Asher sighed. “And if you are? Like you say, Pellen—ain’t no pourin’ spilt ale back in the jug.”
“How bad is it?”
There were aches and pains in him now, gnawing at his tired bones. Aches and pains Kerril’s strongest potions couldn’t dull. “Bad enough.”
“Well, if a stubborn frog like you is admitting it,” said Pellen, trying to make a joke. But it weren’t funny, and he knew it. None of this were funny. “I’m sorry, Asher. For all of it.”
“Don’t know what you be apologisin’ for,” he said, struggling to stay on an even keel.
“Someone has to,” said Pellen. “And since Fernel bloody Pintte won’t…” He shrugged, then his gaze sharpened, and he was suddenly Captain Orrick of the City Guard again. “Asher—I hope you’re not thinking to do anything foolish.”
“Course I ain’t.”
But Pellen didn’t believe him. “Working that Weather map nearly killed you ten years ago. It nearly killed Dathne, to see you so hurt. Would you do that to her a second time?”
He stared at Pellen, derisive. “You sayin’ that when you was our doughty Guard Captain, and some fool of an Olken took a swing at you, you never set foot in a brawl again after?”
“That’s different!” Pellen retorted. “Your Weather Magic’s lethal, Asher.”
“And a brawler’s knife ain’t?” he said, pushing out of his chair. “Pellen, leave be. I ain’t sure what I’m goin’ to do. Just—don’t you make it any harder on me, eh? Lyin’ there all poorly and pathetic. Tryin’ to use my sympathy agin me.”
“All right,” said Pellen, grudging. “But don’t you expect me not to speak my mind.”
Fetched up at the open chamber window, looking out across the City’s rooftops towards Market Square, he shook his head. “I don’t. Known you too bloody long for that.”
Fleeting sunshine was warm on his face, the light breeze scented with blossoms from window-boxes, and tinged pungent by pigeon dung. Bloody birds nested in every nook and cranny of a house. Staring further across the rooftops he could see the distant tiles of Justice Hall, and a narrow strip of stained glass: Dorana City’s Barlschapel. The bits of street and laneway he could see were empty. Nobody scurrying on urgent business, or lazily strolling to admire shop window displays. Anyone not bedridden was down to the Square or lining the main street leading to the City gates, squashed belly to arse so’s they could say to anyone who’d listen after, “I was there to see the expedition ride out.”
It were just like last time, when Tollin and his foolhardy friends got ’emselves blessed by Holze. The breeze strengthened and he caught a hint of voices raised in joyful acclaim, as folk lied to ’emselves as how their troubles would soon be over.
Laughter when they leave and weepin’ when they come back. How is it folk got such short bloody memories?
“Asher…”
He turned. Barl save him, Pellen looked bad. It ain’t fair. Why do all my friends die? “Aye?”
“Have you thought you could be wrong about things?” said Pellen, almost hesitant. “We’ve had more settled weather, these past days. I hear the flooding’s eased. The tremors have stopped. Maybe… maybe what happened before was a false alarm.”
“Pellen…” He shook his head. How much did it hurt him, to dash his friend’s frail hopes? “No. I wish it were, but it ain’t. What happened before were Lur clearin’ its throat. Now the kingdom’s just holdin’ its breath. Bidin’ its time.”
“Why do you say that?”
Asher closed his eyes. Ignored Pellen’s dismay, and the pain in his bones, let the mage in him sink deep and felt the drips and dregs of the magic he’d poured into Lur’s earth. So little left now. So much heart-ache to come.
“ ’Cause it’s true,” he murmured. “ ’Cause I can feel it.” He opened his eyes. “And I’ll bet Fernel bloody Pintte can feel it too. Prob’ly it be why he’s so keen on rushin’ off over them mountains. He knows what’s comin’ and he don’t want to be here.”
“Well, if you’re right—whatever comes, Lur will survive it,” said Pellen, his eyes feverish. “We survived before there was Weather Magic. We survived the coming of the Doranen and the fall of Barl’s Wall. Whatever happens, Lur will survive it too. If I believe nothing else, I believe that.”
Wish I did. But he didn’t say so out loud. Mayhap Pellen really did believe it, and weren’t just tryin’ to cheer him up. Spoilin’ things for him wouldn’t be very kind.
“Asher,” said Pellen, still sharp. “I want you to promise me something.”
Wary now, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll not do anything foolish on your own. That for once in your stubborn life you’ll seek advice from those who care for you before you do something that can’t be undone.”
Pellen meant well, but he didn’t understand. How could he? He weren’t a mage. He couldn’t feel the earth, he only walked on top of it.
“I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?” said Pellen, disappointed, falling back against his pillows. “You’ll do what you think is right, no matter what I or Dathne or anyone else might say.”
“I’m sorry, Pellen.”
“Don’t be. You’re the Innocent Mage. It’s not my place to—”
“Not your place?” he demanded. “When it’s you who got Gar and Matt and Darran out of the City, away from Morg? The only reason we beat the bastard is ’cause of you.” Breathing hard, he dragged a hand down his face. “Not your place? Sink me, Pellen, you dare say that againandI’ll—I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” said Pellen, smiling. There was an ominous rattle in his chest. “Slap the dying man who’s trying to save you?”
And what could he say to that? Nowt. But even if he’d had the words, tears were too close.
“Forget I asked it,” said Pellen. “And promise me this, instead.”
With a terrible effort, he made himself smile. “Sink me twice. What now?”
Leaning over, Pellen tugged open the drawer in his bedside table and pulled out a battered, dog-eared pack of playing cards. “Don’t summon a horselir to eat me when I thrash you at zephyr.”
Pellen, Pellen. You be breakin’ my bloody heart. “Fine. I won’t summon a horselir,” he said, and returned to the chair by the bed. “But I ain’t about to promise I won’t make it snow down your nightshirt—if you beat me.” Taking the cards, he began a swift shuffle. “ ’Cept you won’t. So I reckon you be safe from snowfalls, for now.”
“Goose.”
Amid the hustle and bustle of the expedition’s final preparations, now that Barlsman Jaffee had said his prayers over them, Goose was taking a quiet moment, it seemed, to gather his thoughts. Was sat on an upturned bucket outside his horse’s stable round the back of Justice Hall, where Pintte and Baden’s collected group of adventurers milled and argued and jostled.
“Goose,” Rafel said again, when his friend didn’t look up. “Have you got a spare ticktock?”
They’d spoken once since that afternoon of ale-brewing, when he’d told his friend he’d travel with him over the mountains. Just once he’d seen Goose, to break his promised word.
Goose lifted his head. “Rafe.”
They stared at each other, silent, as around them Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden and the other eight as were leaving, four Olken and four Doranen, fetched bridles and saddles, double-checked saddlebags and backpacks. Rafel spared them a glance, and didn’t recognise one of them. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets. There were too many folk here, with big ears and flapping lips.
“Walk with me a little ways? Have you got time?”
Goose shrugged. “A minute or so. Can’t walk far in a minute.”
“We can walk far enough,” he said, and nodded to the tree-shadowed pathway leading to the lane that ran behind the Hall. “If you want to.”
Goose looked to where Fernel Pintte was in conversation with Sarle Baden. Not friends, those two, but joined in common cause. No more Doranen in Lur. “Meister Mayor!”
Pintte turned. When he saw who’d come visiting, his face collapsed in a scowl. “What?”
“Need to take a moment,” said Goose. “I won’t go far. Won’t be long.”
“And we won’t wait for you if that’s not the case,” Pintte retorted. “Rafel—”
Rafel held up his hands. “Ain’t come to cause trouble, Meister Mayor. Just need a word with Goose, here, before you go.”
Fernel Pintte turned his back. So prob’ly that meant he and Goose had their moment.
Goose seemed to think so, ’cause he pushed himself off the bucket and threaded his way through the chaos towards the pathway. Guts twisting, Rafel followed. Joined him in the dappling shadows, his mouth crowded with words.
“Rafe, I ain’t mad at you,” Goose said, patient. Not smiling. “I’ve told you that once already. So if you’re here to say sorry, save your breath. To be honest, I never really thought you’d come. I never thought your father would let you.”
And that burned. “Let me?”
Goose rested a hand on his shoulder. Tightened his fingers and shook him, just a bit. “Rafe, I swear—sometimes you’re thicker than a brick wall. He nearly got you killed in Westwailing. Did you truly think he’d let you out of his sight so soon after? Trust you to Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden, when he blames them for what happened there? Don’t be daft. Even if he wasn’t stone-blind certain the expedition’s going to go bad, he’d not risk you. And he is certain, isn’t he?”
Goose’s kind forbearance was worse than anger. They were the same age—yet oddly, his friend seemed older, of a sudden. And he felt younger. Like the little brother being left behind.
“It doesn’t make him right.”
“That’s not the point, Rafe,” said Goose, and let his hand drop. “The point is he thinks he’s right. And your father’s the most stubborn Olken in history. Did you know he came to see my dad? Tried to browbeat him into making me stay home?”
He stared at his friend, horrified. “Goose, I didn’t know, I swear. I didn’t ask him. I’ve hardly said a word to him since—” He chewed at his lip. “Goose, I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” said Goose, frowning. “Rafe, don’t you be a fool. Don’t you let this come between you and him. Once we’ve got the way cleared over the mountains, once we’ve made friends with whoever we find on the other side, there’ll be other expeditions. You and me can go next time.”
He nearly said, If there is a next time. But that would sound mean, like he didn’t believe he’d see Goose again. And the last thing he wanted was to make his friend think he thought that. Only…
“Maybe so, but this first expedition’ll likely be dangerous, Goose. It ain’t right you’re going alone.”
“Alone?” Goose nodded at the increased bustle in Justice Hall’s rear courtyard. “With that lot?”
“Goose…”
Goose heaved a deep sigh. “You know what your trouble is, Rafe? I’ll tell you. You think just ’cause you’ve got a dash of Doranen magic in you that you’re a bit better than everyone else.”
That made him blink. “What?”
“And you think I can’t look after myself,” said Goose, eyebrows lifted, challenging. “You think that if you’re not around to save me, I’m as good as dead already.” He smiled, friendly but pointed. “That’s a mite insulting, y’know.”
“What?”
“Kindly meant,” Goose added. “But still insulting. You keep saying as how you’re not a sprat any more. Well, that makes two of us, Rafe. I don’t need a nursemaid and I don’t need you to save me. Wanted your company, mind. This expedition won’t be the same without you. But like I said. There’s always the next one.”
Shaken silent, Rafel stared at him. Had Goose lost his mind? Or had he spent so much time with Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden that he’d got himself infected by their blind arrogance? Was this how Da felt, faced with a whole Council chamber full of men and women like Goose, who’d let themselves be hoodwinked and bamboozled by hope and fear?
He swallowed. “I don’t think I’m better than you, Goose. But I do know I’m different. And the ways I’m different? I know they save lives. You’re my best friend, you sinkin’ fool. I don’t want nowt to happen to you!”
“It won’t,” said Goose. Then he pulled a face. “Or if it does, there’s nowt to say you could stop it. Besides, someone’s got to go. Lur’s a boiling pot with the lid stuck on tight. We’ve got to get the lid off. Or there’ll be brawling and worse between us and the Doranen and when it comes to worse we both know who’ll win.”
How could he fratch with that? Every word Goose spoke was true. But even so… even so…
“Sink me sideways, Goose,” he said, and pulled his friend into a rib-cracking embrace. “You better come back safe and sound.”
“I will,” said Goose, pounding him between the shoulder blades. “I’m coming back safe and sound just so I can say ‘I told you so.’ ”
In the courtyard behind them, the sounds of horses clopping out of their stables. “Meister Martin!” shouted Fernel Pintte. “If you’re coming with us, now’s the time! Or stay behind and stuff your belly with regrets.”
Goose let go, and stepped back. “You talk to your father, Rafe. You’ve only got one. And he’s only got you. Well, Deenie too, but that’s not the same. A man’s son is his son.”
“Aye,” he said, unwilling to trust his voice further.
“Talk to him,” Goose insisted. “Or I’ll kick your arse black and blue when I come back.”
“Looks like you’ll be busy then. Saying ‘I told you so.’ Kicking my arse.”
Goose grinned, a flash of his old self. “I’ll manage.”
The bustle behind them was growing. They were out of time—out of time—“Goose,” he said, on impulse. “About Deenie—”
And Goose blushed. “I know. I was going to say something and then—” He glanced away. “Tell her to wait for me, Rafe? Tell her—”
“Meister Martin!” shouted Pintte. “Last warning!”
“Coming, Meister Mayor!” Goose called back. Then he shrugged. “Sorry, Rafe. I’ve got to—”
“I know,” he said, and stepped out of the way. “Go.”
A crowd of family and friends had gathered to bid the expedition a private goodbye, before it got swamped and swallowed by the hundreds of gawkers lining the streets from the Square to the City gates. Olken and Doranen, they wept and hugged and exchanged fervent farewells. Goose’s da near picked his son up off the ground, holding on to him.
Standing in the shadows, Rafel watched as one by one the men hand-picked by Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden extricated themselves from their well-wishers, climbed onto their horses and fell into orderly line. Sarle Baden first, then Fernel Pintte, then the other Doranen, then the Olken. Goose last. He was the youngest man by far. Of course they’d stick him on the end.
As Baden nudged his horse forward, leading the group out to the Square, Goose turned in his saddle. Smiled. Nodded. Rafel nodded back, a crushing pain in his chest. Then a wave of dread, of sick foreboding, washed over him. Threatened to suck him down to darkness like the whirlpool in Westwailing Harbour. And he knew… he knew…
This is going to end badly. I won’t see Goose again.
Heartsick, he spun round, searching the jostling well-wishers, looking to find Goose’s da and make him go after his son, drag him off his horse and keep him safe at home. But Goose’s da was swept up in the tide of clamouring families… and the tide was pulling out, it was pouring after the expedition. The tail of Goose’s skinny bay gelding disappeared through the archway, the sight of its rump swamped by heads and backs and waving arms.
Rafel tried to shout, but his voice was lost in everyone else’s shouting. And then a huge roar went up from the crowd of Olken and Doranen in the Square. They must’ve caught their first look at mounted Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden and the rest, so jaunty and dauntless, ready to ride to the City gates. Ride to the Black Woods. Climb over Barl’s Mountains… and horribly die.
Goose. Goose, don’t go. Come back.
As the last well-wishing stragglers scurried to catch up, the Justice Hall grooms, pressed into service, went to fetch shovels and stable-forks so they could put the place to rights. But after the very last ignorant family member had passed through the archway, still one person remained.
It was Da.
“You talk to your father, Rafe,” Goose said. “You’ve only got one. And he’s only got you.”
The bright sunlight showed him Da’s weary, careworn face. Showed him threads of grey hair. Showed him slumped shoulders and grieving eyes. Some of the awfulness that had swamped him faded. He stepped out of the shadows and walked to join him.
“Where’ve you been, then?” he said, struggling to sound careless. As though they’d not been silently raging for days and days. “You missed all the speechifying.”
Da nodded. “Borin’, was it?”
“Course it was. I near bloody nodded off.”
A tiny, tiny tug of smile. “Where be your ma, and Deenie?”
“Ain’t sure,” he said. “I left them on the Chapel steps, being yapped at by Barlsman Jaffee. Charis was with them.” Somehow, he managed a swift grin. “Three women together? Like as not they’ve gone shopping. You’ll get back to the Tower tonight to find the treasury box empty.”
“Like as not,” Da agreed. “I were sittin’ with Pellen a bit. Let him beat me at cards.”
Rafel snorted. “You let the City’s best zephyr player beat you? Right, Da. Course you did.”
“Aye, well,” said Da. “He ain’t feelin’ too spry these days, is Pellen. Got to cheer him up somehow.” He flicked a glance at the dawdling Justice Hall stable hands, who had no reason to rush about their work. “I ain’t in the mood for watchin’ Pintte and them fools ride out the front gates. Walk back to the Tower with me.”
Just like that, eh? Typical bloody Da. And what about Goose? That was his best friend heading off with Fernel Pintte. What if he wanted to wave him goodbye?
’Cept I don’t. Not again.
“Goose ain’t a fool, y’know,” he said, feeling his simmering temper rise. “He’s trying to help Lur.”
“I know,” said Da. “Ain’t his fault he’s been steered wrong, by his da and others. He be a good lad, Rafe. I’m sorry.”
Aye, but sorry for what? For treating me like a sprat? For making sure I couldn’t go with him? For knowing I ain’t going to see him again? He didn’t dare ask, just in case…
“Right.”
“Come on, then,” said Da, and started walking. Rafel stared after him for a moment, uncertain whether to go on being fratched—or to plump for feeling resigned. After a brief skirmish, he settled on resigned; he’d been fratched at Da for weeks now, and all he felt was miserable.
And I did promise Mama I’d make my peace.
They eased along alleys and through laneways, so the gawkers traipsing Dorana’s streets wouldn’t know they were there. Halfway back to the Tower the crowd dribbled away and they risked the straight way home, up the High Street to the gates of the palace.
Da didn’t say another word until they were safely in the palace grounds, surrounded by flowers and trees, well away from prying eyes and eager ears. Then he sighed, and seemed to relax a bit. Slowed his determined march to a stroll, breathing just a mite too heavy. What Rafel could see of his face was sweaty, and gloomed with dark thoughts.
“Reckon I need to tell you somethin’, Rafe,” he said. “But afore I do, you got to promise me you won’t say nowt on it. Not to your ma, not to Deenie. Not to anyone. You promise?”
They might be talking now, but he still felt inclined to snap. “Who’ve I got to tell, Da? You warned me off Charis and Goose is riding out of the City and—and he ain’t coming back.”
Slowed almost to stopping, Da swung round. “Why d’you say that?”
“Why?” Instead of slowing, he stopped altogether. Fisted his hands on his hips and stared at his father, incredulous. “Why d’you bloody think? ’Cause I’m a mage just like you, Da, and I feel things. Why d’you bloody think I was so set on travelling with him? Why d’you think I never wanted him out of my sight?”
“And why d’you think,” Da retorted, his voice husky, unsteady, “I made bloody sure you stayed put?”
So much for making his peace. Goose. He couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. Rage was a red mist smearing his vision.
“Rafel,” said Da, and took him hard by both shoulders. “You think I don’t know how you feel, sprat? I know. I spoke the words that killed my best friend.”
“Then how could you stop me?” he said, his voice cracking. “When you know Goose needs me, Da, how could you keep me here?”
“ ’Cause I need you more!” said Da, shaking him. “I need you with me, Rafe, ’cause what I don’t know is if I can stop what’s comin’. Not without you. Just like I couldn’t save them fools in Westwailin’ without you. I be too hurt and worn out to do this alone. And there ain’t another mage in all Lur I can ask.”
“Ask to do what, Da?” he said, retreating. “What’s coming to Lur?” Letting go, Da stared at him, so intent. “You ain’t felt it?”
“No. Da, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Thought you might’ve felt it,” Da muttered. “And not said nowt ’cause you and me ain’t been talkin’. What about Deenie? Has she felt it, and not told me or your ma?”
“Felt what, Da? What are you—” And then his throat closed. His heart, already thumping, thumped harder. Rattled his ribs. “Are you saying it’s starting again? Like before? The storms? The tremors?”
“Worse than before, Rafe,” said Da. “Much worse.”
“How do you know? Have you felt something?”
“No,” said Da, after a moment. “Not yet. But it’s comin’, Rafe. Trust me.”
He didn’t want to hear this. “You could be wrong, Da. Things were bad ten years ago, weren’t they? And then they got better. I think they’re getting better again, right now. It’s stopped raining and—what? What?”
Da was shaking his head. Almost laughing, but his eyes were terrible. “Sink me, Rafe. The only reason Lur didn’t rip itself to bits ten years ago is ’cause I nigh on killed m’self, holdin’ it together.”
“You held it—” Suddenly cold, even in the unclouded sunshine, Rafel stared back at his father. Remembered something his mother had said, about the sacrifices Da had made. He felt small, a boy again. Looking to his father to make everything all right. But from the look on Da’s face… “How? The truth, Da. No more bloody secrets.”
“Come on,” said Da, grabbing his shirt-sleeve. “Reckon it’s easier to show you than tell you.”
They went to the Weather Chamber.
Awestruck, silent, Rafel stared around the sunlit room. He’d never set foot in this place. He’d wanted to, often enough. He’d even dreamed of sneaking in, with Goose, back when they were sprats. But something always stopped him. Some instinct, some deep, nameless feeling, that to come here without Da, to come here uninvited, would be to cross a line… one he could never cross back over.
Da was looking at him, almost—almost anxious. “You feel it, don’t you? You can feel what were done here for six hundred bloody years. Even though the Weather Magic ain’t burned into your bones.”
The air in the glass-domed chamber was cool and dry, and it thrummed against his bare skin like a drumbeat in the distance. Echoes of power. Echoes of pain. Echoes of voices, screaming in the night.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I can feel it.”
“Ha,” said Da, briefly pleased. “Knew you would, sprat.” Then he nodded, scowling. “And that’s the Weather map. Sinkin’ bloody thing.”
Moving closer, he stared at the map, marvelling. He didn’t know much about it—Da never said, nor Mama. Darran had never seen it, but he’d known a few stories and told them once or twice. He’d called it beautiful, and he was right. A pity about the scattered patches of blight marring its intricate details.
“Touch it,” said Da.
Startled, he looked up. “Me? But—”
“Touch it,” Da insisted. “Then tell me what you feel.”
Hesitant, he reached out one finger to the map—then snatched his hand back, gagging, and scrubbed it over his mouth as though he’d just bitten into something rotten. The map felt like Westwailing, like the magics spat out by the whirlpools and the waterspouts and Dragonteeth Reef. Diseased. Rancid. Bloated black, like a corpse.
“Morg.”
Da was nodding. “Aye, Morg’s in there, the bastard. But d’you feel anythin’ else?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his belly churning. He wanted to retch.
“Touch it again, sprat,” said Da. “For as long as you can stand.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was Da asking, so…
“I don’t know,” he said again, when his guts finally stopped heaving. “At first I thought it was dead, but—”
“But you ain’t sure?” Da said, watching him closely. “You reckon you might feel a tiny spark of somethin’, buried under the blight?”
“I think so.” Then he shrugged. “Or could be I’m just imagining it.” Sighing, Da came to stand beside him. Pressed his palm flat to the map. His tired face tightened with revulsion. “You ain’t,” he said at last, through gritted teeth. “There be a spark of power there. Almost burned out now. You be good all right, sprat, if you can feel it.”
The compliment warmed him. The look in Da’s eyes killed that warmth. “What does it mean? I thought all Lur’s Weather Magic was long gone. I thought it died with Morg, when the Wall came down.”
Da sighed again. “That be what we told folk, Rafe. Me and Pellen and your ma. We thought it were safest that way, see? We thought the worst were behind us, and Lur were free of Doranen meddling. We thought.”
Chilled, he stared at the map. “You were wrong?”
“Aye, sprat,” said Da, sounding so sad. “We were wrong.”
And with a whispered word, and a tracery of burning sigils, Da made snow fall beneath the chamber’s glass-domed roof.
The stunned delight in Rafel’s face as he watched the snow fall made the pain of calling it not matter. Made it hardly hurt at all. Asher felt the trickling blood on his lips, tasted it on his tongue, and didn’t care. Rafe were smiling. They were talking again.
Whatever else comes, at least we got that much.
“Da, it’s—it’s—I want to do that,” said Rafe, his voice hushed, fingers reaching to touch the tiny, drifting white flakes. “Show me how to do that.”
Simple pleasure died. Shaking his head, he banished the snow. “Can’t, sprat.”
Hurt, Rafel stared at him, snowflakes melting in the palm of his hand. “Why not?”
“The Weather Magic’s lost. It be long dead and gone.”
“But you just said—”
“As good as,” he added. “What’s left of it be in me. And when I die, it’ll be dead for good.”
“But that means it ain’t dead now,” Rafe argued. “So you could teach me. Da—”
Closing his eyes, Asher took a deep breath. Sorry, sprat. Sorry. But I won’t curse you with this. “Weather Magic can’t be learned like other Doranen magic, Rafe. I be the last WeatherWorker of Lur.”
Disappointed, Rafe hunched his shoulders. “Then why did you bring me here?”
“ ’Cause I got to break a promise to your ma, and I don’t want to do it alone.”
“Da—” Rafe stamped about a bit, just like he used to when he were a sprat, and thwarted. “Stop turning everything into a bloody riddle, would you? Just tell me what we’re doing here, simple and straight out, or I’m leaving.”
He had to smile, even though he were sick with nerves. With the echoes of pain. “Sink me, you got a mouth on you.”
“Sink me,” Rafe retorted. “Look, Da! I’m walking to the door—”
He stepped in front of his son. Pressed one palm flat to Rafe’s chest. “No, you ain’t.”
“Da…” Rafe turned away. “No more games. It ain’t been a good day and—” He turned back again. “Please. No more games.”
The pain in his son, for Goose, were like a knife stuck in his own heart. Forgive me, sprat. I would’ve spared you if I could. “Rafe, the last time things went bad in Lur, I came up here and I put ’em to rights by pourin’ more Weather Magic into that bloody map.”
Rafel’s mouth fell open. “You what? But—how?”
So he explained. Told his son the truth of what had happened when he were a boy of ten, holding nowt back.
“So… you weren’t bedridden with an ague those weeks,” Rafe said, when the tale was told. “When me and Deenie were sent off with Uncle Pellen and Charis for that jaunt down to the Dingles.”
He shook his head. “No, that were a taradiddle. Like I told you—I nigh on killed m’self fuddlin’ with the Weather map. Your ma—” He winced, remembering. “She ain’t never been so fratched at me her whole life. But I didn’t have a choice, Rafe. Just like I ain’t got a choice now.”
Swallowing, Rafel looked at the Weather map. “You want to do it again?”
“No, I don’t bloody want to!” he snapped. “But if I don’t—we’ll see the end of Lur. A lot of folks’ll die. And if Pintte’s expedition does make it back home across them mountains, what they’ll find…” He grimaced. “Rafe, I got to do it.”
“Da—” Rafel stamped about a bit more. “There’s got to be something else we can do. You said it yourself—you’re not strong enough for this.”
Admitting it hurt, but his pride weren’t something Lur could afford just now. “I know, Rafe. That be why I need you.”
Rafe stopped his stamping. “Da, you promised Mama. If you do this, she won’t forgive you.”
“Rafe…” He gave his son a weary smile. “One of these days I’ll sit you down and I’ll tell you some of the things your ma and me have forgiven each other. She’ll be fratched, I don’t deny it… but she’ll get over it. Ain’t nobody knows Lur comes first better than your ma.”
Folding his arms tight, Rafe started pacing again. “I still say you could be wrong. If what you say is true, Deenie would’ve felt something. You know what she’s like. She’d be in tears all over the place or waking us all up with nightmares. So I reckon—”
“Then you’d reckon wrong, sprat,” he said quietly. “ ’Cause for one thing, last time this happened I started feelin’ things were goin’ wrong long afore anyone else. And for another, I be the WeatherWorker.”
“Which means what, Da?” said Rafe, challenging. “You want me to help you, then I want to know.” His eyes narrowed. “No more secrets, remember? After Westwailing you owe me that much.”
You owe me. The sprat was so angry. No matter how he explained why he and Dath had tampered with him, Rafe might never understand. But right now there weren’t time for explanations. Explanations would have to wait.
A sudden, clutching fear. “Rafe, you ain’t been trying anything, have you? You ain’t snuck off to—”
“To what, Da? Play?” Rafe’s fingers curled to fists. “And if I have?”
“Rafe—”
“Don’t worry, Da. I know better. I know what’s inside me is bloody dangerous.”
Sick with relief, he nodded. “We’ll work this out, sprat. I promise. When Lur’s sorted, we’ll work this out.”
Rafe nodded. “We surely will, Da.”
“Right. Well. About bein’ WeatherWorker. It means I feel things different. Good as you are, Rafe, you can’t feel everythin’. And what I feel…” He didn’t try to hide his shiver. “Rafe, once things have gone from bad to worse, I’m feared they’ll bring Lur to an end. Not just the land, sprat, but the people with it. I’m feared what’s comin’ will set us at each other’s throats.”
“But Da, we’re peaceful,” said Rafe, shaking his head. “We always have been. I don’t believe we’d—”
“Rafe, think,” he said, desperate. “We only be peaceful ’cause there ain’t nowt to fight on. But with the reef’s magic havin’ wrecked every harbour, and no more fishin’, and crops that ain’t yieldin’ what we need ’em to yield—d’you reckon we’ll survive another calamity with the weather? More floods, more sick, drowned stock, more folk washed out of their homes? D’you reckon there won’t be hunger and panic and folk branglin’ in the streets? D’you reckon the Doranen won’t start thinkin’ on how life weren’t this complicated when they were in charge?”
Rafe looked at him, uncertain. “But—we got laws, Da. They wouldn’t—they couldn’t—”
“Course they would. Course they could. Laws only protect folk when everyone abides by ’em. But if them as be stronger wakes up one mornin’ and decides they don’t fancy followin’ them laws no more—what’s to stop ’em from doin’ whatever they bloody like?”
It broke his heart, stripping Rafel of his belief that life were safe and always would be. I fought Morg so this wouldn’t happen again. Gar died so none of us would be frighted again. So were the fightin’ and the dyin’ for nowt, in the end? Were that the harsh lesson Lur was bein’ taught?
“Da…” Rafe folded his arms, his jaw stubbornly clenched. “Say I agree with you. Say things are set to turn as bad as you think. That doesn’t mean you should risk your life again. At least—not before you have to. Not before it’s clear there really ain’t no other choice.”
“Rafel, I told you—”
“No!” Rafe said, and started his pacing. “You can wait a bit longer, Da. At least till Deenie feels something too. I heard everything you said, I did, but—but could be you can’t exactly trust what you feel. I mean, you’re fretted about Uncle Pellen, and you ain’t over what happened down in Westwailing, and maybe doing this right now, Da, maybe it ain’t such a good idea.”
Oh, Rafe. “And maybe,” he said, “if I can get some more power into that bloody Weather map, and stop the weather failin’ on us, there’ll be time for you to ride after Goose and tell him he don’t need to go over them mountains. His da told me all about it, Rafe, how the brewers be worried for their oats and their barley and their bloody hops. So if I fix things here…”
Shocked, Rafe stopped his pacing. “Da—”
“I know you be scared he’s goin’ to die somewhere out there,” he said. “So if I won’t let you go with him—and Rafe, I never will—then I reckon I ought to try my best to keep him out of mischief.”
Tears filled his son’s eyes. “But Da… what if you die?”
“I won’t,” he said. “Not with you here. ’Cause that be your job, eh? Keepin’ an eye on me. Makin’ sure I don’t die.”
“That’s my job?” said Rafe, incredulous. “When I don’t know the first bloody thing about Weather Magic? Da—”
He shrugged. “You might not have the Weather Magic but you got the potential for it. You can feel it in the map. And there be all that power in you, that I might need to borrow again.” He tried to smile. “If you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Da, don’t be bloody stupid.” Rafe took a deep breath. Blew it out, hard. “So, what do I do? What do you do? How does it work, you putting power into that map?”
“I don’t rightly know,” he admitted. “Just… it be part of the Weather Magic. Part of me. All you got to do is not let me go too far. Stop me afore I pour all of m’self into the bloody thing. ’Cause it’ll suck me dry if I ain’t careful.”
“This is mad,” Rafe muttered, and half-turned away. “Da—”
He took one step towards his son, and stopped. “You can do this, Rafe. You can. I got faith in you.”
Slowly, very slowly, Rafe turned back. “Have you?”
The doubt in his son’s eyes was a punishment. Do I deserve it? Prob’ly. “Hidin’ your magic weren’t never about trustin’ you. I only did it to keep you safe.”
Rafe nodded. “I know.”
“But you be fratched anyway,” he said. “And you don’t forgive me.” A glitter in Rafe’s eyes. “Say you were wrong, Da.”
But I weren’t. “I was wrong.”
“Say you’re sorry.”
I ain’t sorry, and I never bloody will be. “I’m sorry, Rafel.”
Silence in the chamber. In the dome-filtered sunshine, Barl’s Weather map gleamed, slowly dying.
“All right,” said Rafe. “But you’re telling Mama this was all your idea.”
He tousled his son’s short hair, in passing. “You drive a hard bloody bargain, sprat. Now let’s get ourselves settled, eh? And we’ll do what we can do to save this sorry bloody kingdom, afore it’s too late.”