The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (12 page)

The palsy in Darran’s face had quieted. He looked peaceful, and painless, breathing so slowly, so shallowly, it was hard to tell that he breathed at all.

“You want me to say it, don’t you?” he demanded. “You want me to say it so you can throw it back in my face.” He dragged a silk forearm across his burning eyes. “Fine, all right, you persnickety ole codger. I love you. You happy now? You got your last laugh? Come on, you meddlesome mugwort. Let’s hear you laugh. Let’s hear it. Come on.”

The silence deepened, muffling as snow.

“Aye, well, that’d be right,” he said. “Got to have the last word, eh? Got to put me in my place.” He tightened his fingers. “When Gar died, I didn’t hate him. You hear me, Darran? Are you listenin’? You see him, you tell him that. You tell him that from me.”

Deeper silence again. A breath held… a waiting… and then, like a blessing, the cold fingers in his moved.

But while he was weeping, Darran stole away.

A
fter three days of folk saying how sorry they were he’d died, they put Darran in the royal crypt next to Da’s best friend King Gar.

Staring at the marble effigy on top of the tomb, Rafel couldn’t believe it wasn’t ole Darran magically turned to white stone. He didn’t know which was more shocking: that the effigy was so perfect, or that Da had made it. Da
never
used magic. Only glimfire, and that didn’t count. He never talked of it, even. And if anyone tried to make him, well… that wasn’t a good idea.

Only once he’d ever been frightened of Da, and that was the day he complained because other boys’ fathers did magic, so why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t fair. The boys he knew from the City, from school—Doranen boys like Arlin Garrick—they laughed at him and said mean things. Why didn’t Da care?

Afterwards, Mama sat with him and let him cry a little bit into her lap. He’d been eight, too big for tears, but Da had been so fearsome angry he couldn’t help it.

“If those boys laugh again then you walk away,” she’d told him, cuddling him close. “Stupid boys, what would they know? Magic’s a solemn thing, Rafe. It’s not for boasting, or for playing like a game.”

“Goose plays,” he’d muttered, sniffing. “And that Arlin, he shows off all the time.”

Mama flicked the end of his nose. “You’re not Goose, or Arlin Garrick. This family’s got its own rules when it comes to magic. Rafe…” She tightened her arms. “I hope you’re being a good boy. I hope you remember what Da and I said.
No-one
can know there’s Doranen magic in you. Not yet. Not until we tell you it’s safe to say.”

He hated being told that. Why did he have to be a
secret?
Why did it matter he could do Doranen things? And he could. He
did
. And not just cracking stones, either. For three weeks now, safe on his lonesome, he’d been doing Doranen magics pinched from Arlin Garrick and his poxy friends, and getting the incants and sigils right
every time
.

He’d had to do it. The itching in him that only magic could scratch got so bad it kept him awake. Got so bad that cracking stones made no difference. The first time he did it, broke his word to Da and Mama, he nigh on wet his trews from fear. Half-expected to die, or be found out. But he didn’t. He wasn’t. The Doranen magic worked. He turned his white-painted woodcarved pony jet black and
nowt terrible happened
.

Almost a dozen Doranen spells he’d pinched since then, and not
once
had things gone wrong. So
why
was he meant to stay a secret? It wasn’t
fair
.

“Rafe,” said Mama. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, Mama,” he said, nodding. Feeling so bad to be lying. Knowing he could never tell her the truth.

“Oh, Rafel,” she said. “There’s more to life than magic. It doesn’t make you brave, or good, or strong. You wouldn’t be any happier, I promise, if Da and I let you run about the place casting spells from sunup to sundown. Believe me.”

She was wrong, but he had to pretend she was right. “Yes, Mama.”

“Yes, Mama,” she echoed, smiling, but her eyes were sad. “You’re a big boy, Rafe, but you’re not grown-up yet. There are things your Da and I know that you don’t. You’ll have your magic when it’s time, and not before.”

Later that night, when he was tucked up in bed, Da had come to see him. In the warm summer darkness he’d sat beside him, his arms safe and strong and holding, his cheek scratchy with stubble.

“Sorry I shouted, Rafe,” he said, his voice gruff. “Sorry I scared you. You’re only eight, a spratling. You don’t understand.”

“Is magic bad, Da?” he’d asked. “ ’Cause I got magic. Does that mean
I’m
bad?”

“No,”
Da said, and crushed him so close it was hard to breathe. “But you got to be careful, Rafe. Magic’s deep and dark and dangerous, especially for you.”

And there was Da hinting, just like Mama. They were always hinting, they never came out and
said
. “ ’Cause I’m like you, Da? Why is that dangerous?”

Da sighed. “That be a small question with a sinkin’ big answer, sprat. When you be a mite older we’ll try talkin’ it through. But for now you got to trust me and your ma to know what’s best.”

Everything
was about when he was older. But he wanted to know
now
. This was his life, not theirs. And anyway, they were wrong. His Doranen magic wasn’t dangerous. It was the best thing in the world.

Da kissed the top of his head. “Feels mean, don’t it, sprat. Feels poxy unfair. But I never said life was fair, did I? Never promised you that.”

No, he never did. He shook his head against Da’s broad chest. “Nuh-uh.”

“And I will tell you, Rafe,” said Da. “One day. When you be ready to know.”

Though it was dark in his room, not even glimfire, just a little moonlight spilling between the drawn curtains, he’d looked up, struggled to read his father’s face. Thought he saw in it truth, and sadness, and memories he didn’t want to share.

“Really, Da? You promise?”

“My word, Rafe,” said Da, nodding. “Man to man.”

Da always kept his word. Always. But still… “How much older, Da?”

“Just older,” said Da, in the voice that said
enough
.

He was ten now, and still waiting for an answer. For a little while after that, ’cause he felt so guilty, he’d stopped pinching Arlin’s magics. But only for a little while, ’cause the itch grew too strong and he had to scratch it. Just like before, nothing went amiss. So he stopped feeling guilty. He was right and Da was wrong. Magic
wasn’t
dangerous, at least not for him.

But he still wanted to know what Da wouldn’t tell him.

Not long after his ninth birthday, tired of waiting, he’d asked Darran. “Why doesn’t Da like magic? Why’s it make him so fratched?”

The ole man had sat at his desk for a long time in silence, counting trins out of one open lockbox and into another. “I could answer that,” he said at last. “But I’m not sure I should.”

“I won’t tell,” he’d said. “Promise.”

Darran pursed his lips, clinking trins with his fingers. The office door was closed. It was just the two of them alone. “Magic’s not been kind to your father, Rafel,” he said at last, so softly. “It’s been used to hurt him. And he’s used it to hurt. He had to, you understand. Your da’s a good man. We’re only safe today because of him. But he never asked for his power. He never was comfortable being important. He never will be.”

But why? “I think magic’s grand,” he muttered. “Da should be happy he’s got so much of it.”

“Is that so, young man?” said Darran sharply. “Then you’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said. Trust me when I tell you that power is not a promise of happiness. Haven’t I lived my long life among men of power? Be guided by me, my boy: for every man it makes happy, it makes another three miserable.”

Darran didn’t understand. How could he? He was an ole man, and he had no power at all. “I’ve got power, and I ain’t miserable, Darran.”

“You?” said Darran, his straggly grey eyebrows shooting up. “You’ve got nothing of the sort. You’ve some talent for magic, and more talent for trouble.
That’s
not power. Nor is it a combination to set a father’s heart at ease.” He’d peered then, suspicious. “I hope you’re not playing games with your magic, Rafel. You know the rules.”

That made him feel all fratched. Bloody ole man, scolding. Who asked him, eh? Wasn’t his job to scold. He wasn’t Da, or Mama.

“I know, I know,” said Darran, crossly amused. “I should mind my own business. But you started this conversation, Rafel, not me. If it’s not turned out to your liking, well, that’s hardly my fault.”

Squirmy, he’d scowled at the floor. “Huh.”

“Rafel, I shared a confidence with you, which I’d like you to keep,” said Darran, still snappy. “And I’d like you to remember this: if you’re kept on a leash, and you find it fretsome, consider that your parents have only your best interests at heart. For it’s true, you do have power. But you’re not old enough to wield it or comprehend what it means. Trust your father to know. Trust your father.”

“I do!” he’d protested. “I
do
trust him, Darran.”

But the ole man didn’t look like he believed him, and that had made him so cross he’d stormed off to his secret place and cracked so many stones there he had to make a hole and bury them, after.

When that was done, and he sprawled face-up on the ground panting and sweaty, something Darran said had floated back to him like dandelion fluff on a breeze.

Magic’s not been kind to your father, Rafel. It’s been used to hurt him.

He’d never heard that before. He could hardly believe it. Someone hurt Da? With
magic?
How could they? Da was—was—a
hero
. He was the saviour of Lur. Darran was a stupid ole trout, what did he know? He had to be wrong. Hurt Da with magic?

As if anyone could.

“Rafel.
Rafel
.”

Blinking, he pulled free of the past and looked up into his father’s solemn face. They were alone in the crypt now. Mama and Deenie and Uncle Pellen had gone outside. Da looked so sad, glimfire making his eyes too bright. He reached out his hand and Da’s fingers closed tightly around his, a little muscle leaping along his jaw.

“It’s a good effigy, Da. It looks just like that ole fish.”

Da nodded. “The magic took, that’s a fact.”

He stared again at cold, stone Darran. “You did it with Doranen magic, didn’t you?”

“Aye,” Da said at last. “Gar taught it me, a long time ago.”

He looked at King Gar’s stone likeness. “Did you make his, too?”

Da nodded again. “I did.”

He couldn’t believe it. They were talking
magic
. He and Da hardly
ever
talked magic. Maybe there were some kind of spell on the crypt. “I’d like to do that. I’d like to make a marble picture of Mama’s face, when she’s smiling.”

Da’s holding fingers twitched. “Mayhap you will, sprat. One of these days.”

“Only if you teach me, Da. Only if you let me do real magic.”

“Real magic?” Da snorted. “Doranen magic, you mean.”

“So?” he muttered. “It’s more fun than earth-songs and flowers.”

“Rafe
—
”
Da let go of him. “Only reason you think that is ’cause you ain’t got any idea what Doranen magic be about.”

He wanted to shout,
“Yes I do!”
He wanted to show Da here and now the things he’d taught himself, pinching Arlin Garrick’s magics. But he couldn’t. The
trouble
there’d be, if he did that.

So he scuffed his boot-heel on the crypt floor, feeling hot and sulky. “I would if you’d tell me.”

“And I
will
tell you, Rafe,” Da said, snappish. “Just not today. So don’t go on at me.”

“I ain’t,” he protested. “I only—Da, I want to make faces in marble, like you do. ’Cause it’s beautiful.”

Even though he was fratched, a reluctant smile tugged at Da’s lips. “Beautiful, eh? You tryin’ to wheedle me, sprat?”

“No, Da,” he said, earnest and dutiful, though of course he
was
… and both of them knew it. “I’m just saying my druthers. Couldn’t you tell me the words? Couldn’t you show me how they go? Just this once?”