The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (16 page)

“Aw, come on, Rafe, come up from there,” Goose begged. “What if you slip? What if I can’t pull you out?”

“Tosh,” he said. That was one of ole Darran’s little words.
Tosh
. It meant, don’t be a doddlehead. Saying it, remembering, he felt a sharp sting of pain. But just as quick he squashed it hard like a bed bug, because fretting on Darran wouldn’t bring him back to life.

“Rafe,” said Goose. He was almost wailing. Stretching the sound long, like a piece of string. Gangly tall Goose-egg, all fratched and frighted.
Tosh
.

Ignoring him, Rafel rested his gaze on the riverpond’s sun-sparkled surface. The darting gaddies had darted away. He could see the blue sky reflected, and skittish lamb-clouds. He could see his own face. Rafel of Dorana, the hero Asher’s only son. There was Da in there, and Mama. Bits and pieces of folk he’d never know. He was in there. They were his eyes.

That’s my face. That’s me. But who’s me?

In his blood there was beer, its bubbles bursting. In his blood there was power, that could crack stones and whirl leaves and do all kinds of things. That could unpick magic locks he’d never come across before. Because of his power he felt oddness in the earth, just like Da.

A mage. That’s who I am. That’s what I want to be.

With his mage eyes he looked deep into the pond. Saw the fish. Saw right into them, and felt their little lives. Then he looked into his thudding heart. Into his blood, which held his magic.

If Da finds out what I’ve been up to, there’ll be so much trouble. Da hates his magic, so I have to miss out.

Hot crossness prickled him. He was tired of missing out. Tired of being a secret. Goose knew a little bit, but he didn’t know it all. He trusted his friend like he trusted his own hand, or his foot, but it was safer that way.

“Goose,” he said, not looking up. “If I show you something, you have to promise not to tell.”

“I promise,” said Goose. “Show me what? Rafe, what’s going on?”

“Hush up,” he said dreamily. “I need to think.”

“Rafe!” said Goose, close to wailing again. “You’re making me nervous. Come out of there. Please?”

He shook his head, grinning. “No. Just you watch this.”

“Watch
what?
” said Goose. “Rafe, what are you
doing?
”

Instead of answering, he dabbled his fingers across the riverpond’s sleeping surface. “Come on, little fishies,” he crooned under his breath. “You ain’t going to hide from Goosie, are you? Come on. You come back now. Rafel says come back.”

The stolen beer was all swallowed, but he could still taste it on his tongue. He could feel it in his belly, warm and sloshing. He could feel it in his head, softly buzzing. He could feel his magic buzzing, the way it sang without words, sang a tune only he could hear. The rest of the world was deaf. Da was deaf.

Da doesn’t want to hear.

One by one Goosie’s little fishes came back.

Doing his lessons with Meister Rumly, he was made to keep so calm. So tame. Little bits of Olken magic. Teeny tiny drips.
Never
anything else. Even when he broke the rules on his lonesome, cracking stones, dancing leaves, all that silliness in his bath, the spells he pinched from Arlin, he was always careful not to do too much, only a smidgin bit, in case someone noticed. In case Da felt it and came storming to find him.

But this was his free day and Goose’s stolen beer was in him, and Da was a long ways away back in the City. He felt big and restless. Bold and reckless. He’d undone a magic lock. That was something, that was. Sink him sideways, he wanted to
play
. He wanted to show someone what he could do. And why shouldn’t he? After all, this was Olken magic and he was Olken. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. So he called the Gant’s fat silver carp, enticed them from their shadows, enticed them to the shallows, and made them leap for joy. This was Darran’s story of the Sea Harvest singing. How many times had he heard that story? How often had he seen that seething harbour in his head?

“Lookee! Lookee!” Goose was shouting, his face flushed with beer and delight. “Look at them fishes dance! Woo hoo! Woo hoo!” Then he faltered, and stopped his bouncing on the riverbank. “Rafe, is that you doing that?”

Words were a nuisance. He didn’t want to speak. So he flapped a hand at Goose, glaring, saying
aye
and
shut up
and
leave me be
all at once.

Goose’s eyes bloomed round, like two new-minted trins. “
Rafe,
I never knew you could do magic like
that
. How are you doing it? Can you show me?”

He wasn’t sure he could. There weren’t any words, he was just—just
feeling
it, feeling the fish in the water, feeling their fins and their tails, feeling the silver wriggle of them leaping into the warm almost-spring air. He wanted them to dance for Goose, so they were dancing. It was as simple and as terrible as that.

Why doesn’t Da want this? This is—this is grand.

The silver carp leapt. The riverpond seethed. Like his bathwater in its tub it started foaming into shapes, barking dogs and prancing ponies. Barl’s Mountains, towering high. He could feel his magic burning, churning, the beer bubbles in his blood turning bright gold.

“Rafe
…
”

“What?”

Goose wasn’t laughing now. He’d stopped his bouncing, and his fingers clutched his knees. “Rafel, maybe you should stop,” he said, sounding nervous. “You know you’re not s’posed to.”

Impatient, he pulled a face. “You weren’t s’posed to steal that beer, but you did.”

“That’s beer,” said Goose. “That’s not magic. Rafe, you better stop.”

“Quit fratching at me,” he said, hardly paying attention. “You’ve seen me do magic before.”

“Not like this, Rafe,” said Goose, as the riverpond boiled silver and fat fish leapt over Barl’s watery Mountains. “Come on—you should stop—Rafe—”

Rafel flashed his friend a grin. “Tosh to you, Goose-egg. I’m fine. Don’t witter.”

Splashing and leaping, the riverpond’s carp obeyed his eager summons. The magicked water sloshed around him, surging into his face. Soaking his blue cotton shirt, his close-cropped hair, running rivulets down his cheeks, like tears. But he wasn’t weeping, oh no. He was laughing.
Laughing
.

And then he shouted as something ripped through the air. Ripped through the earth and the sludge between his toes. He sucked in a shocked breath, sucked in pondwater with it. Stale and stagnant, it drowned the sweet taste of Goose’s pilfered beer. The sweeter taste of magic, burning in his blood. The leaping fish fell and didn’t leap again. He felt them flee to the pond’s shadows, released from his spell.

“Rafe!” Goose yelled. “Rafe, what’s wrong?”

Bewildered, knocked sideways, he lost his footing and plunged to his knees. The riverpond’s water closed over his head. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see. His mouth was open but he couldn’t scream, though he wanted to. He couldn’t breathe, neither. Everything felt
wrong
. His head was spinning. The earth and air of Lur were in
pain
.

Da—Da—help me, Da!

He flailed his way to the riverpond’s surface, a silver carp called Rafel leaping for the sun.

“Rafe! Rafe! Grab my hand here, Rafe!”

That was Goose, with his voice like crying. He was face-down on the riverbank, his arm stretched out and his fingers reaching. He couldn’t swim. He was a City Olken. Bloody useless, the lot of ’em. That’s what Da muttered on the days he missed the coast, when he’d been cooped up in Justice Hall telling people what to do. As everything spun about behind his eyes, the pain in the earth and air a pain in him, too, Rafel plunged towards Goose’s hand and anchored himself there, finger to finger.

“I got you!” Goose panted, helping him scramble up the grassy bank. “I got you, Rafe! Don’t let go! I got you!”

Escaped from the stinking riverpond, Rafel crawled to the top of the bank, abandoned Goose’s hand and spewed up every last mouthful of beer and water he’d sucked down. He could feel Goose beside him, all fretted and cross.

“I told you, Rafe. Didn’t I? I told you to stop! Rafe? Rafe! Say something! Rafe! Are you drowned?”

His belly emptied, his mouth foul, he rolled onto his back and squinted at the sun. His shirt and trews clung soggy to his flesh. And now that he could think straight he could feel that itching skritching under his soaked skin. Horrible. But the screaming pain from the earth and sky was fading, like a dream. That was something, any road. He needed that to go away.

Blinking, he looked at his friend. Goose was on his feet now, hovering. “How can I be drownded, Goose? Ain’t I just puked out my guts?”

“Rafe!” Goose’s eyes were so wide they looked near to popping from his skull and his face was pasty pale, like he wanted to puke too. “You should’ve stopped when I said. Didn’t I say stop?”

Goose was a funny one. All bold and beer stealing one minute, fretting himself ragged the next.

“Pie-face to it, Goose,” he said. “Stop wittering at me.”

“I ain’t
wittering,
” said Goose, offended. “You nearly drowned, Rafe. What
happened?
Did you—did your magic do that?”

He’d promised Da not to talk on this, but how could he stay silent now? Goose was here, he’d seen it. He had to explain. And any road, Goose already knew his biggest secret, about him having Doranen magic.

“I won’t tell, Rafe,” said Goose. “You know I won’t.”

Aye, he did, ’cause he and Goose swore the swear. Two years ago they did that. Another secret. He’d cracked a stone and they’d cut each other’s hands. Mixed their blood and promised friends forever. Not magic. Not really. Just a promise, was all. A promise Goose had kept.

Besides. He was tired of this secret. It was like a hot coal in his head. Da wouldn’t talk of it. Neither would Mama.
Wait till you’re older
. But it was burning him
now
.

“Rafe?” Goose said, not wheedling, but worrited. It felt good. Family cared ’cause they had to. Goose cared ’cause he
wanted
to. That made a difference, even if he wasn’t sure why.

So I don’t care if I ain’t s’posed to talk on this. It’s Goose. Not trusting Goose is like not trusting myself.

And he needed to talk on it. He needed someone to listen when the burning got too bad. Like now. Didn’t Da used to have King Gar to talk to? And didn’t he have Mama? And Uncle Pellen?

How is it fair, that he’s got folk to talk to and I ain’t s’posed to say a word?

Tucking his knees close to his chest, Rafel pulled a face. “It ain’t my magic doing it, Goose.”

“Then what is?”

“I don’t know. Just… there’s something wrong.”

“What kind of wrong?” said Goose, his eyes all big and round again.

Goose’s Olken magic gave him a good touch for growing things. Goose’s da said that was what made a meister brewer, being able to sing the hops and croon the brewing. But did that mean he could feel the earth’s pain, too?

“You ain’t felt it?”

“I don’t know,” Goose said cautiously. “What did you feel?”

It was hard to say out loud. Made him all skritched again, hot and tickly under his skin.
I ain’t frighted. I ain’t.
“Like the ground hurts. Like the air’s crying.”

“I ain’t never felt that,” Goose whispered, shocked. “What is it, Rafe? Is it Doranen magic gone wrong?”

He dug his fingers into the riverbank grass, tugging. “D’know. Might be.”

A little bit of silence, while Goose thought on that. Grazing close by, Stag stamped at the droning flies. The river slapped itself against the bridge. A louder bang, as a floating tree branch smacked it. Yonder, along the distant City Road, a carriage-horn tooted. Its music was a faint sound blown on the breeze. The warm air sang of summer, coming.

“You told your dad?” Goose said at last. “You should tell your dad.”

“He knows.” Rafel tugged more grass free. Smelled the crushed green stems and the spring-damp soil. Felt his clammy shirt drying sticky on his back. “But he won’t say what’s what.”

“Why not?” Goose hesitated, breath hitching. “Not ’cause he don’t—”

“No,” he said quickly. “Course not. My da knows everything. Just—he reckons I don’t need telling.”

“Well, that ain’t fair,” said loyal Goose. “You can feel it. He should say.”

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “But he won’t. And I can’t make him tell me, Goose.”

Goose sighed. “Being a sprat’s hard.” His face crumpled a bit, and his bottom lip wobbled. “What do you think, Rafe? Why’s the ground hurting? What’s making the air cry? I wish you’d tell me. I really want to know.”