The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (11 page)

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?”