Because she couldn’t trust herself to speak, Dathne stood at the Tower’s solar window and stared at the sullenly weeping world beyond it.
Since the night of Pellen’s farewell ball, nearly two weeks ago, it had stormed and rained almost without ceasing. Tremors had been felt in every part of the kingdom. Countless creeks and riverlets and ponds were overflowing. There’d even been some drownings. Dorana’s City Guardhouse—all the Guardhouses in the kingdom—were on the highest alert. Frightened people did silly things. Dorana’s Guardhouse was full right now of hotheaded Olken and Doranen youths caught brawling in Market Square, each blaming the other for Lur’s overwhelming strife. Rafe’s friend Goose was one of those arrested, swirled up in the disturbance trying to save another lad from harm.
All fear and no sense, the fools, and not once stopping to think. Don’t people understand anything? We survive this together or we perish alone.
Behind her, she heard Asher shift on the solar’s low couch. “Dath? You goin’ to say somethin’?”
“Trust me, Asher, you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I always do.”
All right, my love. But don’t say you weren’t warned.
She turned on him. “You can’t do it. You nearly killed yourself last time. And anyway, we both know this has gone far beyond fixing, even with Weather Magic. Whatever time you bought for Lur—it’s spent now. And there’s no more coin in that purse.”
“Dath…” Asher lifted his head from his hands. “If I don’t try again, them fools Pintte and Garrick are goin’ to—”
“Then let them!” she snapped. “If they’re so stupid they won’t listen to you then let them. You don’t like them anyway, so why should you care if they get themselves drowned?”
He sighed. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” She laughed, scornful. “Given a choice between your life and theirs do you think I’d choose those fools over you?”
“No, Dath,” he said, pressing his thumb tips to his eyes. “Course I don’t.”
“Asher…” Heartwrung for him despite her frightened fury, Dathne stepped swiftly to the couch and sat by his side. Smoothed his close-clipped, badgery hair. “Stop blaming yourself. You’ve done everything you could. More than anyone had a right to expect.”
He shrugged, unconsoled. “Ain’t been enough, though, has it?”
“Asher, you bought us another ten years. There’s not a man or woman in Lur who could’ve done more. And as for Fernel, and Rodyn Garrick—you’ve shouted yourself hoarse in both Councils and you’ve petitioned them privately and still they insist on ignoring you. I say if they’re determined to be blind fools, then so be it. But you cannot risk WeatherWorking again. I won’t have it. I won’t lose you to—”
Hurried footsteps on the Tower staircase. Rafel. He strode into the solar, his face lit with elation. But Dathne, knowing him, thought she saw trepidation beneath it.
“Goose’s let out,” he announced. His hair and shoulders were damp from the rain. “They all are. Cautioned and fined, but no worse.”
“Ha,” said Asher, unslumping. “Don’t tell me that Captain Mason’s a soft-head. When the Council hired him in charge of the Guardhouse he promised he’d be strict.”
“It was a steep fine,” said Rafel. “Fifty trins, which Goose’s da said he won’t pay. And every offender’s name noted in the record of affray. That’s strict enough, seeing as how Goose did nowt wrong.”
Dathne smiled. Always leaping to someone’s defence, was her son. “But aside from being poorer, he’s none the worse for wear?”
“Got himself a ripe black eye,” said Rafe, pulling a face. “And a couple of loosened teeth.”
“Well, mayhap that’ll teach him not to brangle in Market Square,” said Asher. “Hope you been payin’ attention, sprat.”
Dathne saw the flash of resentment in their son’s eyes. Saw his jaw tighten, briefly, and the instinctive clench of fingers to fists.
Oh, Asher. Have a care. Don’t let Lur’s new troubles blind you.
“Any other news, Rafe?” she said, patting her tactless husband’s hand in warning. “What’s the gossip?”
Rafe looked at his father sidelong, then wandered over to the solar’s window. “Word is Fernel Pintte and Rodyn Garrick are set to leave for the coast by the end of the week.”
“Anyone goin’ with ’em?” said Asher, eventually.
“Didn’t hear that.” Rafe grimaced. “Though I s’pose Arlin’ll traipse along, so he can say after how he saved Lur single-handed.”
“If there is an after,” Asher muttered. “If they don’t kill ’emselves and half of Westwailing while they be about it.”
“Da…” Rafe shoved his hands in his pockets, looking so like his father. “We can’t sit on our arses doing nowt. I don’t see what’s wrong with trying to break the reef.”
“Rafe, it’s been tried,” Asher said sharply. “I tried.” It was another cruel memory he’d worked hard to smother. “And when I failed, Barlsman Holze and the best Doranen mages Morg didn’t manage to kill, they tried. And how did that tale end? With most of ’em dead outright and Holze ravin’ witless for nigh on three months. The bloody reef’s poison. There ain’t no undoin’ it.”
Rafel was staring. “I never knew you tried to break the reef.”
“Aye, well, it were a long time ago and we never did run around shoutin’ it from the roof tops. Point is, Rafe, we failed.”
“But Da, like you say, it was a long time ago,” said Rafe. So young, so—so cocksure. “You said it yourself—things change. We all thought Lur was a safe and peaceful place, but it’s not. It’s growing more dangerous by the day. What if the rain won’t stop? What if the earth tremors get any worse? There’s already crops ruined and stock drowned. Much more of this and food’s going to get scarce. What do we do then? How will we live? We’ve got to find a way out of this bloody kingdom. And if we can’t go over the mountains we’ve got no choice. We have to get out on boats.”
Asher shoved to his feet. “What boats, Rafe? Fishin’ boats? They’d never stand up to the open ocean.”
“Then we’ll build bigger boats,” said Rafe, reckless. “Better boats.”
“And sail ’em where, sprat?” said Asher. He was starting to lose his temper. “Like as not there ain’t nowhere to sail to. For as long as there’s been Olken in Lur has a boat ever come here? No. We ain’t seen so much as a sail on the bloody horizon!”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!” Rafe shouted. “And if you won’t then someone else has to. Someone’s got to do more than stand around telling folk to give up hope. Barl bloody save us, Da, you could be wrong. Why don’t you ever admit you could be wrong?”
Seeing Asher’s face, Dathne leapt up. “Rafel, that’s enough.” Her voice was trembling. Her whole body was trembling. The hurt in Asher’s eyes… “You don’t know everything. You don’t know—”
“I know enough, Mama,” said Rafel, pale with temper. “I know Lur’s broken and Da can’t fix it. And if he can’t no-one can. Now, I don’t like Fernel Pintte and Lord Garrick any more than you like ’em, but at least they’re trying to do something. So I say let ’em. I say we’ve got nothing to lose.”
“That ain’t always true, Rafe,” Asher said quietly. “Sometimes we don’t know what we got to lose till we’ve gone and bloody lost it.”
Rafe’s face shuttered. “Any road,” he said. “That’s the latest news.”
“Rafe, where are you going?” said Dathne, as her son headed for the solar door. “Rafe—”
“Out for a bit,” he said, not slowing. “I’ll be back for supper.”
She stood there, silent, listening to his footsteps fade. Then she looked at Asher. His face was shuttered too, all thought and feeling locked away. She reached out, touched his arm.
“Asher, he’s young. He doesn’t—”
He walked to the window. Rested his palm on its pane of glass and stared out at the rain and the waterlogged garden. “Dath, I got to go too. Down to Westwailing. If them fools are bent on doin’ this… I got to be there.”
She wanted to say no. She wanted to rail against his sombre certainty, hold him and kiss him until he changed his mind. But she couldn’t, because down in Westwailing there was still a small chance he could make a difference. And he needed that. He needed it badly.
And whatever he does there, at least it won’t be WeatherWorking.
“I’ll go with you,” she whispered. “We’ll all go.”
His head snapped round. “No, Dath. You and the sprats got to stay here. Ain’t no tellin’ what’ll happen when they start faddlin’ with the reef. Me and Holze and them others, we went at it careful. That won’t be Garrick and Pintte. Them fools are goin’ to try rippin’ it to shreds. It won’t be safe.”
“Right now, nowhere in this kingdom’s safe,” she retorted. “Rafe’s right about that much. Besides. It’s time he learned a thing or two first hand, our brash son. And I don’t want Deenie left behind on her own. She’s fragile, yet. She needs me. And Asher, you need us.”
She could feel the conflict in him. He wanted to argue, declare himself the stalwart hero. The lone wolf. But his eyes told a different story. He was hurting, because of Rafe, whose youthful arrogance was sharper than a knife. And worse than the pain, there was shame… because he’d let her talk him out of trying to WeatherWork again.
But she refused to be ashamed of that. Though they didn’t speak of it, she knew there were wounds in him that hadn’t healed. Might never heal. What was it Queen Dana had said once to Gar, that Gar had told Asher and he had told her?
Weather Magic is a double-edged sword, and every time you wield it you cut yourself a little.
Well. For Gar’s sake and Lur’s, Asher had nigh on cut himself to ribbons. She had no desire that he cut himself again. Not now, not ever. And he knew it.
But… could she trust him to honour her fear? If Pintte and Garrick failed in Westwailing, as seemed most likely, and Lur’s strife made good on its threat to tear the kingdom apart—could she trust him not to try WeatherWorking their way out of trouble a second time?
Of course I can’t. He’s Asher.
“My love,” she said. “I want your word on something. No matter what happens on the coast, promise me you’re done with Weather Magic. On the lives of your children, promise me you won’t touch that Weather map again.”
Wearily he shook his head. “Dath—”
“Promise me.”
“All right,” he said, after a terrifying silence. “I promise.”
She smiled, tightly. I don’t care if he resents me. I don’t care what he does so long as he doesn’t go back to that bloody Weather Chamber. “Good. Now I’d best get busy packing, since we’re off to the coast.”
“I’ll see to the carriage and horses,” said Asher. “And after that, reckon I’ll wander down and have a few words with Pellen. He likes the company, and he’ll want to know about Pintte and Garrick’s plan.”
She frowned. “He’s supposed to be resting. If you wear him out with politics and gossip, Asher, he’ll never—”
“Trust me, Dath, he’ll be a sight more fratched not knowin’ what’s what. Last thing Pellen wants is to be left out.”
And that was true too. She sighed. “Just be home in time for supper. Or you’ll have Cook out of sorts and you’re not the one who has to listen to her griping.”
She turned to leave a second time, and for a second time he stopped her. “Dath…”
Twenty years was a long time to live with a man. She knew him as she knew herself. Too well for comfort, sometimes. Too well to lie. “You can’t, Asher,” she said softly. “I know you want him to think well of you, always. But ask yourself this, my love. Will it help Rafe or hurt him to know about the Weather map? When there’s nothing he can do with it? When there’s nothing he can do for you?” She took a consoling step towards him. “He might not admit it, but he’s frighted like the rest of us. Rafe knows you. He loves you. You’ve not lost him over this. He knows better than anyone you’re not a coward.”
He tried to smile. “You reckon?”
“I do. Now go cheer up Pellen. Give him my best.” She darted back to him and kissed him lightly on the lips. “And don’t forget—I love you too.”
She left him alone then, for he wasn’t a man to weep easy in company. Not even when the company was his wife of twenty years.
Until the day Morg tried to destroy Dorana, the alehouse that stood on this spot was called the Green Goose. According to them as remembered, it had been the favourite watering spot for all the palace and Tower staff. Da used to drink and rowdy and play knucklebones there three or four nights a week, so folk said. But the alehouse burned down on the day Morg died, and the innkeeper had burned with it along with his family.
The new alehouse built in its place was named the Dancing Bear. Goose’s da brewed the ale for it, and sometimes Goose did too now he was trusted alone with the hops and the malt barley and the recipes that won prizes at the annual guild fair.
Still fratched with his father, Rafel brooded over a mug of Goose-brewed pale ale. Two fiddles and a tambourine made cheerful music in the corner, much more to his liking than the noise at Pellen’s ball. Though a lot had changed in the City, this remained an Olken place. No Doranen drank here. And most of those Olken were sneaking looks over their shoulders at the hero’s son, in the corner. Looks that suggested disappointment and dismay, that the hero hadn’t lifted a finger this time to save them.
Don’t blame me. I tried talking to him.
“Hey,” said Goose, sliding onto the bench opposite. His hair was wet. Would it never stop raining? “Got your message. What’s wrong?”
He shrugged. “Nowt. Didn’t feel like drinking alone, is all.” Sour mood easing, just a little, he sat back. “How bad’s the trouble with your da?”
Goose waved at one of the barmaids, pulling a face. “Let’s just say I’m not his favourite son.”
“Goose, you’re his only son.”
“And not his favourite, either.”
“But you did nowt wrong,” Rafe protested. “You were trying to help Solly.”
“Which cost me fifty trins and my name writ down in the Guardhouse, so—” Goose broke off and smiled at the barmaid. “A pint of strong, Flora lass.”
Flora dimpled. “Yours or your dad’s?”
“Mine,” said Goose, grinning. “Or folk might start to talk. A brewer who won’t drink his own ale? That’ll get tongues wagging.”
Flora’s dimples deepened. “One pint coming up, Goose.”
For a moment Rafe admired the saucy swing of her hips as she returned to the bar. Then he looked back at Goose. “Your da’s a bloody fool. He ought to be proud of you, standing up for a friend.”
“Probably he would be, if it didn’t cost me fifty trins,” Goose said, resigned. “You know what my dad’s like about money.”
“Aye,” he said, and swallowed more ale. It was a touch sweeter than what Goose’s da brewed. But then, Goose was a touch sweeter than his da, so no surprise there.
Waiting for his own tankard, Goose looked around the crowded ale-house. There was laughter, there was gaming, the music was loud and bright, but beneath the jollity was a bitter taint of fear. The rain didn’t help, drumming harder than ever on the Bear’s tiled roof, a constant reminder Lur was falling apart.
“I heard what the mayor and Lord Garrick are planning,” said Goose, lowering his voice. “Is it true? Have we got no choice but to trust in them?”
The sweet ale in his belly turned abruptly sour. “Looks that way.”
“But Rafe…” Goose chewed at his lip, as dismayed as all the other Olken in the place. “Your dad’s the WeatherWorker, he—”
“That’s what he was, Goose. I d’know what he is now.”
Flora’s return with Goose’s tankard broke the shocked silence. “Thanks, lass,” Goose said, subdued, and fished some coins out of his pocket for her. After she left them, he leaned across the scarred table. “Rafe, what’s wrong?”
Rafel put down his own tankard and scrubbed a hand across his face. I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to… “Nowt,” he muttered. “Leastways nowt I want to talk on.”
“You still feelin’ bad?” said Goose, all quick sympathy. “I thought things had eased off a bit. I’ve heard other Olken, strong mages, say how things have eased off.”
“They have,” he said tiredly. “You’re right, the earth ain’t howling so loud.” Prob’ly ’cause it had nigh on howled itself to death. But he wasn’t strong enough for that conversation. Not tonight. “So aye. I’m feeling better.” For now.
Goose nodded. “That’s good. Rafe…”
They’d been friends so long he didn’t need for Goose to finish. “No. There’s nowt I can do to fix what’s gone wrong. Da won’t let me.”
“Rafe—” Goose rubbed his nose. “Your dad’s only trying to protect you.”
Rage flashed through him. “Did I ask him to?” he said, leaning across the wooden bench, fist thudding. “I never did, Goose. I never bloody asked and now, when I could make a difference? With the power that’s in me?” Sitting back, he gulped the rest of his ale. “I’m no more use than tits on a bull.”
“Any road,” said Goose, at last, uncomfortable. “At least you’re not feeling so sick.” He swallowed more of his own ale. Belched. “I came past the Chapel on the way here. Blazing with lights, it was. Full of folk in service with Barlsman Jaffee.” His gaze drifted around the noisy room. “Seems to me these days we’re either praying or drinking.”
“Those ain’t our only choices, Goose,” he said, and levered himself to his feet. His head buzzed muzzily, sloshing full of ale. “We can gamble, too. Let’s find us a game of knucklebones. I’m in the mood to wager big.”
They joined a round started up by a few lads as worked the Livestock Quarter, and soon enough one or two others, old school friends, joined them. Raucous and riotous, they hooted, hollered and traded cuicks and trins back and forth, tossed the yellowed knucklebones, accused each other of ham-fisted cheating, laughed and pretended all was right with the world.
Then Rafel looked up at the clock above the bar, and saw he was in danger of getting home late for supper. Leaning sideways, he took a deep breath and bawled into Goose’s ear.
“Time’s shifting. I gotta go.”
Cheerfully ale-sloshed, Goose nodded. “All right. But come by the brewery first thing tomorrow, why don’t you? We’re shorthanded—and you’ve got nothing better to do.”
The words were meant friendly and teasing, but they stuck him like pins. Nothing better to do. Aye, and wasn’t that the truth? I ain’t Goose. I don’t want to be a brewer. All I want to be I can’t. And I still don’t know what to do about that. But that wasn’t Goose’s fault… and sweating in the brewery was one way to kill time and earn himself some coin.
“Aye,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
Once outside the alehouse, he turned up his coat collar. The rain had eased to a mizzle, and the empty cobbled streets were slick and treacherous under foot. Their glimlamps sparked and sputtered, struggling as they’d struggled ever since the night of Uncle Pellen’s ball, and the storm that ripped Lur out of its warm, safe cocoon.
But he didn’t want to think on that, either, so he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and started walking back home. Prodded by what Goose had said, he didn’t take the back streets this time, but crossed over to Market Square to find the Chapel still blazing with glimlight and folks stood on the steps ’cause they couldn’t fit inside. And there was singing. Beautiful singing. Hymns to Barl. He stood in the Square’s shadows, listening, and bit by bit his lingering anger faded. Soothed by sweet voices instead of Goose’s sweet ale.
After a while he realised he wasn’t alone. Looking sideways he saw Da standing a bit distant, listening with him.
“Been sittin’ with Pellen,” Da said, his own gaze not moving from the chapel. “Chewin’ over this and that.”
Uncle Pellen hadn’t set foot out of his house since that night in the Guildhouse. Rafel felt the worry of it tickle his throat. “He feeling better?”
Da shook his head. “No.”
“So Kerril’s right?” he said harshly. “He’s dying?”
“We all be dyin’, sprat,” said Da. “Just some of us faster than others, is all.”
That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “Thanks, Da. That’s right cheerful of you.”
Da snorted. “Y’know you be late for supper?”
He tipped his face to the cloud-smudged night sky, feeling the mizzle harden, hinting at more rain. “So are you.”
“Aye,” said Da, still thoughtful. “So you and me got that much in common.”
They had magic in common too, only he was s’posed to pretend they didn’t. Anger stirred again—but he was too full of ale and weariness to brangle, so he held his tongue.
“I’m goin’ down to Westwailing,” said Da. “Your ma and Deenie are comin’ too. Reckon you should ride with us. Reckon you should see for y’self what comes of faddlin’ with things as are best left alone.”
“Da—” He swung round. “Why’d you have to put it that way? Why can’t you say you’re going down to Westwailing to show support for the mayor and Lord Garrick?”
“ ’Cause that ain’t why I be goin’,” said Da, with a careless shrug.
“You’re going so you can sneer and say afterwards I told you so?” he demanded, incredulous. “Da, that’s mean.”
Da looked at him, his face patchworked with glimfire shadows and his eyes gleaming bright and hard. “I’m goin’ so I’ll be there when things go sinkin’ wrong, Rafel. I’m goin’ so mayhap I can save them fools when arrogance looks like costin’ ’em their lives. I’m goin’—” Da stopped. Took a few deep breaths. “I’m goin’,” he said more quietly, “in case there’s a chance I can talk ’em out of this afore they start.”
“You won’t,” he said. “Their minds are made up, Da. As made up as yours.”
“I know,” said Da, his voice almost a whisper. “But I got to try, sprat. How will I live with m’self if I don’t bloody try?”
He sounded so lost. So hurt. Shaken, Rafel stared at him. That ain’t my da. Asher of Restharven doesn’t sound like that.
“Come on, sprat,” said Da, and like magic he was himself again. Brisk. Confident. Careless of the world and its feelings. “Best we tittup home again so your ma can crack a wooden spoon over our heads. Fierce set on tidy supper times, your ma. Nasty bad habit that, but she won’t give it up.”
Though he was temper-churned and restless, still he had to laugh. “All right.”
Leaving the Chapel and the singing in the wet night behind them, they started walking towards the High Street, and home.
“Da,” he said, as the voices lifted plaintive towards the hidden stars. “D’you believe in all that?”
“All what?” said Da, steadily tramping.
Suddenly he felt awkward. Embarrassed. But he’d started it, so he’d have to keep going. “You know. Chapel. Praying. Barl’s mercy. D’you think she’s real?”
“She was real,” Da said, after a moment. “She were a flesh and blood woman, Rafe. She lived and breathed and walked these streets.”
“I know that.” Why couldn’t Da ever just answer a question? “But now? D’you reckon she’s watching over us now? Hears us praying? Does what we ask?”
Da grunted. They’d reached the steep part of High Street, where it tilted straight towards the palace ground gates. Walking fast was a puffing business.
“Ain’t that a question for the likes of Barlsman Jaffee?”
“I already know what he thinks. I want to know what you think. I want to know if—”
“If we be foolin’ ourselves, prayin’?” Da said, breathing hard. “Fillin’ our bellies with false hope like you filled yours full of ale tonight?” Da shook his head. “I d’know, Rafe. That’s the truth. Mayhap we are. Mayhap them folk back there singin’ their hearts out ain’t bein’ heard by nobody but us. But if it makes ’em feel better… if it gives ’em strength to go on when they be frighted… does it matter? Folk need somethin’ to cling to when the waters turn rough.”
“They are rough, aren’t they? Lur’s in trouble, Da. Real trouble.”
“Aye,” Da said heavily. “It surely is.”
“So when do we leave for Westwailing?”
In the damp, ill-lit darkness he could feel his father’s surprise. His cautious pleasure. “That means you’re comin’, does it?”
The brewery wasn’t going anywhere. He could earn himself some coin there when he got back. He’d send a message to Goose. His friend would understand.
“Yes. I’m coming.”
“We’ll head out tomorrow, early as we can,” said Da. “I want to get down there afore Pintte and Garrick and them fools they be takin’ with ’em turn up. I want some time to get a feel for the place, ’specially now. I want to see if what they want to do can be done.”
And that made him stare, and slow down a bit. “And if it can be? Will you help them?”
“If it can be I’ll have to, won’t I?”
“How? There’ll be no Olken magic used, Da. Every last spell will be Doranen.”
“Aye, well,” said Da, suddenly cagey. “I got me a few tricks up my sleeve.”
The trunk. Durm’s secret spell books and scrolls. The ones he wasn’t meant to know about. He nodded, careless. Trying to look innocent.
“That’s good, Da. That’s good to know.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way home.
At first light next morning, in a steady mizzle, they loaded up their carriage and trundled out of Dorana City, heading for the coastal township of Westwailing.
It was a miserable journey. Thirteen days of patchy rain, high winds, two hailstorms and four more juddering earth tremors. The carriage bogged three times and they broke a wheel once. That happened on a lonely stretch of road between Flat Iron and Slumly Corners. Doranen magic took care of it, since it was Asher’s turn to play coachman and there was nobody around to see.
Rafel watched his father mend the snapped spokes with absentminded ease and had to walk away, so riled did it make him. One rule for Da and another for him. And his parents wondered why he was so easily fratched.
When at long last they reached Westwailing, with Fernel Pintte and Rodyn Garrick and the rest somewhere on the road behind them, they took rooms at the Dancing Dolphin, still sailing along after so many years.
After that, it was a matter of waiting.
Dismayed and disgruntled, Asher stood with his family on Westwailing’s long stone pier and stared at the harbour’s somnolent waters. Stared beyond them to the distant, foaming breakers rolling in over Dragon-teeth Reef. Beyond the reef churned the whirlpools and treacherously random waterspouts spawned by the blighted magics left behind after Morg’s destruction. The magics that had tried to kill him all those years ago. The memory was a bad one, almost as bad as what had happened to Matt and Veira… and Gar.
Never wanted to think on that again, did I?
Yet here he was, thinking. Brought face to face with a past he couldn’t forget or outrun.
Two days ago, the afternoon he and his family arrived in Westwailing, he’d taken a skiff out to the reef. On his lonesome, though his family fratched at the notion. Twice a year, every year, someone from the fishing community sailed along the reef’s edge to see if the whirlpools and the waterspouts were gone or growing weaker, but they never were. Three men had drownded, even, caught unawares. Dathne, Rafel and Deenie were frighted he’d make the fourth. He’d ignored ’em. Seeing the reef up close again were something he’d needed to do.
Holding the skiff hard against the drag of the whirlpools, sailed as close to the reef as he dared, he’d watched the waterspouts spiral haveycavey from the ocean’s shifting surface. Squinting, he’d felt the spouts’ spitting spray sting his face. Soak his hair and clothes. Splatter the skiff’s sail. The air was full of angry sound and his whole body thudded to the racing beat of his heart. Then he’d looked at the swirling, growling mouths of the whirlpools, monstrous holes in the ocean eager to suck helpless ships to their doom. Opened his mind to the rot in the reef.
It were just as bad as he remembered. He puked his lunch over the Skiff’s side, feeling it. Pintte and the others were mad. He had to stop them afore it was too late. But he didn’t know how.
Raised voices pulled him back to the present. Further along the pier, towards its far end, a bustle of busyness as Rodyn Garrick and his son and the Doranen mages he’d brought with him prepared to challenge Morg’s creeping blight. That troublesome Ain Freidin was one of ’ em—and didn’t that raise some questions? Fernel Pintte bustled too, hob-nobbing with Westwailing’s mayor and council and chivvying the Olken fishermen who’d agreed—for a steep price—to sail them all out to the reef. Fools, every last one of ’em.
Brooding across the harbour, he pulled his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. “I’m tellin’ you this be a sinkin’ bad idea.”
Beside him, Dathne patted his arm. “Yes, Asher. We know.”
Deenie tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow. “The reef makes me shivery,” she said, her voice low.
“Your own shadow makes you shivery,” said Rafe, scornful. “Why’d you even come?”
Ignoring him, ’cause Rafel in a stroppy mood were best handled by turning deaf, dumb and blind, Asher looked down at his daughter. “The reef’s bad, mouse, I know. But is that all you feel?”
“Don’t, Da,” said Rafel. “You’ll only set her off. You know what she’s like.”
Pushed, he shot his son a warning look. It were a sinkin’ shame Rafe had run across Arlin Garrick after breakfast, and let hisself get riled by the poxy little shit. Not that he needed much excuse right now. Dath were right—their son might be turned twenty, but he had some growin’ up to do.
Twenty. I were his age when I left home for the City. Were I brash like him back then? So fearless, and bloody certain I already knew it all?
He couldn’t remember. Too much had happened since. He’d sailed past forty. Forty. How were that possible?
“I’m all right, Da,” said Deenie, with a trembly smile. “Don’t mind me.”
Which were just like his little mouse, but didn’t answer his question. “Deenie, if you feel there be somethin’ else we—”
“No, Da,” she insisted. “Don’t fuss. You’ll have folk looking at us. At me.”
And for Deenie there could be nowt worse than that. Rafel loved attention. Thrived on crowds and noise and bein’ noticed. But Deenie? She weren’t never happier than when she were buried up to her eyebrows in a book.
She be a right proper mix of me and Dath. But Rafe? Sink me, Rafe be so like his granfer. Before Ma died, Da were the village lantern everyone followed.
“Please, Da,” said Deenie, giving his shirt-sleeve a little tug, her wary gaze skittering to see if they’d been overheard by the Olken and Doranen scurrying like ants about the pier.
“Deenie,” said Dathne. “If you don’t feel well we can go back to the Dolphin.”
“Your ma’s right, mouse,” he said, and smoothed a hand down Deenie’s arm. “Ain’t no reason for you to doddle about here if this malarkey don’t amuse you.”
Rafel snorted. “Y’should have stayed home in Dorana, Deenie. Kept company with Charis.”
“No,” said Deenie. “Charis has enough to fret on with Uncle Pellen. She didn’t need me underfoot.”
Reminded of the sorrow left behind them in Dorana, Asher scowled at the pier’s salt-crusted stonework. Then, taking Deenie’s hand, he flicked a warning glance at Dathne and wandered their daughter a little ways back along the pier, towards Westwailing township where almost as many folk were gathered, hopeful of excitement, as came for the Sea Harvest Festival every year.
When they were a comfortable distance from eavesdropping ears, Pintte and Garrick and the rest of ’em, and Rafel, he let go of Deenie’s hand and slid his arm round her shoulders. She looked up at him, so trusting. A plain little thing, scrawny like her ma was back when he’d first met her.
“Come on, mouse,” he said gently. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Da…” Deenie scrunched her face. “I don’t like talking on that. Any road, you know already.”
“I know what I know,” he said. “Don’t know what you know, do I? Come on, Deenie. Nowt much good comes of keepin’ secrets.”
Sighing, she wrapped her thin arms around her ribs, just like her ma did, and turned her head to stare out across the harbour. Mid-morning and for the first time in days the sky was clear of rain. The unclouded sun struck glittery sparkles off the water and a salt-laden fresh breeze ruffled her short hair, rushing colour to her high-boned cheeks.
“Does it matter how I feel, Da?” she murmured. “Won’t change anything, will it.”
Sadly, that were true. But he still wanted—needed—to know what she could sense. Ever since that stinkin’ night she’d woke screaming ’cause he called warbeasts in his troubled sleep, he’d fretted about her. Not the way he fretted for Rafel, who chafed against any and all restraints. He feared for Deenie because, like him, she didn’t seem to care much for her magic… and yet, like her brother, was cursed by him with something not given to other Olken.
“It matters to me, mouse,” he said. “Ain’t it my job to keep you safe? Can’t do that if I don’t know what’s what, eh?”
She had a sweet smile, his Deenie, but now her lips were pressed flat. “You can’t keep me safe forever, Da. You won’t be here forever.”
Pellen. “You and Charis been talkin’, mouse? She got you all stirred up on account of her da? Don’t let Pellen bein’ poorly fright you. I be stayin’ right here.”
Deenie looked at him. Young, so sinkin’ young, but cruelly grown-up in her eyes. “Until you go.”
“Deenie… Deenie…” He caught her to him in a crushing hug. “Pellen’s goin’ to be fine. If Morg couldn’t kill him no bloody cough will. Now why don’t you stop tryin’ to sail me off course, eh, and tell me what it is you feel.”