The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (52 page)

Pellen snorted. “Rafel is
not
your misery-loving brother. He’s your son and he loves you.”

“He’s a man, Pellen,” he said bleakly. “And I’m treatin’ him like a sprat. That Goose—if somethin’ happens to him…
when
somethin’ happens to him…” Grief threatened to break him again, and he had to stop a moment to blink, and breathe hard. “I had words with Goose’s da, y’know. Tried to talk him into stoppin’ his son from throwin’ his life away on Pintte’s say-so. But he wouldn’t listen, the bloody fool.”

“And what does Dathne say?”

“Not a lot,” he said. “But she cries when she thinks I be sleepin’, and can’t hear her.”

Pellen’s thin fingers on his arm tightened. “Give it more time. Rafe’ll come round.”

“Not if Goose dies, he won’t. Not if Goose dies, and he reckons he could’ve saved him if he’d been there.” Groaning, he pressed one hand across his eyes. “I may be younger’n you, Pellen, but I ain’t young no more. And I got hurts inside me from that bloody Weather Magic. Wounds as ain’t never healed goin’ back twenty years.” He let his hand fall and looked at his friend, for once not trying to hide a thing. “I’m tired. And this fight with Rafe—it be wearin’ me down.”

“I can speak to him,” said Pellen. “Would it help if I speak to him?”

Touched, and shamed again, Asher shook his head. “He wouldn’t pay you no mind, Pellen. You’re my friend. Makes you bad as me, right now. Leastways that be how he’ll see it.”

“Most likely,” said Pellen, sighing again, and took back his hand. “It was just a thought.” Then he frowned. “These hurts, Asher. These—these unhealed wounds. Should I be worried? Does Dathne know? What have you done about them?”

Shame was burned away by anger for letting despair loosen his tongue. “Never you mind about that. It ain’t nowt. Forget I said a bloody word.”

“Too late,” said Pellen. “You can’t pour spilt beer back in the jug. That business with the Weather map. Trying to fix what was wrong with Lur, last time. That’s what did the real damage, isn’t it? And then with what happened in Westwailing, you made things worse. That’s what you’re paying for now. Am I right?”

He stared at his knees, hating himself. Not answering.

“Asher!”
said Pellen sharply.
“Am I right?”

A
sher sighed. “And if you are? Like you say, Pellen—ain’t no pourin’ spilt ale back in the jug.”

“How bad is it?”

There were aches and pains in him now, gnawing at his tired bones. Aches and pains Kerril’s strongest potions couldn’t dull. “Bad enough.”

“Well, if a stubborn frog like you is
admitting
it,” said Pellen, trying to make a joke. But it weren’t funny, and he knew it. None of this were funny. “I’m sorry, Asher. For all of it.”

“Don’t know what you be apologisin’ for,” he said, struggling to stay on an even keel.

“Someone has to,” said Pellen. “And since Fernel bloody Pintte won’t…” He shrugged, then his gaze sharpened, and he was suddenly Captain Orrick of the City Guard again. “Asher—I hope you’re not thinking to do anything foolish.”

“Course I ain’t.”

But Pellen didn’t believe him. “Working that Weather map nearly killed you ten years ago. It nearly killed Dathne, to see you so hurt. Would you do that to her a second time?”

He stared at Pellen, derisive. “You sayin’ that when you was our doughty Guard Captain, and some fool of an Olken took a swing at you, you never set foot in a brawl again after?”

“That’s different!” Pellen retorted. “Your Weather Magic’s
lethal,
Asher.”

“And a brawler’s knife ain’t?” he said, pushing out of his chair. “Pellen, leave be. I ain’t sure what I’m goin’ to do. Just—don’t you make it any harder on me, eh? Lyin’ there all poorly and pathetic. Tryin’ to use my sympathy agin me.”

“All right,” said Pellen, grudging. “But don’t you expect me not to speak my mind.”

Fetched up at the open chamber window, looking out across the City’s rooftops towards Market Square, he shook his head. “I don’t. Known you too bloody long for that.”

Fleeting sunshine was warm on his face, the light breeze scented with blossoms from window-boxes, and tinged pungent by pigeon dung. Bloody birds nested in every nook and cranny of a house. Staring further across the rooftops he could see the distant tiles of Justice Hall, and a narrow strip of stained glass: Dorana City’s Barlschapel. The bits of street and laneway he could see were empty. Nobody scurrying on urgent business, or lazily strolling to admire shop window displays. Anyone not bedridden was down to the Square or lining the main street leading to the City gates, squashed belly to arse so’s they could say to anyone who’d listen after,
“I was there to see the expedition ride out.”

It were just like last time, when Tollin and his foolhardy friends got ’emselves blessed by Holze. The breeze strengthened and he caught a hint of voices raised in joyful acclaim, as folk lied to ’emselves as how their troubles would soon be over.

Laughter when they leave and weepin’ when they come back. How is it folk got such short bloody memories?

“Asher…”

He turned. Barl save him, Pellen looked bad.
It ain’t fair. Why do all my friends die?
“Aye?”

“Have you thought you could be wrong about things?” said Pellen, almost hesitant. “We’ve had more settled weather, these past days. I hear the flooding’s eased. The tremors have stopped. Maybe… maybe what happened before was a false alarm.”

“Pellen…” He shook his head. How much did it hurt him, to dash his friend’s frail hopes? “No. I wish it were, but it ain’t. What happened before were Lur clearin’ its throat. Now the kingdom’s just holdin’ its breath. Bidin’ its time.”

“Why do you say that?”

Asher closed his eyes. Ignored Pellen’s dismay, and the pain in his bones, let the mage in him sink deep and felt the drips and dregs of the magic he’d poured into Lur’s earth. So little left now. So much heart-ache to come.

“ ’Cause it’s true,” he murmured. “ ’Cause I can feel it.” He opened his eyes. “And I’ll bet Fernel bloody Pintte can feel it too. Prob’ly it be why he’s so keen on rushin’ off over them mountains. He knows what’s comin’ and he don’t want to be here.”

“Well, if you’re right—whatever comes, Lur will survive it,” said Pellen, his eyes feverish. “We survived before there was Weather Magic. We survived the coming of the Doranen and the fall of Barl’s Wall. Whatever happens, Lur will survive it too. If I believe nothing else, I believe that.”

Wish I did
. But he didn’t say so out loud. Mayhap Pellen really did believe it, and weren’t just tryin’ to cheer him up. Spoilin’ things for him wouldn’t be very kind.

“Asher,” said Pellen, still sharp. “I want you to promise me something.”

Wary now, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll not do anything foolish on your own. That for once in your stubborn life you’ll seek advice from those who care for you
before
you do something that can’t be undone.”

Pellen meant well, but he didn’t understand. How could he? He weren’t a mage. He couldn’t feel the earth, he only walked on top of it.

“I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?” said Pellen, disappointed, falling back against his pillows. “You’ll do what you think is right, no matter what I or Dathne or anyone else might say.”

“I’m sorry, Pellen.”

“Don’t be. You’re the Innocent Mage. It’s not my place to—”

“Not your
place?
” he demanded. “When it’s you who got Gar and Matt and Darran out of the City, away from Morg? The only reason we beat the bastard is ’cause of you.” Breathing hard, he dragged a hand down his face. “Not your
place?
Sink me, Pellen, you dare say that againandI’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” said Pellen, smiling. There was an ominous rattle in his chest. “Slap the dying man who’s trying to save you?”

And what could he say to that? Nowt. But even if he’d had the words, tears were too close.

“Forget I asked it,” said Pellen. “And promise me this, instead.”

With a terrible effort, he made himself smile. “Sink me twice. What now?”

Leaning over, Pellen tugged open the drawer in his bedside table and pulled out a battered, dog-eared pack of playing cards. “Don’t summon a horselir to eat me when I thrash you at zephyr.”

Pellen, Pellen.
You be breakin’ my bloody heart
. “Fine. I won’t summon a horselir,” he said, and returned to the chair by the bed. “But I ain’t about to promise I won’t make it snow down your nightshirt—
if
you beat me.” Taking the cards, he began a swift shuffle. “ ’Cept you won’t. So I reckon you be safe from snowfalls, for now.”

“Goose.”

Amid the hustle and bustle of the expedition’s final preparations, now that Barlsman Jaffee had said his prayers over them, Goose was taking a quiet moment, it seemed, to gather his thoughts. Was sat on an upturned bucket outside his horse’s stable round the back of Justice Hall, where Pintte and Baden’s collected group of adventurers milled and argued and jostled.

“Goose,” Rafel said again, when his friend didn’t look up. “Have you got a spare ticktock?”

They’d spoken once since that afternoon of ale-brewing, when he’d told his friend he’d travel with him over the mountains. Just once he’d seen Goose, to break his promised word.

Goose lifted his head. “Rafe.”

They stared at each other, silent, as around them Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden and the other eight as were leaving, four Olken and four Doranen, fetched bridles and saddles, double-checked saddlebags and backpacks. Rafel spared them a glance, and didn’t recognise one of them. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets. There were too many folk here, with big ears and flapping lips.

“Walk with me a little ways? Have you got time?”

Goose shrugged. “A minute or so. Can’t walk far in a minute.”

“We can walk far enough,” he said, and nodded to the tree-shadowed pathway leading to the lane that ran behind the Hall. “If you want to.”

Goose looked to where Fernel Pintte was in conversation with Sarle Baden. Not friends, those two, but joined in common cause. No more Doranen in Lur. “Meister Mayor!”

Pintte turned. When he saw who’d come visiting, his face collapsed in a scowl. “What?”

“Need to take a moment,” said Goose. “I won’t go far. Won’t be long.”

“And we won’t wait for you if that’s not the case,” Pintte retorted. “Rafel—”

Rafel held up his hands. “Ain’t come to cause trouble, Meister Mayor. Just need a word with Goose, here, before you go.”

Fernel Pintte turned his back. So prob’ly that meant he and Goose had their moment.

Goose seemed to think so, ’cause he pushed himself off the bucket and threaded his way through the chaos towards the pathway. Guts twisting, Rafel followed. Joined him in the dappling shadows, his mouth crowded with words.

“Rafe, I ain’t mad at you,” Goose said, patient. Not smiling. “I’ve told you that once already. So if you’re here to say sorry, save your breath. To be honest, I never really thought you’d come. I never thought your father would let you.”

And that burned. “
Let
me?”

Goose rested a hand on his shoulder. Tightened his fingers and shook him, just a bit. “Rafe, I swear—sometimes you’re thicker than a brick wall. He nearly got you killed in Westwailing. Did you truly think he’d let you out of his sight so soon after? Trust you to Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden, when he blames them for what happened there? Don’t be daft. Even if he wasn’t stone-blind certain the expedition’s going to go bad, he’d not risk you. And he is certain, isn’t he?”

Goose’s kind forbearance was worse than anger. They were the same age—yet oddly, his friend seemed older, of a sudden. And he felt younger. Like the little brother being left behind.

“It doesn’t make him right.”

“That’s not the point, Rafe,” said Goose, and let his hand drop. “The point is he
thinks
he’s right. And your father’s the most stubborn Olken in history. Did you know he came to see my dad? Tried to browbeat him into making me stay home?”

He stared at his friend, horrified. “Goose, I didn’t know, I swear. I didn’t ask him. I’ve hardly said a word to him since—” He chewed at his lip. “Goose, I’m sorry.”