The Reluctant mage: Fisherman’s children

by Karen Miller

What if it means I could feel my way across the harbour and past the reef?

  And that was a mad idea. Where had it come from? It must be her grief talking, or her fear for Rafe.

  Only—I am Asher’s daughter. I have to be good for something. I can’t let him down.

  Heart thudding, she turned and looked at Darran’s effigy that Da had made so lifelike and beautiful.

  “Hey there, you ole trout,” she whispered, approaching him. That’s what Da had liked to call him, when he was in a teasing mood. “It’s Deenie. I know it’s your fault I’ve got a stupid name, by the way. Gardenia. Did you think I’d not find out? Rafel told me.”

  The flickering glimlight shadows almost convinced her that he smiled.

  “D’you remember what you used to tell me?” she said, still whispering. “How I was special, like Rafe, but in my own different way? Was that true, Darran? Did you mean it? Or were you only trying to comfort me after Rafe’s teasing made me cry?”

  He didn’t answer. The crypt was silent.

  “Darran, we’re in so much trouble,” she said, and brushed her fingers against his white stone hair. “And there’s only me left to get us out of it. Mama’s dead. Da’s far away. Rafel’s in strife somewhere over the mountains. I think if he and Da could work together, maybe they could save Lur. Only first Da has to get better and I can’t help with that. I think maybe Rafe’s the only mage to break his blight. So I have to save him first. Only…”

  Bending over the old stone man, she clasped her shaking hands around his. Felt the cold marble under her cold fingers.

  “Darran, please. You have to tell me. Am I addled, thinking maybe I can escape from Lur? Or am I special? The only mage who could?”

  Oh, of course she was addled. She was noddycocked with grief. Like Charis, she was an orphan, as good as, and every sensible thought in her had washed out with her tears.

  I’m not a real mage. I’m Da’s tiddy little mouse. Don’t upset little Deenie, don’t let her get riled up.

  That’s what Da used to say. All her life he’d tried to protect her, especially after that awful time he’d called the warbeasts in his sleep and she’d felt them and woken screaming fit to pull the Tower down around their ears.

  After that there’d been possets at bedtime, every night. Soothing herbs that Kerril said would dull her odd mage-senses. They’d tasted horrible and they hardly helped. But she’d never told anyone, in case they gave her possets that tasted worse.

  “Oh, but Darran,” she said, and rested her cold forehead to his. “Even if I could escape Lur, what then? Do I go traipsing alone through the wild world beyond the mountains? When I don’t know what’s out there? When I’m not a proper mage?”

  Near to tears again, she struggled to stay calm. And then she thought she heard a voice. Darran’s voice. Prim and proper, full of acerbic love.

  Your reprobate, ruffianly father was frightened, Deenie. He was so frightened he could hardly spit. And he was angry, you’ve no idea. He never asked to be the Innocent Mage. He hated everyone who told him that was his fate. But it was his fate and in the end he saved us. Deenie, you’re his daughter. Can you do any less?

  Wrenching away from the coffin, she pointed a shaking finger at Darran’s marble face. “Don’t you say that! Don’t you—I don’t want to hear that, you—you—you silly ole trout!”

  Deenie, you’re his daughter. Can you do any less?

  And of course she knew the answer to that… and was so frightened by it she could hardly spit.

  “All right. All right!” she shouted at Darran, at Rafe, at the empty air and Barl and whoever else might be listening. “I’ll do it. I’ll try. If there’s no other way, I’ll try.”

  And there was no other way.

  There’s only me. And I’m a mouse. But if I don’t do this Lur will die.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pother Kerril was waiting at Charis’s house.

  “Ulys is sent about her duties,” she said, looking wan and weary in the light from the parlour window. “And I must return to mine. But first, Deenie, though I know you’ll likely shout, we must speak of—”

  Deenie raised her hand. “A hospice for Da.” It was all she’d been able to think of, walking back from the royal crypt. “Yes, Pother Kerril. I know.”

  Kerril and Charis stared at her, shocked.

  Crossing to the sofa, she sat on the footstool and smoothed Da’s untidy hair from his face. Fear and love and grief rose in her, tangled and strangling, so fierce she had to gulp for air.

  Forgive me, Da, but I can’t see another way.

  “Deenie?” said Charis. “Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, blinking away the sting. Of course it wasn’t true, and Charis knew it, but what was the point in unpacking her woes? “A little weary, is all.”

  With a glance at Charis, Pother Kerril crossed to the sofa. “I’m truly sorry about your mother, Deenie. Her loss is a tragedy for all of Lur.”

  “For Deenie first,” said Charis, snappish. “And most.”

  Kerril nodded. “Of course.”

  Biting her lip, Deenie looked up. If she didn’t do this now her courage might fail. “Da’s hospicing, Pother Kerril. How can it be arranged?”

  “You’re sure, Deenie?” said Kerril, faintly frowning. “Make no mistake, I still think it’s for the best, but perhaps you should take a day to be certain. You’re shocked, you’re grieving, and—”

  “I’m grieving, yes,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “but that’s not why I’ve changed my mind. With Mama gone, with the Tower gone, where else can Da be safe and cared for? He can’t stay here in Charis’s house and I can’t care for him alone. Not with Dorana in such turmoil.” She swallowed. “Everything’s changed, and I must change with it.”

  “You aren’t alone, Deenie,” Charis protested. “I’ll help you. And of course you and Uncle Asher can stay here. Did you think I’d turn you out into the street?”

  “No, Charis, of course not,” she said quickly. “But it won’t work. Da needs proper pothering, and with so many in the city hurt I can’t ask Pother Kerril to spare me someone just for him—even if he is the Innocent Mage. Can’t you hear him shouting at the notion?”

  Charis pulled a face. “Yes. But Deenie…”

  “Don’t,” she said, because she was already on the verge of weeping. “I know what I’m doing.”

  I hope. Oh, I hope.

  “Deenie, I praise Barl you’ve made this wise decision,” said Pother Kerril, her brisk self again now she had her way. “But I must tell you, there is a difficulty. As you say, we’ve many injured in the city and to make matters worse Dorana’s hospice is damaged. Of course I could find a bed for him but in truth, I hope you’ll let me guide you to another choice.”

  Eyes stinging again, Deenie looked at her unmoving, oblivious father. “You want me to send him out of the city?”

  “At least for now,” said Kerril. “Until our hospice is repaired and the worst of the injured are recovered.”

  Or have died. She pinned her hands between her knees, letting the small pain distract her. “Where?”

  “Billington. I know, I know—” Kerril raised her hands, apologetic. “It’s nearly two hours by carriage from Dorana. But it’s a good hospice, Deenie, with excellent pothers. And I promise, once your father is settled, if you’ve a need to be with him then I’m sure something can be arranged.”

  Except I won’t be here. If I’ve not drowned myself I’ll be lost in the wilderness, chasing after Rafe.

  “I’d like to take him there tomorrow,” she said, hoping the pother was too tired to notice her dismay. “Can that be arranged?”

  Kerril’s eyes widened with surprise, then she nodded. “Yes. Of course. I’ll come back in the morning with a letter for the hospice, and a strengthening posset to help your father with the journey. Deenie, you mustn’t fret yourself. He will be the better for this, you’ll see.”

  As th
e front door closed behind the pother, Charis fisted her hands on her hips. “All right, Deenie. What mischief are you brewing?”

  Avoiding Charis’s stern gaze, Deenie smoothed her father’s blankets. He looked so peaceful, no sign of the silent battle he waged. She could almost pretend he was simply asleep.

  Almost.

  “Da needs nourishment, Charis. We should—”

  “Kerril brought gruel,” Charis said, impatient. “He swallowed some goodly mouthfuls. Now don’t you think to fob me off. What’s going on?”

  She couldn’t lie. Not to Charis. “You were right,” she said softly. “I have to find Rafel and bring him home.”

  Charis collapsed into an armchair. “You mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it.”

  “But how?” Charis demanded, and drummed her heels against the floor. “You were right too. There’s no way out of this dratted prison of a kingdom.”

  Shifting round on the footstool, she gave Charis a wry look. “I’ve thought of a way, but I doubt you’ll like it.”

  “I don’t like any of this,” said Charis, her expression severe. “So what is it, this plan of yours?”

  Rising from the footstool, Deenie took a wander about the parlour, hugging her ribs. “I’m going to sail along Lur’s coastline to the end of Dragonteeth Reef then slip between it and the cliffs into open waters and keep going past the blighted lands beyond the mountains until—”

  “Deenie!” Charis was on her feet and staring. “Have you lost your wits entirely? Sail how? You said it yourself the other day—every harbour in Lur is ruined. And besides, it’s years since you’ve set foot off dry land!”

  Sighing, Deenie perched herself onto the parlour window’s deep sill. “Sailing is like riding a horse, Charis. Once you’ve learned, you don’t forget. And Da taught me well.” A sweet childhood memory. A slow smile. “He said I was born to it, and it’s true. I can feel the water and the wind like I’m a part of them. Like the boat’s a part of me.”

  “That’s nice,” said Charis, caught between bewilderment and crossness. “But you don’t have a boat. You’d have to—” And then she gasped. “Deenie. Stealing? You can’t.”

  “Charis, I can’t not,” she said. Funny, really, how—now that she’d made up her mind to do this mad thing—all the objections Charis was making, the objections she’d made herself, seemed silly. “Rafe got himself in trouble—they all got in trouble, every expedition—by going over the mountains and trying to cross those poisoned lands beyond them. I won’t be poisoned on the water. And sooner or later, if I sail far enough, I’ll find a land that won’t sicken me.”

  Charis didn’t look convinced. “Maybe so, Deenie, but first you’ve got to survive Lur’s blighted waters. What about the whirlpools and the waterspouts? What are you going to do about them, snap your fingers and make them disappear?”

  A tickle of fear, deep in her belly. “No. I’m going to sail my way through them.”

  “You’re cracked,” Charis whispered. “Not even your da could do that, Deenie, and he’s the greatest Olken mage who ever lived.”

  “Da’s a great mage, it’s true,” she said, after a heart-thumping silence. “But not even he can feel magic the way I do. All my life I’ve called it my curse, but I think it might be my gift. I think this might be why I was born the way I am.”

  “Oh, Deenie.” Charis shook her head, despairing. “That’s wishful thinking.”

  “Is it? We’re not a regular family, Charis,” she said. “Mama was born to guard a prophecy and Da was born to fulfil it, the only Olken ever who could wield Doranen magic. And then came Rafe and me, and we ain’t regular Olken either. There might not be a prophecy any more, but there’s still us.”

  Charis’s eyes were huge with trepidation. “No, Deenie. There’s just you. You don’t have an us. Not any more.”

  For one terrible moment she wanted to smack Charis for saying that. “You’re wrong,” she said, teeth gritted. “Only Mama’s gone. I’ve still got Da and Rafel and they need me, Charis. They need me not to be a mouse.”

  Slowly Charis sank back to the armchair. “Rafe’s lost beyond the mountains, Deenie! How do you think you’re going to find him?”

  “The way I always did, when we were spratlings,” she said. “Wherever he was I used to find him. Made him ever so fratched, it did, but he’ll be glad of it now.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Charis, baffled. “You were so sure this couldn’t be done. What changed your mind?”

  For a moment, just a moment, she did think about lying. But Charis didn’t deserve that. “I dreamed him again. In the crypt.”

  Charis’s fingers twisted her plain blue skirt like a dishcloth. “And it wasn’t your grief conjuring fancies?”

  “No!” she said fiercely. “It was Rafe.”

  “It was Rafe before,” said Charis. “When you said he couldn’t be helped?”

  She couldn’t bring herself to tell Charis about hearing ole Darran’s voice in the crypt. She still wasn’t sure if that part wasn’t a grief-born fancy. And she didn’t want to talk of saving Lur, either. Saving Rafe was difficult enough.

  “Charis, you wanted me to do this. And now you’ve changed your mind? Do you know what you want?”

  “Of course I do!” Charis leapt to her feet again. “I want Papa alive, I want Lur the way it was, I want Rafel here and asking to wed with me. I want the palace and your Tower standing proud and your parents holding hands. I want to walk out of this house and see Dorana laughing and whole. I want to wake up.”

  “Well, Charis, that ain’t going to happen,” she retorted, and was shocked to hear the coldness in her voice. “So I’m going to find a horse and carriage to borrow and in the morning I’ll take Da to Billington. And once I’ve got him settled in the hospice, I’ll keep on going to Westwailing.”

  Charis smudged tears from her cheeks. “Not Restharven?”

  “Too risky,” she said, pulling a face. “Even though most of the fishing towns and villages have emptied now, there might still be family there. I mustn’t be recognised. Anyway, Westwailing’s the best harbour and I’ve a better chance of taking a boat there unnoticed.”

  “You mean we’ll have a better chance.”

  “No, Charis. I’ll not risk you. It’s too dangerous.”

  “It can’t be any more dangerous than staying here!” Charis snapped. “When any minute the ground could open up and swallow me!”

  “Charis—”

  “No, I said!” Charis insisted, pink with temper. “Deenie, I’m not a noddyhead. This isn’t just about Rafe, it’s about Lur, too. Well, the last time there was strife your da didn’t save Lur on his lonesome. Papa was right there with him. So if you can fight on where your da left off, then so can I!”

  Shifting on the windowsill, Deenie stared through the bobbled panes of glass. The afternoon was dying, a cold night coming on. In the back of her mind, a growing turmoil. There’d be another storm before sunrise. More misery for Dorana. Was it ever going to end?

  I’d be a sinking liar if I said I didn’t want Charis to come. But if something should happen to her…

  “You’re not the boss of me, Deenie,” Charis said, quiet and steady. “And we both know you’ll be safer with company.”

  “We could be gone a long time,” she said, still looking out of the window at the tumbled houses across the street. “Likely we’ll run into all kinds of trouble.”

  “I don’t care,” said Charis. “Deenie, you’re the only family I have left. I can’t stay behind.”

  Oh, Charis, you’re just like Mama—a slumskumbledy wench.

  She surrendered. “All right. But can you sit with Da a while? I need to go and find us a horse and—”

  “I’ll do that,” said Charis. “There’s folk I can ask, on account of being the mayor’s daughter. You sit with your da, while you can.”

  Vision smeary, Deenie nodded. “Thank you, Charis. Now hurry along. It’s going to storm again. Yo
u don’t want to get caught.”

  With Charis gone, the house felt enormous and sad. So empty. Returning to the footstool, she took her father’s hand and held it tight.

  “I wish you’d wake up, Da, and tell me I’m doing the right thing. I wish I could hear you say you believe in me.”

  Da breathed in and breathed out, and didn’t say a word. Deep in his bones, the blight raged on.

  “I know I’m a mouse, Da. But I think I can be more. I have to be more, for you and Rafe and Lur.”

  Lost so far inside himself, Da stayed silent.

  “I’ll come back,” she whispered. “I promise. I’ll not leave you in that hospice, no matter how kind the pothers be. Da…” Gently laying his hand down, she folded herself in half until her cheek rested on him. “I love you. And oh, I miss Mama.”

  Listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, she slid softly into that twilight place between waking and sleeping where memory danced and sometimes played tricks. Floating to the surface, a memory of recent, painful days. Mama, fuddled with possets and dreaming of secrets…

  That sinking diary. More trouble than it’s worth. Horrible thing. Full of old Doranen magic. He told me he’d burned it, but he lied.

  Barl’s diary.

  Drifting, Deenie thought: I think I might need that. I think Barl’s diary might be a good thing to have.

  Startled awake, she sat up and stared at her father. Certainty hummed and buzzed in her bones.

  “Barl’s diary, Da. Is that why you kept it? Did you know Lur would have need of it, one day?”

  Da said nothing.

  She leaned close. “I’ll wager you did,” she whispered. “And you were right. Da, where did you hide it?”

  He loved her, but he didn’t answer. He was too far away.

  “Oh, Da.” She rested her forehead on his slowly moving chest. “Please.”

  Where would he hide a thing like Barl’s diary? Not in the Tower, surely. Too many people had wandered in and out of it over the years—and in the Tower, Mama might have discovered it. Or Rafe, being sneaky about his magic. He’d magicked his way into Da’s locked trunk of spell books, hadn’t he? As she tried to think where her father might’ve hidden something so dangerous, so precious, her fingers rubbed at the sore place on her hip where she’d banged it against the dislodged lid of King Gar’s coffin.