The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (28 page)

“Don’t be daft, Dathne,” he said, and tossed the tapestry to the seat. “I ain’t about to hurt Deenie.”

“How can you not hurt her?” she retorted. “You hurt her last night. I know you didn’t mean to, but you did. And it’ll be a thousand times worse with full blown Weather Magic, you
know
it will.”

He nodded. “Aye. I do.”

“
Well,
then?”

“Well, then, Dath,” he said, meeting her fury without flinching, “reckon you’ll have to do somethin’ about that.”

“
Me
do something? What are you—” Choking, she stared at him. She knew him too well. “I
can’t
. Have you gone mad?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyebrows pulling low. “But I can’t see another way round it. Can you?”

“You want me to
drug
her? So you can do Weather Magic?”

Still his steady gaze held hers. “Time was you were willin’ to murder a man with drugs, for less.”

He might as well have punched her. Winded, she dropped to the neatly clipped grass.
“Asher…”

Then he was on his knees gripping her shoulders, holding her up. “Think I
want
to, Dath?” he demanded hoarsely. “You reckon this be
easy
for me to think on? I ain’t got no
choice
—and neither do you. Whatever’s brewin’ with the weather, woman, either I nip it in the bud,
tonight,
or what we’ve built these last ten years comes tumblin’ down around our ears.”

She could feel herself weeping, hot tears on her frozen face. “You don’t know that. You can’t be sure.”

“I’m sure!” he said, shaking her. “And so are you.” He shook her again, his face twisted with anguish and anger. “You started this, Dathne. You made me the Innocent Mage. Now
I
got to finish it. For Deenie and Rafel. For all of us.”

She struck his broad chest with her fist over and over again. Nodding. Sobbing. “I know. I know.”

“Oh,
Dath,
” he groaned, and snatched her to him. Buried his face against her neck. “We’ll be all right. We will. I promise.”

She wanted to believe him, so hard she hurt. But she knew, just as he did, that where Barl and the Weather Magic were concerned… promises were no more to be trusted than glimfire in a rising wind.

“So, Rafe, how was school today?”

Shrugging, Rafel shoved his spinach round and round his dinner plate with his fork. Mama was trying to sound interested. She was trying to sound bright and happy, like there was nowt a thing wrong. It made him cross ’cause something was wrong all right. The tension in the solar’s air made him want to shout and stamp.

I ain’t a tiddy mouse like Deenie. I ain’t deaf or blind or addled like Jed. She shouldn’t pretend. That’s wrong. It’s like lying.

“Rafel?” said Mama. “Did you hear me? How was—”

“It was fine. It was school,” he said, almost a grunt. And that was all he wanted to say. He didn’t want to tell anyone about what had happened. What he’d done. The thing that made him feel small and dirty, worse even than when he was prickled with guilt for his terrible secret.

“Rafe,” said Da sharply. “Don’t take that tone with your ma. And you look at her when she asks you a question. And mind you eat your bloody spinach. It be food, it ain’t for playin’ with.”

Burning with resentment, he glared sideways at Da from beneath his lowered lashes then dropped his fork to the plate. “I don’t want my spinach. I’m full.”

“You be full when the plate’s empty,” said Da. “Eat up, I said.”

Mama sighed. “Asher…”

Eyes big and round, Deenie started to cry. Not a loud boo-hooing, just a few trickly tears, but still. Da threw down his napkin, shoved his chair back and stamped over to the solar window to glare down into the Tower gardens far below. He always stared out of a window when he was fratched, so all anyone could see of him was the back of his head. He didn’t like it when people could read his thoughts in his face.

“Asher,” Mama said again, but it sounded almost like a question. Almost like she was frighted. But why would Mama be frighted?

At the window, Da nodded. “Aye.”

Rafel watched, his insides shivery, as Mama got up from the table leaving most of her roast duck and baked carrots and buttery spinach behind. She went to Deenie, her face pinched up and not saying things, and pulled his sister’s chair away from the table. Then she held out her arms and let Deenie clamber into them, the way she used to when his sister was a little sprat.

“Hush, Deenie, don’t cry,” Mama said, as Deenie hiccupped into her sunshine yellow blouse. “Bedtime, mouse. You didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Remembering last night, Rafel felt his insides shiver again. Last night was horrible. Today was horrible too.
Everything
was horrible. He wanted to cry.

Mama took Deenie over to Da, and Da turned away from the window and tickled the back of her neck in the way that made her giggle. But Deenie didn’t giggle this time. Instead she reached for him and tried to climb into his arms.

“No, no, mouse,” said Mama, holding her back. “Da can’t cuddle you now. He’s got work to do. He’ll—he’ll cuddle you in the morning. Asher—”

Da slid a finger under Deenie’s chin and tipped her head up. “Don’t you be fratchin’ your ma, little sprat,” he said, pretending he was all stern and scowly. Then he smiled, except not with his eyes. His eyes were awful, old and sad. Bending, he kissed the tip of Deenie’s nose. “Off to bed, mouse. Sleep tight. Don’t you let them bedbugs bite.”

More fat wobbly tears were rolling down Deenie’s cheeks. “I don’t feel good, Da,” she whimpered. “I feel bad—” She banged her skinny chest. “In here.”

“I know,” said Da. It was nearly a whisper. “But you’ll feel better soon, Deenie. I promise.”

Mama took Deenie out of the solar, and Da turned his back on the room again. Looking at him, Rafel saw how his head drooped and his shoulders slumped like he was so sad he couldn’t stand up straight. He felt his throat go tight. His nose tingled, and his eyes prickled hard. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up his fork and poked it into the hated spinach.

“Never mind that, Rafe,” said Da. “Truth be told, I don’t much like spinach neither.”

He let the fork drop again. “Didn’t meant to fratch you, Da,” he said, having to choke the words out. “Didn’t mean to fratch Mama, either.”

Da held out one arm, an invitation. Rafel went to him, flooded with relief. Before he could blink it away a fat tear of his own wobbled out of his eye.

“What happened at school today, Rafe?” Da asked, his voice quiet, his strong arm holding him close.

He shrugged. “Nowt, Da. It was just school.”

“Rafe…”

Squirming, he kicked at the wall under the window. Da’s arm tightened.

“Don’t do that. Just tell me what happened.”

“
Nowt
. Just—poxy Arlin Garrick,” he muttered. “Being poxy. Like he is. We had a brangle. I didn’t touch him, Da!” he added hastily. “Promise!”

To his surprise, Da laughed a bit. “Like father, like son, eh?” he said, almost to himself. “That’d be right. So what happened, Rafe? All of it, mind. No leavin’ bits out.”

He heaved a deep sigh. “Arlin was doing magic. At nuncheon. In the yard, under the big tree. Meister Vyne can’t see that bit from the schoolhouse. Arlin was showing off, Da, just like he always does. Da, he was calling
boggles
.”

“Boggles?” said Da.

“
You
know,” he said, impatient. “Frighty things. He was making ’em up with magic. Like I said, showing off.”
As if he’s the only one who can do it. I can do it. I’ve done it lots and mine are a hundred times scarier than his
. “Da, he was going to skitter them over the hedge into the girls’ school next door.”

Da stared down at him. “Rafel… what did you do?”

He nearly kicked at the wall again. “I—I popped ’em. Wasn’t hard. Arlin’s magic ain’t that fancy.” Feeling his father’s arm go rigid, like wood, he looked up. “I
had
to, Da. Boggles are—”

“Rafe,”
said Da, his face and voice terrible. “You tangled Doranen magic? Regular Olken can’t
do
that! You
know
you ain’t—how many bloody times have I said—”

“Arlin never guessed it was me!” he protested. “Honest, Da. Promise. But—” He stopped, suddenly aware that he’d said more than enough.

Too late. “But
what?
” said Da, and gave his shoulder a hard shake. “Rafel, didn’t I just tell you not to leave bits out?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I laughed. When the boggles popped. I couldn’t help it, Da, Arlin looked so fratched. And when he couldn’t make ’em come back again he—he looked like to poop his trousers, he was so cross. And doesn’t it serve him right? He was going to set them boggles on the girls, he—”

“Aye, Rafe, I heard you the first time,” said Da, his voice still growly. “What happened after you laughed at Arlin?”

He shrugged. “Not much.”

“Rafe.”

This was the bad bit. The bit he didn’t want to say. He didn’t care if he got a wallop for popping the boggles and he didn’t care if Da fratched on at him about not doing magic. He didn’t even care if he got stopped giving Stag his supper apple for a week.
Two
weeks. Jed would give it to him, so Stag wouldn’t miss out.

But he did care about telling Da what Arlin Garrick had said.

“Rafe,”
Da said again, in the voice that meant all his patience was used up. “What did the pimply little shit do?”

“He just… said things,” he whispered, squirming. “Lies.”

Da was silent for a long time. Then he sighed. “About me?”

He nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. His nose was running now, and the solar had gone blurry.

“Rafe…” Da dropped to a crouch in front of him. “We talked on this already, sprat,” he said, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Folk say things. You can’t stop ’em. It ain’t bloody fair but there’s nowt to be done about it.”

Rafel folded his arms tight, shaking his head. How could Da say that? How could he not care?

If he’d heard what Arlin said, that he was as good as a murderer, getting King Gar killed like that, and how he was only an Olken, and how could an Olken destroy a great Doranen mage like Morg? Some Doranen must’ve helped him, and then he did something to make ’em forget, so he wasn’t really a hero after all. If Da heard Arlin say all that…

“Reckon I care what some Doranen spratlin’ witters?” Da asked gent ly, and patted him on the cheek. “Trust me, Rafel: I don’t care a bloody bit.”

He sniffed. “Why not, Da? Why don’t you care?”

Da fell silent, his gaze shifting sideways, which always happened when he remembered bad things. “ ’Cause I don’t. ’Cause some things ain’t worth botherin’ about,” he said at last. “One day, when you be older, I’ll tell you the full story of what happened the day Morg died. Then you’ll know why I don’t care about Arlin Garrick, or his da, or any other bloody Doranen—or Olken—what snivels behind my back. And you won’t neither.”

“You could tell me now,” he said, hopeful. “That ole Darran told me some of it, but I want to know the rest.”

Da’s face went all stern. “I know you do, Rafe. But you ain’t ready for it.”

He was, he
was
. Da had no idea what he was ready for. What he could
do
. “Yes, I am,” he protested. “Da—”

“Sprat, you got to learn to swallow
no
for an answer so it don’t gripe your belly,” Da snapped. “I’ve said you ain’t ready and that’s the end of it.” He sighed again. “So, you popped Arlin’s boggles, and laughed when he were upset. That fratched him to say some things about me what riled you up. Then what?”

And then Goose had leapt to Da’s defence, calling Arlin Garrick a
poxy, cross-eyed, split-arsed moo
. So Arlin Garrick’s best friend Trentham Villot called Goose’s da a
hop-rotted beersot,
which didn’t sound awful bad unless you were Meister of the Brewers’ Guild.

So
then
Goose and Trentham started brangling, fists and boots, and Meister Vyne came running out, and in the end Goose got his backside caned and so did Trentham Villot, and that wasn’t bloody fair at
all
.

“Did you own up as how you started it?” said Da. “You and Arlin?”

“I tried to, Da, but Meister Vyne wouldn’t listen. Arlin just laughed. He didn’t care Trentham got walloped for him.”

“What about Goose?” said Da. “S’pose he ain’t talkin’ to you now, is that it?”

That was the thing, almost as bad as the lies Arlin told about Da. “No. He said not to fratch on it. He said—he said—”

And then, just like Deenie would, he broke into sobs.
“Don’t matter,”
Goose had said, his voice scratchy after yellin’ from the cane, and his watery eyes red.
“One day you’ll stand up for me, I know you will. ’Cause we’re friends, you and me, Rafe, and that’s what friends do.”

“So you learned a hard lesson today,” said Da, holding him close again. “You got a friend in strife ’cause you let your temper ride you. Best you not let that happen again, eh?”

Muffled against Da’s weskit, he nodded. “I won’t, Da. Promise.” Then he wriggled a bit, till he could see his father’s face. “But I wish—”