She sighed. “Oh,
Asher
…”
“Dath, you can
Oh, Asher
me into the middle of next bloody week. I’m right, and you know it.” He squeezed her hand again. “Don’t fret. Once we got the earth settled again, everythin’ else will settle too. You’ll see.”
Lapsing into friendly silence, they left the city behind and entered the palace grounds. Strolled the wide, djelba-lined carriageway towards the Tower, nodding and smiling at the visitors who’d been paying their respects in the Garden of Remembrance. A few times they stopped to chat, pretending all was well, because it was expected of them. They weren’t Lur’s royal family—but they were its next best thing.
At last they passed through the gates that kept their privy grounds safe from the public… and saw their grubby son sitting cross-legged on the grass beneath a sheltering tree. When he saw them he leapt up, hands fisting by his sides.
“Da. Mama.” Rafe’s lower lip jutted, a sure sign he expected trouble. “We got to talk.”
Last thing before bedtime, every night ’less he were sick, or in trouble, Rafel padded his way downstairs and out to the stables to give Stag an apple for his supper. Even on winter’s coldest nights he did that. It made him feel warm inside, knowing the pony wouldn’t go to sleep until they’d had their whispering moment.
The dimly glimfired yard was hushed, all the lads and Jed in their dormitory over the stables where once upon a time Da used to sleep. In their snug stables the horses made sleepy night sounds, straw shifting beneath them, hooves clinking on the bricks. There was a lamp burning in Stablemeister Divit’s privy quarters above the feed room, and a shadow flickering against his drawn curtains that said he was safe in there, minding his own grown-up business.
Stag looked out over his stable door, ears pricked, head tossing up and down. His pony way of saying
hurry up, hurry up
. Rafel clicked his tongue and Stag whickered, deep in his throat, so it sounded like he was laughing. Pleased to see him. Greedy for his apple.
“There you go,” said Rafel, stroking the pony’s warm brown neck as it crunched and slobbered, white apple-foam dripping. “You did good today, running faster than Goose’s nag. You’re the best pony in the kingdom.”
Stag snorted, agreeing. Rafel rested his forehead against Stag’s cheek, fingers reaching to scratch behind the pony’s ears, where it sometimes itched. He heard the funny flap-flap-slap of Stag’s droopy lips, the sound the pony made when his fingers found the right spot.
“I’m frighted, Stag,” he whispered. “Da and Mama say what I felt in the riverpond was Lur rolling over in its sleep, that’s all, but that ain’t true. I
know
it ain’t true. And I reckon Da’s gonna try and stop what’s really wrong. But what if he can’t, Stag? It’s bad. It’s really
bad
. What if Da—what if he—”
He couldn’t say the words out loud. He felt dizzy to
think
them, even.
He smeared his sleeve across his face, angry at himself for being frighted Da might die. Angry at his father for lying. For still treating him like a sprat.
I ain’t Deenie. I’m old enough to know.
Stag nudged his arm, asking for more apple.
“Sorry,” he said. “I only brought one. I only ever bring one. Reckon you ought to know that by now, you ole trout.”
Stag snorted again, nose wrinkled, and stuck out his long tongue. Because it was their game, and it wasn’t Stag’s fault he was frighted, Rafel grabbed the pony’s tongue and tugged it, but only a few times. He wasn’t in the mood for playing.
“Night, Stag,” he said, and patted him goodbye. “See you in the morning.”
He walked back to the Tower, feeling the cloudy night stretching dark and quiet around him. Even the nightbirds’ singing was soft, as though they couldn’t not sing but were afraid of waking something. Bright light burned in Da and Mama’s parlour window. It was far too early for them to be asleep. Halfway up the Tower’s wide stone steps he slowed, then stopped. He was meant to go straight to bed now, that was the way it worked. One apple for Stag then upstairs to sleep. Except…
How am I s’posed to sleep when they won’t tell me the truth? They should tell me the truth, after what I felt today.
But there was no point arguing on it, even though he surely wanted to. He’d already tried once. Made Da all fearsome, so Mama had to soothe him down. She was good at that. She got a lot of practise. But seeing Da fearsome made him glad he hadn’t told his parents everything. He’d told them what he’d felt at the riverpond with Goose, but he left out the part about calling the silver carp. It wasn’t Doranen magic, but even so… they’d be fratched. Last thing he needed was for Da to be fratched. When Da was fratched he noticed things.
And if he figures out what else I’ve been doing when he’s already riled…
Feeling guilty and scared, and twice as prickly because of it, he stamped into the Tower and up the winding staircase to the blue floor, which was all his. Maybe he’d feel better for reading Tollin’s adventures again. They were fearsome too—he and Goose had near wet themselves, reading that parchment—but in a funny way it was a good kind of fright. A ghost story fright. They’d played explorers the whole afternoon after reading it, and pretended to die dozens of lingering, gruesome deaths. But as he rode home he’d remembered the riverpond… and his happiness had fizzled. Cheering himself up with Tollin’s parchment was sure to help. Except—
Deenie was perched on the middle of his bed, waiting for him.
“What do you want?” he said, slamming the chamber door behind him, his heart slamming just as hard. If she’d been snooping… if she’d found the hidden parchment… “This is
my
room. You ain’t allowed in here.”
Knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her long nightdress glowing pinkly in the bedside lamp’s glimfire, Deenie looked at him. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Snivel, snivel, snivel,” he added, feeling savage. “You’re such a
girl,
Deenie. Go back to bed.”
She sniffed, not budging. “What happened today, Rafe?”
That made him blink. “Nowt. Why? What d’you mean?”
“I felt something,” she said, hugging her knees even harder. “I felt—I felt
you
.”
“You did not,” he retorted. “You’re just a sprat, Deenie. You can’t feel
nowt
.”
“Yes, I can,” she said, nodding hard. “You did a big magic, Rafe. And then you got all scared and upside-down when the earth went funny. I felt it.”
“No, you
didn’t!
” His mouth was dry, his belly churning. “And if you tell Da and Mama you did, I’ll—I’ll—I don’t do big magic!”
Her chin was all wobbly. “Yes, you
do
. Today you made the fish jump. And other times you crack stones and you dance leaves and you do silly things with your bathwater.” She was breathing all hiccupy now, her eyes glitter bright. “You do trickier things too. And—and this morning you did something
really
tricky.”
She could feel him doing the spells he pinched from Arlin? She’d felt him picking Da’s Doranen lock? Shocked breathless, he stared at his sister. And then he shoved her hard with both hands so she tumbled backwards onto his pillows.
“If you tell Da or Mama any of that I’ll—I’ll
spit
on you!” he panted, nearly cross-eyed with fright. “With magic in it! See if I don’t!”
Deenie scrambled to the floor, putting the quilt-covered bed between them. “I won’t tell. Why would I tell? Don’t spit on me. Please don’t spit on me, Rafe.”
Suddenly he felt horrible, like the worst person in Lur. Deenie’s eyes were so wide. She was a bratty sprat, his little sister, a
girl,
but she was family. And there she stood staring at him with her wide eyes dribbling tears, because of him. He’d done that. He’d made her afraid.
“I won’t,” he said, hot with sudden shame, and dropped onto his bed. “I won’t, Deenie. I promise.”
Sniffing again, she clambered up beside him. “Why’d you go all upside-down, Rafe?”
“I ain’t sure,” he said, and held out his arm for her to snuggle against him. “It’s hard to explain. How come you know when I do tricky magic, Deenie? Not even Da knows that.”
Safe and soothed beside him she shrugged, a tiny wriggle of her shoulders. “I just do,” she whispered.
“Aye, but how?”
Another wriggle. “I feel it,” she said. “In here.” She poked a finger into her nightdress-covered chest. “Like a tickle.”
He’d never heard of such a thing. Pother Kerril had never said anything on it. Neither had Da or Mama. “Who knows you feel magic?”
“No-one,” she said. “Just you.”
“Da doesn’t know? Or Mama?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You ain’t even told Charis?”
“Rafe—”
“Why not? You tell her everythin’ else,” he said. “You’re always whisperin’ and gigglin’, you two.”
She wriggled right out from under his arm. “We are not! Anyway, you and Goose are the same. ’Cept you don’t giggle. You snort. That’s boy’s giggling, Charis says.”
“Charis,” he sneered. “She’s a frilly sprat, she is.”
“She is
not!
” said Deenie. “Anyway, Goose is a—a—
goose
.”
“He ain’t no such thing!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
“Istoo!He—he—”
“You hush up, Deenie,” he said, fist raised. “This is
my
room, and Goose is
my
friend. So you don’t get to call him names.”
Flushed and teary again, Deenie slid off the bed and put her hands on her hips. “You’re mean, Rafel. You’re a—a—bossy ole
fart!
”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m
ten
, Deenie. I ain’t bloody
old
.”
“Oooh!”
she said, and slapped a hand to her mouth. “You said
bloody,
Rafel. You said a
swear
.”
He smirked. “So did you. So we’re even. So
there
.”
“It’s not the same!”
“Is too.”
“Is
not!
”
Frustrated and furious they glared at each other. Then Deenie giggled. He tried to stay cross with her, tried to keep his scowl from slipping, but he couldn’t. So they giggled together, Deenie scrambling back to his side again, knees scrunched tight to her chest the way she liked best.
And then he didn’t feel like giggling any more, because he remembered what she’d said. Like probing a sore tooth with his tongue, he couldn’t leave it alone. “You really felt me call those fish?”
Solemn, eyes round like an owl’s, she nodded.
“And after that? You felt—you felt—” He couldn’t say it. Whenever he thought about Lur’s groaning earth he went trembly sick inside.
“Mmm,” said Deenie, and her eyes filled with more tears. Deenie was a watering pot, she cried all the time. She was such a
girl
. “Everything went funny,” she whispered. “Crackly and crinkly. The air smelled wrong. And you were so
scared
.”
He wanted to say,
I was not!
But he knew she’d argue. Funny how she described it.
Crackly and crinkly
. It wasn’t the way he felt things, but Pother Kerril said every mage was different.
He frowned at his bratty, spratty sister. “Have you told Da or Mama about you feeling the earth go funny?”
“No,” she said, and seemed to shrink into herself. “Don’t you, either.”
That surprised him. “Why not?”
Instead of answering, she drew pictures on his quilt with one careful finger.
“Deenie, why not?”
She shrugged. “Da’s fratched. He doesn’t like magic.”
Deenie was too young for Da to talk to her man to man. So how would she know he was fratched? “Is that you feeling things again?” he said, suspicious.
“I can’t help it,” she said, her voice wobbling. “I just do.”
He didn’t like it, but he s’posed he couldn’t blame her. “Why ain’t you told Charis?”
“ ’Cause,” said Deenie slowly. “She gets all bouncy and she can’t keep a secret. She doesn’t mean to tell, she just does.” She sighed. “Did you tell Goose?”
“Course I did,” he said, scornful. “
He
ain’t bouncy. He knows how to keep his trap shut. Not like a girl.”
“It’s not ’cause she’s a girl! It’s ’cause she’s Charis. But she’s still my bestest friend.” Deenie’s cross face turned wistful. “She grows beautiful sunflowers. Better than me.”
Rafel nudged his sister gently with one knee. “Maybe. But she can’t feel things like you do.”
“I think she might.” Now Deenie traced a fingertip up and down one of the quilt’s fat blue stripes. “I’m not sure. I haven’t asked her. But I think she knows something’s wrong, too.”
Rafel thought about that. He knew. Da knew, and Mama. Deenie knew. And now Charis? Da wanted to keep it a secret, but how could he? Maybe lots of people knew. And if they did then soon they’d come clamouring at him. That’s what people were like. They’d make a fuss, expecting him to fix things like he did before ’cause he was the Innocent Mage. Fear surged again, hot and hungry and crowding into his throat.
He ain’t got King Gar to help him this time. He’s got Mama, but it’s not the same. It ain’t fair. This is all the Doranen’s fault. They started it. They should fix it. What if Da can’t fix it on his own? What if—what if—