The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (48 page)

Sweat was trickling down his spine. “No.”

“Then
I
think,” said Fernel Pintte, his voice raised over the Council’s loud dismay, “that you should stop interfering with those who would seek to do what you can’t. Indeed—it seems to me you’ve done quite enough.”

Feeling sick enough to vomit now, Asher stared at Fernel Pintte. Then he looked around the suddenly silent council chamber. “You want to blame me for Lur’s troubles? Fine. Blame me. I can’t stop you,” he said, hearing his voice grate. Feeling his throat close. “You want to listen to Pintte? And Baden? You want to send your loved ones over them mountains? Then you send ’em. I can’t stop that neither. But when they don’t come back, or when they come back dyin’, like Tollin and his folk? Don’t say I never warned you. Don’t you bloody dare say it. ’Cause here’s me standing afore you, and I’m sayin’
don’t do it
. ’Cause it’ll end in blood and tears, I promise. Just like Westwailing.”

The silence persisted, and still folk wouldn’t meet his eyes. Pintte was smiling. Sarle Baden was impassive. So he shrugged and walked out.

Weren’t nowt else he could do.

Dathne took one look at Asher’s face as he slouched into the Tower solar and put aside her quill and paper.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Instead of answering, he crossed to the rain-slicked window. Rested his forehead and one fisted hand on its leadlined diamond panes, looking so defeated she had to fight herself not to run to him. But any kind of fussing would only rouse his temper. Since Westwailing he’d been prickly, quick to snap and snarl. He blamed himself for everything. Not stopping the mageworking. Not saving the lives that were lost. For Arlin Garrick’s violent grief. For Rafel and Deenie, and what they suffered. In truth she’d not yet quite forgiven him for that, either… but the rest?

The rest wasn’t his fault. Sometimes people can’t be saved from themselves. When is he going to learn that lesson?

Never, most likely. Because he was a good man who couldn’t bear to see anyone in strife.

“Asher…” She clasped her hands on her small writing desk. “Please. Don’t shut me out.”

He sighed. “Pintte. And Sarle Baden.”

“Not Rafe?” she said, sick with sudden fear. “They’re not raising trouble because of his—”

“No,” he said quickly. “Rafe’s fine. They don’t care about him.”

“Then
what?
”

Unsteadily, he told her. When the sorry tale was finished he fell silent, his breathing harsh. His face hidden. Tormented by her own pain, her own guilt, she stared at him, silent. Then a stirring of awareness turned her gaze to the solar doorway. Deenie was standing there, her blue cotton blouse and skirt dusted with flour. She’d been downstairs in the kitchen, baking with Meistress Watt. But of course, being Deenie, her father’s distress had called her like a beacon.

Dathne shook her head.
Not now
. Deenie nodded, her thin face stricken, and softly withdrew. Such a good girl. If only there was a way to—to
undo
what she could do. Life promised to be cruel if she continued to feel everything so keenly.

She looked again at Asher. His back was still turned to her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “If I hadn’t asked Fernel to come here that first time—Barl’s
tits,
I knew he could be difficult. But he’s one of our best mages. I thought we needed him.”

“Ain’t your fault, Dath,” he said wearily. “I be the one who said to keep what we knew secret.”

“To protect Lur! To prevent panic! Not for any other reason. Not to—to miser power to yourself, or—”

“Aye, but that ain’t the point now, is it?” he said, and shifted to face her. His eyes were grieved. “The point is he’s got folk lookin’ at me sideways. Doubtin’ me. Wonderin’ what else I know that I ain’t told. And Dath, I
have
got secrets.”

“Everyone’s got secrets, Asher.”

“Not like mine they bloody haven’t! The Weather Magic. Barl’s diary. What I did to keep Lur steady. And if folk ever find out—”

“They won’t,” she said, standing. “But Asher, even if they did, I’ll never believe the likes of Fernel Pintte or Sarle Baden could turn the people of Lur against you. Not after what you’ve suffered and sacrificed for this kingdom.” She felt rage rise, scalding her blood. “And if they try—”

“Dath…” Asher rubbed at his eyes. “It ain’t me you should fret on. Pintte and Baden be set on gettin’ up a second expedition. Pintte’s come right out and said it—the Doranen don’t belong here. And that bloody Sarle Baden, he stood there
agreein’
with him. He says there be a mort-load of Doranen mages as want to quit Lur fast as they can. They want to go home, to Lost Dorana.”

“So
let
them,” she retorted. “We won’t miss them. We don’t need them any more.”

“Now you sound like bloody Pintte,” he said, staring.

She shrugged. “Being hateful doesn’t always make him wrong. Asher, Lur’s broken. Too broken to fix. You
know
it. With the Doranen gone, the strain eases on the rest of us.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, pushing away from the window. Crossed to the solar’s couch and dropped onto it as though every breath, every step, hurt him. “Dath, Pintte and Baden are goin’ to get ’em all killed. Every last fool they hoodwink into goin’ with ’em? They’ll die.”

“Asher…” Hesitant, she joined him on the couch. Left some distance between them so he’d not feel cornered. “If people choose to go, then—”

“Then I don’t need to lose sleep on ’em?” he demanded. “That’s what you said about Westwailing, Dathne. And in case you ain’t noticed, I’m bloody losin’ sleep! I can’t stand back and watch the Doranen go to their deaths. How could I make that right with Gar?”

She reached for his hand. “Gar is dead, Asher. Your loyalty belongs to the living. To your people. The Olken.”

It might’ve been true, but it was the wrong thing to say. Even as she spoke the words she knew that… but it was too late. He leapt up, and started pacing.

“There be enough folk dead, Dath. I can’t—I ain’t about to—” He rounded on her. “I can stop this. I can make it so no-one has to leave.”

She went cold. “Asher, don’t even
think
it.”

He took a step towards her. “Dath, I—”

“No.” She flung up both hands, halting him. “After Westwailing? After what happened the last time?
No
. Besides—even if you could pour more magic into that Weather map without killing yourself,
which you can’t,
how would it solve anything? The Doranen
want
to leave. And you’ve no right to stop them!”

“They want to leave ’cause they be frighted by what’s gone wrong in Lur!” he retorted. “And ’cause Sarle Baden’s fillin’ their heads full of romantic bloody nonsense. If they weren’t frighted they wouldn’t lissen. He’d just be some crackpot, mutterin’ in a corner. And Pintte? Bloody Pintte’s usin’ Lur’s strife as an excuse to push ’em out! And neither one of ’em wants to be told there ain’t nowhere to go!”

“Then stop trying to tell them! Stop trying to save people who don’t
want
to be saved!”

Incredulous, Asher stared at her. “Dathne, you ain’t
thinkin’
. The Council’s goin’ to say yes to Pintte and Baden’s expedition. And when it fails, ’cause it will, the rest of us’ll be right back where we started. Stuck here in Lur, and Lur fallin’ to pieces around us. So if I don’t try fixin’ things, what happens then?”

“I don’t know,” she said, defiant. Terrified. “All I know is that you promised me you’d not touch that Weather map again. Asher, you
promised
. And if you break that promise I will
never
forgive you.”

And she walked out so he could think on that for a little while, on his lonesome.

Goose peered over the rim of the vast oak tub. “No,” he said. “Not yet. Keep crushing.”

Sweating, choking on the stink of bruised malted barley, Rafel glared. “I’ve been crushing the bloody stuff for hours, Goose. My arms are about to fall off!”

“You’ve been crushing it for nigh on five minutes,” said Goose, grinning. “You little girl.”

“Little girl?”
He blotted his forehead dry with his sleeve. “In case you’re addled from drinking your own ale, Meister Goose, you might remember
I’m
back from Westwailing where—”

“You were a hero. I know,” said Goose, still grinning. Then the grin slipped. “And came bloody close to feeding a whirlpool. So if you’re still weary, then…”

He was. Not just from the harbour, but from the long carriage drive home, too—and most of all from the effort it took to keep his newly woken magic contained. It was unruly, his power. Simmering always on the edge of his mind. Teasing, taunting, demanding to be let loose. And fighting, fighting so hard, ’cause he couldn’t let it. ’Cause it had to be contained.

Oh yes. He was weary.

But he’d skin himself alive before admitting it. “Weary yourself!” he scoffed, and starting pounding the malt again. “You roll them oats. That’s your job, I reckon, not giving me grief.”

Snorting, Goose fed another scoop of groats into the handroller and cranked its heavy handle. “Come on, Rafe. Life ain’t worth living if I can’t give you grief.”

“Ha!” he said, and picked up his heavy wooden hammer. “Life ain’t worth living upside down in an ale casket, neither!”

Goose pulled a face. “True.”

Comfortably companionable, they continued pounding and rolling. Goose was experimenting with a new ale recipe he’d dreamed up, so they were making a small batch in the home brewery down the back of his family house. The air was thick with the rich smell of crushed malt and rolled oats, and damp with steam from the huge kettles of freshly boiled water standing ready to make the mash for fermenting.

Rafel, watching Goose roll his last scoop of oats, seeing the fierce concentration in his friend’s face, and the carefully buried excitement, felt a pang of envy. Lucky Goose, knowing what he loved and was good at. Was allowed to be good at. No-one ogled him for being a brewer. No-one stared at him with curiosity and suspicion. As though he might erupt into dangerous magic any ticktock.

Goose looked up from his rolling. “How’s your father?”

“Da?” He reached for the broad oak paddle and loosened up the crushed malt. “He’s fine.”

“And you?”

“And me.”

“You sure?”

He scowled. “Yes.”

The look on Goose’s face said he wasn’t convinced. These days his da wasn’t Meister of the Brewers’ Guild but that didn’t stop him hearing every last whisper from what went on in the General Council. Three days had passed since Da’s brangle with Fernel Pintte. Dorana was still buzzing on it—and City folk didn’t know half of what went on.

And I only know all of it ’cause Goose told me. His da talks to him like the man grown he is. Da and Mama want to keep me a sprat. Even after Westwailing, they’re trying to protect me. When are they going to realise it’s too late for that?

Goose came over to check the pounded malt again. “That’ll do,” he declared, and fetched the large pail of rolled oats. Together they lifted the heavy tub of malt, tipped it into the oats, then shoved the emptied tub to one side. “Here,” said Goose, handing him the oak paddle. “Mix them up good and proper.”

“Aye, sir,” he said, and got stuck in with the paddle. While he mixed the malt and oats, Goose lugged over the empty oak barrel set aside for his new ale. Levered the first full, steaming kettle off the stove and tipped the boiled water out slowly, encouraging more steam to billow. Tipped in the second kettle, and some of the third.

“Right,” said Goose, smiling. He was a man who surely loved his work. “Time for the magic.”

They dribbled the dry malted barley and rolled oats into the sloshing oak barrel, then Rafel stood back as Goose poured in more steaming water. When that was done his friend nodded, well pleased.

“Now we wait a bit. Fancy a tot of my last brew?”

“What was your last brew?” he said, feeling cautious. “I ain’t of a mind to tiddly myself so early in the day.”

“You won’t,” Goose promised. “It’s mild as mother’s milk. Weaker than what we’re brewing here, which is why I had a little fiddle with the recipe.”

Rafel took the cool bottle Goose offered him, plucked from a clay-and-tile lined pit in the brewery floor, unstopped it and swallowed. Liquid gold poured down his throat. “Not bad,” he said, pretending indifference, and hitched his hip onto a handy oak barrel. “I’d pay for it in a pinch, if I had to.”

Goose didn’t bite. “So tell me the truth, Rafe,” he said. “How are you?” He sighed.
Should’ve known he wouldn’t let it go. He never does.
The day they got back from the coast he told Goose everything about Westwailing. Told him how Da had hidden most of his magic from him for
years,
and only revealed the truth ’cause he’d been pushed to it. With Goose there wasn’t any need to hide. All his pain, his rage, his bewildered betrayal—Goose knew it all. There was comfort in that.

“I ain’t fine.”

Goose was watching him closely. “You still not talking to your dad?”

“Not about—” He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Rafe.”

He swallowed more ale. “He could talk to me. He could say sorry.”