The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (55 page)

P
ass me the tea caddy, Deenie?” said Charis, as she swished freshly boiled water in the pot to warm it.

Deenie took the caddy down from its shelf above Charis’s kitchen bench, prised off its lid, made sure the scoop was in there, then handed it over.

“Thanks,” said Charis, with a half-hearted smile.

Watching her toss careless scoops of loose dried peppermint leaves into the teapot, feeling her friend’s strictly concealed upset, she blinked back tears. “Mama might not be a proper pother, Charis, but she knows all about herbs and possets. I’m sure Uncle Pellen will feel better soon.”

Charis nodded. “I’m sure, too.”

Except she wasn’t. Deenie could feel that she wasn’t, just as she could feel Uncle Pellen’s slowly failing spirit and Ma’s terrible, wrenching grief—not only for her friend, but for her husband and son, as well. Their feelings tangled inside her, making it hard to breathe. Making her head hurt, and her throat. After weeks of Da’s misery and Rafel’s rage it was enough to make her burst into sobs.

I hate feeling things. I wish I could snap my fingers and turn into stone
.

No-one could tell her why she was like this. Not Pother Kerril, not Pother Nix, not even Mama or Da.
He
said it was ’cause she was special. As though somehow that would make it all right. Well, it didn’t. She didn’t want to be special, not if it meant living the rest of her life feeling other people’s hurts like they were her own. And the older she got, the harder she felt them, as though the seed of her feeling things grew as she grew.

What will it be like when I’ve finished my growing? I don’t want to find out. I want to find a way to stop it.

Not even Charis properly understood, and she was a mage with power. She said she knew how it felt. But even when she was weepy with what she could feel in Lur, it wasn’t the same. No-one was the same.

No-one is like me, not even Da.

The loneliness of that was almost too hard to bear.

With the boiling water added to the teapot, Charis swirled it round a few times then set the tea aside to draw. “I’m so glad you bought that shawl, Deenie. That shade of blue is so pretty on you.”

Deenie glanced at the kitchen table, where she and Mama had carelessly dropped their parcels. “I do love it. But I wish you’d bought the green one.”

“I didn’t need it,” said Charis, putting the lid back on the tea caddy. “I have a green shawl already. And besides—”

“Besides what?” she prompted.

“Nothing,” said Charis, and made herself smile. “Maybe next time. Anyway, it’s fun to look at things without buying them.”

“Charis…” She hesitated.
I don’t want to pry
. But they were close as sisters. “Charis, is it—is it money?”

“No!” said Charis, quickly, hotly—but then her face crumpled, and she nodded. “The possets Papa needs now, the herbs are so rare. Especially with the rain and the flooding. It’s not that there isn’t money, there is, but—I don’t know how long it has to last, Deenie. I don’t know how long—”

“Oh, Charis,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I wish—”

With a heartbreaking effort, Charis banished her fears. Blinked back the tears, tilted her chin, and carefully untied her frilly yellow apron and hung it on its hook by the muslin-curtained kitchen window.

“I meant to ask you before, how’s Rafel? I never see him around. Well, just that once in the street the other day, but—that’s not the same.”

Oh, Charis
. Her friend tried to seem indifferent, but whenever she spoke of Rafel her heart leapt into her eyes. A few days after Uncle Pellen’s farewell ball, when she couldn’t help herself, she’d asked if Rafel ever spoke of her. The hurt when she found out no, he didn’t—it was awful.

“Rafe’s fine,” Deenie said, cautiously. “Only a bit upset that Goose is leaving.”

“Of course he’s upset,” said Charis, all swift compassion. “They’re best friends, him and Goose.” She reached for a cloth and dabbed the bench dry. Snuck a sly, sideways glance, looking for a moment exactly like her old self. “What about you, Deenie? Are you upset Goose is leaving?”

She felt the heat rush into her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” said Charis. “Haven’t you seen how he looks at you? I have. Are you sweet on him? He’s ever so nice.”

And how was this suddenly about her and Goose? “Charis, you’re imagining things,” she said, flustered. “And Rafel is
fine
.”

The teasing light died out of Charis’s eyes. “Well, good. That’s good,” she said, and kept on drying the dry bench.

Deenie watched her, worried. She’d never come right out and asked Rafel if he liked Charis especially. She thought he did, even though he never spoke of her. She thought it was ’cause he
did
like her that he flirted with so many other girls when there were parties and balls in the City. Girls he liked well enough, but not so much it made him uncomfortable.

Charis made him uncomfortable.

“But he’s still awful cross with Da,” she added. “If only they’d
talk
to each other, I know they could fix things. But they’re both so stubborn, Charis. Mama’s at her wits’ end with the pair of them, and so am I. If we were still on the coast I swear I’d push them both in the harbour, water-spouts or not, and then—”

But Charis wasn’t listening. Fresh tears had welled into her eyes and this time she didn’t blink them away. And then she was slumping on the kitchen bench, her shoulders shaking. Over Rafel?

Please, please, don’t let it be about Rafel.

“Oh, Deenie,” Charis whispered, the tears flowing down her cheeks. “I’m so afraid. Papa—Papa, he’s—oh, I can’t say it. I
can’t
.”

So, not about Rafel. And now she wished it was. Charis’s pain for her father was a dreadful thing, as hungry as the whirlpools in Westwailing Harbour. But as her arms went out to hold and to comfort, she felt a fresh wave of awfulness crash over her. Sharp as broken glass, the pain sliced through her chest and throat, stealing her breath. She let go of her friend and ran for the scullery. Flung herself over the big stone tub, retching and retching, as her head spun and her body shivered hot then cold then hot.

“Deenie!”

And that was Mama, shaking with alarm. Charis must have fetched her from Uncle Pellen’s chamber. Blindly she turned and let her mother’s loving arms shelter her. Buried her wet face against her mother’s shoulder and sobbed.

“Deenie, what is it?” said Mama. “What do you feel?”

Mama’s hand stroked her hair, over and over. But it only dulled a little bit the glass pains in her chest and throat. “Da,” she choked out. “Mama, Da’s hurting.”

She felt her mother tense. The softly stroking hand stopped. “What kind of hurting?”

“The magic kind, Mama,” she said, squeezing her eyes tight shut. “And it’s bad. It’s very bad.”

“Jervale spare us,” Mama muttered. “I’ll make him bloody sorry he ever met me.
Charis!
”

Charis was hovering in the open doorway, so scared. “Aunt Dathne?”

“We have to go, child,” said Mama. “Tell your father he must stay in bed again tomorrow. Tell him I’ll come back with another posset by the evening. No getting up, mind. You’ll see he keeps under his blankets?”

“Yes, Aunt Dathne,” said Charis, her voice wobbly with fright. “I’ll tell him. Is—is Deenie all right?”

“Of course. She’s just tired,” said Mama. “It’s been a long, exciting day. Come along, Deenie. Let’s get you home. Charis—”

“Yes?”

“Run outside, child,” said Mama. “Find a cart or a carriage that can take us back to the Tower. It’s too far for Deenie to walk when she’s feeling unwell. Use Asher’s name, to be certain of help.”

Deenie lifted her head, ashamed. Saw the fright in Charis’s face. Felt like a fool, and so sick. “Oh no, Mama. Please. Don’t make a fuss. I can walk. Charis, I’m all right. Don’t fret for me. I’m only—”

“Hush!” said Mama fiercely. “You’ll do as you’re told. Charis, what are you waiting for?
Go
.”

Charis fled.

“Deenie,” said Mama, holding her. “Quickly. While we’re alone. You’re sure it’s your father? That he’s meddling with magic?”

She sounded so raw, Deenie broke free of her embrace and stared at her. “Yes, Mama. It’s Da. I know what he feels like.”

The look in Mama’s eyes—she’d never seen it before. Never felt this kind of frightened rage in her, not even down in Westwailing. “Where is he, Deenie? Can you tell?”

Reluctant, she opened herself to the messy, hot pain. “I—I’m not sure. But I think—yes, he’s with Rafe. I can feel Rafe a little bit. He’s not hurting, not like Da. But he’s frighted. And I can feel—there’s something else. Power. A lot of power. A lot of strong magic.” She tried, but she couldn’t stop the whimper. “I can’t tell where they are, Mama. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no, it’s all right, Deenie.” Mama pressed a hand to her forehead, distracted, so much fear in her eyes. “I think I know where they are. I think I know what they’re doing.” A sob caught in her throat, half-anguished, half-angry. “Oh, Asher. I’m going to
kill
you.”

Trembling, she shrank from her mother’s rage. “What’s happening, Mama? What—”

“Oh, Deenie, it’s all right,” said Mama, and kissed her. “You mustn’t be frighted, mouse. Whatever they’re playing at, I’m sure Da and your brother will be fine.”

Except she didn’t believe it.

I don’t believe it either. This is bad, like Westwailing. Oh, Da. Rafel. What have you done?

“Da!” Rafel shouted, falling to his knees beside his stricken father. “Da, what is it? What’s gone wrong?”

He’d thought what he’d seen in Westwailing was something, but it was nowt compared to Da pouring power into Barl’s Weather map. Fantastic, fiery sigils, setting the air alight. The chamber’s glass dome had trembled, smashed shafting sunlight to rainbows. He’d felt his blood burn, his hair stir. Da’s Weather Magic called to him, shuddering his bones.

But now blood was streaming from his father’s eyes, as though someone had tried to gouge them from his skull with a blunt gutting knife. More blood flowed from his nose, even his mouth.

“Da!”
he shouted again. “Can you hear me? Can you talk?”

Da didn’t answer. Sprawled across the Weather map, he only coughed and groaned.

Barl’s bloody tits, Da! Don’t let you die, you said. How am I s’posed to do that?

Shaking, he pressed one hand to the Weather map then recoiled, sickened, feeling Morg’s filthy magic all stirred up in there and spitting.
Don’t be a coward, Rafel. Da needs you—and so does Goose
. Retching, he touched the map again, and this time caught a fleeting glimpse of Barl’s magic. Stronger than it had felt before Da started pouring himself into the map… so something had happened. Something good, before it all went bad.

He bent close to his father, pressed his lips to Da’s ear. “It’s working, Da,” he whispered. “Don’t stop. Let me help. Take my magic, like you did in Westwailing. Take as much as you need. Take all of it, I don’t care.”

Blood bubbling on his lips, eyes closed, Da nodded. “Hold… my hand… sprat.”

Barely breathing, he wrapped his fingers round Da’s hand. It felt cold. Weak. Da wasn’t an ole man. Why did he feel like an ole man?

His magic’s killing him. This is what he meant. Weather Magic’s bloody murder. Oh, Da
.

Da groaned again, then opened his eyes. His face was masked in blood. “I’m sorry, Rafe. It’s goin’ to hurt you. Worse than Westwailin’.”

“I don’t care, Da. It doesn’t matter. Just hurry. Let’s get this done so we can see you safe in bed, all right?”

Da’s ole man fingers tightened, and he tried to smile. Rafel tried to smile back at him, his heart racing. Then he breathed out, slow and deep, and gave up his magic, all of it, to his father.

Furious heat… freezing cold… thunder and lightning and snowstorms in his mind. A high, sweet voice screaming. That was Barl’s voice, twisted in pain. Morg’s voice, full of hatred, snarled beneath it
.

Rafel choked, his blood turned to fire. And then he howled, because a whirlpool was sprung to life in his head. He could hear Da howling with him as the greedy, starving map tried to suck them both dry. The Weather Magic was pitiless. It was the worst pain he’d ever felt, like shards of shattered glass slicing him to ribbons. It was in Da, not him, but still he could feel it, storming through both of them without pause or mercy.