Free The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One by Karen Miller

on twelve years ago now, he’d met this man. In nigh on twelve years they’d danced a dance or two. Hated each other. Hurt each other. Wept in silence side by side.
    “What’s the matter?” he echoed. “What d’you reckon, you ole fool?”
    “Yes, I’m dying,” said Darran, acerbic, not even frailty able to sweeten his tart tongue. “But I’m not such… an ole fool I think… you’re grief-struck because of it. There’s… something else, don’t… deny it. I’ve lived… my whole life watching… great men of power. I know when aught’s amiss, and setting them… on edge.”
    Great men of power.
His palsy’s addled him.
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I ain’t pleased to see you go.”
    “Asher… Asher…” Darran managed a lopsided smile. “You’d keep me here, in this… faded, failing body? That’s cruel… even for you.”
    He looked away until he was certain he could speak without letting loose words he’d come to regret. “You want to die? Is that it?”
    “I want you… to tell me… what’s wrong,” said Darran, still slow, still soft—but with as much iron in him as Dathne. Dying hadn’t rusted him, that much was clear. “Perhaps… I can help you. I’d like… to think I can. One last service… for the kingdom. I think… you owe me that much.”
    There was no repaying what he owed this persnickety Olken. No undoing of past mistakes, no healing old wounds.
    But how can I tell him what me and Dath think? His light’s goin’ out. He deserves an easy death, not doubt and fear and frettin’ over what he can’t help
.
    “Asher…” Darran closed his eyes, just for a moment, then dragged them open again. “If I make it… my last wish? If I beg you? Shall I… beg?”
    “Why d’you want to know?” he said roughly. “There ain’t nowt you can
do
.”
    “I can listen,” said Darran. “And whatever… you tell me, I can… take it to my grave. I’ll do that… best of all.”
    Sighing, he let his chin drop to his chest. The ole man weren’t entirely wrong… and he could say things to Darran he couldn’t say to anyone else. Not even Dathne. Especially not Dathne. She was brave, she was so brave, but he’d kill her, saying this. He’d given her a promise, knowing that he lied.
    “Asher,” said Darran, his fingers tightening a little more. “If this is about… the kingdom’s safety… you can’t spare me. You can’t… spare yourself. Gar
died
… for Lur. Will you sit there… and not speak?”
    The ole
bastard,
skewering him like this. Twisty, sneaky, bringin’ up Gar.
    Bitterly he stared at Darran. “Since when did I spare m’self, you manky ole man?”
    “Never,” Darran whispered. “So… don’t start… now.”
    Sink me. Sink me. I ought to walk away. I ought to keep my mouth shut. If I don’t say it then it ain’t true.
    “You’re not… a coward,” said Darran, relentless. “Barl knows you’ve… more faults than a cur dog… has fleas, Asher, but…” He broke off, his breath catching in a cough, that ague in his chest not done with him yet. “A problem… denied is a… problem unresolved. Borne’s father… taught me that. A lesson… well learned.”
    He stared at his fingers. If he closed his eyes he might think he could still feel that sizzle of power in them, from touching Barl’s map. If he closed his eyes he’d feel the flogging might of her magic…
    “Asher,”
said Darran, his voice tight with pain. “Is Lur… in danger? Is that your dread?”
    On a gasping breath, he nodded. “Aye. Feels like it. And if it is… could be I’ll have to do somethin’. Somethin’ I don’t want to do, as might cause as much trouble as it’ll fix.”
    “Ah,” said Darran, a long slow sigh of regret. “WeatherWorking… you mean?”
    Startled, Asher stared at him. “I never said that. Why d’you think that? Ain’t no such thing as WeatherWorkin’ no more, Darran.”
    So feeble, the ole man was now. His eyes sunken, his