Heart thudding, Rafel closed Da’s library door behind him. He wasn’t meant to be in here. Not without Da or Mama. He wasn’t meant to know what Da kept in the big trunk under the window. And he definitely wasn’t s’posed to faddle with it.
But here he was. Alone in Da’s library where he wasn’t meant to be. ’Cause it was in his head like a worm in an apple, to have a looksee in that trunk full of books and scrolls on Doranen magic.
Two days after they put Darran in the royal crypt he’d overheard Da talking to Uncle Pellen on some bit of Doranen magic or other he had to rule on in Justice Hall, saying as how he’d been studying what Durm said on it in the privy diaries the master magician had left behind. Uncle Pellen had muttered how the thought of those magics being writ down to fall into the wrong hands made him awful nervous. And Da had said how Uncle Pellen weren’t to fret, for they were kept safe and tight in his library trunk where no eyes but his would ever see ’em.
That was all he’d overhead, ’cause Da and Uncle Pellen had started walking down the Tower stairs again on their way out to the stables. But he’d not been able to forget what was said. Could hardly sleep for wondering what more he could learn about Doranen magic, that he couldn’t pinch off Arlin. That Da wouldn’t tell him, even though he ought to.
Every time Da wouldn’t, he felt better about his terrible secret.
Then, a week after he overheard Da and Uncle Pellen talking their business, out of the blue came this one chance to have a looksee for himself. With Da and Mama gone early to visit Uncle Pellen, and Deenie spending the day with Charis, Cluny to mind them, and no more stickybeaking Darran in the Tower, Barl rest him, and this his one day of the week let out of school, he could sneak into Da’s library and have a rummage through that trunk of magic. ’Cause the spells he pinched from Arlin, they were all right but they weren’t big spells. And he really, really wanted to try a big spell.
So even though he knew this was bad, he waited till no-one was nearby and slid into Da’s library like an eel into waterweeds. And if a teeny tiny part of him felt ashamed of doing this behind Da’s back, when Da trusted him? Well. He wasn’t going to think about that. What was one more secret? Besides. He wouldn’t have to sneak, would he, if Da would keep his promise, and talk magic.
The mysterious trunk had a lock on it.
Not an ordinary lock, neither, with a brass key to turn it. No, this lock was made of Doranen magic. He could feel its buzziness in his mind, behind his eyes, where he always felt it. Scowling, Rafel thumped to the carpet in front of the trunk. Not one spell he’d ever pinched off Arlin would do the trick.
Sink it.
He closed his eyes. Sat very still and quiet. Let the buzziness in his mind tell him what the lock looked like… and maybe how it could be undone. Inside his head he saw it as a big ball of string, looped and knotted and stuck through with thorns. But if he tugged this bit—then this bit—and got it loose and wiggly right there—
With an odd kind of springiness, the trunk’s Doranen-magic lock gave way. Shocked, Rafel opened his eyes. He’d done it. All by himself, without even one of Arlin’s pinched spells to help him. And the feeling of it, the way the magic made his blood thick and hot, the way it made him feel strong and—and—invincible. Not one of Arlin’s spells had ever made him feel like this, like a real mage. He was Rafel of Dorana, and he’d fuddled Da’s lock.
If Da finds out he’ll bloody fuddle me.
But he was too cockahoop to fret on that right now. Hurrying, ’cause chances were one of the Tower maids would get down to dusting this floor pretty soon, he lifted the trunk’s lid and gazed greedily at its contents.
All the books! And the scrolls! All the secret Doranen magic!
Careful, since Da would notice if the trunk’s contents were messed about too much, he poked and prodded his way through the forbidden treasure. Read a bit here, a bit there, understanding some of it. Not all. Not most of it. Feeling the buzziness in his mind stir stronger and louder. Feeling his fingers itch, wanting so much to play.
But he didn’t dare. If something went wrong…
Goose said once, when they were talking on magic, that a lot of Durm’s books had ended up in the General Council library. His da, who’d been a councilor then, could’ve brought some home if he’d wanted. Only he had no interest in Doranen magic, which had nowt to do with hops and ale, and Goose said he didn’t want a clip over the ear for asking, thanks.
But compared to these books of magic, those others were nothing. He didn’t care any more that he couldn’t get his hands on them. These books, with Durm’s name scrawled and faded on the flyleaf, they were special. And one day he’d read them and learn every spell. One day he’d do every last bit of magic in them. And then he could feel like a real mage every day.
But not today. He couldn’t stay in Da’s library any longer. Through the closed door he could hear Biddy singing, loud and out of tune like always, as she dusted her way down the Tower staircase. If she found him in here there’d be such a ruckus…
Reluctantly, he started to close the trunk’s lid. Then his eye caught sight of a fat scroll tucked down the side. It looked much newer than the other scrolls he’d rummaged through. Holding his breath he eased it out, undid the ribbon keeping it closed and let it unroll just enough to see.
His heart thumped so hard it nearly leapt out of his chest. Tollin’s account of his expedition over Barl’s Mountains. He felt like dancing. Like shouting. Like laughing out loud. Not caring any more that Biddy was dusting closer, he let the scroll unroll itself properly.
And it turned out there were three copies of the same account bundled together. The writing was small and cramped and squiggly, so that Tollin’s memories would fit front and back on one long sheet of parchment.
Rafel stared at his discovery, feeling sweaty sick. Everything he ever wanted to know about Tollin’s adventures, that Da and Mama would never ever tell him, that not even ole gossipy Darran would tell him…
I could take one. I could. Why’d they need three for? They don’t need three. And if I keep it proper hidden, no-one will find out.
All those books and scrolls of magic. All the truths Da wouldn’t share. The magic that was kept from him. The things he didn’t know.
Da shouldn’t keep secrets. Not about me.
Quickly he took one of Tollin’s scrolls, folded it over and over and shoved it inside his shirt, down the waistband of his trews. Then he rolled up the other two, tied the ribbon tight round them again, shoved them back into the trunk then closed its lid with a soft thump.
And then he realised—he had to lock it again.
Oh.
With his eyes closed and his mind still, feeling that lumpy folded parchment slowly warming against his skin, he picked up the undone ends of Da’s lock and… put them back the way they were. Not sure how he was doing it, knowing only that he was. That he could feel exactly which bit went where, and how, so Da would never know what had happened.
When he was finished Rafel opened his eyes, shaken and blinking as the buzziness in his mind faded. The trunk was locked again. It was time to go. He and Goose were meeting at the City gates to spend the day on horseback. If he didn’t hurry he was going to be late.
Closing Da’s library door behind him, he heard Biddy’s clomping footsteps on her way down the staircase. Any ticktock she was going to find him.
He bolted.
“Hey! Hey! Race you!” Goose shouted as soon as they were safely through the City gates, and dug his heels into his pony’s ribs. Eyes rolling, ears flattened, the pony swished its tail and bolted.
Rafel stared after him, mouth dropped, then let out a bloodcurdling yell. Stag needed no more urging. With a snort and a kick-behind he pounded after Goose’s pony. Lucky thing the road into the City was empty just then, for between them they’d have easy run a fancy carriage into the ditch.
Laughing, breathless, the wind whipping his face, Rafel galloped after Goose. Heels drumming, elbows flapping, lurching left and right in his saddle—Stablemeister Divit called his best friend a sapster—Goose veered off the roadway and across the open meadow towards the river where it pooled and puddled near Dragonshead Bridge.
Goose’s pony was a game one, but Stag was bred down on the Dingles, on the horse farm King Gar started when he was a spratling prince. The best bloodlines in Lur came from Kingsfarm: Cygnet, and poor dead Ballodair, and every horse in the Tower. His first pony, Flea. Then Dancer. Now Stag.
Standing in his stirrups, knees gripped tight to Stag’s barrel ribs, he buried his fisted hands in the pony’s black mane and shouted into one turned-back ear. “Go on! Catch him, Stag! Catch him! Go on!”
He felt the pony stretch out long and low beneath him and saw clottings of green turf fly past, dug loose by Stag’s hard shod hooves. They were gaining on Goose… gaining… gaining… there was the bridge… there was their favourite patch of flower-scattered meadow… there was the deep riverpond, known to locals as the Dragon’s Eye…
“Ha!” he shouted, triumphant, as Stag surged past Goose’s wallowing beast. “Beat you, Goosie! Beat you! Ha!”
Goose’s wail of defeat made him laugh and laugh. Which was mean, he knew it was mean, but he couldn’t help it. He liked to win.
Their race over, they let the hobbled ponies graze the grass and flowers, kicked off their boots and socks and sat on the pond’s low grassy bank dangling their bare feet above it. Nearby flowed the Gant, wide and slothful. The snow up high hadn’t melted yet, so the springrace was still a few weeks away. A long stone’s-throw distant stood Dragonshead Bridge, and the sound of the river slipping and sliding around and past its stone supports was sleepy and comfortable. The Eye sparkled in the sunshine, early dragonflies dancing across its still, mirror surface.
Rafel breathed out a huge sigh of satisfaction. Aside from practising his magic, there was no better way to spend a free day than with Goose and the wide blue sky, nowt else. What with Darran dying and all, it felt like years since he’d been let loose to amuse himself.
And there’s Tollin’s adventure inside my shirt. I got such a tale to tell. “One of these days,” said Goose, his long black hair flopping, “I’m going to win a race agin you.”
“Y’reckon?” he said, grinning.
Goose slumped. “Prob’ly not.”
“Prob’ly you’re right,” he said, still grinning, and idly kicked Goose’s knobby sockless ankle. “Get yourself a Dingles-bred pony, you might stand a chance.”
“Don’t you spit on Taff,” said Goose, firing up. “He’s a good pony, he is.”
Rafel looked sideways to where Stag and Goose’s pony were tearing at the meadow, their slipped bits jangling, nudging and jostling jealously over the sweetest bite of grass. Stag’s dark brown coat gleamed ripe with dapples. Beside him, Goose’s muddy cream pony looked a lot like a nag.
Goose, seeing it, stayed loyal. “Any road. Even if my dad did believe in paying Dingles money for a pony, I wouldn’t push Taff out. We’re friends, him and me.”
“I know.” He didn’t want a brangle with Goose. Not when the sun was shining and the day was theirs to play with. Not with Tollin’s parchment snug tight against his skin. “You’re right. He’s a good pony.”
After a hard look, just to make sure he wasn’t being joshed, Goose reached beneath his laced-up leather jerkin. There was a clinking, and some wrestling, then two bottles of beer sat on the grassy bank between them.
Impressed, Rafel stared. “That for us?”
“No,” said Goose, going cross-eyed. “For Taff and Stag.”
“That your da’s brew?”
“It is,” said Goose. “His best strong beer, from the bottling that won him the last guild gold medal.” A quick, shy smile. Goose was proud of his da. “Put hairs on your chest, that will.”
Did he want hairs on his chest? They’d be a bit hard to explain… Chewing his lip, Rafel frowned at Goose’s folly. Beer, eh? He’d never drunk a whole bottleful before. Sometimes Da gave him a mouthful from his own tankard. He didn’t care for it overmuch but he never told Da that, because sharing a brew was manly important. He wasn’t about to tell Goose, neither. Not with his friend all puffed up for bringing it.
“Your da catches you pinching his prize beer, Goose, you’ll get walloped right into next week,” he said. “He notices his prize beer gone missing, you won’t sit down three Barlsdays running.”
Goose hooted. “Notice two bottles gone? My dad won’t notice that. He’s got so much beer in the pantry there’s no room for spuds. You should hear my ma. Trust me, Rafe, I’m safe.”
Prob’ly that was true. These days Goose’s da was Meister of the Brewers’ Guild. Near to all the back yard of his City house in Brewers’ Corner was taken up with a hops-oven and a malting hut and the smelly vats where he made his homebrew beer. Breathing at Goose’s house was like swimming in the stuff, yeasty and eye-tickling. He always went home from Goose’s smelling like an alehouse, so Mama made him wash even when he was still clean.
Goose held out one bottle. “Drink up.”
He took it. There was a little gleam in Goose’s eye, as though he knew this was a kind of dare. As though he knew he could make up for losing another pony race. Ha. Rafel unstopped the bottle with his teeth, spat out the spongewood stopper and tipped his head back. Beer swilled, blood-warm and heady, over his tongue and down his parched throat. The taste was strong and earthy, a punch to his belly. A rush to his head. It didn’t taste anything like the beer Da liked to drink.
“Good, eh?” said Goose, smacking his lips. He’d been raised on beer, and ale, and watered-down wine. He was going to be a brewer when he was a man growed. Not because his da said he had to, though he did, but because he wanted it.
And what’ll I be? I don’t know. I want to be an explorer, ’cept there ain’t nowt left to explore in Lur. And we can’t get past the reef and there ain’t no more going over the mountains, so that doesn’t leave me much save Council work, and who wants that? I don’t.
“Keep drinking,” said Goose, not noticing. “You let beer sit too long, all the bubbles burst. You shouldn’t let it sit too long once you’ve unstopped it, Rafe. All the goodness is in the bubbles.”
He gave Goose a sideways look. “Practising to be Guildmeister, are you?”
Goose shrugged. “No. It’s just you got to drink beer proper, Rafe. You got to respect it.”
Respect it? It was beer. But there was Goose looking to get all hot and bothered, so he shrugged and swallowed another mouthful. Didn’t want Goose thinking he was a girl, did he? It tasted even better this time. He swallowed again. Burped. Laughed.
Goose was eyeing his own bottle sadly. He’d nearly drained it dry. “Should’ve brought more.”
He nodded, grinning. This was good beer. Worth its gold medal. “Aye.”
“I will, next time,” said Goose, slumping his chin to his chest. “Two each. Dad won’t notice. He never notices what I do. He says I won’t be interesting till I’m old enough to shave.”
Rafel pulled a face. Poor ole Goose. Still, the beer was good. Swallow by swallow, his stolen bottle emptied.
Below their dangling bare feet, gaddies chased away the dragonflies and whizzed in dizzy circles above the riverpond’s quiet surface. A stir, a splash, and a fat silver-scaled carp hurtled into the air and swallowed a mouthful of gauzy wings. Goose hooted again, finger waving. “Lookee that! Lookee!”
Goose was tall and gangly for ten, lots of space in him to fill out. His da was a big man, and he’d be big too. So it always seemed funny, that he could giggle like a girl. Like Deenie and Uncle Pellen’s Charis when they played silly dolls together.
Rafel snatched a handful of grass and threw it at him, haphazard. “It’s a fish, Goose. You ain’t seen fish before?”
“Sure I seen fish,” said Goose. “But these are funny fish, Rafe.”
Beneath the riverpond’s surface more silver carp thrashed and jostled. The water seethed… then fell silent.
“Oh,” said Goose, disappointed. “Where’d they go?”
“Somewhere,” he said, and tipped the last of the warm beer between his teeth. In his head a warm buzz, like the droning of summer bees. Like Doranen magic. “Want ’em back, do you?”
Goose tip-tilted his own beer bottle, gurgling the dregs. “Yes, but they’re gone.”
Poor Goose. His da hardly noticed him and his pony wasn’t Dingles-bred. It’d never run faster than Stag, not even if it had two extra legs. Rafel tossed aside his emptied purloined beer bottle then tugged the folded parchment out from under his shirt.
“Here,” he said, flipping it to Goose. “Mind that. No peeking.” Goose fumbled the catch. “What is it?” he said, picking up Tollin’s scroll from the grass.
“A surprise, for later,” he answered, then scrunched himself right to the edge of the riverbank. Slid a little further, then dropped down into Dragoneye Pond.
“Rafel!” said Goose, his voice squeaking. “Rafe, don’t be daft! Don’t go in there. You want to drown?”
“I ain’t going to drown,” he said, the cool water lapping at his leather belt. Cutting him in half. Beneath his bare feet sludge squished and pebbles bruised. “I could swim before I could walk.” Well, almost. Near enough. Him and Deenie both weren’t frighted of the water, Da had made certain sure of that. They’d even been swimming in the ocean, down on the coast. “But don’t you try it, Goose,” he added, and jabbed a pointed, warning finger. “You’re a City Olken through and through. You’d be drownded in no time.”
“Aw, come on, Rafe, come up from there,” Goose begged. “What if you slip? What if I can’t pull you out?”
“Tosh,” he said. That was one of ole Darran’s little words. Tosh. It meant, don’t be a doddlehead. Saying it, remembering, he felt a sharp sting of pain. But just as quick he squashed it hard like a bed bug, because fretting on Darran wouldn’t bring him back to life.
“Rafe,” said Goose. He was almost wailing. Stretching the sound long, like a piece of string. Gangly tall Goose-egg, all fratched and frighted. Tosh.
Ignoring him, Rafel rested his gaze on the riverpond’s sun-sparkled surface. The darting gaddies had darted away. He could see the blue sky reflected, and skittish lamb-clouds. He could see his own face. Rafel of Dorana, the hero Asher’s only son. There was Da in there, and Mama. Bits and pieces of folk he’d never know. He was in there. They were his eyes.
That’s my face. That’s me. But who’s me?
In his blood there was beer, its bubbles bursting. In his blood there was power, that could crack stones and whirl leaves and do all kinds of things. That could unpick magic locks he’d never come across before. Because of his power he felt oddness in the earth, just like Da.
A mage. That’s who I am. That’s what I want to be.
With his mage eyes he looked deep into the pond. Saw the fish. Saw right into them, and felt their little lives. Then he looked into his thudding heart. Into his blood, which held his magic.
If Da finds out what I’ve been up to, there’ll be so much trouble. Da hates his magic, so I have to miss out.
Hot crossness prickled him. He was tired of missing out. Tired of being a secret. Goose knew a little bit, but he didn’t know it all. He trusted his friend like he trusted his own hand, or his foot, but it was safer that way.
“Goose,” he said, not looking up. “If I show you something, you have to promise not to tell.”
“I promise,” said Goose. “Show me what? Rafe, what’s going on?”
“Hush up,” he said dreamily. “I need to think.”
“Rafe!” said Goose, close to wailing again. “You’re making me nervous. Come out of there. Please?”
He shook his head, grinning. “No. Just you watch this.”
“Watch what?” said Goose. “Rafe, what are you doing?”
Instead of answering, he dabbled his fingers across the riverpond’s sleeping surface. “Come on, little fishies,” he crooned under his breath. “You ain’t going to hide from Goosie, are you? Come on. You come back now. Rafel says come back.”
The stolen beer was all swallowed, but he could still taste it on his tongue. He could feel it in his belly, warm and sloshing. He could feel it in his head, softly buzzing. He could feel his magic buzzing, the way it sang without words, sang a tune only he could hear. The rest of the world was deaf. Da was deaf.
Da doesn’t want to hear.
One by one Goosie’s little fishes came back.
Doing his lessons with Meister Rumly, he was made to keep so calm. So tame. Little bits of Olken magic. Teeny tiny drips. Never anything else. Even when he broke the rules on his lonesome, cracking stones, dancing leaves, all that silliness in his bath, the spells he pinched from Arlin, he was always careful not to do too much, only a smidgin bit, in case someone noticed. In case Da felt it and came storming to find him.
But this was his free day and Goose’s stolen beer was in him, and Da was a long ways away back in the City. He felt big and restless. Bold and reckless. He’d undone a magic lock. That was something, that was. Sink him sideways, he wanted to play. He wanted to show someone what he could do. And why shouldn’t he? After all, this was Olken magic and he was Olken. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. So he called the Gant’s fat silver carp, enticed them from their shadows, enticed them to the shallows, and made them leap for joy. This was Darran’s story of the Sea Harvest singing. How many times had he heard that story? How often had he seen that seething harbour in his head?
“Lookee! Lookee!” Goose was shouting, his face flushed with beer and delight. “Look at them fishes dance! Woo hoo! Woo hoo!” Then he faltered, and stopped his bouncing on the riverbank. “Rafe, is that you doing that?”
Words were a nuisance. He didn’t want to speak. So he flapped a hand at Goose, glaring, saying aye and shut up and leave me be all at once.
Goose’s eyes bloomed round, like two new-minted trins. “Rafe, I never knew you could do magic like that. How are you doing it? Can you show me?”
He wasn’t sure he could. There weren’t any words, he was just—just feeling it, feeling the fish in the water, feeling their fins and their tails, feeling the silver wriggle of them leaping into the warm almost-spring air. He wanted them to dance for Goose, so they were dancing. It was as simple and as terrible as that.
Why doesn’t Da want this? This is—this is grand.
The silver carp leapt. The riverpond seethed. Like his bathwater in its tub it started foaming into shapes, barking dogs and prancing ponies. Barl’s Mountains, towering high. He could feel his magic burning, churning, the beer bubbles in his blood turning bright gold.
“Rafe…”
“What?”
Goose wasn’t laughing now. He’d stopped his bouncing, and his fingers clutched his knees. “Rafel, maybe you should stop,” he said, sounding nervous. “You know you’re not s’posed to.”
Impatient, he pulled a face. “You weren’t s’posed to steal that beer, but you did.”
“That’s beer,” said Goose. “That’s not magic. Rafe, you better stop.”
“Quit fratching at me,” he said, hardly paying attention. “You’ve seen me do magic before.”
“Not like this, Rafe,” said Goose, as the riverpond boiled silver and fat fish leapt over Barl’s watery Mountains. “Come on—you should stop—Rafe—”
Rafel flashed his friend a grin. “Tosh to you, Goose-egg. I’m fine. Don’t witter.”
Splashing and leaping, the riverpond’s carp obeyed his eager summons. The magicked water sloshed around him, surging into his face. Soaking his blue cotton shirt, his close-cropped hair, running rivulets down his cheeks, like tears. But he wasn’t weeping, oh no. He was laughing. Laughing.
And then he shouted as something ripped through the air. Ripped through the earth and the sludge between his toes. He sucked in a shocked breath, sucked in pondwater with it. Stale and stagnant, it drowned the sweet taste of Goose’s pilfered beer. The sweeter taste of magic, burning in his blood. The leaping fish fell and didn’t leap again. He felt them flee to the pond’s shadows, released from his spell.
“Rafe!” Goose yelled. “Rafe, what’s wrong?”
Bewildered, knocked sideways, he lost his footing and plunged to his knees. The riverpond’s water closed over his head. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see. His mouth was open but he couldn’t scream, though he wanted to. He couldn’t breathe, neither. Everything felt wrong. His head was spinning. The earth and air of Lur were in pain.
Da—Da—help me, Da!
He flailed his way to the riverpond’s surface, a silver carp called Rafel leaping for the sun.
“Rafe! Rafe! Grab my hand here, Rafe!”
That was Goose, with his voice like crying. He was face-down on the riverbank, his arm stretched out and his fingers reaching. He couldn’t swim. He was a City Olken. Bloody useless, the lot of ’em. That’s what Da muttered on the days he missed the coast, when he’d been cooped up in Justice Hall telling people what to do. As everything spun about behind his eyes, the pain in the earth and air a pain in him, too, Rafel plunged towards Goose’s hand and anchored himself there, finger to finger.
“I got you!” Goose panted, helping him scramble up the grassy bank. “I got you, Rafe! Don’t let go! I got you!”
Escaped from the stinking riverpond, Rafel crawled to the top of the bank, abandoned Goose’s hand and spewed up every last mouthful of beer and water he’d sucked down. He could feel Goose beside him, all fretted and cross.
“I told you, Rafe. Didn’t I? I told you to stop! Rafe? Rafe! Say something! Rafe! Are you drowned?”
His belly emptied, his mouth foul, he rolled onto his back and squinted at the sun. His shirt and trews clung soggy to his flesh. And now that he could think straight he could feel that itching skritching under his soaked skin. Horrible. But the screaming pain from the earth and sky was fading, like a dream. That was something, any road. He needed that to go away.
Blinking, he looked at his friend. Goose was on his feet now, hovering. “How can I be drownded, Goose? Ain’t I just puked out my guts?”
“Rafe!” Goose’s eyes were so wide they looked near to popping from his skull and his face was pasty pale, like he wanted to puke too. “You should’ve stopped when I said. Didn’t I say stop?”
Goose was a funny one. All bold and beer stealing one minute, fretting himself ragged the next.
“Pie-face to it, Goose,” he said. “Stop wittering at me.”
“I ain’t wittering,” said Goose, offended. “You nearly drowned, Rafe. What happened? Did you—did your magic do that?”
He’d promised Da not to talk on this, but how could he stay silent now? Goose was here, he’d seen it. He had to explain. And any road, Goose already knew his biggest secret, about him having Doranen magic.
“I won’t tell, Rafe,” said Goose. “You know I won’t.”
Aye, he did, ’cause he and Goose swore the swear. Two years ago they did that. Another secret. He’d cracked a stone and they’d cut each other’s hands. Mixed their blood and promised friends forever. Not magic. Not really. Just a promise, was all. A promise Goose had kept.
Besides. He was tired of this secret. It was like a hot coal in his head. Da wouldn’t talk of it. Neither would Mama. Wait till you’re older. But it was burning him now.
“Rafe?” Goose said, not wheedling, but worrited. It felt good. Family cared ’cause they had to. Goose cared ’cause he wanted to. That made a difference, even if he wasn’t sure why.
So I don’t care if I ain’t s’posed to talk on this. It’s Goose. Not trusting Goose is like not trusting myself.
And he needed to talk on it. He needed someone to listen when the burning got too bad. Like now. Didn’t Da used to have King Gar to talk to? And didn’t he have Mama? And Uncle Pellen?
How is it fair, that he’s got folk to talk to and I ain’t s’posed to say a word?
Tucking his knees close to his chest, Rafel pulled a face. “It ain’t my magic doing it, Goose.”
“Then what is?”
“I don’t know. Just… there’s something wrong.”
“What kind of wrong?” said Goose, his eyes all big and round again.
Goose’s Olken magic gave him a good touch for growing things. Goose’s da said that was what made a meister brewer, being able to sing the hops and croon the brewing. But did that mean he could feel the earth’s pain, too?
“You ain’t felt it?”
“I don’t know,” Goose said cautiously. “What did you feel?”
It was hard to say out loud. Made him all skritched again, hot and tickly under his skin. I ain’t frighted. I ain’t. “Like the ground hurts. Like the air’s crying.”
“I ain’t never felt that,” Goose whispered, shocked. “What is it, Rafe? Is it Doranen magic gone wrong?”
He dug his fingers into the riverbank grass, tugging. “D’know. Might be.”
A little bit of silence, while Goose thought on that. Grazing close by, Stag stamped at the droning flies. The river slapped itself against the bridge. A louder bang, as a floating tree branch smacked it. Yonder, along the distant City Road, a carriage-horn tooted. Its music was a faint sound blown on the breeze. The warm air sang of summer, coming.
“You told your dad?” Goose said at last. “You should tell your dad.”
“He knows.” Rafel tugged more grass free. Smelled the crushed green stems and the spring-damp soil. Felt his clammy shirt drying sticky on his back. “But he won’t say what’s what.”
“Why not?” Goose hesitated, breath hitching. “Not ’cause he don’t—”
“No,” he said quickly. “Course not. My da knows everything. Just—he reckons I don’t need telling.”
“Well, that ain’t fair,” said loyal Goose. “You can feel it. He should say.”
“Aye,” he said, nodding. “But he won’t. And I can’t make him tell me, Goose.”
Goose sighed. “Being a sprat’s hard.” His face crumpled a bit, and his bottom lip wobbled. “What do you think, Rafe? Why’s the ground hurting? What’s making the air cry? I wish you’d tell me. I really want to know.”