’s far worse than I dreamed.”
This time Ewen knew better than to touch her. “It’s a fool I feel like, saying it, but—Deenie, I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“It’s still blighted is it, your kingdom?”
And it wasn’t until Ewen asked the question that she realised. “No. No, it’s not. At least, not like before. I can still feel it, taste it, but…” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not growing.”
Arlin looked at her. “You think you killed the blight when you killed Morg?”
Burning and burning, his screams echoing in her mind.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Leaving him and Ewen, she crossed the street to accost the nearest startled Olken. “You. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. The hospice here. Is it still standing?”
The woman nodded, torn between fear and fascination as she gaped at Ewen. “Who’s he, then? Where’s he from? He’s got red hair.”
Deenie nodded. “Yes. He has.” And while that might be the first time she heard someone say so, already she suspected it wouldn’t be the last. “He’s a friend. Please. The hospice?”
“That way,” said the woman, still gaping, and flapped a vague hand. “Ask for Pother Brye. Meistress—”
Deenie turned back. “Yes?”
“Who are you?”
There seemed little point in keeping it secret. “I’m Deenie. I’m Asher’s daughter.”
Many of the townsfolk heard her say it. They stopped staring at Ewen and stared at her instead.
“Asher?” said the woman. “The Innocent Mage? Ain’t he dead? Him and his son and his wife, the word was, all three.” Her careworn face softened. “You poor child, you. Orphaned.” And then she hugged herself. “There’s a mortload of orphans in Lur these days.”
“I have to go,” she said, hearing her voice faint and disbelieving. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you all as soon as I can.”
One look at her face and Ewen snatched hold of her arm. “Deenie?”
“The hospice is this way,” she muttered. “We have to hurry.”
She broke into a run, heedless of maybe twisting an ankle or worse. Arlin swore, then he and Ewen ran after her.
Though countless weeks had passed since she’d been here, and then only the once, instinct guided her back to the hospice. And terror sent her barging through its front doors and into the entrance hall, shouting for Pother Brye. Startled pothers who weren’t Brye hurried to hush her and find out what she wanted.
“I want Brye!” she snapped. “Are you deaf?”
“Steady, girl,” murmured Ewen, as Arlin stepped well out of the way. “Setting the place in an uproar, you are.”
“I don’t care! I want to see Pother Brye and—”
“And here I am,” said a calm voice. “Barl be praised, child. Barl be praised. We long ago gave you up for dead. Lur has mourned Asher’s daughter. And now we can rejoice!”
In the weeks she’d be gone he’d lost more of his blond hair, and the lines on his face were carved even deeper. Staring at him, suddenly speechless, Deenie felt herself trembling so hard she thought she’d break her healed collarbone. She tried to speak, but her teeth were chattering with fright. She could hardly feel Ewen’s hand holding hers. The words were crowded in her throat.
Is he here? Does he live?
“Fear not, child,” Brye told her, smiling. “We have your father. And he’s awake.”
If Ewen hadn’t pulled her against him, she’d have fallen to the floor.
Awake. Awake. “What does he know?” she said faintly. “What have you told him?”
“That your brother vanished, child, and you vanished after him.”
And if Ewen hadn’t still been holding her, she might have slapped the old Doranen. “Why? Why would you tell him that, why would you—”
Movement behind the pother, in one of the hospice’s shadowed doorways. She felt her breath catch, her heart thump.
Slowly, painfully, a man stepped into the light, dressed in baggy woollen trews and a linen shirt. Medium height. A fratchsome tilt to his chin. Broad shoulders and blunt, capable fisherman’s hands.
“Da,” she said, and ran to him.
They held each other, weeping. He was thin, he was so thin. But then so was she. They’d snap each other to pieces if they held on too tight.
At last she let go of him, and stepped back, and stared into his—oh, his thin face. And his hair, he’d gone almost all grey, and there was a cloudiness in his dark, sunken eyes.
“Da…” She shook her head, disbelieving. “How did this happen? How are you healed?”
“It’s a miracle,” said Pother Brye, stepping a little closer. “He was sinking, fast. Not a posset or a potion we gave him made a difference. We’d abandoned hope. And then out of nowhere, Deenie, some seven weeks ago, your father burst into a terrible high fever. In all my years of pothering, I’ve never seen anything like it. Then the fever broke, as swiftly as it came on him… and he revived. His return to health has been slow and steady ever since.”
A fever? Was it Morg’s burning, then? The timing fit. And that meant she’d been right all along, she had. It was the sorcerer’s blight in him that kept him so ill… and when Morg died, like all his workings it had died with him and set Da free.
Praise Barl. Praise Barl.
“Mouse?” Da’s thin fingers came up to touch her cheek. He was smiling. She never thought to see him smile again. “Was it you?”
She nodded, then turned to Pother Brye. “I need a few moments with Da alone. Somewhere we can sit.”
“There’s my chamber,” said Da. “We can sit there, mouse.” Then his clouded gaze shifted past her. “Sink me. Arlin Garrick?”
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll explain everything, I promise.”
“And who’s that makin’ sheep’s eyes at you?” he said, frowning. “He’s got red hair.”
Oh, Da. “Yes, but it’s very nice red hair. Come on. You should sit down.”
With a flicking glance at Ewen and Arlin—stay right there—she retreated with her father to his small, airy chamber. Da sat on the bed and she took the room’s small chair. Where to start, where to start…
“I found Rafe,” she said, leaning forward and taking his hands. “He’s poorly, but he’s mending.” Please, please, let him be mending. “Charis is nursing him. Her and Goose. Poor Goose, he’s—”
But Da
wasn’t listening. His eyes had lost focus, tears sliding down his cheeks. “You found him,” he whispered. “You found my boy. Mouse.”
She could never get tired of hearing that silly pet name.
“Da?” She tightened her fingers. “Da—I killed Morg.”
He stared at her in silence so long that his tears of joy for Rafel dried on his cheeks. “He weren’t dead?”
“No.” She had to tell him all of it. She couldn’t lie, not to Da. Even the softer, kinder lie of holding back the full truth. “Da, he took Rafe. The way he took Durm, then Conroyd Jarralt.”
And of a sudden, right in front of her, there was Asher, the Innocent Mage, his unleashed mage-sense roaring through him. Shocked, she let go of his hands as he trembled with fury, with the power he’d kept hidden from her all her life.
I never knew. I never realised. Rafe never said.
“And that’s why Rafe’s poorly?” Da demanded. “ ’Cause that filth, that monster, he—he—”
“Da, Da, don’t fratch yourself! Da, I told you, he’ll be all right!”
Abruptly exhausted, Da slid off the bed to the floor. Frantic, Deenie dropped out of the chair beside him and grabbed his hands again, chafing them warm.
“Deenie…” Now his voice was cracked and hoarse. He sounded old. “You tell me the truth, mouse. Morg don’t ride a man and leave him right as rain after. That don’t happen. You tell me the truth.”
So she told him. And then she wept with him.
At last, Da sighed and looked at her. “Mouse? Why weren’t Morg dead?”
Sink it. She’d hoped he’d not think to ask. She’d hoped that was one truth she’d never have to share. But she had to, so she told him, and held his hand while he grieved anew.
“Bloody Gar,” he muttered. “Bloody Doranen. Always think they know best. And he died for nowt.”
“Well—not nowt, Da,” she said, carefully. “ ’Cause if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t be me. And there wouldn’t be Rafe.”
Da snorted. “Aye. That’s true.”
“So could be prophecy had its reasons for things working out the way they did.”
“Prophecy? Mouse, if you love me, don’t you say that sinkin’ word again.”
She lifted his hand and kissed it. “Sorry. I won’t, I promise.”
“Good.”
And now there was just one last terrible thing to tell him. She felt her heart thud. “Da—”
He patted her knee. “It’s all right, mouse. I know.”
“You know? About Mama? How could you know? Did Pother Brye—”
Da’s smile was so gentle. Now he kissed her hand. “Your mother told me, Deenie. She came to me in a dream.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.
Side by side on the hospice chamber floor, holding hands, they mourned their dreadful loss.
After some time, Da shifted a little. “Arlin Garrick.”
Deenie felt her lips curve, just a little. “A poxy shit. That much ain’t changed.”
“But?”
“But in his own way, Da, he got himself hurt as bad as Rafe did.” Then she sighed. “It’s a tangled tale, what happened. And there’re parts I don’t want to tell twice.” Didn’t want to tell once, but there was no sailing around it. “So I’m wondering…”
“Who is he, then?” said Da, sounding resigned.
And now she was shy. Now she felt like the old Deenie, who’d not say boo to a cat. “His name’s Ewen. He’s the king of Vharne. It’s a kingdom over the mountains, past the blighted lands. Me and Charis fetched up there, looking for supplies.”
“And instead you found him?”
“He’s a good man, Da. I’d have sunk without him. It’s his castle Rafe’s in now, mending.”
Da grunted. “And he’s got red hair. Long red hair.”
“And a swordmaster named Tavin. You’d like him, I reckon. I reckon you’ll like Ewen.”
Another grunt. “Do you? Well, I reckon prob’ly we’ve sat in here on our lonesome long enough.”
He was prob’ly right, only… “Da? There is one last thing.” And since it was easier to do than to explain, she touched his forehead and spelled him to understanding.
“Sink me!” He blinked at her. “What was that?”
She shrugged. “Nowt much. A little trick I picked up.” And reminded, she pulled Barl’s diary out of its hiding place inside her shirt. “From this.”
Eyes slitted, Da stared at it. Then he stared at her. “And what’s your little trick do, ezackly?”
“It lets folk from different places understand each other. It’s the spell Barl used when the Doranen first crossed the mountains.”
“Deenie—” Da swallowed. “Gar never translated any spell like that.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Like I said, Da. It’s a tangled tale. I’d have kept you from it, if I could.”
A terrible sadness washed over him. “Ah, Deenie. My tiddy mouse.”
She kissed his cheek. “Don’t fratch on it, Da. It was for the best, in the end.”
Ewen and Arlin, at opposite ends of a bench in the now potherless entrance hall, stood as she and Da came out of his small chamber. Walking slowly, but with all his familiar purpose, Da ignored Ewen and crossed to Arlin instead.
Deenie held her breath.
Silence, as Da looked at him, and Arlin looked back. But if she listened carefully, the roar of a whirlpool…
“Arlin,” said Da, nodding.
Arlin nodded back. “Asher.”
And that was that.
Scowling, Da turned to Ewen. “So. Meister King of Vharne. Makin’ sheep’s eyes at my daughter, are you?”
“Da,” she said, anguished, but Ewen just laughed.
“I am, I say. If she’ll have me.”
Da blinked, once, feeling the new magic in him work. Then he shrugged, and jutted his chin. “Oh, aye. And will she?”
Ewen shrugged, his eyes glinting. “Ask her, you should.”
“Reckon I don’t need to, Ewen,” said Da. “Reckon I know my tiddy mouse well enough.” And then he scowled again. “And I reckon she’ll be livin’ in this kingdom of yours. In your castle, where you’re givin’ care to my son, I’m told.”
“Your son’s earned every care I can give him, I say,” said Ewen, gently. “He’s a man to be proud of, Rafe is.”
Deenie, watching, couldn’t remember the last time she saw her father pushed so close to tears like this.
“But it’s not just Deenie I’d have come live with me in Vharne,” Ewen added. “I’d offer a place in my kingdom to any Olken who wanted one, I would.”
“What?” Deenie stepped forward, astonished. “Ewen, when did you—”
“In Morg’s dungeon,” he said, his smile warm and intimate. “What you said of Lur, it got me to thinking, it did. I wondered what you’d find here after so long away. Asher—” He looked at Da. “I’m a king of empty cottages, I am. Morg killed most of us, in his time. We’ve folk in the Vale, but out in the rough? The rough’s empty, it is. Deenie’ll tell you, she will. Plenty of space for the Olken to start over.”
“But Ewen—” Reeling, Deenie stepped closer. “Your people. They don’t trust mages.”
He shrugged. “They can learn, girl. I did, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes, but—” She was too shocked to pay attention to his teasing. “Leave Lur? Start again, in a strange land? Ewen, I’m not sure you understand what you’re asking. Your people and mine, we have so little in common.”
“It’s everything in common, we’ve got,” Ewen retorted. “Everything that matters, I say. Your kingdom and mine, smashed to pieces by a sorcerer. Your people and mine, trying to rebuild. And Deenie—don’t forget the spirit paths.”
The spirit paths? “What about them?”
His green-gold eyes saw only her. They might’ve been alone in the wilderness, for all he cared they were stared at. Closing the distance between them, he cupped his
palm to her cheek. “We feel them. You feel them. That means something, I say.”
And was this prophecy again, sticking an oar in their lives? “I s’pose.”
He smiled, making her heart pound. “My people, they’ll listen to me and Tavin, they will. Yours—they’ll listen to you and your da. Won’t they?”
“They’ll listen to Da,” she said. “Da’s the closest thing to a king Lur’s got.”
Da growled at her. “Don’t you go bloody callin’ me a king, mouse! Ain’t I said that for the last twenty years and gone? Sink me, you be a slumskumbledly wench.”
“Yes, Da,” she said, unrepentant. “Mama’s doing, that is.”
He smiled at that, but it didn’t last long. “It all sounds promisin’,” he said to Ewen, scowling again. “But here’s the thing. The Olken ain’t the only folk as live in Lur.” He jerked a thumb at Arlin. “What about his lot?”
The warmth died out of Ewen’s face. “The Doranen. I know.”
“My people aren’t interested in living anywhere but Dorana,” said Arlin.
“Oh, aye?” said Da, his spine snapping straight. “So you can set yourselves up as lords of the world again, eh? Ain’t that what your da always dreamed of, Arlin? Ain’t that what—”
“My father’s dreams and mine are… different,” said Arlin, very quiet. Remarkably subdued. “I give you my word, Asher. As a Garrick. There will be no more Morgs. There will be no more… lording.”
“Da.” Deenie rested her hand on his arm. “He said the same thing in Dorana. I believed him then, and I believe him now.”
“You do, mouse?” Da considered her, unconvinced. “And why’s that?”
She looked at Arlin, who was a great deal more than just a poxy shit. “ ’Cause he knows now that some dreams cost too much.”
Arlin said nothing to that, but his watchful eyes softened. For a moment, no more.
“Well,” said Da, shoving his hands in his pockets, “here’s what I reckon. You can make your folk the offer, Meister Garrick, but that don’t mean they have to leave. Whoever wants to stay in Lur, Doranen or Olken, let ’em stay. It’s their choice. A fool’s choice, it might turn out, ’cause this poor land’s done for. But I’ll have no arm-twistin’ either road. Agreed?”
Arlin nodded. “Agreed.”