The Reluctant mage: Fisherman’s children

by Karen Miller

  We’re coming, Rafe. I’m coming. Hold on. Don’t give up.

  As easily as a swimmer sliding beneath the surface of a lake, she slipped into the cradling darkness of sleep. And for the first time in a lifetime, or so it felt, she dreamed of her brother.

  Alone, deep in darkness, he wanders lost and afraid. He’s not big brash Rafe now, he’s a sprat again, tizzed like he was tizzed the day he called those fish in Dragon’s Eye Pond. She can feel him. She can’t see him. His pain shines brightly but still, he’s in the dark. She calls his name, but he can’t hear her. He can’t speak. She can feel that, too, how his voice has been stolen. A fist has closed around his throat. A fist has closed around his heart. He’s slipping away from her. She’s losing him, she’s losing—

  “Deenie. Deenie!”

  “Rafel,” she said, and opened her eyes.

  But it wasn’t her brother calling, it was Charis.

  “Deenie, wake up! Come and see what I’ve found! Deenie! Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” she called back. But she had to wait until her breathing steadied and the storm of grief inside her had eased.

  Rafel, what’s happening? Why are you so frighted? Hold on. Please. I’ll never find you if you don’t hold on.

  The odd link between them had weakened so badly. So quickly. And was that her doing? Had she damaged it somehow, perhaps by opening herself to the dark powers in the reef? But if she’d not done that she’d still be trapped in Lur and he would still be lost—and in danger.

  “Deenie!”

  Oh, Charis. What could be so important? Feeling fratched, she crawled out from under the canvas to see what had the wretched girl so het up.

  “Is it a whale?” she said, squinting. The sun was tipped at least two hours past noon. She’d been asleep for ages. “Tell me it’s a whale. If it’s not a whale then I’m crawling back to—”

  The words died on her tongue, salted and shrivelled with astounded disbelief.

  “Charis?” she croaked. “Barl’s tits, what—”

  Uncle Pellen’s crazy daughter was beaming like a bride at her wedding. “No, it’s not a whale. It’s better than any silly big fish. Look!”

  The skiff was sailing down a river.

  Stunned, Deenie gaped at her. “Charis Orrick, what have you done?”

  “What does it look like?” said Charis. Any ticktock now she was going to burst with pride. “I’ve found us somewhere to stop and catch our breaths. Somewhere that isn’t going to make you feel ill. Look at the countryside. Wonderful, isn’t it? I’ll bet there are rabbits galore. And wild cherries and blackberries and eggs we can eat.”

  She was so sinking pleased with herself. She had no idea…

  Deenie clamped her teeth shut. It was all she could do not to stamp about the skiff shouting and waving her arms. A good thing Rafe wasn’t here. He’d toss her over the side, head-first.

  “Charis, this was—this was foolish,” she said at last, when she could trust herself not to shriek. “You don’t know anything about this river. You don’t know how deep or wide it runs or how sharp the currents are. You don’t know where it goes. What if it turns back and runs into the blighted lands? What if we run aground and we get stuck here—or if we sail far enough that we do end up back in the blighted lands and get stuck there? Charis—” If she wasn’t careful she really would shriek. And then most likely she’d throw herself to the skiff’s floorboards and drum her heels until the boat sprang a leak. “What if choosing this path takes us away from Rafel instead of towards him? You should’ve woken me sooner. You should’ve woken me when you found the river’s mouth so we—so I—could decide if this was the best choice to make.”

  Finger by finger, Charis let go of the tiller. “And since when do you decide for me, Meistress Deenie?”

  “Since I’m the one with a fisherman for a da who spent most of his whole life on the water and taught me a clever trick or three about sailing,” she retorted. “Since I’m the one with the mage-sense that feels strife up ahead of us. Since I’m the one with the missing brother. That’s since when, Charis.”

  “But Deenie, what’s the use of sailing straight to Rafel if we’re like to starve or die of thirst before ever we get close?”

  “There’s no use, I do know that, only—”

  “So what would you have done if you were me?” Charis demanded. “Sailed us right past the river’s mouth? Crossed your fingers we’d find landfall somewhere further along this unchancy coast when you don’t know what’s ahead any more than I do?”

  Suddenly weary, her dream of Rafel lingering, prickling, Deenie bumped herself onto the rower’s bench, propped her elbows on her linen-legginged thighs and rested her aching head in her hands.

  “No, Charis. Prob’ly I’d have sailed into the river’s mouth and down its throat with my fingers crossed I’d find no trouble. Just like you did.”

  “Then who are you to scold and wag your finger at me, Deenie? It’s not enough to say you’re Asher’s daughter and Rafe’s sister. I might be neither but my life’s risked here as hard as yours.”

  As suddenly shamed as she was weary, Deenie looked up. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I was such a mouse, Charis. And then everything went wrong and I had to stop being a mouse and now I’m frighted, you see, I’m frighted…”

  “That if you stop bossing you’ll be a mouse again?” said Charis, no more temper in her voice. “Deenie, it doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

  “Maybe,” she muttered. “But Charis, I can’t take the chance that if I stop wagging my finger I’ll turn mouse again and stay mouse. Rafe’s so lost and he needs me strong. He needs me bossy. So I need you to let me be bossy. For him.”

  Charis was staring. “And if that’s not the sneakiest thing!”

  The smallest smile. “I know. I learned it from Rafel.”

  Sharply sighing, Charis pulled on the tiller and swung the skiff round to drop the breeze out of its sail and leave them rocking. Very smartly she did it, looking like a sea-born sailor. Looking nothing like the mayor’s daughter with her salty braided hair and her baked-brown face and her shirt and her woollen hose, barefoot and chin up. The young Olken men of Dorana, her flirts, and maybe even Uncle Pellen, they’d be hard put to recognise her.

  This new Charis is grand.

  “So, we’re not too far down the river’s throat,” Charis said briskly. “Best we make sure we’ve not been swallowed by trouble.” She waved a hand. “And seeing you’re the powerful mage on this skiff, you can look ahead to what’s waiting. If it is trouble, well, the river’s wide enough that we can turn round and row our way out of danger.”

  Look ahead and see what’s waiting. Just like that, eh? Like a mage in a children’s story? When she felt so altered and out of sorts? When even though she’d tried and tried, she couldn’t work out exactly how much was changed in her, or what other frighting things she could do besides kill rabbits with a thought?

  She frowned. “I’ll try.”

  Charis was right about one thing, at least. The river was wide here, with room and spare to turn. Now that the first shock of disbelief and anger was subsided, she was able to look properly at where they’d fetched up.

  With the river’s mouth and basin behind them they were into the waterway proper. The river’s banks along this stretch were sheer and rocky. No hope of landfall. A lacy fringe of trees, branches weeping downwards to the greenish-brown water’s lazy surface. Deep silence. The rich, green smell of plant life, growing. Muted birdcalls. A distant hum of autumn insects.

  Tranquillity.

  But how long will it last?

  As the afternoon sunlight soaked into her bones, Deenie dropped her eyelids and reached for her mage-sense. Was shocked, again, to feel its changes. How long before she’d be used to the new Deenie who looked on the world with such altered eyes?

  Or maybe I’ll never get used to her. Maybe I shouldn’t even try. Maybe—

  But she couldn’t let herself think like tha
t. No matter where the power came from, if it was helping her, helping Rafe, she had to accept it.

  “Well?” said Charis. “Do we sit here until we grow barnacles or do we sail on?”

  “Hush,” she murmured, and let loose her mage-sense to roam the unknown countryside around them.

  Emptiness. Stillness. A whispered memory of blight. Not soaked into the land’s bones as it was soaked into the reef, just a faded smear on its surface. But even a whisper was enough to make her shiver. Scattered throughout the still emptiness she felt small, animal lives, but no people. It seemed they were alone. Alone and not in danger—at least for the moment.

  She nodded to Charis. “We’re safe.”

  “And Rafel? Does he grow closer if we keep going or will we have to turn back after we’ve found food and more water?”

  She only had that one recent dream to guide her. But surely she’d not have dreamed him if they travelled the wrong way. “I think we can keep going. I think we’re heading towards him, like this.”

  Charis beamed like a bride again and tugged on the tiller, swinging the skiff round to catch the lively breeze. As the sail flapped and filled, the skiff scooted forward. Deenie slid off the rower’s bench, braced her back against it and stretched her feet towards the bow. Tipping her face to the cloudless sky, she let herself settle then, on a sighing breath, sent her mage-sense seeking.

  Nothing. Nothing. And then, so faint it was like the faded memory of a dream, she felt her brother’s presence. Felt a tug on their strange link. Blinking and blinking, she thrust away the stinging tears.

  It’s me, Rafe. I’m coming. Don’t be frighted. You’re not alone.

  It took nearly three hours to sail the length of the rocky cliffs lining the sleepily winding river. For long stretches the breeze played hide and seek, capricious, and they were forced to unship the oars and row. But then it sprang up once more and stayed and Deenie, taking a turn at the tiller while Charis snatched an hour of sleep, watched the cliffs shrink and shrink and give way to grass-and-moss covered banks. They were high, still no chance of landfall, but her flagging hopes began to revive. And as the cliffs dwindled so the river started to narrow, gradually at first and then more and more sharply until if she’d had a stone to throw, she easily could have tossed it from bank to flowered bank.

  From up ahead, around a gentle bend, came the urgent sound of racing, splashing water. Deenie felt her skin prickle and her mage-sense stir to life. Swinging the tiller she dropped the breeze from the sail.

  “Charis. Charis, wake up! We might be in a spot of bother.”

  An upheaval within their makeshift canvas tent, then Charis squirmed into the light. “Bother? What kind of bother?”

  “I’m not sure. Hush.”

  In silence they listened. Then Charis pulled a face. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Still there was nowhere they could leave the skiff and clamber ashore. The river was hardly being helpful. Deenie winced as her mage-sense stirred again, sharply.

  “I think it’s best to row until we know what that is.”

  She and Charis took their places on the rower’s bench, took hold of the oars with hands that had long since worn through their gloves and were now callused, like fishermen’s hands.

  “Slowly, mind,” she cautioned. “I don’t fancy a swim or any kind of watery tumble.”

  Charis rolled her eyes, and they started to row.

  As they neared the river’s sweeping bend the water began to flow more swiftly, fighting against their drag on the oars. Glancing over the skiff’s side, Deenie felt her heart skip.

  “We’ve lost a goodly bit of depth. It’s a blessing we’re flat-bottomed.”

  Sweating, breathing deeply, Charis flicked her a grin. “Speak for yourself. My bottom’s got a nice womanly curve to it, thank you.”

  Her mage-sense was humming, but she managed to grin back. “Mind your oar there, Meistress Orrick. You’ll have us in circles any ticktock.”

  Charis snorted, derisive, but she minded her oar.

  The sound of swift splashing was growing steadily louder. And it roared louder still as they swept round the river’s bend—to see a stretch of white-capped water frothing and racing over a wide scatter of sharp, slick rocks, some small and tricky and some frighteningly large.

  Charis nearly dropped her oar. “Barl’s tits! How are we s’posed to row through that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Deenie, feeling her jaw clench. “But we have to. Look—”

  Not too far beyond the treacherous white water the river smoothed again, inviting. And on either side, past its low and kindly sloping banks, stretched open fields lightly thatched with woodland. On the left, in the middle distance, a hint of long, low roofs. A village, maybe even a township. She couldn’t sense any people in it but then, she was awfully tired. Maybe there were people and she was just too weary to feel them.

  “Sink me,” said Charis and turned, her eyes wide. “Deenie—”

  Don’t let her panic. We’ll be swoggled for certain if she panics. “Well, for a start, I don’t think sink me is exactly the thing you should say just now,” she replied. “Here. Take my oar.”

  “Why?” said Charis, startled. “What are you—”

  “I’ve got an idea. Charis, my oar!”

  Charis shifted and took the oar, her expression mutinous. “Deenie, you’re not going over the side again, are you? Why do you have to keep going over the side? You can’t—”

  “Yes, I can,” she said. “I have to. Now hold the skiff right here. I need to put my boots on.”

  A good thing she wasn’t in her leathers today, or that would be more wasted time in changing out of them. Boots laced on tight, with an effort she hoisted herself over the side, making Charis curse as she tried to keep the skiff from tip-tilting too hard. The water reached just past her waist and was cold enough to start her teeth chattering almost at once.

  “And what does that prove?” said Charis, battling to keep both oars under control. “Deenie, please, get back in the skiff.”

  Walking slowly, bobbing a little, feeling the river try to knock her off her feet, Deenie shuffled through the water until she was well clear of the oar.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m all right. It’ll only get shallower from here. You’ll have to get out too eventually, but for now you do your best with the oars and I’ll do my best holding on close to the bow. Between us we should be able to keep the skiff from running away or capsizing.”

  “Capsizing?” Charis’s jaw dropped. “Deenie—”

  “Oh, do stop wittering,” she snapped. “We can’t possibly turn back, Charis. We have to keep going forward—and that means some fancy footwork past this horrible stretch of water. Now let’s get a move on, shall we? Unless you want to let Rafe down.”

  It was a cruel thing to say, but it was all she could think of that would stiffen Charis’s resolve.

  Slipping and stumbling, the riverbed stony underfoot, she walked beside the skiff as Charis wrestled to control it with the oars. She tried to control it with her oddly altered magic, but she’d never learned the kind of spells that could help in a task like this and whatever magic the reef had left in her, she couldn’t seem to make it work in their favour.

  All that left was muscle and luck.

  Splash by splash the river’s water level dropped, first to her hips and then down to mid-thigh. If it dropped to her knees there was going to be trouble, with the first scattering of boulders getting closer—and closer—

  “It’s no good, Charis,” she said, panting. “You’ll have to get out. We can’t afford the skiff hitting the riverbed. If we do we’ll spring a board, and that’ll be that.”

  So Charis shipped the oars, pulled her boots on and slipped over the skiff’s side into the cold and shallow racing water. They each took a side, grabbed a rowlock, and struggled to partly drag, partly lift the skiff against the flow of the river.

  Even if they’d been tall, brawny
men it would have been a monstrous task.

  Over and over they lost their footing and plunged their knees onto the riverbed’s smooth rocks. Banged their shins and their elbows and even their chins on the skiff. Caught splinters. Burst blisters. Scraped their skin to blood. Twice they nearly lost hold of the skiff and once it banged so hard into a boulder Deenie was certain it would fly apart into spars.

  They staggered past the first tumbling of rocks. Past the second. There was only one more. The water barely reached midway up their calves, now, and that made their job harder. They had to bend to keep hold of the skiff, making their backs ache and their arms and shoulders burn. The river was so shallow and flowed so fast it was hard to take a step without it nearly swept them along with it. And the skiff—the skiff—

  “Whatever you do, Charis,” Deenie panted, groaning, “don’t let it go!”

  But that was easier said than done.

  The river snatched it away from them as they reached the third race of rocks. Leaping and spinning the skiff tore from their desperately grasping hands and sent Charis flying, crashing sideways and shoulder-first into a humped boulder.

  “Charis!” Deenie shouted. And then she couldn’t care about her friend any more, because the skiff was bouncing and racketing its way back down the race.

  Their clothes. Their waterskins. Their knives. And Barl’s diary…

  “Deenie! Deenie, what are you doing?”

  Ignoring Charis’s pained cry, Deenie flung herself after the skiff.

  Come back—come back—you have to come back!

  Even though the reef had changed her, she still wasn’t strong enough to summon the skiff with a thought.