The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (54 page)

The air in the glass-domed chamber was cool and dry, and it thrummed against his bare skin like a drumbeat in the distance. Echoes of power. Echoes of pain. Echoes of voices, screaming in the night.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I can feel it.”

“Ha,” said Da, briefly pleased. “Knew you would, sprat.” Then he nodded, scowling. “And that’s the Weather map. Sinkin’ bloody thing.”

Moving closer, he stared at the map, marvelling. He didn’t know much about it—Da never said, nor Mama. Darran had never seen it, but he’d known a few stories and told them once or twice. He’d called it beautiful, and he was right. A pity about the scattered patches of blight marring its intricate details.

“Touch it,” said Da.

Startled, he looked up. “Me? But—”

“Touch it,”
Da insisted. “Then tell me what you feel.”

Hesitant, he reached out one finger to the map—then snatched his hand back, gagging, and scrubbed it over his mouth as though he’d just bitten into something rotten. The map felt like Westwailing, like the magics spat out by the whirlpools and the waterspouts and Dragonteeth Reef. Diseased. Rancid. Bloated black, like a corpse.

“Morg.”

Da was nodding. “Aye, Morg’s in there, the bastard. But d’you feel anythin’ else?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his belly churning. He wanted to retch.

“Touch it again, sprat,” said Da. “For as long as you can stand.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was Da asking, so…

“I don’t know,” he said again, when his guts finally stopped heaving. “At first I thought it was dead, but—”

“But you ain’t sure?” Da said, watching him closely. “You reckon you might feel a tiny spark of somethin’, buried under the blight?”

“I think so.” Then he shrugged. “Or could be I’m just imagining it.” Sighing, Da came to stand beside him. Pressed his palm flat to the map. His tired face tightened with revulsion. “You ain’t,” he said at last, through gritted teeth. “There be a spark of power there. Almost burned out now. You be good all right, sprat, if you can feel it.”

The compliment warmed him. The look in Da’s eyes killed that warmth. “What does it mean? I thought all Lur’s Weather Magic was long gone. I thought it died with Morg, when the Wall came down.”

Da sighed again. “That be what we told folk, Rafe. Me and Pellen and your ma. We thought it were safest that way, see? We thought the worst were behind us, and Lur were free of Doranen meddling. We thought.”

Chilled, he stared at the map. “You were wrong?”

“Aye, sprat,” said Da, sounding so sad. “We were wrong.”

And with a whispered word, and a tracery of burning sigils, Da made snow fall beneath the chamber’s glass-domed roof.

The stunned delight in Rafel’s face as he watched the snow fall made the pain of calling it not matter. Made it hardly hurt at all. Asher felt the trickling blood on his lips, tasted it on his tongue, and didn’t care. Rafe were smiling. They were talking again.

Whatever else comes, at least we got that much.

“Da, it’s—it’s—I want to do that,” said Rafe, his voice hushed, fingers reaching to touch the tiny, drifting white flakes. “Show me how to do that.”

Simple pleasure died. Shaking his head, he banished the snow. “Can’t, sprat.”

Hurt, Rafel stared at him, snowflakes melting in the palm of his hand. “Why not?”

“The Weather Magic’s lost. It be long dead and gone.”

“But you just said—”

“As good as,” he added. “What’s left of it be in me. And when I die, it’ll be dead for good.”

“But that means it ain’t dead now,” Rafe argued. “So you could teach me. Da—”

Closing his eyes, Asher took a deep breath.
Sorry, sprat. Sorry. But I won’t curse you with this
. “Weather Magic can’t be learned like other Doranen magic, Rafe. I be the last WeatherWorker of Lur.”

Disappointed, Rafe hunched his shoulders. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“ ’Cause I got to break a promise to your ma, and I don’t want to do it alone.”

“
Da
—
”
Rafe stamped about a bit, just like he used to when he were a sprat, and thwarted. “Stop turning everything into a bloody riddle, would you? Just tell me what we’re doing here, simple and straight out, or I’m leaving.”

He had to smile, even though he were sick with nerves. With the echoes of pain. “Sink me, you got a mouth on you.”

“Sink
me,
” Rafe retorted. “Look, Da! I’m walking to the door—”

He stepped in front of his son. Pressed one palm flat to Rafe’s chest. “No, you ain’t.”

“Da…” Rafe turned away. “No more games. It ain’t been a good day and—” He turned back again. “Please. No more games.”

The pain in his son, for Goose, were like a knife stuck in his own heart.
Forgive me, sprat. I would’ve spared you if I could
. “Rafe, the last time things went bad in Lur, I came up here and I put ’em to rights by pourin’ more Weather Magic into that bloody map.”

Rafel’s mouth fell open. “You what? But—
how?
”

So he explained. Told his son the truth of what had happened when he were a boy of ten, holding nowt back.

“So… you weren’t bedridden with an ague those weeks,” Rafe said, when the tale was told. “When me and Deenie were sent off with Uncle Pellen and Charis for that jaunt down to the Dingles.”

He shook his head. “No, that were a taradiddle. Like I told you—I nigh on killed m’self fuddlin’ with the Weather map. Your ma—” He winced, remembering. “She ain’t never been so fratched at me her whole life. But I didn’t have a choice, Rafe. Just like I ain’t got a choice now.”

Swallowing, Rafel looked at the Weather map. “You want to do it again?”

“No, I don’t bloody want to!” he snapped. “But if I don’t—we’ll see the end of Lur. A lot of folks’ll die. And if Pintte’s expedition does make it back home across them mountains, what they’ll find…” He grimaced. “Rafe, I got to do it.”

“Da—” Rafel stamped about a bit more. “There’s got to be something else we can do. You said it yourself—you’re not strong enough for this.”

Admitting it hurt, but his pride weren’t something Lur could afford just now. “I
know,
Rafe. That be why I need you.”

Rafe stopped his stamping. “Da, you promised Mama. If you do this, she won’t forgive you.”

“Rafe…” He gave his son a weary smile. “One of these days I’ll sit you down and I’ll tell you some of the things your ma and me have forgiven each other. She’ll be fratched, I don’t deny it… but she’ll get over it. Ain’t nobody knows Lur comes first better than your ma.”

Folding his arms tight, Rafe started pacing again. “I still say you could be wrong. If what you say is true, Deenie would’ve felt something. You know what she’s like. She’d be in tears all over the place or waking us all up with nightmares. So I reckon—”

“Then you’d reckon wrong, sprat,” he said quietly. “ ’Cause for one thing, last time this happened I started feelin’ things were goin’ wrong long afore anyone else. And for another, I be the WeatherWorker.”

“Which means what, Da?” said Rafe, challenging. “You want me to help you, then I want to know.” His eyes narrowed. “No more secrets, remember? After Westwailing you owe me that much.”

You owe me
. The sprat was so angry. No matter how he explained why he and Dath had tampered with him, Rafe might never understand. But right now there weren’t time for explanations. Explanations would have to wait.

A sudden, clutching fear. “Rafe, you ain’t been trying anything, have you? You ain’t snuck off to—”

“To what, Da?
Play?
” Rafe’s fingers curled to fists. “And if I have?”

“Rafe
—
”

“Don’t worry, Da. I know better. I know what’s inside me is bloody dangerous.”

Sick with relief, he nodded. “We’ll work this out, sprat. I promise. When Lur’s sorted, we’ll work this out.”

Rafe nodded. “We surely will, Da.”

“Right. Well. About bein’ WeatherWorker. It means I feel things different. Good as you are, Rafe, you can’t feel everythin’. And what I feel…” He didn’t try to hide his shiver. “Rafe, once things have gone from bad to worse, I’m feared they’ll bring Lur to an end. Not just the land, sprat, but the people with it. I’m feared what’s comin’ will set us at each other’s throats.”

“But Da, we’re peaceful,” said Rafe, shaking his head. “We always have been. I don’t believe we’d—”

“Rafe,
think,
” he said, desperate. “We only be peaceful ’cause there ain’t nowt to fight on. But with the reef’s magic havin’ wrecked every harbour, and no more fishin’, and crops that ain’t yieldin’ what we need ’em to yield—d’you reckon we’ll survive another calamity with the weather? More floods, more sick, drowned stock, more folk washed out of their homes? D’you reckon there won’t be hunger and panic and folk branglin’ in the streets? D’you reckon the Doranen won’t start thinkin’ on how life weren’t this complicated when they were in charge?”

Rafe looked at him, uncertain. “But—we got laws, Da. They wouldn’t—they couldn’t—”

“Course they would. Course they
could
. Laws only protect folk when everyone abides by ’em. But if them as be stronger wakes up one mornin’ and decides they don’t fancy followin’ them laws no more—what’s to stop ’em from doin’ whatever they bloody like?”

It broke his heart, stripping Rafel of his belief that life were safe and always would be.
I fought Morg so this wouldn’t happen again. Gar died so none of us would be frighted again
. So were the fightin’ and the dyin’ for nowt, in the end? Were that the harsh lesson Lur was bein’ taught?

“Da…” Rafe folded his arms, his jaw stubbornly clenched. “Say I agree with you. Say things are set to turn as bad as you think. That doesn’t mean you should risk your life again. At least—not before you have to. Not before it’s clear there really ain’t no other choice.”

“Rafel, I
told
you—”

“No!”
Rafe said, and started his pacing. “You can wait a bit longer, Da. At least till Deenie feels something too. I heard everything you said, I did, but—but could be you can’t exactly trust what you feel. I mean, you’re fretted about Uncle Pellen, and you ain’t over what happened down in Westwailing, and maybe doing this right now, Da, maybe it ain’t such a good idea.”

Oh, Rafe
. “And maybe,” he said, “if I can get some more power into that bloody Weather map, and stop the weather failin’ on us, there’ll be time for you to ride after Goose and tell him he don’t need to go over them mountains. His da told me all about it, Rafe, how the brewers be worried for their oats and their barley and their bloody hops. So if I fix things here…”

Shocked, Rafe stopped his pacing.
“
Da
—
”

“I know you be scared he’s goin’ to die somewhere out there,” he said. “So if I won’t let you go with him—and Rafe, I never will—then I reckon I ought to try my best to keep him out of mischief.”

Tears filled his son’s eyes. “But Da… what if
you
die?”

“I won’t,” he said. “Not with you here. ’Cause that be your job, eh? Keepin’ an eye on me. Makin’ sure I don’t die.”

“
That’s
my job?” said Rafe, incredulous. “When I don’t know the first bloody thing about Weather Magic?
Da
—”

He shrugged. “You might not have the Weather Magic but you got the potential for it. You can feel it in the map. And there be all that power in you, that I might need to borrow again.” He tried to smile. “If you don’t mind.”

“
Mind?
Da, don’t be bloody stupid.” Rafe took a deep breath. Blew it out, hard. “So, what do I do? What do
you
do? How does it work, you putting power into that map?”

“I don’t rightly know,” he admitted. “Just… it be part of the Weather Magic. Part of me. All you got to do is not let me go too far. Stop me afore I pour all of m’self into the bloody thing. ’Cause it’ll suck me dry if I ain’t careful.”

“This is mad,” Rafe muttered, and half-turned away. “Da—”

He took one step towards his son, and stopped. “You can do this, Rafe. You can. I got faith in you.”

Slowly, very slowly, Rafe turned back. “Have you?”

The doubt in his son’s eyes was a punishment.
Do I deserve it? Prob’ly.
“Hidin’ your magic weren’t never about trustin’ you. I only did it to keep you safe.”

Rafe nodded. “I know.”

“But you be fratched anyway,” he said. “And you don’t forgive me.” A glitter in Rafe’s eyes. “Say you were wrong, Da.”

But I weren’t.
“I was wrong.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

I ain’t sorry, and I never bloody will be
. “I’m sorry, Rafel.”

Silence in the chamber. In the dome-filtered sunshine, Barl’s Weather map gleamed, slowly dying.

“All right,” said Rafe. “But you’re telling Mama this was all
your
idea.”

He tousled his son’s short hair, in passing. “You drive a hard bloody bargain, sprat. Now let’s get ourselves settled, eh? And we’ll do what we can do to save this sorry bloody kingdom, afore it’s too late.”