After three days of folk saying how sorry they were he’d died, they put Darran in the royal crypt next to Da’s best friend King Gar.
Staring at the marble effigy on top of the tomb, Rafel couldn’t believe it wasn’t ole Darran magically turned to white stone. He didn’t know which was more shocking: that the effigy was so perfect, or that Da had made it. Da never used magic. Only glimfire, and that didn’t count. He never talked of it, even. And if anyone tried to make him, well… that wasn’t a good idea.
Only once he’d ever been frightened of Da, and that was the day he complained because other boys’ fathers did magic, so why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t fair. The boys he knew from the City, from school—Doranen boys like Arlin Garrick—they laughed at him and said mean things. Why didn’t Da care?
Afterwards, Mama sat with him and let him cry a little bit into her lap. He’d been eight, too big for tears, but Da had been so fearsome angry he couldn’t help it.
“If those boys laugh again then you walk away,” she’d told him, cuddling him close. “Stupid boys, what would they know? Magic’s a solemn thing, Rafe. It’s not for boasting, or for playing like a game.”
“Goose plays,” he’d muttered, sniffing. “And that Arlin, he shows off all the time.”
Mama flicked the end of his nose. “You’re not Goose, or Arlin Garrick. This family’s got its own rules when it comes to magic. Rafe…” She tightened her arms. “I hope you’re being a good boy. I hope you remember what Da and I said. No-one can know there’s Doranen magic in you. Not yet. Not until we tell you it’s safe to say.”
He hated being told that. Why did he have to be a secret? Why did it matter he could do Doranen things? And he could. He did. And not just cracking stones, either. For three weeks now, safe on his lonesome, he’d been doing Doranen magics pinched from Arlin Garrick and his poxy friends, and getting the incants and sigils right every time.
He’d had to do it. The itching in him that only magic could scratch got so bad it kept him awake. Got so bad that cracking stones made no difference. The first time he did it, broke his word to Da and Mama, he nigh on wet his trews from fear. Half-expected to die, or be found out. But he didn’t. He wasn’t. The Doranen magic worked. He turned his white-painted woodcarved pony jet black and nowt terrible happened.
Almost a dozen Doranen spells he’d pinched since then, and not once had things gone wrong. So why was he meant to stay a secret? It wasn’t fair.
“Rafe,” said Mama. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, Mama,” he said, nodding. Feeling so bad to be lying. Knowing he could never tell her the truth.
“Oh, Rafel,” she said. “There’s more to life than magic. It doesn’t make you brave, or good, or strong. You wouldn’t be any happier, I promise, if Da and I let you run about the place casting spells from sunup to sundown. Believe me.”
She was wrong, but he had to pretend she was right. “Yes, Mama.”
“Yes, Mama,” she echoed, smiling, but her eyes were sad. “You’re a big boy, Rafe, but you’re not grown-up yet. There are things your Da and I know that you don’t. You’ll have your magic when it’s time, and not before.”
Later that night, when he was tucked up in bed, Da had come to see him. In the warm summer darkness he’d sat beside him, his arms safe and strong and holding, his cheek scratchy with stubble.
“Sorry I shouted, Rafe,” he said, his voice gruff. “Sorry I scared you. You’re only eight, a spratling. You don’t understand.”
“Is magic bad, Da?” he’d asked. “ ’Cause I got magic. Does that mean I’m bad?”
“No,” Da said, and crushed him so close it was hard to breathe. “But you got to be careful, Rafe. Magic’s deep and dark and dangerous, especially for you.”
And there was Da hinting, just like Mama. They were always hinting, they never came out and said. “ ’Cause I’m like you, Da? Why is that dangerous?”
Da sighed. “That be a small question with a sinkin’ big answer, sprat. When you be a mite older we’ll try talkin’ it through. But for now you got to trust me and your ma to know what’s best.”
Everything was about when he was older. But he wanted to know now. This was his life, not theirs. And anyway, they were wrong. His Doranen magic wasn’t dangerous. It was the best thing in the world.
Da kissed the top of his head. “Feels mean, don’t it, sprat. Feels poxy unfair. But I never said life was fair, did I? Never promised you that.”
No, he never did. He shook his head against Da’s broad chest. “Nuh-uh.”
“And I will tell you, Rafe,” said Da. “One day. When you be ready to know.”
Though it was dark in his room, not even glimfire, just a little moonlight spilling between the drawn curtains, he’d looked up, struggled to read his father’s face. Thought he saw in it truth, and sadness, and memories he didn’t want to share.
“Really, Da? You promise?”
“My word, Rafe,” said Da, nodding. “Man to man.”
Da always kept his word. Always. But still… “How much older, Da?”
“Just older,” said Da, in the voice that said enough.
He was ten now, and still waiting for an answer. For a little while after that, ’cause he felt so guilty, he’d stopped pinching Arlin’s magics. But only for a little while, ’cause the itch grew too strong and he had to scratch it. Just like before, nothing went amiss. So he stopped feeling guilty. He was right and Da was wrong. Magic wasn’t dangerous, at least not for him.
But he still wanted to know what Da wouldn’t tell him.
Not long after his ninth birthday, tired of waiting, he’d asked Darran. “Why doesn’t Da like magic? Why’s it make him so fratched?”
The ole man had sat at his desk for a long time in silence, counting trins out of one open lockbox and into another. “I could answer that,” he said at last. “But I’m not sure I should.”
“I won’t tell,” he’d said. “Promise.”
Darran pursed his lips, clinking trins with his fingers. The office door was closed. It was just the two of them alone. “Magic’s not been kind to your father, Rafel,” he said at last, so softly. “It’s been used to hurt him. And he’s used it to hurt. He had to, you understand. Your da’s a good man. We’re only safe today because of him. But he never asked for his power. He never was comfortable being important. He never will be.”
But why? “I think magic’s grand,” he muttered. “Da should be happy he’s got so much of it.”
“Is that so, young man?” said Darran sharply. “Then you’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said. Trust me when I tell you that power is not a promise of happiness. Haven’t I lived my long life among men of power? Be guided by me, my boy: for every man it makes happy, it makes another three miserable.”
Darran didn’t understand. How could he? He was an ole man, and he had no power at all. “I’ve got power, and I ain’t miserable, Darran.”
“You?” said Darran, his straggly grey eyebrows shooting up. “You’ve got nothing of the sort. You’ve some talent for magic, and more talent for trouble. That’s not power. Nor is it a combination to set a father’s heart at ease.” He’d peered then, suspicious. “I hope you’re not playing games with your magic, Rafel. You know the rules.”
That made him feel all fratched. Bloody ole man, scolding. Who asked him, eh? Wasn’t his job to scold. He wasn’t Da, or Mama.
“I know, I know,” said Darran, crossly amused. “I should mind my own business. But you started this conversation, Rafel, not me. If it’s not turned out to your liking, well, that’s hardly my fault.”
Squirmy, he’d scowled at the floor. “Huh.”
“Rafel, I shared a confidence with you, which I’d like you to keep,” said Darran, still snappy. “And I’d like you to remember this: if you’re kept on a leash, and you find it fretsome, consider that your parents have only your best interests at heart. For it’s true, you do have power. But you’re not old enough to wield it or comprehend what it means. Trust your father to know. Trust your father.”
“I do!” he’d protested. “I do trust him, Darran.”
But the ole man didn’t look like he believed him, and that had made him so cross he’d stormed off to his secret place and cracked so many stones there he had to make a hole and bury them, after.
When that was done, and he sprawled face-up on the ground panting and sweaty, something Darran said had floated back to him like dandelion fluff on a breeze.
Magic’s not been kind to your father, Rafel. It’s been used to hurt him.
He’d never heard that before. He could hardly believe it. Someone hurt Da? With magic? How could they? Da was—was—a hero. He was the saviour of Lur. Darran was a stupid ole trout, what did he know? He had to be wrong. Hurt Da with magic?
As if anyone could.
“Rafel. Rafel.”
Blinking, he pulled free of the past and looked up into his father’s solemn face. They were alone in the crypt now. Mama and Deenie and Uncle Pellen had gone outside. Da looked so sad, glimfire making his eyes too bright. He reached out his hand and Da’s fingers closed tightly around his, a little muscle leaping along his jaw.
“It’s a good effigy, Da. It looks just like that ole fish.”
Da nodded. “The magic took, that’s a fact.”
He stared again at cold, stone Darran. “You did it with Doranen magic, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” Da said at last. “Gar taught it me, a long time ago.”
He looked at King Gar’s stone likeness. “Did you make his, too?”
Da nodded again. “I did.”
He couldn’t believe it. They were talking magic. He and Da hardly ever talked magic. Maybe there were some kind of spell on the crypt. “I’d like to do that. I’d like to make a marble picture of Mama’s face, when she’s smiling.”
Da’s holding fingers twitched. “Mayhap you will, sprat. One of these days.”
“Only if you teach me, Da. Only if you let me do real magic.”
“Real magic?” Da snorted. “Doranen magic, you mean.”
“So?” he muttered. “It’s more fun than earth-songs and flowers.”
“Rafe—” Da let go of him. “Only reason you think that is ’cause you ain’t got any idea what Doranen magic be about.”
He wanted to shout, “Yes I do!” He wanted to show Da here and now the things he’d taught himself, pinching Arlin Garrick’s magics. But he couldn’t. The trouble there’d be, if he did that.
So he scuffed his boot-heel on the crypt floor, feeling hot and sulky. “I would if you’d tell me.”
“And I will tell you, Rafe,” Da said, snappish. “Just not today. So don’t go on at me.”
“I ain’t,” he protested. “I only—Da, I want to make faces in marble, like you do. ’Cause it’s beautiful.”
Even though he was fratched, a reluctant smile tugged at Da’s lips. “Beautiful, eh? You tryin’ to wheedle me, sprat?”
“No, Da,” he said, earnest and dutiful, though of course he was… and both of them knew it. “I’m just saying my druthers. Couldn’t you tell me the words? Couldn’t you show me how they go? Just this once?”
He wanted it so badly there was a pain in his chest. Him and Da together, doing magic. No need for telling tales, no need to hide. Him and Da doing magic, out in the open.
Da let loose a slow sigh. “You ain’t strong enough, Rafe. Once Doranen magic gets in your head you can’t get it out again. It sits there like a toad. It changes you, sprat, and there ain’t no changin’ back after, not even if you want to.”
Now Da looked worse than sad. Dumbstruck, Rafel folded his arms.
That ain’t true, Da. I’m not changed. I haven’t got a toad in my head.
“Rafel,” said Da, and dropped to a crouch before him. “Listen. I got to ask you a thing. I got to ask, and you got to answer me straight.”
He nodded, slowly. Fright made his mouth suck dry. Does he know? Has he found out? “All right, Da. I will.”
“What did you tell Darran, that you ain’t told me or your ma? About magic. About… feelin’ things in the earth.”
Fright flashed to indignation. That ole fart. That ole trout. He promised he’d not tell. Betrayal hooked him like a fish, left him gasping for air.
Da fastened strong fingers to his shoulder. Shaking him a little, his eyes fierce, he scowled. “No use fratchin’ at Darran, Rafe. He’s dead, he ain’t listenin’. And I need to know what happened. When did you come over funny, sprat?”
“Week afore last,” he said, his voice small. Glaring at stone Darran from underneath his lashes. You promised. You promised.
“And what were you doing? Were you doing magic?”
He had to look at the floor again, afraid his guilty secret would show in his eyes. “No, Da. Only working with the blocks.”
The blocks Pother Kerril had told him he needed for practise, so his Doranen magic didn’t fizz up his blood. Da didn’t like it, not one bit, but Kerril said it had to be. Kerril said it was dangerously foolish to go on pretending his magic didn’t exist. He’d not said a word, he’d been so scared his guilty secret would show then, too. But it didn’t. And ever since, for nearly five months, he’d practised with the blocks Kerril gave him. She was right. They did help scratch his itches. But—but—
“Da!” he said, his heart jumping. “Was it—was it my fault? Did I—”
“No!” said Da, almost shouting. “Ain’t none of this your fault, sprat.”
Giddy with relief, he nearly blurted it all out. Nearly told Da everything—then swallowed the words just in time. Da could never know. Neither could Mama. Neither of them would ever understand.
“Rafe,” said Da, gently now. “Tell me what you felt. It’s all right. You ain’t in trouble.”
Not so long as he kept his secret, he wasn’t. “I felt a funny skritching, all over.”
“Like ants havin’ a picnic ’neath your shirt and trews?”
Dumbly, he nodded.
“And then,” said Da, “a kind of rumble and rollin’, like someone put you in a pepper pot and shook you all about?”
“Aye, Da,” he whispered. “And then the air—the air—”
Da sighed. “It felt like the air got its neck wrung, like a chicken?”
A tiny sobbing gasp escaped him. “Yes. Did you—”
“Aye. Me and your ma. We felt it too. How many other times have you felt it, Rafe?”
“Once. The day Darran got sick.” To his shame, his voice broke. He felt his eyes sting, and his lips quiver. He wanted to bawl like Deenie, left behind because boys don’t play with girls.
Da pulled him close in a tight hug. “Why didn’t you tell me and your ma?” Letting go, he sounded hurt. “Why did you tell that ole fool Darran and not us?”
“I never meant to tell him, Da,” he said, feeling like he’d stuck a knife in Da’s heart. “Only he came looking for you when I was practicing the blocks, and that’s when I got the feeling, and he saw.” Another hot rush of anger. “He said he wouldn’t tell.”
“He only told ’cause he knew he were dyin’,” said Da. “And he thought we should know. Rafe, why’d you keep it a secret?”
He scuffed the floor again. “Thought I might be comin’ down with an ague,” he muttered. “Thought you might say I couldn’t go with Goose and his da to see the brewery in Banting.”
“And the second time?” said Da—then shook his head. “I s’pose, with Darran poorly…”
He nodded. And even though Darran poorly had really been Darran dying, even though they were stood right in front of his coffin, he still felt rankled. ’Cause Darran had promised.
“Rafe,” said Da, noticing. “The ole trout’s dead. You forgive him, eh? You’ll feel better if you do.”
He wasn’t so sure on that, but it was Da asking, so he turned to the coffin and kissed the ole man’s stone brow. “I forgive you, Darran. Reckon you thought you were doing what was right.”
“Rafe,” said Da, after a moment, sitting himself on the crypt’s cool floor. “You believe me, don’t you, that it weren’t you practisin’ your blocks as made things go awry? ’Cause it weren’t your fault, no more than bein’ able to do Doranen magic be your fault.”
Did this mean they were going to talk about it, at last? Suddenly hopeful, he bumped himself down beside his father. “Then why won’t you let me learn more magic, Da? If I ain’t doing anything wrong, why won’t you?”
Da shook his head again. “ ’Cause it ain’t that simple, sprat. A thing don’t have to be wrong for it to be the wrong thing to do. There be a time and a place for you and Doranen magic, but we ain’t there yet.”
“But—”
“I told you, Rafe. Doranen magic sneaks up on you. And you don’t see what it really means until it’s too bloody late.”
Da didn’t sound hurt any more. Now he sounded angry, like he wanted to take out his magic and punch it.
“Da,” he said, his voice small. “I—I don’t mind it… all that much.”
“You don’t?” Da said. He sounded almost puzzled. “It don’t fright you?”
He shook his head, feeling bad. As though not hating his magic was the same as not loving Da. “No.”
“Not ever?”
Remembering how it felt to crack stones, and dance leaves, and make his bathwater leap into frogs and dogs and horses—remembering all the other wonderful things he’d done—he stared at his knees. He could always lie. He could say it did fright him sometimes, and that might make Da feel better. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t know why, but he knew that would feel even worse than not confessing his terrible secret.
“No, Da. It don’t fright me. Not even a bit.”
“Rafe, Rafe,” said Da, sighing. “What am I s’posed to do with you, eh?”
More than anything he wanted to say, “Let me be a mage.” If he’d been born Doranen he’d be learning Doranen magic. He’d be like Arlin Garrick, magicking all over the place. If he was like Goose, just an ordinary Olken, he’d be doing Olken magic and nobody would think twice.
But I ain’t one thing or the other. Same as Da, I’m both. And he thinks ’cause he don’t like it then I shouldn’t either. And that ain’t right.
But he couldn’t tell Da that. He was just a sprat. He went hot, feeling his prickly crossness rise.
“Rafe,” said Da, “you got to tell me and your ma if you feel that skritchiness again.”
“I will, Da.” He chewed his lip. “Da… what does it mean?”
Da grabbed hold of King Gar’s tomb and hauled himself to his feet. The crypt’s glimfire danced shadows over his face as he walked round and round between the coffins, staring at the peaceful marble people without ever seeing them proper.
“I felt it, Da, so you ought should tell me,” he said, so daring. Nobody bossed Da about. Well, nobody save Ma. Da shot him a sharp look, but didn’t scold him on it. He was scowling, like he did when all his thoughts were tangled. “Tell me, Da. Please? I won’t tattle, my word, man to man.”
Da looked like he wanted to swear. Really swear, lots of bad words, the ones Mama wouldn’t let him say. “It’s complicated, Rafe. You be a spratling, and this ain’t spratling business.”
Prickly cross, prickly cross. “Maybe not, Da. But I felt what you and Mama felt. I never asked to, but I did. It ain’t fair if you don’t tell me.”
Da stopped circling the crypt. Halted at King Gar’s marble feet and brooded into his cold white stone face. It was a nice face. Sad, and understanding. So young. Hard to think of Da that young, the same age as King Gar when he died. He wasn’t exactly old now, not as old as Uncle Pellen, say, but he looked old. Not in a wrinkled way. In a sad way. A tired way.
I never saw that before. I never saw he looked tired. I never saw that made him look older than he is.
He felt odd, all of a sudden. Standing on the outside, looking at his da. Thinking these strange thoughts. Noticing things.
“I were your age when my ma died,” Da said, very quiet. “She got sick and no pother could help her. Just like that, I weren’t a spratling no more. My da were lost without her. My brothers… well…” His face pinched. “Weren’t no love lost there. I learned things, Rafe. I learned ’em too soon.” He nodded at King Gar’s effigy. “So did he. Weren’t no reason for us to be friends, you’d think. He was royalty. I weren’t. But he learned things young too, and they made him sad. I knew what that felt like. That’s how we were friends. He lived sad, and he died sad. He never had a chance. Rafe, you don’t need to know what’s going on. Not yet, any road. When you do I’ll tell you. My word, man to man. But you stay a sprat for now. You’ll grow up soon enough.”
Staring at him, Rafel knew he’d waste his breath complaining. Just like with his magic, he wasn’t allowed a say. All right, if he was honest, the upset in the earth did fright him a tiddy bit. He’d told himself it were nowt, he just had an ague, but down deep he’d known different. Down deep he’d known something was wrong. And without ever saying so, Da had told him he was right.
He can’t pretend I’m ordinary forever. One day he’ll have to stop treating me like a sprat.
“Rafel,” said Da. His voice was stern. It was the voice he used when what he said was as good as a law. His Justice Hall voice. “This be serious business. What you felt ain’t to be talked on. Have you told it to Goose, or any other boy or girl?”
He’d been thinking to tell Goose. He told Goose most everything. He’d just been waiting till he felt not so wobbly. “No, Da. I only told Darran.”
“Huh,” Da grunted. “That’s somethin’, any road. So you don’t tell Goose, you hear me? No teasin’ him on what you felt, and no askin’ if he felt it. You don’t tell anyone. I got your word on that?”
He nodded, smothering disappointment. He hated keeping secrets from Goose. “Aye, Da.”
Da’s face relaxed. “I know it don’t seem fair, Rafe. I know you be fratched ’cause you ain’t got your answer. But you’ll get it, by and by.”
He sighed. His father kept on saying that, but it was getting harder to believe him. “Aye, Da.”
“Good sprat,” said Da. “Now we’d best be on our way, or your ma will be thinkin’ we’ve turned to marble in here.”
Side by side they left the crypt, the glimfire snapping to darkness behind them, and walked out blinking into the Garden of Remembrance. Every time he came here he stopped to look at the statue of the man he was named for, who died a hero in the war against Morg. He didn’t exactly know how it happened. Darran never told him that story. But every time he stood here with Da, and he looked at Da’s face, he knew it was a sad tale.
Other straggling folk were here and there in the garden, because everyone loved the flowers and the trees, but nobody tried to speak to them, on account of the whole City knowing Darran was being put in the crypt today. They got stared at, though. One ole biddy was weepin’. Da noticed, but he didn’t say a word.
“Come on,” he said, after they’d stood there a goodly while, looking at the statues of Rafel and Veira and Matt. “There’ll be supper waitin’ for us in the Tower, and your ma with a wooden spoon to wallop us ’cause we ain’t sat at the table on time.”
That made him giggle, even though he was mixed up, prickly cross and sad. “Not you, Da. Mama ain’t going to wallop you.”
Da rolled his eyes. “Ain’t no-one your ma wouldn’t wallop, Rafe. She ain’t got a fear in her, that wench. Make certain sure you find a woman to marry what’s like your ma. Life’ll be sweet, that road.”
He grinned. “You called Mama a wench.”
“Wash out your ears,” said Da, grinning back. “I did no such thing. Now stir your stumps, sprat. It’s time to go.”
On a shared smile they turned their backs on the garden and wandered home to the Tower, companionably silent. Overhead a ghost moon winked at the sliding sun, and the waking nightbirds sang in the djelba trees. Nightbirds never stopped singing, and they never sounded sad.
Rafe swallowed a small sigh. Wherever Darran was, he hoped the ole man could hear them.
Naked and sated, Asher smoothed Dathne’s tangled hair from her face and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her lips moved beneath his, curving into a smile, and she slapped his arse lightly.
“Get off me, you lump.”
Obliging, he rolled to her side and scooped her against him with one arm. Their skin stuck moistly together; she smelled of roses and apricots. Heaving a contented sigh, his head comfortable on their pillows, he dropped a hand to cover her breast. Her hand covered his, and they lay for some time in sighing silence.
“The ole fart reached a goodly age,” he said softly, at last. “A better age than my da did, Barl rest his bones.”
Dathne’s fingertips traced idle patterns on his belly. “I wondered if you’d thought on that. But you never said, and I didn’t want to pry.”
He snorted. “First time for everythin’, eh?”
“Rogue,” she said, pinching him. “So. You made your peace with the dear old man?”
She’d not asked, before. It was one of the many things he loved about her, the way she could sit silent and wait till she knew he were ready to talk on things that mattered.
“Aye,” he said, feeling again Darran’s cold fingers in his hand. “We settled things.”
Her lips pressed against his chest. “Good. You travelled a strange road together, you and that persnickety fellow. You hurt each other on purpose, and not… but even so…”
It were funny, how she was so much harder than him but could still easily touch matters close to the heart, when he couldn’t.
“Don’t worry,” she added. There was a smile in her voice. “I ain’t about to get maudlin on you, Meister Asher.”
He thanked her with another kiss, slow and considering. She laughed, amusement whispering, and stroked her hand down his back, fingertips bumping from scar to scar.
“You spoke to Rafe?” she said, head settling on his shoulder. “I hope you did. I took Pellen and Deenie out so you’d have a moment with him alone.”
“Aye,” he said. “I spoke to him.”
“And?” she prompted, after a moment.
He sighed. “And he don’t much like bein’ held back, Dathne.”
“You think that’s news to me?” she said. “He’s wanted to run before he could walk ever since he snapped his fingers and called glimfire when he was barely a year old. What did you tell him?”
“I told him not to fret on what he felt. That it were important, but you and me, we were mindin’ it ’cause that’s our job, not his.”
“You know…” The gentle fingers scoring his skin ceased their movement, leaving him bereft. “We can’t hold him back forever. We don’t dare. The power in him will find its way to the surface, no matter how deeply we try to keep it buried.”
He felt his heart pound. Felt his hot blood flow cold, thinking on it. “I never said forever, Dath. But he’s a spratling. He’s ten. He’s got his whole life for magic. It can wait.”
“Can it?” she said, and wriggled until she was up on her elbows looking down at him. Moonlight turned her sharp face to silver, and shone mysterious in her dark, solemn eyes. “Asher, you and I, we’re children of the old kingdom. He’s a child of the new. Magic is his birthright. It’s the birthright of every Olken, if they choose to embrace it. And he’s made his choice, my love. He wants what he was born with, Olken and Doranen magic both. What we want… what you want… that’s not important. Child or not, we can’t ride roughshod over him.”
“Speak for y’self,” he retorted. “I bloody can. He’s my son. I’m his father.”
She let herself drop back to the feather mattress, and their blankets. “When you say things like that, Asher, I think you must sound like your brothers.”
The words stung him, as she knew they would. “That ain’t fair, Dath. I ain’t like Zeth and the rest of ’em. I don’t use my fists, and my belt, and I don’t scream at him neither. I don’t use him up and spit him out. No, and I ain’t like my da was, neither. He let grief turn him blind to what were goin’ on under his nose. But me, I ain’t blind, Dath. Rafe’s my life, you bloody know that. Ain’t nowt I won’t do for him.”
“Nowt but let him be himself,” she said gently. “Asher, he’s not you. He’s not—”
“Not what? Go on, Dath. Don’t say your tongue’s fallen out now.”
She lay quietly beside him, her moonlight face darkened with shadows. “Not afraid,” she said at last. “Not bitter. He’s living his life, not yours. And in his life magic’s a thing to be celebrated, not—not kicked aside.”
Her words stole his breath.
“My love, you can’t protect him,” she said, letting her hand rest atop his busy heart. “Not from this. Barl save us, Asher, we tampered with him, and he still felt what we felt. Like it or not, that’s the truth we have to swallow once and for all. Rafel’s a mage of power with Doranen magic in him. And nothing we can do will save him from that.”
He closed his eyes. “You ain’t never called me coward before. Not once. Not even at Veira’s cottage, and I was frighted to death then. You sayin’ I be a coward now ’cause I want to keep my son safe?”
“Being afraid and being a coward aren’t the same thing and you know it,” she snapped. “Don’t try to fratch me into a fight, Asher, just so you won’t have to talk about this. And he’s our son. Not yours alone.”
“Aye, he’s our son,” he said, sitting up. Her hand fell away from him but he didn’t feel the lack of it. “And there ain’t a body in this kingdom knows better than us what harm being a powerful mage can do. Do you want that for him? After what we lived through? What we dream on, ten years later? Is that what you want for him?”
“I want what you want,” she said. “Rafe happy. Lur safe.”
He flinched as her warm hand came to rest between his shoulder blades. “He reckons he’s hard done by, but he’s a spratling. He knows nowt. We let him muck about with magic, Dath, he’ll learn quick smart what unhappy’s about. He will. I swear—if I could rip his magic out of him with my bare hands, I would.”
A creaking of the bedboards as she sat up beside him. A caress of warmth, as she sighed across his bare skin and slid her arms around his ribs. “Oh, Asher.”
“Mayhap that Kerril can brew up a potion,” he said, staring through the chamber window at the moon, fat and full and boldly shining. “Some way of smotherin’ what’s bubblin’ in him, past—past what we’ve kept locked away safe. He’s too young for it, Dath. He ain’t ready for what it means.”
“I thought you were over this,” she murmured, her cheek resting against his spine. “Ten years is a long time. I thought… I hoped… Will you never accept who you are? What you are?”
“And what am I, Dath? A fisherman who ain’t allowed the sea. A fisherman brimful of magic, who never once asked for it. A da who can’t protect his son from pain. A da who gave him that pain, who bloody poisoned him with—”
“Asher, stop it!” she said, and tightened her arms till his ribs creaked. “This is grief talking. This is your nerves on edge because of what you felt in the Weather Chamber. Your imagination’s run rampant, dreading the worst with no good reason. You’re being foolish. It’s not like you.”
On a deep breath he turned, and pulled her into his arms. Buried his face in her hair, buried his fears in the feel of her, soft yielding flesh over bones of diamond and gold.
“Hush, my love, hush,” she murmured, her warm hands gentling him. “We’ll be all right. Rafe will be all right. Whatever we’re facing we’ll survive it. You’re the Innocent Mage, my love. You were born to prevail.”
Because he loved her, because she ruled him, he showed her his face. “You sure on that? You promise?”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I promise.”
They made love again, not tenderly. And afterwards, spent and panting, waited a long time for sleep to claim them.
“You called them Circle folk here yet?” he asked, hearing his voice slur. “We got to get things sorted, Dath.”
Her unbound hair tickled his skin as she slowly shook her head. “Tomorrow,” she said, drowsy. “I’ll send word to them tomorrow. With Darran at rest I can think clearly now.”
He hadn’t meant to nag. “Right. Tomorrow.”
“You mustn’t fret,” she whispered, on the brink of sleep. “They’ll come, and we’ll sit down together and see what’s what. There’s an answer to this mystery and they’ll help us find it.”
Drowsy himself, he drifted his fingers to the old faded scar on his chest. Felt the shard of Circle crystal he still carried within him, that he could’ve had cut out a hundred times over… but didn’t.
“Aye,” he said. “Aye, we’ll find it.”
And didn’t know if he believed that, or not.