The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (50 page)

“Rafe?” said Goose. “You all right?”

He shook himself free of the memory. “Aye.”

“Rafe…” Goose sighed, all ready sympathy. “It might help if you talked on it.”

The one thing he’d not told Goose was the details of those deaths on the harbour. That would come too close to reliving them—and the dreams were bad enough. He didn’t want to put those pictures in Goose’s head.

“One day,” he said. “Goose, when d’you leave? Is it settled?”

Goose nodded. “Within a week. Pintte and Baden are jigging some talking stones strong enough to work this time. They don’t want to go until they’re sure of that.”

It was a sensible precaution. “A week,” he said. “So there’s time to change your mind.”

“Don’t want to change my mind, Rafe,” Goose said quietly. “But a week’s long enough for you to talk your dad round—if you want to.”

If he
wanted
to? Of course he bloody wanted to. The notion of Goose crossing the mountains without him? Unbearable. But to talk Da round they’d have to be talking, wouldn’t they? That meant he’d have to put aside his anger long enough to take the first step. Which meant what was more important: pride, or friendship?

How can I not go? This is my chance. Maybe my one chance to find out the kind of man—the kind of mage—I was born to be.

“I’ll talk to him, Goose,” he said. “I’ll convince him somehow. You’re right. Time’s come to stand up for myself. Live life the way I see it. Besides—I don’t like to think on the kind of trouble you’ll find if I let you out of my bloody sight.”

“Says the man who nearly got himself swallowed by a whirlpool,” Goose teased, grinning. “You and me, Rafe. Adventure bound at last.”

Even though his nerves were jangling, even though he dreaded the conversation to come, he grinned back. “Them mountains won’t know what’s hit ’em.”

“They surely won’t,” said Goose, and they laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Goose shoved him out soon after, with no more help needed brewing the ale and guild work needing attention, so he made his way out of the Brewers’ district, on foot. His horse was lame with a twisted fetlock and there’d been no other horse to borrow. Da and Mama had taken Deenie riding out to Crasthead Moor, hoping fresh air would perk her up after Westwailing. She’d been pale and indifferent ever since they came back.
“Nerves,”
said Pother Kerril.
“She’s too sensitive for her own good.”

There’d be no argument from him on that. Every time he turned around the last few days, there was his mousy sister, watching him with those big eyes. Silently urging him to fix things with Da. He wasn’t blind, he could see she was feeling their upset. But it was his business, not hers. Best she get used to that.

So many folk stopped him on his way to the High Street, putting aside any fears of him to ask after his father. Matronly Olken women patted his cheek and smoothed his hand, thanking him for what he’d done down in Westwailing. They were the ones old enough to have lived through Morg and the Final Days of prophecy, who remembered life with the Doranen before the Olken rediscovered their magic. Da held a special place in their hearts.

“Promise you’ll give him our love, Rafel,” they said. “Tell him he’s in our prayers. We left flowers for him in the Barlschapel.
We
know what he’s owed, even if others don’t.”

The young Olken women he encountered didn’t stop. They just giggled behind their hands, eyelashes fluttering as they passed him in little groups, like flocks of doves. Well. One stopped.
Charis
. Bold as brass, she was, catching him by the arm so he couldn’t walk on, and shooing her friend to stand off at a distance.

Charis made him nervous. She wore long bright skirts and frivolous blouses. She pinned her hair full of flowers and smelled like flowers, too. Sweet and heady, all roses and freesias. Flirty and teasing, at her da’s gala farewell she’d asked him to dance, and with the
knowingest
look in her eye.

Sink me, that seems a lifetime ago.

“Rafel,” she said, dimpling. “Is Deenie feeling less poorly? I’m sorry I’ve not been up to the Tower to see her, but Papa, you know, he—he—” She faltered, her confidence fading along with her smile. “Well. He’s still aguey in his chest, no matter what the pothers do.”

He knew that. Da was fretting on Uncle Pellen’s health, along with everything else. Aside from Mama, Pellen Orrick was the only friend he had left from the bad ole days. With Darran gone… and Jed, two winters past… and with him hardly speaking to any family he had left on the coast…

Me and Mama and Deenie and Pellen. That’s who he’s got. Ain’t so many, when you think on it. And now here’s me set on going over the mountains with Goose…

He shoved the inconvenient thought aside.

“Rafel,” said Charis, her fingers still on his arm. “Is something amiss?” Startled, he looked down at her. “No. Course not.”

“Only with the expedition, and that flapdoddle in the Council meeting, and what happened in Westwailing—” Her fingers tightened. “I know things haven’t been easy, Rafe. I’m sorry for it.”

Her warm sympathy took him by surprise. Just as surprising, the comfort he felt in her hand on his arm. He cleared his throat. Couldn’t help but think of Da’s terse warning on the road down south.

“That girl’s my best friend’s daughter, Rafe. You’ll not fuddle with her unless you want real trouble
.
”

He stepped back. “Aye, well. Nowt to be done about it, is there? Charis, I’ve got to—”

“Of course,” she said, blushing. “Only—Rafel, would you ask your father to come visit us? Soon? Papa would feel so much better for seeing him. He’s not been by since you got back and—well, Papa worries. He’s so fond of your da.”

“I’ll mention it,” he promised. “And you give Pellen my best, eh? I’ll be seeing you, Charis.”

“I hope so,” she said, with a flash of her usual bold, flirty self. Her fingers waggled a goodbye wave, then she tossed her hair and rejoined her friend. They walked off arm in arm, giggling, and he turned on his heel to get back to the Tower.

Let be to mind his own business at last, with not so many folk wandering this top end of the High Street, he stared at Barl’s Mountains rising jagged against the clouded sky. Ole Darran used to talk on what they looked like, before the Wall came down. The way the magic softened and blurred their peaks, keeping Lur safe. He used to say how Barl’s Wall turned the sky gold, and you could see it shimmering on the brightest bright blue day. And how at night it was so beautiful, sometimes he used to look at it and weep.

Staring at the magickless mountains now, he tried to imagine climbing over them. On
foot
. Had to be on foot. No horses could get up there. It was a daunting prospect.

Step by step, thinking on it, his pace slowed. Daunting as it was or not, he wasn’t frighted. He wanted to do this, so bad his insides ached. So bad he could
taste
it. Freedom. Adventure. The chance to prove himself, alone. Da should understand that better than anyone.

But he’s forgotten how he felt when he was twenty. He’s frighted—and he wants me to be frighted too
.

Da had risked him in Westwailing, but only ’cause he had to. Didn’t want him to risk himself, though. Didn’t care what his son wanted. Refused to see things any way but his. Could a man be slumskumbledy? If he could, that man was Da.

If I ask them, Pintte and Baden will take me on their expedition. They might not want me, but knowing me leaving Lur will fret Da, they’ll say yes. Besides—my magic’s bound to come in handy and they know that, too.

So. His decision was made. He was going. No matter what kind of fuss Da kicked up. Whether he managed to talk his father round, or not, he was going. A pity he couldn’t sneak away in the dead of night, like Da had left Restharven all those years ago. It’d be a sight easier.

And I won’t feel guilty for going, either.

Except… except… Da had wept, in Westwailing.

That night, with the township in an uproar, its harbour a wasteland of waterspouts and whirlpools, after he’d hunted that bastard Mayor Threeve out of the Dolphin, he’d seen the depth of his father’s love. The unlimited reach of his fear, that something might happen to his only son. It was raw. Painful. Almost… too private. And he’d looked so
frail
.

Fresh resentment stirred. Love didn’t excuse lying. And it could be an anchor, as well as a blessing.

If he really loves me, he won’t stand in my way. So I’m going. I am.

Except… except… Da had wept, in Westwailing.

But I can’t let Goose go alone. Da could be wrong about what’s over the mountains, but what if he ain’t? If I let Goose go alone and something happened to him? I’d never forgive myself. He’s my best friend. He’s like my brother.

Surely Da would understand that. After what happened to King Gar? He’d have to understand.

But if I go, and Da frets on me so much he makes himself sick… or worse… how do I live with that? If I cross the mountains and come home again a hero, only to find Da’s perished of fear for me while I was gone?

The thought made him sick. So now he had to choose between his best friend and his father? Between his own freedom, and his father’s life?

How is that fair?

Except… except… there was no choice.

Goose’ll understand. He’s got a father, too.

Resentful and resigned, he kept on walking for home.

Hearing the rap-rap of knuckles on his closed library door, Asher looked up. “Come in.”

The door opened.
Rafe
. His eyes were… wary. “Da. You busy? You look busy.”

Slowly, carefully, he put down his freshly inked quill, his breathing not quite steady. “No. I ain’t busy.” He flicked the papers on the desk in front of him. “Just gettin’ ready for a case in Justice Hall. You’d reckon folk could keep ’emselves brangle-free for five minutes at a stretch, but they can’t. Fools, the lot of ’em.”

Rafe hesitated, then came in and dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk. “You been sayin’ that my whole life, Da. You goin’ to sit there and tell me you be surprised?”

That tugged a small smile out of him. “No. S’pose I ain’t.” Awkward silence. Rafe rubbed at his nose. It were one of his little habits when he was fratched, or comin’ to confess a misdeed. “You sure you’re ready for Justice Hall, Da? You ain’t too tired still?”

“Didn’t fall off my horse this morning,” he said, mildly enough. “Reckon I can sit in a chair down Justice Hall. Rafel—”

“Bumped into Charis, down on the High Street,” said Rafel, skritching at a dried stain on his trews. “Uncle Pellen’s asking after you, she says. She says why ain’t you been down to see him since we got back?”

Prickled with guilt, he looked out of the library window. The clouds were coming down again. There’d be rain before sunset. “Kerril said he ain’t been spry. Don’t want to tire him.” It was true. Well, partly true. Pellen would ask him about Rafel, and Westwailing, and he didn’t have the strength to talk on it. Not yet. “I’ll maybe go see him tomorrow. Or the day after.”

Rafel nodded. “You should. She was fretted. More than I’ve ever seen her.”

Oh, Pellen
. “I will. Rafe—”

Rafel shoved to his feet and wandered over to the window. Stared down into the Tower’s gravelled forecourt. His face, not quite hidden, was brimful of secrets. Crowded with all the things he hadn’t said.

“Did you hear? The Council’s told Pintte and Baden they can have their expedition.”

“Aye. The bloody fools.” He shook his head. “They’ll be sorry.”

Rafe flicked a glance sideways. “Goose is going with them.”

Fright like a fist of iron, crushing his heart. “Aye? Well, you ain’t.”

“Ain’t I?” said Rafel, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Decided that, have you, Da?”

“That’s right.”

Rafe swung round, scowling. “Just like you decided to keep my Doranen magic a secret?”

He stood. He had to. This weren’t a sitting down conversation. “Mind your manners, sprat.”

“You never should’ve kept it a secret, Da,” said Rafe, his chin up, his eyes hot. “Not from me.”

“You didn’t need to know, Rafe.”

“Maybe not when I
was
a sprat,” said Rafe, closing half the distance between them. “Maybe not then. But now? I’m a man now. You should’ve told me.”

“And I did tell you, didn’t I? When it was needful.”

“For
you
,” Rafe spat at him. Where was his sweet son? “But it’s
my
magic, Da. You had no right to hide it, just like you’ve got no right to decide where I go or what I do with my life!”

Fright hammered him again. Fernel bloody Pintte and his sinkin’ expedition.
I should’ve let the bastard drown
. “So you reckon you can just walk out on your family? Is that what you reckon?”

“You mean like you did, when you were my age?” Rafe retorted. “Walked out in the middle of the night without even sayin’ a proper goodbye?”

Asher banged his fist on the desk, making the ink pot jump and splash. “I left Restharven for the City so I could make money to take care of my da.
That’s
why I left. Why d’you want to leave? ’Cause the work facin’ us here in Lur ain’t adventurous enough for you? You reckon to make y’self some kind of
hero,
traipsin’ about in other people’s barren lands?”