The Reluctant Mage

by Karen Miller

  Charis slitted her eyes. “I think I liked you better when you were a mouse.”

  Abruptly contrite, Deenie bit her lip. “Sorry. I don’t mean to fratch at you, truly, it’s just—” She grabbed her thick brown braid and tugged it, hard. “I have to boss so many folk these days, it’s turned into a habit. There’s Mama and Pother Kerril and the stable lad and Tibby and the Councillors who come to bother us and—” She let go of her hair and sighed. “I almost forget what it was like to be a mouse.”

  Charis’s lips twitched. “You left me off your list. You boss me more than anyone.”

  And that was true. “Only because you need it,” she said, fighting a small, silly smile of her own. “You were all right, last night? In the house on your lonesome?”

  The woodland straggled around them. Instead of answering the question, Charis watched a biddy-bye flutter from branch to branch on a half-uprooted nirrin tree. The bird’s red and white plumage was the only splash of colour in the surrounding damp drabness.

  “It was very… quiet,” she said at last. “I thought being there would bring Papa closer.”

  She’d thought the same thing, sleeping in Rafe’s bed, living in his Tower apartment while Charis lived in hers. “But it didn’t?”

  “No,” said Charis, thoughtful. “He seemed further away than ever. I sat on the staircase after you left, and I stared at the front door waiting for him to walk through it. I knew he wouldn’t, but I sat there anyway. I expect that makes me soft in the wits.”

  Grief has as many faces as there are folk who grieve.

  “No softer than anyone who’s lost someone they love.”

  Charis looked at the rumpled earth and the soggy woodland. “Tell me about your dream, Deenie. Please.”

  “Soon,” she said. “We’re almost there. Come on.”

  “Almost where?” wailed Charis, following. “Slumguzzle it, Gardenia…”

  “Sorry,” she said airily. “I don’t know anyone by that silly name.”

  And she would have grinned over her shoulder at her dearest friend, her almost sister, only they’d come to the end of the muddy, overgrown track which meant they’d reached it at last, the place nobody but her family knew she knew about.

  “Oh,” said Charis, crowding beside her. Her voice was small and hushed. “Deenie. Is that—was that—the Weather Chamber?”

  Stunned, Deenie stared at the pile of brick and glass and timber before them. Stared at the violently uneven ground of the clearing, where tremors had lifted and torn and crumpled the earth like a handkerchief.

  “How do you know about the Weather Chamber?” she whispered. “Nobody’s meant to know. It’s s’posed to be a secret.”

  “Yes, but Papa was mayor forever, remember?” said Charis. “And he was your da’s best friend. I heard lots of things when I was a tiddler, ’cause either they didn’t think I was listening or they reckoned me too young to understand. How did you know?”

  “Mama brought me here, once,” she said, and blinked away the memory of Da thrashing stricken on the Chamber’s floor, and Rafel stricken beside him. “I swore I’d never tell of it, but everything’s different now.”

  Fretting, Charis hugged her ribs. “How long has it been tumbled, d’you think? You don’t suppose this is why—”

  “No,” she said. “I think it must’ve come down in the last big tremor. Look—there’s no moss grown on the rubble, and the broken timber’s not rotted. And things have been going wrong for ages.” She pointed to an uprooted djelba. “Let’s sit.”

  Perched side by side on the smooth-barked, sloping tree trunk, they gloomed at the ruined Weather Chamber. “Weren’t there important mage things in there?” Charis said at last.

  “I think there must’ve been,” she said. “It’s where all the Weather Magic got done.”

  “D’you think we should—”

  “No.” Deenie shivered, feeling the dregs and drizzle of leftover power in what remained of Lur’s most powerful place. “We stay well clear. If a brick fell on your head and cracked it, however would I explain that to Pother Kerril?”

  “There was so much magic here,” said Charis, awestruck. “After all this time abandoned, it still skritches.”

  Skritches. That was one of her brother’s words. She felt a breath catch in her throat. “Yes, but never mind that now. Charis, Rafe’s in trouble. Terrible trouble.”

  Charis took her hand and held on tight. “Tell me.”

  Even sleeping, she’d known it wasn’t an ordinary dream. She’d known it was a sending, a warning, a desperate cry for help. The oddest thing about it was she couldn’t see Rafe’s face. Not properly. Though he’d been standing in sunlight an odd darkness had cloaked him, and in the dream she’d heard him screaming.

  Charis’s clutching hand tightened. “Screaming? Oh, Deenie.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice catching. “It was awful. I woke up and for a moment I didn’t know where I was.”

  “Did you see where Rafe was?”

  “No. At least, not exactly,” she said slowly. “He was outside. In a garden. I didn’t recognise the flowers. There was blue sky and sunshine. There was a grand house behind him. He was wearing—I don’t know—” She screwed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to recapture the sight of him. “Something fine. There were jewels. I remember jewels.”

  “Jewels?” Charis stared at her. “That doesn’t sound right. If he’s wearing jewels, in a garden, how can he be in trouble? Are you sure this wasn’t an everyday dream?”

  “I want to think so,” she said, and tugged her hand free of Charis’s tight clasp. “It’s true I’ve dreamed about him before, but—”

  “You have?” Charis slapped her, a cross little sting on her arm. “You wretch. You never told me!”

  No, because those dreams had made her weep. She and Rafe had brangled like puppies, growing up. Her mousiness fratched him. Brash and bold, he never could understand why she was so timid—and she’d never worked out how to explain. But beneath his crossness he loved her. She knew that. With Rafe gone, in her sleep she’d revisited every laugh, every smile, every precious moment when the two of them weren’t at odds.

  “Those dreams were different, Charis. They were just memories. But this time—he’s in trouble, I tell you. That’s not a dream.”

  Charis leapt off the tree trunk. Now there was a damp patch on her dark green skirt, and clinging bits of bark, but she didn’t notice. “Then we have to help him.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Another expedition, maybe.”

  “Another expedition?” she said, staring. “Charis, you’re daft. The Council would never agree. Not after all the fuss and flap over what was found beyond the mountains. Those councillors Rafe sent back from the blighted lands, they put the wind up everyone so bad there’s no-one as’ll listen to me. Besides, the Council’s declared Rafe and Arlin Garrick dead, remember? And now most everyone believes it. The only person who believes me when I say Rafe’s not dead is you.”

  Uncertain, Charis frowned at her. “And your mother.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, after a difficult moment. “I think Mama—it’s been so long, with no word, and I think—”

  “Oh,” said Charis, and sat on the tree trunk again. “Deenie, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Because it’s something else that hurts too much.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “Mama’s not herself these days. And it’s not the point, anyway. Even if the Council did give permission for another expedition, all I can say for certain is Rafe’s in a garden. And what use is that?”

  Charis leapt up a second time. “Nonsense. If you dreamed him once you’ll dream him again, and could be next time you’ll dream his exact whereabouts. As for the Council, who cares about that gaggle of old blowfish? We don’t need their permission to go after Rafe.”

  “Charis, Charis,” she sighed. “You’ve taken leave of your senses. We can’t go
after him. Even if we could survive the blighted lands, Barl’s Mountains are warded against crossing and the reef’s impassable.”

  “Must you be such a noddyhead, Deenie?” Charis demanded. “Perhaps an ordinary mage couldn’t find us a way out of Lur, but you’re not an ordinary mage, are you?”

  “Oh, Charis. I’m not any kind of mage,” she said, despairing. “I feel things, that’s all. And every so often I can get a Doranen spell to come out right. That’s it. Honestly, I’m practically useless.”

  Charis planted her fists on her hips, everything about her offended and determined. “Deenie, I swear, this is no time for you to turn back into a mouse. Rafe’s your brother and he needs you. How can you give up without even trying to save him?”

  Deenie shoved off the tree trunk and put some breathing distance between herself and Charis. “And what d’you expect me to do, Meistress Orrick? Snap my fingers and magic myself to where he is? When I don’t know where he is? When I don’t know how to do that?”

  “Rafe did it,” Charis retorted. “He sent those Council ninnies Dimble and Clyne and Hambly home from the blighted lands. And if he did a spell like that then so can you, Deenie, because you’re his sister. You’re Asher’s daughter. It doesn’t matter if your magic’s unreliable and it frights you—somehow you have to find a way to use it. Because right now you’re Rafe’s only chance.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be his only chance!”

  Charis grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. “I don’t care. This isn’t about you, Deenie.” She let go, shoving a little. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Lur’s falling apart, faster and faster every day. Stupid people keep hoping your da’s going to wake up and fix things but we both know that’s not going to happen. There’s only one mage who can keep this kingdom alive and that’s Rafel. So if Lur’s going to live, he has to live, and that means you have to save him, Deenie. We have to save him. Rafe’s the only hope Lur’s got!”

  All her life she’d known Charis, and she’d never once seen her like this. Stunned, Deenie found her way back to the tree trunk and thumped herself onto it.

  “Charis…”

  “And if that’s not a good enough reason,” said Charis, panting, “then think about this. I’m mad in love with your brother, Deenie, and I know your brother’s got feelings for me. I kept waiting for him to speak but he never did, ’cause he’s a noddyhead, and then he left and—and—” With an effort, she steadied her voice. “So if we don’t at least try to save him I swear I’ll never speak to you again!”

  “Charis—” Deenie clenched her fingers. “Of course I want to save him. I’d give anything to save him. But wanting it isn’t enough. It ain’t possible.”

  For a long time Charis stood there, her wet cheeks flushed, breathing quickly. She was a pretty, flirty young woman and she never lost her temper. Not like this.

  She really does love him. And he left her behind and now most likely she’ll never see him again—and neither will I. Did I know that when he rode away? Did I know in my bones Rafe was riding to his death?

  Some days she thought she had known it. Some days she hated Rafe so much for leaving, for breaking Mama’s heart, for not being at home to share the burden of Da. For not being in Lur to use his magic when his magic was so sorely needed.

  And I think I hate him for asking me to help him when he must know there’s not a thing I can do.

  “Charis,” she said, fighting her own tears. “Please say you believe me.”

  “Yes,” Charis said at last in a small voice. “I believe you. I don’t want to, but—” She dried her face on her sleeve, then let her hands fall by her sides. “So that’s the end of it. Rafe’s in trouble and he’s going to die. We’re all going to die. And nobody can save us.”

  She sounded so defeated.

  “We’re not dead yet, you know,” Deenie said, sliding off the tree trunk. “Maybe Barlsman Jaffee’s right. Maybe Barl will send us a miracle before it’s too late.”

  Charis’s expression darkened. “Don’t say things like that just to make me feel better, Deenie. I don’t need coddling. I’m not a mouse.”

  And that stung, but she wasn’t about to let the hurt show. “I’m not coddling. I’m trying to make the best of a poor situation.”

  “I know,” Charis muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  Deenie shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Charis—”

  “Don’t,” said Charis. “It’s not your fault.”

  Lost and bewildered, they hugged each other. Then Deenie stepped back and looked past Charis to the tumbled wreck of the Weather Chamber, keenly aware of a deep, aching regret. After everything their parents fought through and survived, it was hard to accept it had all been for nothing.

  “Lur used to be so lovely,” she said softly. “Before Barl’s magic ran out.”

  Charis scuffed her mud-sticky shoes against the grass. “When Papa realised his time was short, instead of sleeping, like he was s’posed to, he stayed awake and told me stories about King Borne’s day, and how peaceful and prosperous and safe the kingdom was then.”

  Linking arms with her, Deenie sighed. “Darran used to tell me and Rafe the same stories. He said Lur under King Borne was a golden age. He said he’d thought things would only get better, with King Gar on the throne and Da his good right hand.”

  “And then everything went wrong,” Charis whispered. “It made Papa so sad, remembering what we’ve lost. He said it broke his heart to leave me alone in a world grown so uncertain. He told me to fight for Lur however I could. And I want to. I would fight. I just don’t know how.”

  Guilt seared her. “I don’t, either. I wish I did, I wish I wasn’t so useless.”

  “You’re not,” Charis said sharply. “And I’ll smack you if you say that again. If it wasn’t for you, Deenie, we wouldn’t know for sure Rafe’s alive.”

  “But I can’t help him.”

  Charis sighed, resigned. “You aren’t to blame for that. Besides, anything could happen. Maybe there is a way for you to save him, and we just don’t know what it is yet.”

  Startled, Deenie stared at her. “You really think so?”

  “I have to,” Charis said, after a long silence. “If I give up hope I’ll disappoint Papa.” Then she heaved another sigh. “I should go. I promised Meistress Dindle I’d lend a hand in the bakehouse. Her nephew found wheat good enough for flour so she’s doing a brisk trade again, and with her husband gone…”

  Meister Dindle, killed three—no, four—storms ago. Twelve city folk had died that day, two of them spratlings. So much loss and pain in the city. Was it never going to end?

  “I mustn’t linger, either,” she said, stifling sorrow. “I’ve chores to do, and cooking, and I need to sit with Da so Mama can get more rest.”

  Dispirited, and trying to hide it from each other, they left the Weather Chamber to the elements and made their muddy way back to the palace’s public grounds. There they parted company, Charis promising to bring home some fresh bread. Deenie returned to the Tower—where she found Pother Kerril, ominously waiting.

  “What’s wrong?” she said, feeling her heart pound. “Is it Da?”

  Kerril’s lips were pinched tight. “No, Deenie, it’s your mother.”

  Weak-kneed, she sat on the settle in the Tower’s marble-floored foyer. “She’s tired, I know.”

  “Tired? She’s exhausted,” snapped Kerril. “I’ve never seen anyone fail so fast in a week. Deenie—”

  “I do what I can to ease her, Pother Kerril,” she said, flinching. “But I can’t drag her from Da’s bedside like a criminal, can I?”

  “The way she’s driving herself is criminal,” said Kerril. “And so I’ve told her. And I’ve told her it’s time to do the right thing, for herself and for you and most importantly for Asher.”

  “The hospice?” Furious, Deenie leapt up. “Pother Kerril, we’ve already talked on—”

  “No, Deenie, I’ve talked and you’ve refused to listen,” Pother K
erril retorted. “Now it’s high time you stopped this nonsense and—”

  Cold and close to shivering, Deenie glared at her. “It’s not nonsense. Pother Kerril, Mama and I are grateful for everything you’ve done, but that doesn’t give you leave to march in here and bark orders. If you can’t treat Da without upsetting the way we live, then perhaps you shouldn’t come again.”

  “And perhaps you should stop fuddling yourself with the notion that one day your father will wake!” said Pother Kerril, glaring back. “For he won’t, Deenie. I promise you that. He’ll linger a while yet for it’s the nature of this malady, but he’s never coming back to you and—”

  “You don’t know that!” she said. “You don’t even know what this malady is. I tell you it’s unnatural and you won’t listen. You say there’s no blight in him because you can’t feel it. Well, I feel it, Kerril. And to best it Da must stay strong, but he’ll only stay strong here at home, in the Tower, being cared for by me and Mama. You put him in a hospice with strangers and I tell you straight, you might as well be putting him in the ground!”

  Kerril’s mouth pinched tighter than ever. “I can see there’s no persuading you.”

  “None.”

  “Well, if you won’t see the truth now, you’ll see it soon enough,” said the pother. “And when you do, you’ll call for me. In the meantime I’ve left possets for your mother too. I’ve already given her one, but make sure she takes the rest, two a day, and eats nourishing food.”

  “She does!”

  “But only a few snatched mouthfuls, I’ll wager,” said Kerril. “Or will you stand there and tell me Dathne guzzles three courses at a sitting?”

  No. Mama didn’t. It was a task to make her finish a single slice of egg pie. “She’s my mother,” she muttered. “She won’t let me feed her like a child.”

  “I know you’re trying, Deenie,” said Kerril, softening. “But this sad state of affairs has grown bigger than your heart.”

  “We’re managing,” she said, and stepped back. “But I thank you for your concern, Pother Kerril. And for the possets.”