Nonplussed, Dathne stared after her impossible husband. Beside her, in his bed, Darran wheezed and dribbled. Barl’s tits. The dear old man deserved a death with dignity after his lifetime of unselfish service to the crown, and Lur’s people. Without Darran there’d be no Lur. At least, not a land anyone living now would recognise. Instead it would be burned and blasted, reduced to blight and stinking evil miasmas, just like the lands beyond Barl’s Mountains. Lands they’d visited once and would never tempt again.
We owe him so much. And now he’s dying and Asher’s fighting with him? I could smack him, Matt, I could smack him so hard.
An old habit, that was, talking to Matt. Sometimes she thought she ought to break herself of it. Talking to a dead man? Not a good idea, surely. But she missed him, as much now as ever she had in the days after his death when she could not understand his absence, could not turn to him for counsel or comfort, and felt herself entirely alone without him. Her friend. Her brother. Her conscience.
What would you say, Matt, if you were here? I wish you were here. I wish—I wish—
“Dathne,” said Darran, the feeble fingers holding hers tightening a hairsbreadth. “Don’t… fret. And don’t… weep. Not… for me.”
That was when she realised her cheeks were wet, her throat hot and tight. She lifted Darran’s hand and pressed it to her lips.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “He’ll come back. He will.”
“Mayhap,” said Darran, who never used that country word. “You must… have a care… for your ruffian, my dear.”
She frowned at him. “I do. You know I do. Darran, why were you and Asher fighting? What’s this about a secret?”
Darran’s eyes drifted closed. The palsy in his cheek had worsened, the wasted flesh beneath his skin leaping and twitching. “Ask Rafel.”
“Why?” she said, her heart thudding with dread. “Darran, what do you know? Darran?”
He didn’t answer. Sleep had claimed him, the torpor of a failing spirit. She let go of his hand and roamed his small chamber, suddenly sickened by the burning tapers’ sweet smell. It was too much. Too much. Finding Asher in the Weather Chamber. The fear in his eyes. Hard on its heels, this awful news of Darran. And now Rafel? Her Rafel?
What secrets can a child have, that matter enough to hasten an old man’s slow dying? To disquiet his last hours with such discord?
Oh, she wanted Asher. But she couldn’t leave poor Darran to go chasing after him. Besides, who could find sense in him when he was in a tearing temper? Older he might be, but not so noticeably wiser. Still a hot-head, still quick to take offence. Always digging in his heels.
No. No, I’m not fair. He’s afraid. The things he feels, that I feel, whose meaning we fathom all too well. They frighten him. They frighten me. We thought peace was well-earned and paid for. We thought life was good and would not change.
But wasn’t that precisely what the people of Lur had thought before the coming of the Final Days? Only she, Jervale’s Heir, had known truth for a lie. And the Circle, who’d relied on her to guide them blindfolded in the dark.
The thought of reconvening the Circle made her feel ill. Not for seeing her friends again, but for what such a calling meant. More strife for Lur, more suffering for its people.
Oh Jervale, if you can hear me, let Asher and I be wrong. Let this be nowt but a phantasm, a boggle of the mind.
But beneath her feet, she felt Lur shift and groan…
“Mama,” said a small voice, and she spun round to hear it.
“Rafel! What are you doing? I told you I’d come back to you by and by.”
Escaped from the family’s privy apartments, where he and Deenie were eating their early supper, Rafel stood clean and miserable in the doorway. And Deenie stood with him, tempted sometimes—like now—to follow her brother into mischief, when he wasn’t chasing her away for being a tiresome girl.
“I wanted to see Darran,” he muttered, his lower lip pouting. Oh, he did not care to be scolded. So like his father, proud and spirited. Hands clenching to fists at the least provocation. “Da said I could.”
“Your father said you’d be called if Darran was in the mood for visitors,” she retorted. “Truth’s not an ivy-plant, Rafel, to be grown any shape that suits you. And you, Deenie,” she added, frowning at her daughter. “You’ve run off from Cluny too? For shame.”
Deenie was small for her eight years, slender like a poplar sapling, a child of thistledown and whispers. Eyes as round as pansies in her narrow, secret face. Where scolding made her brother cross, she wilted under the mildest scrutiny.
“Sorry, Mama,” she said, her voice hiccupping with dismay. “I only wanted to say goodbye, like Rafel.”
Dathne felt her heart break. No, no, she’s too young. “What do you mean, goodbye? What a nonsense that is.”
Deenie glanced up at her brother, fingers twisting in her bright blue cotton smock. “Rafe said—”
“ Tattle-tale!” Rafe spat at her, and shoved his shoulder against hers. “Hold your tongue, I told you. Now look what you’ve done, Mama’s fratched!”
So Rafe had told Deenie the old man was dying. Anger nipped at heartbreak’s heels, that he’d so carelessly shatter his small sister’s innocence.
Rafel’s chin was up, his brows knit together in a belligerent scowl. And oh, it was his father’s face he was showing her now, all bark and bite, their tempers two bright mirrors reflecting each other.
“ No-one said not to tell,” he muttered. “Da never said I weren’t to tell.” And neither had she said it, never dreamt she’d have to. She glanced sideways at the bed, at Darran, and saw that he was roused from drowsing and watching her from beneath half-lifted eyelids. His sunken eyes, age-fuddled and dimmed with his slow dying, still reflected a gentle amusement. Oh, he loved her children. If she hadn’t discovered an exasperated affection for him before Rafe was born she’d have lost her heart to him after, in his doting on her child. On both her children, who loved him for his kindness and his stories and the way he poked gentle, impolite fun at their father.
“Dathne…” Darran’s voice was the threadiest whisper. “You’d ease me… if you let… them stay.”
She wanted to deny him, but only because she would shield her children. Yes, Rafe and Deenie had both encountered death, but it had been the small deaths of animals. This death was not small. Darran had grown to be a loving part of their lives. She feared so much the wounds his dying would inflict upon her son and daughter.
Did I mean to let him become so important? Did I not notice how we all grew to lean on him, even Asher? When did I start to love him? When was the first time Asher turned to him as a friend?
She couldn’t remember. She only knew it was true, that this ole man, this ole fart, ole scarecrow, ole trout, was part of her family. And that his death would cause her beloved Rafel and Deenie pain. But she couldn’t protect them, she knew that. No mother could, though she gave her own life to save their innocence from harm.
“Please, Mama,” said Rafel, so stubborn. He never once let go of a coveted thing, not even in his cradle. “I want to stay.”
She looked at her son. Saw with a pang, with grief-sharpened eyes, that he wasn’t a little boy any more. Ten years old and growing fast. Sturdy, like his father. A promise of charming good looks contained within the childish framework of his face.
But his eyes are far from childish. He knows things. He feels them. Pretending he doesn’t makes no difference to the truth. We’ve cursed him, Asher and I. When we made him, we gave him power.
It galled her, to think that Darran knew things about her son that she didn’t. That Asher didn’t. That she needed to be told by a dying old man that her son had a secret which was causing him hurt.
“Please, Mama?” said Rafel. “Don’t make me go.” He glanced sideways at Deenie and pulled a little face. “Can’t we stay?”
If Asher were here she was almost certain he’d say no. Not to spite Darran, but to protect his children.
And he would be wrong.
“Yes, Rafe,” she said, feeling her eyes sting. “You can stay… and say goodbye.” Then she shifted and looked down at the old man. “But you mustn’t be long.”
“Thank you, Dathne,” Darran breathed. “I’ll not… keep them.”
She nodded at her children, then stepped back from the bed into pooled shadows, as Rafe and Deenie moved to Darran’s side. At the old man’s smile Deenie clambered onto the blanketed mattress and took his withered, age-spotted hand in hers. Rafel, scorning such babyish scramblings, echoed his father with thrown-back shoulders and a fearsome scowl and stayed standing.
“Rafel,” Darran whispered. “Deenie. Shall I… tell you a… story?”
Still scowling, Rafe shrugged. “S’pose. If you want to. I don’t care.”
But Dathne, watching, knew that he did. He was desperate for a story. He loved Darran’s tales. So did Deenie. Asher never looked back, not even for his children. Darran’s stories taught them about their father, who loved them beyond all things but kept so much of himself a closed book.
Darran gestured to the chair at his bedside. “Make yourself… comfortable, then, Rafe,” he invited. His rheumy eyes looked feverish now. She could see he was burning the last of his guttering candle for her children’s sake. She should in conscience send them away.
But I can’t. I can’t. They need this. And so does he, I think. And so do I.
Rafe dropped onto the chair beside Darran’s bed. Trying hard to be brave, though his small heart was breaking.
“Your father,” said Darran, his gaze shifting from Rafe to Deenie and back again, so much love in him she could feel it like a furnace, “is a rowdy… and a ruffian… and the bravest… man I ever… knew. Braver… even than our dear… late king, and Gar… had courage enough… for twenty men.”
The bravest man? Braver than Gar? Dathne heard her heartbeat drumming in her ears. He’d never said that before. He’d praised Asher, yes, but never once above his precious prince, the boy he’d looked on as a son.
“Rafel, I know… I’ve told you… before,” said Darran. His voice was raspy, the chamber’s scented air wheezing in his throat. “The story of… how your father… saved Gar’s… life. But… I’ve not told… your sister. I think… I think…” His gaze drifted to the shadows. “It’s time… for Deenie… to hear this one.”
Dathne folded her arms against a sudden shiver. Deenie knew her father was counted a hero of Lur. How could she not know it? But they’d kept her sheltered from the details. She was still a little girl. She had the rest of her life to discover Lur’s harsh, recent past.
Except… there was something important about her hearing such stories of her father from Darran. For one thing, Asher would never tell them. He squirmed and scowled when anyone tried to praise his doings. Not only because he’d never relished public acclaim, but because his victory over Morg was tainted by those other deaths. By Gar’s death especially, which quietly haunted him and robbed him of peace.
But Deenie, like Rafel, was entitled to know his worth. And there was something special about stories that were told not by a mother and a wife, but an outsider. She understood that. She knew what Darran’s stories meant to Rafel. Coming from the old man, the tales were somehow more—more true.
And Deenie deserves that truth no less than her brother. She deserves to know her da’s a great man.
Darran was watching her, his gaze anxious. Eager. He wanted to gift her children with one last story and his time was dwindling. How could she refuse?
When she nodded, his pale, palsied face flushed with pleasure. A tear escaped his drooping left eye to trickle down his twitching cheek. Deenie pulled a kerchief from the pocket of her smock and gently patted his face dry.
“Thank you, Deenie,” Darran whispered, when he could speak again. Then he smiled. “Deenie. Gardenia. Do you know… Dathne… when I said… you should call… a girl-child that… I was teasing.”
She nodded. “We knew.”
“Ah,” he said, and didn’t speak for a moment. Then he turned again to her children. “Very… well. A story. This happened… when your father… was a brash… young man. The… old king, Borne… was unwell. He sent… his son… the prince Gar… to Westwailing in his stead…”
After walking off the worst of his temper, Asher made his way to the Tower stable yard. The lads were bustling about evening stables, doors rattling, the water pump’s handle groaning, filled pails sloshing, glimfire lanterns gilding the air and throwing shadows. Though he were fratched, he smiled at the horses’ impatience, whickers and snapping teeth, and hooves banging and scraping. The cool air smelled of hot horse porridge and fresh manure. He found Jed in the feed room, painstakingly counting carrots into seven waiting feed buckets. Seeing Asher, his oddly young and unlined face split wide in a smile.
“See?” he said, pointing proudly. “See?”
“Aye,” he replied, and clapped his boyhood friend on the shoulder. “I do see. You be a great help, Jed.”
Jed nodded, tongue-tip held fast between his teeth. The cruel, dented scar in his forehead caught the glimlight, flatly shining. “Great help. Great help.”
The lingering embers of Asher’s resentment died. Poor Jed. So much lost to him. So much stolen by bad luck. Now he was about to lose Darran, who fussed over him like a hen with one chick. Who’d have thought the ole fool had so much love in him, eh?
Not me. I never thought it. Sometimes I reckon I never knew him at all.
After a quick stir of the horse porridge, pungent steam stinging his face, he perched on the edge of the oat-bin, arms folded. “Jed. Jed. Are you listenin’ to me, Jed?”
Jed nodded, industriously counting carrots. That blow to his drunken head hadn’t stolen all his life. Just most of it.
“Jed, I got to tell you somethin’. About Darran.”
Jed’s face lit up. “My friend Darran. Ole crow. Ole fart.”
“Yeah, the ole fart,” he said, pain like a vice crushing his chest. “Jed… come along, you got to listen to me.”
Beyond the almost closed feed-room door, the lads whistled and laughed. On their own tonight, with Meister Divit away to Crackby for a family funeral. More death. More despair. People ought to live forever. Jed was counting carrots again, lost in his misty mind.
“Jed!” he said sharply, and kicked one heel against the oat-bin. “Bloody listen, would you?”
Jed startled at his sharp voice and the boom of the oat-bin, carrots tumbling from his fingers. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Abruptly remorseful, Asher dropped to a crouch before his addled friend and took hold of his wrists. “Ain’t no need for sorry,” he said gently. “You ain’t done a thing wrong, Jed. I just need you to listen.”
Wide-eyed, his untidy dark hair streaky grey, his cheeks and chin stubbled grey and black, Jed nodded. “I be listenin’.”
He couldn’t say Darran was dying. Even if Jed understood, the words would only fratch him. “Darran’s goin’ away for a bit, Jed. He asked me to say goodbye for him.”
“Away?” Jed said vaguely. “Where?”
Good question. Who knew if the Barlsmen were right? Who knew if there was a life beyond death? “To the countryside, Jed.”
Jed frowned. “Can’t I go? I like the country.”
“I know you do,” he said. “Only not this time. Another time, mayhap.”
“Another time. Aye. Aye.” Jed stood. “I have to look at Cygnet’s water,” he announced. “That’s my job. I look after Cygnet.”
The feed-room door banged closed behind him. Asher stayed crouched on the brick floor a moment longer, a hot pain pulsing at his temples. Then he pushed to his feet and started dishing out the evening feeds, scoops of oats and chaffed hay dropping into the feed buckets. Taking refuge in a task that had once meant so much.
“A sad night,” said a familiar voice.
Bloody Pellen. Stealthy like a cat he was, even with one good leg and one carven-wood stump, to take the place of the shin and foot he’d lost to Morg.
When he could trust his face, he turned. “Aye. How’d you know?”
Ten years of mayorin’ Dorana had left Pellen Orrick grizzled and inclined to sharp-tongued sarcasm. Fatherhood had warmed him. Buryin’ his wife had lined him deeper. Two years on and he still grieved. Of course he did. He’d loved Ibby with his whole heart, a heart that never thought Lur held a woman for him.
Good thing he’s got little Charis, I reckon. Reckon he’d have followed his Ibby into the ground elsewise.
Leaning against the feed-room’s doorjamb, his brass-buttoned blue and crimson guard uniform long since given way to sober, respectable brown wool, Pellen cleared his throat.
“Dathne sent word. Seeing Darran’s importance, she thought I should know.”
Trust Dath to think of it. He’d been too angry. Too sad. “She were right. You should.”
“Hard to believe we’re losing him,” said Pellen. “Seems he’s as much a part of Dorana as the palace itself.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“You don’t talk of it, but I know you and the old man have grown close, these past years,” Pellen said quietly. “I’m sorry, Asher.”
Drat the man and his bloody sympathy. Go away, Pellen. Did I ask you to poke your nose into how I feel? Did I? “Aye. Well, that’s the way of things, ain’t it? Nowt lasts forever, though you reckon it will.”
Pellen’s hatchet-face stilled, its kindness freezing. “Asher? What’s going on? It’s not just Darran, is it? There’s something else rubbing at you.”
Sink it. First Darran, now Pellen. That was the trouble with having friends. They saw things. Worse, Pellen had been a guardsman and then a captain more than twice the time he’d been a mayor. Those keen instincts never left him, which was why he was still mayor. Nobody wrangled the guilds and the Doranen and every last fratchin’ Olken in the City the way Pellen did.
Oh well. I were always goin’ to tell him.
He shrugged. “I been… feelin’ things. Changes. In the air. In the earth.”
Pellen looked at him in silence, fear churning behind his eyes. Pellen Orrick afraid: now, there was a thing. “In the weather?”
Of course he’d guess that. There were four of them left now, him and Dath and Pellen and Darran, who knew close and personal about Jarralt and Morg. Just the four of them still standing, who’d stared evil in the face and breathed its foul breath. The rest of Lur, reprieved, and after living it at a distance, had marched on. But not them. They were burdened with memories, weighed down by the past. That was the price they’d paid, so Lur could march on. And now Darran was dyin’…
“Mayhap,” he muttered. “You ain’t felt nowt?”
“Me?” Pellen shook his head. “No. Whatever magic we Olken possess, it’s thin in my blood. You know that.” He sighed, the lines in his face deepening. “Ibby was the one with the gift.”
“You ain’t heard folk whisperin’ in the City?”
“No,” said Pellen. “I didn’t know I should be listening for them. I’ll listen now, if that’s what you need.”
Asher glanced past Pellen out to the yard, where his friend’s horse whickered hopefully in the spare stable. All the mucking out and watering and rugging-up was done. Any ticktock now the lads would be barging in, looking for the evening feeds. The Tower horses were banging at their stable walls and doors even louder than before. He turned back to the feed-bins, to finish the task of doling out oats and chaff.
“I ain’t sure what I need. ’Cept the horse porridge. Fetch me the pot, eh? And the stirrin’ stick.”
So the Mayor of Dorana turned his hand to horse care, and together they finished preparing the evening feeds. Just as he worked the last dollops of steaming barley and linseed through the chaff and oats the lads wrangled into the feed room, laughter hiccupping to surprise as they saw grand Pellen Orrick with bits of porridge on his sleeve.
“Here you go then,” said Asher. “Feed’s done, with an extra for His Worship’s nag.” He turned to Mizzil, the senior lad. “You be in charge till Meister Divit’s home again, remember. Don’t let me be seein’ owt amiss, or we’ll have words.”
As Mizzil and the other lads swore blind there’d be no trouble, Asher caught Pellen’s amused eye and led him into the yard, where twilight had at last surrendered to night.
“You want to see Darran, then?” he said, as the lads bustled out of the feed room with their buckets of porridged oats and chaff. “Afore…”
Pellen nodded. “Can I?”
“Kerril said there weren’t no harm,” he replied, and headed out of the yard. “Ain’t nowt she can do to stop him leavin’ us.”
“Then I will take a moment,” said Pellen, following. “But first, tell me what you’re going to do about—this other business.”
“Well, Dath’s for meeting with a few of them Circle Olken. Reckon she’s prob’ly right. Aside from her they be the best mages we got.”
“No,” said Pellen, with quiet intensity. “You’re our greatest mage, Asher.”
Trust him to mention it. “I ain’t any kind of mage, Pellen. Not any more.”
“I know you like to think so,” said Pellen. “But I’ll not fight with you about it. Not tonight.”
They’d reached the wooden door in the stable yard wall, that gave onto the meandering garden path to the Tower. Opening it, Asher waved Pellen by him then tugged the door closed behind them. A short walk away, the Tower blazed with glimlight, so warm and inviting. No hint of the sorrow gathering beneath its tiled roof.
“You can’t summon these Circle members here openly,” said Pellen, as they continued. His gait was rolling and uneven, the path’s gravel echoing his lack of two flesh-and-blood feet.
Asher looked sideways. “Why not?”
“Because more than likely they’ll be recognised. If you’re not wanting to make a fuss about this—”
“What do you mean? I reckoned on shouting our troubles from the roof of Justice Hall.”
“Very funny,” said Pellen. “But by all means, bite my nose off till there’s nothing left of it, my friend, if that’ll ease you.”
The only thing that would ease him was finding this day were nowt but a dream. And since that weren’t likely…
“You can’t go to them, either,” Pellen added. “It’s meant kindly enough, but even though you live your life circumspect nowadays, folks still take a keen interest in your doings.”
And that were true, sink it. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “How do we meet with them, then?”
“With a little sleight-of-hand I think we can bring these mages to Dorana without raising suspicions,” said Pellen, after a thoughtful pause. “And we can talk matters over at my home. That is, if you’re certain the risk is worth it. If you really believe…” He sighed. “I so want you to be wrong.”
They were almost at the Tower. Its double doors stood wide open, glimfire washing over its wide steps and the courtyard’s raked blue and white gravel. Asher put his hand on Pellen’s arm and tugged him to a halt.
“And you reckon I don’t?” he said, his voice lowered again. “You think I ain’t standin’ here, quakin’ in my boots?”
Despite his worry, Pellen smiled. “You? Quaking? That’ll be the day.”
Once Pellen had risked everything, his livelihood, his life, turned his back on his solemn captain’s oath and leapt blindly to his aid, all because Gar had asked it of him. Because he was a good man who couldn’t bear to think that his mistake had caused an innocent man to suffer. A friendship had grown out of that… as true, in its own way, as those friendships with Gar and Matt.
Asher let his fingers tighten on Pellen’s arm. “This ain’t funny, Meister Mayor. It ain’t—” He let his hand fall and took a moment to breathe, just breathe. “If we celebrated too soon…”
“You think we did?” said Pellen, his eyes hooded, his mouth tucked tight. “Do you think—is it possible—can it be Morg?”
“No,” he said swiftly. “Me and Gar UnMade him. He’s dead. But that ain’t to say his mischief got UnMade the same way. Remember what Tollin found over the mountains? Blight and misery and nowt good anywhere. Killed him in the end, didn’t it? And them who came back with him. Took ’em slower than the others, aye, but it still took ’em. Reckon Morg left a legacy what’s poisoned near the whole world.”
“And us along with it?” said Pellen, openly dismayed. “ Asher—” He cleared his throat. “Can you fix this? You—you know what I mean.”
Aye. He did. Like Dathne, he’d told Pellen the truth about his Weather Magic. He could lie to the kingdom, but he couldn’t lie to them. Not after what they’d sacrificed for him. And any road, he’d needed them to keep an eye on him, in case something with the magic went wrong one day, what with him being Olken and never meant to wield it.
“I don’t know, Pellen,” he said. “First I got to find out if I’m guessin’ right. And then, if I am…” He scowled. “Reckon I’ll cross that bridge when I reach it.”
“We’ll cross that bridge,” Pellen retorted. “You’ll not tackle this alone, Asher. Not while I’m Mayor of Dorana and on both Councils, with an oathsworn duty to keep City and kingdom safe.”
“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “But this ain’t for talkin’ on willy nilly, Pellen. You and me and Dath can know there’s trouble. No-one else.”
“Asher, I can agree with not telling the General Council anything, at least not yet,” said Pellen, frowning. “But the Mage Council has a right to—”
“No, it bloody don’t. Think I’ll trust Rodyn Garrick on this? After how he fratched at me about Ain Freidin? Don’t reckon I’d trust him to tell me the bloody time!”
Pellen sighed, gustily. “Then what about Barlsman Jaffee and Sarnia Marnagh and—”
“No, Pellen,” he snapped. “It ain’t safe. What they don’t know won’t cause us ructions.”
“I don’t like it, Asher,” Pellen muttered. “I’m not comfortable with these kinds of secrets.”
“Then you bloody get comfortable, Pellen. I can’t sort this with the Mage Council breathin’ down my neck!”
“This—this change you’ve been feeling,” said Pellen, after a moment. “Who else can feel it, do you think?”
Rafel. But he couldn’t tell Pellen that. He could hardly bear to think it. He and Dath had done what they could to shield their son from the magic that was in him—but was it enough? At only ten, still a sprat, was he outgrowing that protection?
No. No. Don’t let it be that.
“Don’t know,” he said. “But if it gets any worse there’ll be a lot of folk feelin’ it.”
“If that happens you can forget keeping secrets,” said Pellen, and ran a hand over his face. “From the Mage Council or the kingdom. How long do we have before this becomes common knowledge?”
“Don’t know that, either.”
“Is there anything you do know?”
Biting his tongue, Asher half-turned away. Brawling with Pellen, on account of they were both frighted and heartsore, weren’t likely to help things.
“I know I need you to stand by me, Pellen. I need you to trust I can find us a way out of trouble.”
“Don’t be a fool!” said Pellen, stung. “Whatever’s gone wrong, I know you’ll put it right.”
There were no doubting his friend’s sincerity. But suddenly, instead of helping, Pellen’s faith was a fearful burden.
What if he’s wrong? What if I can’t? It’s been ten years and I ain’t stirred my magic hardly at all since Morg. What if I can’t make it do what’s needful? What if I don’t know the right words?
Pellen took hold of his shoulder. “Asher, don’t worry. When the time comes—if it comes—you’ll know what to do. And whatever help you need to do it, just ask. I’ll not turn my back.”
“Good,” he said, and heard his voice rasp. “That’s good, Pellen.”
And since there weren’t nowt else to say, he started again towards the Tower. Pellen walked with him. They climbed the sandstone steps and went inside, then tramped the spiral staircase to Darran’s quiet, sweet-smelling room. Pother Kerril was there, bending over the ole man. Dathne too, at the foot of the bed.
“He’s failing fast,” she whispered, greeting them at the open door, then managed a trembling smile for Pellen. “I’m sorry. He wore himself out for the children.”
Asher frowned. “You let Rafe and Deenie—”
“Yes,” she said, her voice sharpening. “My decision, Asher. You were too busy sulking.”
He didn’t want to fight. And Rafe had said he wanted to say goodbye. But Deenie?
“I let Charis say goodbye to her mother,” said Pellen, his voice low. “It pained her, but it was the right choice. Your Deenie’s a quiet child, Asher, but she’s resilient. Not saying goodbye would be harder, I think.”
Pellen knew Deenie well. She and his Charis were good friends, thick as thieves. Only a year between the girls, with Deenie the younger, living in each other’s pockets like peas in a pod.
Asher glanced at Dathne, whose eyes were tear-washed. His heart, which he was guarding, cracked a little for her pain. “I ain’t fratchin’ you, Dath. You’re their ma, you know what’s best.”
“Can I take a moment with him?” said Pellen. “I’ll not stay long.”
“Of course,” said Dathne, and stroked a hand down Pellen’s arm. “It’s good of you to come.”
As Pellen crossed to the bed to say his goodbyes, Dathne wiped her wet cheek with the back of one hand. “The dear old man told the children 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.