The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (13 page)

He wanted it so badly there was a pain in his chest. Him and Da together, doing magic. No need for telling tales, no need to hide. Him and Da doing magic, out in the open.

Da let loose a slow sigh. “You ain’t strong enough, Rafe. Once Doranen magic gets in your head you can’t get it out again. It sits there like a toad. It changes you, sprat, and there ain’t no changin’ back after, not even if you want to.”

Now Da looked worse than sad. Dumbstruck, Rafel folded his arms.

That ain’t true, Da. I’m not changed. I haven’t got a toad in my head.

“Rafel,” said Da, and dropped to a crouch before him. “Listen. I got to ask you a thing. I got to ask, and you got to answer me straight.”

He nodded, slowly. Fright made his mouth suck dry.
Does he know? Has he found out?
“All right, Da. I will.”

“What did you tell Darran, that you ain’t told me or your ma? About magic. About… feelin’ things in the earth.”

Fright flashed to indignation.
That ole fart. That ole trout. He promised he’d not tell.
Betrayal hooked him like a fish, left him gasping for air.

Da fastened strong fingers to his shoulder. Shaking him a little, his eyes fierce, he scowled. “No use fratchin’ at Darran, Rafe. He’s dead, he ain’t listenin’. And I need to know what happened. When did you come over funny, sprat?”

“Week afore last,” he said, his voice small. Glaring at stone Darran from underneath his lashes.
You promised. You promised.

“And what were you doing? Were you doing magic?”

He had to look at the floor again, afraid his guilty secret would show in his eyes. “No, Da. Only working with the blocks.”

The blocks Pother Kerril had told him he needed for practise, so his Doranen magic didn’t fizz up his blood. Da didn’t like it, not one bit, but Kerril said it had to be. Kerril said it was dangerously foolish to go on pretending his magic didn’t exist. He’d not said a word, he’d been so scared his guilty secret would show then, too. But it didn’t. And ever since, for nearly five months, he’d practised with the blocks Kerril gave him. She was right. They did help scratch his itches. But—but—

“Da!” he said, his heart jumping. “Was it—was it
my
fault? Did I—”

“No!”
said Da, almost shouting. “Ain’t none of this your fault, sprat.”

Giddy with relief, he nearly blurted it all out. Nearly told Da
everything
—then swallowed the words just in time. Da could never know. Neither could Mama. Neither of them would ever understand.

“Rafe,” said Da, gently now. “Tell me what you felt. It’s all right. You ain’t in trouble.”

Not so long as he kept his secret, he wasn’t. “I felt a funny skritching, all over.”

“Like ants havin’ a picnic ’neath your shirt and trews?”

Dumbly, he nodded.

“And then,” said Da, “a kind of rumble and rollin’, like someone put you in a pepper pot and shook you all about?”

“Aye, Da,” he whispered. “And then the air—the air—”

Da sighed. “It felt like the air got its neck wrung, like a chicken?”

A tiny sobbing gasp escaped him. “Yes. Did you—”

“Aye. Me and your ma. We felt it too. How many other times have you felt it, Rafe?”

“Once. The day Darran got sick.” To his shame, his voice broke. He felt his eyes sting, and his lips quiver. He wanted to bawl like Deenie, left behind because boys don’t play with girls.

Da pulled him close in a tight hug. “Why didn’t you tell me and your ma?” Letting go, he sounded hurt. “Why did you tell that ole fool Darran and not us?”

“I never meant to tell him, Da,” he said, feeling like he’d stuck a knife in Da’s heart. “Only he came looking for you when I was practicing the blocks, and that’s when I got the feeling, and he saw.” Another hot rush of anger. “He said he wouldn’t tell.”

“He only told ’cause he knew he were dyin’,” said Da. “And he thought we should know. Rafe, why’d you keep it a secret?”

He scuffed the floor again. “Thought I might be comin’ down with an ague,” he muttered. “Thought you might say I couldn’t go with Goose and his da to see the brewery in Banting.”

“And the second time?” said Da—then shook his head. “I s’pose, with Darran poorly…”

He nodded. And even though Darran poorly had really been Darran dying, even though they were stood right in front of his coffin, he still felt rankled. ’Cause Darran had
promised
.

“Rafe,” said Da, noticing. “The ole trout’s dead. You forgive him, eh? You’ll feel better if you do.”

He wasn’t so sure on that, but it was Da asking, so he turned to the coffin and kissed the ole man’s stone brow. “I forgive you, Darran. Reckon you thought you were doing what was right.”

“Rafe,” said Da, after a moment, sitting himself on the crypt’s cool floor. “You believe me, don’t you, that it weren’t you practisin’ your blocks as made things go awry? ’Cause it weren’t your fault, no more than bein’ able to do Doranen magic be your fault.”

Did this mean they were going to talk about it, at last? Suddenly hopeful, he bumped himself down beside his father. “Then why won’t you let me learn more magic, Da? If I ain’t doing anything wrong, why won’t you?”

Da shook his head again. “ ’Cause it ain’t that simple, sprat. A thing don’t have to be wrong for it to be the wrong thing to do. There be a time and a place for you and Doranen magic, but we ain’t there yet.”

“But—”

“I
told
you, Rafe. Doranen magic sneaks up on you. And you don’t see what it really means until it’s too bloody late.”

Da didn’t sound hurt any more. Now he sounded angry, like he wanted to take out his magic and punch it.

“Da,” he said, his voice small. “I—I don’t mind it… all that much.”

“You don’t?” Da said. He sounded almost puzzled. “It don’t fright you?”

He shook his head, feeling bad. As though not hating his magic was the same as not loving Da. “No.”

“Not ever?”

Remembering how it felt to crack stones, and dance leaves, and make his bathwater leap into frogs and dogs and horses—remembering all the other wonderful things he’d done—he stared at his knees. He could always lie. He could say it
did
fright him sometimes, and that might make Da feel better. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t know why, but he knew that would feel even worse than not confessing his terrible secret.

“No, Da. It don’t fright me. Not even a bit.”

“Rafe, Rafe,” said Da, sighing. “What am I s’posed to do with you, eh?”

More than anything he wanted to say,
“Let me be a mage.”
If he’d been born Doranen he’d be learning Doranen magic. He’d be like Arlin Garrick, magicking all over the place. If he was like Goose, just an ordinary Olken, he’d be doing Olken magic and nobody would think twice.

But I ain’t one thing or the other. Same as Da, I’m both. And he thinks ’cause he don’t like it then I shouldn’t either. And that ain’t right.

But he couldn’t tell Da that. He was just a sprat. He went hot, feeling his prickly crossness rise.

“Rafe,” said Da, “you got to tell me and your ma if you feel that skritchiness again.”

“I will, Da.” He chewed his lip. “Da… what does it mean?”

Da grabbed hold of King Gar’s tomb and hauled himself to his feet. The crypt’s glimfire danced shadows over his face as he walked round and round between the coffins, staring at the peaceful marble people without ever seeing them proper.

“I felt it, Da, so you ought should tell me,” he said, so daring. Nobody bossed Da about. Well, nobody save Ma. Da shot him a sharp look, but didn’t scold him on it. He was scowling, like he did when all his thoughts were tangled. “Tell me, Da. Please? I won’t tattle, my word, man to man.”

Da looked like he wanted to swear.
Really
swear, lots of bad words, the ones Mama wouldn’t let him say. “It’s complicated, Rafe. You be a spratling, and this ain’t spratling business.”

Prickly cross, prickly cross. “Maybe not, Da. But I felt what you and Mama felt. I never asked to, but I did. It ain’t fair if you don’t tell me.”

Da stopped circling the crypt. Halted at King Gar’s marble feet and brooded into his cold white stone face. It was a nice face. Sad, and understanding. So young. Hard to think of Da that young, the same age as King Gar when he died. He wasn’t exactly old now, not as old as Uncle Pellen, say, but he looked old. Not in a wrinkled way. In a sad way. A tired way.

I never saw that before. I never saw he looked tired. I never saw that made him look older than he is.

He felt odd, all of a sudden. Standing on the outside, looking at his da. Thinking these strange thoughts. Noticing things.

“I were your age when my ma died,” Da said, very quiet. “She got sick and no pother could help her. Just like that, I weren’t a spratling no more. My da were lost without her. My brothers… well…” His face pinched. “Weren’t no love lost there. I learned things, Rafe. I learned ’em too soon.” He nodded at King Gar’s effigy. “So did he. Weren’t no reason for us to be friends, you’d think. He was royalty. I weren’t. But he learned things young too, and they made him sad. I knew what that felt like. That’s how we were friends. He lived sad, and he died sad. He never had a chance. Rafe, you don’t need to know what’s going on. Not yet, any road. When you do I’ll tell you. My word, man to man. But you stay a sprat for now. You’ll grow up soon enough.”

Staring at him, Rafel knew he’d waste his breath complaining. Just like with his magic, he wasn’t allowed a say. All right, if he was honest, the upset in the earth
did
fright him a tiddy bit. He’d told himself it were nowt, he just had an ague, but down deep he’d known different. Down deep he’d known something was wrong. And without ever saying so, Da had told him he was right.

He can’t pretend I’m ordinary forever. One day he’ll have to stop treating me like a sprat.

“Rafel,” said Da. His voice was stern. It was the voice he used when what he said was as good as a law. His Justice Hall voice. “This be serious business. What you felt ain’t to be talked on. Have you told it to Goose, or any other boy or girl?”

He’d been thinking to tell Goose. He told Goose most everything. He’d just been waiting till he felt not so wobbly. “No, Da. I only told Darran.”

“Huh,” Da grunted. “That’s somethin’, any road. So you don’t tell Goose, you hear me? No teasin’ him on what you felt, and no askin’ if he felt it. You don’t tell
anyone
. I got your word on that?”

He nodded, smothering disappointment. He hated keeping secrets from Goose. “Aye, Da.”

Da’s face relaxed. “I know it don’t seem fair, Rafe. I know you be fratched ’cause you ain’t got your answer. But you’ll get it, by and by.”

He sighed. His father kept on saying that, but it was getting harder to believe him. “Aye, Da.”

“Good sprat,” said Da. “Now we’d best be on our way, or your ma will be thinkin’ we’ve turned to marble in here.”

Side by side they left the crypt, the glimfire snapping to darkness behind them, and walked out blinking into the Garden of Remembrance. Every time he came here he stopped to look at the statue of the man he was named for, who died a hero in the war against Morg. He didn’t exactly know how it happened. Darran never told him that story. But every time he stood here with Da, and he looked at Da’s face, he knew it was a sad tale.

Other straggling folk were here and there in the garden, because everyone loved the flowers and the trees, but nobody tried to speak to them, on account of the whole City knowing Darran was being put in the crypt today. They got stared at, though. One ole biddy was weepin’. Da noticed, but he didn’t say a word.

“Come on,” he said, after they’d stood there a goodly while, looking at the statues of Rafel and Veira and Matt. “There’ll be supper waitin’ for us in the Tower, and your ma with a wooden spoon to wallop us ’cause we ain’t sat at the table on time.”

That made him giggle, even though he was mixed up, prickly cross and sad. “Not you, Da. Mama ain’t going to wallop you.”

Da rolled his eyes. “Ain’t no-one your ma wouldn’t wallop, Rafe. She ain’t got a fear in her, that wench. Make certain sure you find a woman to marry what’s like your ma. Life’ll be sweet, that road.”

He grinned. “You called Mama a wench.”

“Wash out your ears,” said Da, grinning back. “I did no such thing. Now stir your stumps, sprat. It’s time to go.”

On a shared smile they turned their backs on the garden and wandered home to the Tower, companionably silent. Overhead a ghost moon winked at the sliding sun, and the waking nightbirds sang in the djelba trees. Nightbirds never stopped singing, and they never sounded sad.

Rafe swallowed a small sigh. Wherever Darran was, he hoped the ole man could hear them.

Naked and sated, Asher smoothed Dathne’s tangled hair from her face and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her lips moved beneath his, curving into a smile, and she slapped his arse lightly.

“Get off me, you lump.”

Obliging, he rolled to her side and scooped her against him with one arm. Their skin stuck moistly together; she smelled of roses and apricots. Heaving a contented sigh, his head comfortable on their pillows, he dropped a hand to cover her breast. Her hand covered his, and they lay for some time in sighing silence.