The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (65 page)

I’m tired too. I’m tired of feeling things nobody else can feel. I’m tired of not being believed. I’m tired of being alone. Of being afraid. Of being a mouse waiting for the hungry cat to pounce
.

Frighted and lonely, knowing she’d most likely regret it, she sought out her brother. He’d been home a handful of hours but they’d not spoken yet. She’d heard him and Mama, though, shouting. She’d not drowsed her way through that. So much hurt and anger, pins and needles in her heart. They’d shouted about him leaving again. About Da, and Barl’s Mountains. About Goose and the others who’d gone away… and weren’t going to come back. Because she couldn’t help either of them, she’d stuffed her fingers in her ears.

Rafe was in his privy chamber, hunched in the window-seat reading an old, tattered manuscript. Standing in the doorway, she waited for him to notice her.

“Go away,” he said, not looking up. “I’m busy.”

That manuscript—it was Tollin’s account of his expedition, that failed. The first time she’d found Rafe reading it—out in the Tower gardens, where he’d go to be alone and where she could always find him—they were both sprats. Nearly nine, she’d been, and sure as sure he wasn’t s’posed to have it. Had spied on him reading bits aloud to himself, playing parts, playing explorer, then crept away before she could betray herself, giggling. But he wasn’t a sprat now, and neither was she.

“Rafe,” she said softly, inching her way acrosss the carpet. “Do you really think Tollin’s records will help?”

“I said go away,” he muttered. The chamber’s glimlight sputtered, throwing shadows every which way, echoing the earth’s ceaseless unrest. “Don’t make me make you.”

But she persisted, because his threats didn’t scare her. Even with all that power in him, straining to burst loose, churning in his blood like the whirlpools down in Westwailing. He was her brother. She could never fear him.

“The others would’ve seen that manuscript, you know. Goose and Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden. If it didn’t help them, I don’t see it helping you.”

An exasperated sigh hissed between his teeth.
“Deenie
…
”
And then he let his head fall back against the wainscoting. “How did you know I’m going? Were you listening too?” He pulled a face. “Bloody girls.”

“I wasn’t
listening,
” she said crossly, because the way he said it meant something sneaky and sly. “I
heard
. You might think on keeping your voice down if you want to talk secrets on the stairs.”

“Ha. Right.”

The thought of him leaving was like knife blades sliding under her skin. “Rafe… do you have to do this?”

And now he shifted his gaze to meet hers. “Aye.”

If he’d shouted at her, like he’d shouted at Mama… if he’d rolled his eyes, tried to make it a joke… if he hadn’t just
looked
at her, so serious, so resigned…

I can’t fratch at him. I can’t.

Trembly, she dropped onto a handy footstool.
Rafe
. “So… that manuscript. Did you pinch it from Da? That time you did the really tricky magic, remember? Is that when you pinched it?”

“That was years ago,” he said, letting the worn parchment slide onto his lap. “What does it matter now?”

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.
’
Cept he was going away and they hardly ever talked. “I know, but…” She chewed her lip. “Did you?”

“What if I did?” he said, looking out of the window where the rain was pouring and the sky flashed with lightning. “Who you going to tell?”

“Nobody. I just wanted to know. That tricky magic. Did you make it up?”

She watched a memory play over his face. Watched some small, secret pleasure ease the strain in his eyes. Sitting so close to him, almost close enough to touch, she could feel his woken power burn. Like a bonfire, flames leaping, licking her with heat.

He nodded. “Aye. I made it up.” His gaze flicked sideways. “That’s a secret.”

When was the last time he’d trusted her with a secret? When was the last time they’d sat together like this, so cosy? The journey home from Westwailing. Those few moments she’d rested her head on his shoulder. And before that? She couldn’t remember. They weren’t close. They never had been. And yet she could feel him, like the blood in her veins.

“You been to see Da yet?”

In a finger-snap, like magic, his pleasure froze into pain. “Aye.”

“And did you feel it?” she said, heart thudding. “What’s in him? Please tell me you felt it this time, Rafe. I don’t want to be the only one who can feel it.”

“Sink me,” he swore.
“
Deenie
—
”

“Please, Rafe, don’t shout. Everything’s awful already, don’t shout.”

He tossed the manuscript aside, slid out of the window-seat and thumped to his knees on the carpet in front of her. Took her by both shoulders and shook her. Not hard, not to hurt her. He was trying to change her mind.

“Deenie, you’ve got to stop this,” he said, so earnest. “No, I don’t feel any blight in Da. And you don’t, neither. You’ve got yourself stirred up, is all, the way you did when we were sprats. Don’t you remember how it was? You’d wake yourself screaming in the night, pointing at ghosts and ghoulies no-one else could see. You’d swear upside down they were real, but they never were. They were just bad dreams. This ain’t no different.”

“That time Da dreamed the warbeasts,” she retorted, and knocked his hands aside. “That was real.”

“That was one time,” said her brother. “You were right
once,
Deenie. And never again. You can’t—”

She scrambled to her feet, tipping the footstool on its side. “Shut up, Rafe. Just
’
cause you did some clever magic down in Westwailing you think no-one else can be special? Is that it?”

“
No
. But—”

“I ain’t a sprat now,” she said, glaring. “And I bloody well ain’t dreaming. Why won’t you—”

“Can Pother Kerril feel it yet?” he demanded, and stood. “Best pother in the kingdom, she is. Cured folks as were gasping their last. What’s she say, Deenie?”

She felt a single tear snail its tickling way down her cheek. “I don’t care what Kerril says. I
feel
things, Rafel. That’s what I do.”

He stared at her, silent. Outside, the thunder boomed. Lightning lashed the sky. “I know,” he said at last. “It’s just… I want you to be wrong.”

“Don’t you think
I
want to be wrong?” she whispered. “Don’t you think I’d give
anything
to be wrong?”

And then they both jumped, startled, as a deafening clap of thunder crashed overhead. All the glimfire blinked out, plunging them into darkness.

“I got it,” said Rafel, and reignited every lamp. “We’re fine, Deenie.”

“No, we’re not. Oh, Rafe, do you feel as awful as I do?” She pressed clenched fingers to her chest. “I’m all—
broken
—inside.”

The earth’s pain was in his eyes, bright as shattered glass. “Me too.”

“It’s going to be bad like this, over the mountains. Prob’ly it’s going to be worse.”

“I know. Deenie—”

“I’m not saying don’t go,” she said quickly. “I know you have to. Only… don’t try to pretend you ain’t afraid. If you stop yourself feeling fear, you might stop yourself feeling other things, Rafe. Things that could keep you alive.”

“Like what?” he said. Fratched and grudging, yes, but at long last
listening
.

She wanted to lie, but she couldn’t. “I can’t tell. Lur’s screaming so loud it makes my head spin.”

Beyond the chamber’s window rain hammered the already hammered Tower gardens. More thunder rumbled, marching somewhere distant. Prob’ly over the Flatlands. That felt about right.

“A big bloody help you are,” he said, scowling. He looked like Da. “If you’re going to witter warnings at me, Deenie, witter something I can use.”

“I wish I could,” she said. “But I don’t know how to save you, Rafe. I don’t know how to save anyone. Or Lur. All I can do is feel smashed to pieces.”

He was her big brother and he loved her. Not easily, she knew that. His love was well-peppered with impatience. Her fears had always gritted him, like sand in his boots… just as his brash boldness always made her feel small. But he hugged her now, adrift on the carpet, and she hugged him back. Breathed in the sweat and horse of him, the faint yeastiness of strong ale, the sweet tint of sickroom incense. All the different smells that made him Rafe.

He’s leaving. He’s leaving. I don’t want him to go.

“Rafe,” she said, muffled against his shoulder. In that moment knowing everything about him. “Don’t fret over Mama.”

His arms tightened. “She’s so fratched at me, Deenie. I thought she was scalded when I rode off for the Home Districts. But now I’m going over the mountains—” His voice cracked. “I reckon she might let me ride away without another word.”

He was trembling. “No, no,” she said, holding him harder. “She’s frighted for you. We both are. What you’re trying to do? And with nobody to help you but that Arlin Garrick? Of course we’re frighted.”

Rafel let his arms drop. Took a half step back. “I ain’t getting lost, or worse, over them mountains. I’ve got power and I’ll use it.” His eyes were fierce. “I’ll burn anyone as gets in my way. I’m saving Goose, I’m saving Lur, and I’m coming back.”

She didn’t know if he was right. She only knew he thought he was, and that not even Mama’s rage and tears would change his mind. Not even Da lying in his bed so still and pale, with the blight in him only she could feel, poisoning his veins. Rafe thought he was born for this… and nothing else mattered.

“You always were stubborn,” she murmured, pressing her palm to his cheek. “You always did what you wanted, no matter what anyone said. No matter if you were being naughty or not.” She tried to laugh. “And most times, Rafe, you were being naughty.”

“True,” he admitted, and covered her hand with his. Then his wry smile faded. “Deenie, I’ve got things to do. I want to read that manuscript again. I want to—” Hesitating, he let his hand drop. “I’ve got some thinking as needs doing.”

He wasn’t telling her the exact truth. There was a sudden tartness to him, like the scent of fresh lemons on a warm breeze.
Prob’ly he intends on being naughty again.
But since she had no hope of stopping him, best she be gracious.

“It’s all right. How long before the Council gives you formal leave to go?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, shrugging. “But I’ll wager not long.” He looked out of the window at the still-blustering storm. “ ’Cause Lur ain’t got long. You and me know that, if nobody else does.”

“True,” she said quietly. “Lucky us, eh?” She tried to smile. “Don’t work too late. You need your rest.”

“Deenie…”

Stopped halfway to the door, she turned. “Yes?”

There were tears in his eyes.
Tears
. And he looked so young. So vulnerable.

“What, Rafe?”

He shook his head. “Nowt. Nowt. Never mind me. Off you go.”

She closed the chamber door behind her, and went downstairs to the kitchen to see if Meistress Watt would let her dabble her hands in some pastry, or something else as might need baking. Maybe that would ease her troubled heart.

But she doubted it. She couldn’t imagine feeling untroubled ever again.

As the door shut behind his sister, Rafel breathed deeply a few times. Waited until all he felt was irritated amusement.
Naughty,
Deenie called him. And if he was, what of it? Just like he’d told Charis—meek men never got anything done.

Still. The word echoed in his memory, niggling, as he slipped into Da’s library and settled himself on the carpet in front of the trunk containing Durm’s secret magics. The scrolls and the diaries Da never showed him or even spoke of, even after Westwailing and the waking of his power. So much left unsaid between them. About Westwailing. About a lot of things.

The storm had passed but it was still raining. Sheets of water running down the library windowpanes. He’d conjured himself the tiniest ball of glimfire, not enough to alert Mama, who was sitting with Da three rooms round from this one. If he was careful and quiet she wouldn’t know he was here. After their shouting match on the stairs he reckoned they’d both be best off not laying eyes on each other till morning.

He rose and looked at his reflection in the watery window, the glimfire shadowing him mysterious and dark. Roiling inside him, so much pain. Lur’s. Mama’s. Deenie’s. Pellen and Charis’s, too. And his power churned. His woken, hungry, simmering power, that wouldn’t obediently go back to sleep. That he didn’t understand, and likely now never would.

Da should’ve told me. He should’ve taught me years ago how to control it. I don’t know if I can do this alone.

Grief like a bunched fist struck hard, stealing his breath. Eyes burning, throat closing, fire roared in his blood. Guilt like a snowstorm turned his bones to ice. He wasn’t naughty, he was
wicked,
to be angry with Da now, when his father was dying.

Not wanting to look at himself a single heartbeat longer, he turned away from the window and made his way back to the trunk. Dropped to sit cross-legged in front of it. Fuddled the lock, such a simple thing to do now. Easy as sneezing. Was
anything
beyond him? Easing the trunk’s lid open, he let the glimfire hover and picked up the first of Durm’s hoarded books.