by Karen Miller
Ewen looked at Da, then turned. “That understanding spell of yours, Deenie. Wears off after a while, does it?”
And oh, it felt so sinkin’ good to laugh. “No.”
“No?” Ewen raised an eyebrow. “So that was a yes, it was?”
Standing tiptoe, she kissed him. “Aye, Ewen. I reckon it was.”
But it was one thing to decide the fate of Lur’s Olken and Doranen in a hospice—and quite another to decide it in Lur.
Firstly, even using in part the Doranen travel incant, it took nearly two weeks for word to spread to every township and village that a momentous decision had to be made. Then came more weeks of debate and argument and compromise and fisticuffs, at least for the Olken.
Deenie travelled to each meeting place with Asher and Ewen, patiently answering questions, talking through what their people’s choice was, what they’d be gaining in starting a new life in Vharne, what they’d be losing if they left Lur behind. She began to think she could cast Barl’s spell of understanding in her sleep.
She fretted over her father, who wasn’t strong yet, and might never be. Not the way he’d been strong before he was struck down by the blight. But there she was helped by Ewen, who kept a watchful eye on him and with a grin overruled Da when he was determined to do too much. And though Da blustered, claiming great offence, she knew it was for show.
The weather helped make the Olken’s decision less complicated. Though Morg’s blighting magic was dead, its echoes stubbornly lingered. There were more storms, more heavy rain, more flooding, more deaths. Much of Lur was poisoned and might never be clean again. Food supplies grew ever scarcer. Sheer hunger prompted many to take the chance.
Nigh on four weeks after the first meeting was called, every Olken in the kingdom had cast a ballot, yea or nay. And in the end less than a thousand decided to stay behind the mountains and inside the reef. The rest of Lur’s Olken fell to with their preparations, having agreed to travel by boat, in relays, along the coast until they reached their new home. With Lur’s waters at last free of whirlpools and waterspouts it was the best way for the great adventure to begin.
For the Doranen, as Arlin had always claimed, there was nothing to discuss. They were chastened by the news of Morg’s resurgence and death but once told of their rediscovered lost homeland, they were eager to quit Lur.
And quit it they did, using magic.
Arlin was the last to leave. With Deenie, Asher and Ewen making ready for their sea voyage to Vharne, ahead of everyone else so the groundwork could be laid, he travelled down to newly bustling Westwailing to make his brief, circumspect farewell.
Greeting him out front of the Dancing Dolphin, Deenie looked his sunlit silks and velvets up and down. “D’you know, Meister Garrick, I think I prefer you in leathers.”
He looked down his nose. “And I think, Meistress Deenie, it’s a good thing for both of us that I no longer need to care what you think.”
“Sink me bloody sideways, Arlin,” she said, sighing. “You really are a poxy shit.”
Da was waiting for them in the Dolphin’s shabby parlour.
“So, Meister Garrick,” he said, at ease in a comfortable chair. “This is the back of you, we’re seeing?”
“For now,” said Arlin, just as comfortable on his feet. “There will be conversations at a later date. Treaties and so forth between Dorana and its many neighbours.”
“Aye,” said Da, nodding. “So Ewen says. And Deenie here—” Reaching out, he patted her arm. “She reminds me that she trusts you, Meister Garrick, and I’ve got no cause to fratch on you or any Doranen or them nasty books of magic Morg left behind.”
“And she’s right, Asher,” said Arlin, frowning. “The past is the past. You have nothing to fear from me or mine.”
“Oh, aye? Well, that’s good to hear,” said Da, and then he leaned forward. “Now you hear this, Arlin. My hair’s gone grey but I’m still a mage. Rafel? Poorly or not, he’s a mage too. And Deenie? Well, we all know she’s a mage, don’t we? And we’ll be watching you and yours, Meister Garrick. ’Cause one mage like Morg is one mage too many. And it ain’t likely we’ll be lettin’ him happen again any time soon.”
“Da,” Deenie said, when a tight-lipped Arlin had banged the parlour door shut behind him. “Did you really have to say that?”
Tugging her into his lap, he pressed a swift kiss to the top of her head. “Aye, mouse. I did. Now, what say we head on down to the harbour? ’Cause that red-haired king of yours might be a dab hand at swordplay and suchlike, but when it comes to sailin’? He’s got a few tiddy things to learn. And if he ain’t managed to tangle hisself upside down in some rigging by now, then my name ain’t Asher of Restharven. And I be tolerably sure it is!”
“Oh, Da!” she said, and slid from his lap. “Is that any way to talk of the man I love, is it?”
He scowled. “Mouse, it’s the only bloody way to talk of him, I reckon.”
Hand in hand, laughing, they went to find Ewen.
EPILOGUE
Two days later they sailed a small, refurbished smack out of Westwailing harbour, looking to follow Lur��s calm and kindly coastline past the quiet reef and all the way up to Vharne.
Proper sailing with Da for the first time in her life, in waters empty of ’spouts and whirlpools and blight, Deenie felt the hurt of the past weeks ease a bit. And watching her father come alive, sailing, seeing the fresh colour in his cheeks and the rekindled spark in his eyes, she wept a little. Despite everything, he was happy. Properly happy. He’d found his true self.
Look, Mama. Ain’t that grand?
Da praised her sailing skills, and his pride in her helped keep sorrow at bay. So did laughing at Ewen, who was no sailor born and bred and most likely never would be. But he tried, and she loved him for it. Loved Da for teaching him, and helping him overcome the terrible loss of his father and brother.
“He’s a proper man, he is, Asher of Restharven,” said Ewen, as they shared the stars on the third night of sailing, with Da tactfully snoring in his tiddy captain’s cabin. The breeze was lively, keeping the sail fat-bellied and tickling them with salt.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Aye.”
“There’s a lot of him in you.”
“And Mama,” she said softly. “What’s best in me I get from them.”
His arm tightened around her. “Sell yourself short there, you do.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But not by much. I wish you could’ve known her, Ewen. I wish I could’ve known your father, and Padrig.” She sighed. “We’ve so much to be grateful for, I know that, but…”
“There’s no sunshine without shadow,” said Ewen. “Not a one of us gets everything we want.”
He sounded sad, yet somehow at peace. As though he’d found a way to make sense of all that had happened. Found a way to grieve without losing hold of their blessings.
And if he has, so can I.
Reaching Vharne at last, with daylight dwindling to dusk, they anchored in a small, deepwater inlet that Tavin had seen prepared for them. Then she used the Doranen part of herself to whisk them to Ewen’s castle in the High Vale.
As they stepped out of magic and into the torchlit forecourt, Rafel emerged from the castle to greet them. Dressed in barracks man leathers, he was still thin, still pale—but he was himself again.
He smiled. “Da?”
Deenie heard her father sob something under his breath. She thought it was Dathne but she couldn’t be sure. Then he crossed the forecourt with the stride and speed of a much younger man, arms wide. Rafe rushed to meet him halfway. A heartbeat later they were holding each other, and she could scarcely see anything because she was weeping too hard.
See, Mama? We’re a family. We’re a family again.
Charis and Goose came out of the castle next, both of them proud and tearful. There was even a hint of strength now in Goose’s soft, foolish face. Tavin followed, and the castle secretary Clovis. They waited, and she waited, Ewen hol
ding her hand tight, while Rafe and Da convinced each other that this was real, and they both lived.
Then Da let go, and it was her turn to greet her miraculous brother. At first she couldn’t say anything useful. All she could do was pound her fist against his leather chest and call him a noddyhead. Tiring of that, he pulled her close and rested his cheek on her hair.
“Deenie. Gardenia.”
She’d called him noddyhead, a lot of times, so she couldn’t complain. Easing back, she looked up into his altered face, his shadowed eyes. Showed him only what he needed to see, his feisty little sister.
“I’m so proud of you, Rafe. There ain’t a brother in the wide world I’d rather have than you.”
His trembling smile came close to breaking her heart.
“Goose looks brighter,” she said, thinking to cheer him. Instead he bit his lip, stricken.
“It’s my fault, Deenie,” he said, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “What’s happened to him. I’m to blame. I swear, I’ll go to Arlin Garrick if I have to but I’ll find a way to undo what Morg did.”
She kissed him. “We’ll find a way, Rafe. I promise.”
“Charis and the swordmaster told me what’s going on,” he said, wide-eyed. “Are you sure about this, Deenie? D’you really think it can work, the Olken coming to Vharne?”
“I think if it doesn’t work, it won’t be for want of trying,” she said, staunchly, ’cause it was happening either way and there was no point sinking the boat before it even set sail.
“I s’pose,” said Rafe, sounding doubtful.
“Rafe…” She brushed her fingertips down his arm. “We have to. It breaks my heart to say it, but the cold truth is there ain’t nothing left for us in Lur.”
His lips tightened. “What about Mama? You’re saying to leave her behind, in the crypt?”
So. Charis had broken the news. Did it make her a coward, that she was glad the duty had been taken from her?
Prob’ly. But I am.
Still, he raised a thorny question, one folk were wrestling back in Lur. The dead were dead and buried, but even so…
“I know,” she whispered, feeling the familiar ache of loss. She thought she’d live the rest of her life feeling it. “We need to think on that. We need to talk on it with Da and Ewen. We need to talk about Mama. But not now.”
He nodded across the forecourt. “That’s Ewen? Charis told me about him, too. Giddycakes.”
Bloody Charis. “Aye, Rafe, that’s Ewen,” she said, warning him. “And if you value your life you’ll say nowt of red hair!”
He grinned and oh, he was Rafel again. He was Rafel, her brother.
After that it was hugs and kisses with Charis, so brightly in love, and with Goose, who kissed her cheek, shyly smiling, then introductions all around and finding their way into the castle for hot food and mulled wine and more talk.
Tugging her aside, dimpled with happiness, Charis said, “There’s so much to tell you, Deenie. Find me at bed time and we can have a good gossip.”
“I will,” she promised, and couldn’t say any more, ’cause love for Charis welled up in her, stealing her voice.
It’s thanks to her that me and Da have Rafe again. We owe Charis his life.
She didn’t begin to know how they could repay that. But somehow, they would.
Watching Goose and Rafe together as they ate in the castle’s dining hall, watching her brother’s pride and sorrow and Goose’s simple kindness, the true heart of him laid bare, Deenie had to bite her lip and hide her face in her wine goblet until she could trust not to make a fool of herself. But then she watched Da and Swordmaster Tavin size each other up across their plates and become thick as thieves an instant later, and that made her laugh.
With supper finished, they gathered in the main Hall. Robb and his barracks brothers joined them there for ale and cakes and making music with fiddles and pipes. Charis danced with Goose and after him, Ewen. Then she excused herself to take some cool ale with Da, and Ewen hunkered down with Tavin, and the barracks men started up their singing as they piped and fiddled another spry tune.
Finishing a little dance with Goose, Deenie saw Rafe on his lonesome, tucked into a corner. He looked up as she joined him, and tugged a stool close so she could sit.
“Mouse.”
“Rafe.” She touched his knee. Glanced around. This might not be the best time or place, but she had to ask. She had to know. “Rafe, how much do you remember?”
Instead of answering, he looked at Charis as she giggled and danced a jig in Da’s sturdy embrace. Love of her was in his face, no silly pretending any more. Then he sighed.
“I remember all of it, mouse.”
She blinked back tears. “Oh.”
“I tried to stop him. I did. Only—”
“Don’t,” she said, and took his hand. “It ain’t your fault, Rafe. He was Morg.”
“Feels like my fault,” he muttered. “Couldn’t stop him, could I? Couldn’t kill him. You killed him.”
“No, we killed him.” She gave his hand a little shake. “Think I could’ve done it without you? Think if you hadn’t hidden me from him I’d still be alive? I wouldn’t. You saved me. And don’t you ever forget that.”
The barracks music was jaunty, echoing to the Hall’s rafters. Da handed Charis back to Goose so he could hunker with Ewen and Tavin. The smallest smile tugged at Rafe’s lips, watching the girl he loved laugh. Watching his best friend Goose laugh.
Then his smile faded. “Reckon I won’t forget a heartbeat of it, Deenie. But I want to. I can still feel all those poor souls, dying. I can still taste—”
“Don’t,” she said again. “Rafe, it’s done with. Don’t you torment yourself on it. Don’t you spoil this. If you let Morg spoil this he might as well not be dead!”
He stared at the floor. “Can’t hardly say a word to that Ewen of yours. Can’t hardly look him in the eye.”
“You think he blames you for Murdo?” She tightened her fingers. “He doesn’t. Rafe—”
“Rafe! Rafe, come dance with me!”
And that was Charis, flushed prettily pink and standing with her hand outstretched. Flirting and cheeky in barracks leathers, the mayor’s carefree daughter again. Well, mostly. She was still whipcord slender, though. Some things had changed. They were all four of them changed, one way and another. Changed and scarred and different people.
But we’ll always be friends.
“Dance with her,” said Deenie, softly. “There’s always sunshine after rain.”
“Deenie—”
She gave her brother a little shove. “Dance with her, noddyhead. We can talk again later. We’ve all the time in the world to talk, you and me.”
So Rafe danced with Charis, Goose clapping his hands to the pipes and fiddles, and she watched them through her tears a while. Then she caught Ewen’s eye and they slipped out of the Hall under cover of Da and Tavin swapping tall tales and being raucous, making everyone laugh.
The castle grounds were silvered with moonlight. Spring was upon them but a late frost glittered the grass. Sweet beneath the chilly air, a hint of fresh blossoms. It was the first time since leaving the smack at anchor that they’d had a proper moment alone.
“So, girl,” said Ewen, his fingers laced with hers. “It’s home, we are.”
Home. The thought would take some getting used to, but he was right. This was home.
“And there’s your brother on the mend,” he added. “And his friend with him, and bossy Charis bossing both of them, and your da and my Tavin like peas in a pod.”
“Aye,” she said, sighing happily. “And don’t call me girl.”
He snorted. “Girl, will you wed me?”
She made him wait, and wait, and wait. And then she smiled. “Aye, King Noddyhead. I will.”
Laughing, he kissed her. Kissed her again. And again. After that he cupped her face between his warm hands and gave her his best barracks look.
“If you love me, I�
��m telling you, don’t call me that!”
The scars on his face were fading. She had to believe all scars faded, in time.
“All right. I won’t.”
“Deenie. Deenie.” He was half laughing, full of wonder. “You’ll be my Mage Queen, you will. Sink me, that’s a thing, that is.”
“And you’ll be my Sword King.” She grinned. “Sink me. Fancy that.”
Lightly, lovingly, his fingertips touched her lips. “I do, girl. I fancy it. It’ll be a new world, it will.”
On the night’s breeze they heard music, drifting jaunty from the Hall. She pressed her hand to his chest and felt his heart, beating there.
“It’s already a new world, Captain.”
And then she danced glimfire like fireflies, just for him, beneath the moon.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Stephanie Smith, the ever-vigilant. Glenda Larke, Mary GT Webber, Elaine and Peter Shipp, for the nitpicking. Abigail Nathan, who often saves my bacon. David Wyatt, for his sublime cover art. Ethan Ellenberg, my agent. The Voyager Team. The Booksellers. And, as always, The Readers.
