The Reluctant mage: Fisherman’s children

by Karen Miller

  Ewen swallowed, his belly still uneasy, and put down his emptied goblet. “Because it’s blooded you want him?”

  “Yes. And because you and Padrig riding out is not a matter for gossip. When I ride, it’s noticed.”

  And that was true. He and his brother had grown to manhood racing about the Vale, first on ponies, then horses. Not a man or woman looked twice, save to greet them.

  “I’ll see no wild tales are spread, Father. I’ll see Padrig blooded. But it could be we’ll need to stay a day or two in the Eastern Vale, for this.”

  “Stay a week, if it’s needful,” said the king. “Ask Nairn for a bed, and food for your bellies. Your mother’s cousin enjoys his high place where I put him. Bed and mutton is the least he can offer in return.” Again, he rested his stern gaze on the pale blue morning. “That’s all of talking now. The kitchen will give you bread and cheese—and before you ride from the barracks send Swordmaster Tavin and his scout to me in the Hall.”

  Ewen nodded. He thought it was a mistake for the king not to at least spare a kind word for Padrig, knowing his younger son would not be the man riding home that he was riding out. Some things were needful and cruel at the same time. Blooding was one of them. At fifteen and first blooded he’d had his mother for comfort, when the king’s few plain words had failed to heal him.

  Take her place, I can’t. But things are as they are. Padrig will have to make do with me, he will.

  Hand again pressed to his heart, he bowed low. “Father.”

  Padrig was mounted and restless in the barracks stable yard. “At last,” he said, scowling. “And your jaw’s not dropped off from talking? Waiting to see it dangled to your belly, I was.”

  Swallowing a sigh, Ewen kept on walking. One of the barracks brats had a hold of his own horse, which whickered to see him and tossed its dark grey head. An impatient beast. He should have named it Padrig, not Granite.

  “Keep yourself,” he told his brother, one hand raised in warning. “It’s a word I need with Tavin, before we ride.”

  Ignoring Padrig’s groan, still carrying the satchel filled with a clean shirt and food for the road, he ducked into the armoury where Tavin could almost always be found. And there was the swordmaster, running a long blade across a spinning whetstone. Scarlet sparks leapt and sizzled the air.

  “You’re off?” said Tavin, his voice pitched over the whining metal. He didn’t look up from his careful honing of the blade. “Padrig says there’s an errand, you’ve got.”

  Padrig says. Would his brother never learn discretion? “That’s right.”

  Hearing his annoyance, Tavin eased his foot on the treadle then lifted the blade and his gaze. “That’s all he said.”

  “I can’t say more either. Not on that,” he said, and slung the satchel across his chest. “The king wants you and Boyde in the Hall, he does. Best step lively.”

  Tav grimaced. “A mood’s on him?”

  “Not from what you told me,” he said quickly. “It’s this errand that riles him. He’ll tell you, he should.”

  “Ah,” said Tavin, his eyes narrowing, like as not seeing how one matter touched the other. He didn’t need more than a few raindrops to know a storm was coming. “We’ll talk when you ride back, we will.”

  He wished they could talk now, most of all on blooding Padrig. But that and the Vale man about to die had to stay secret ’til the nasty business was done with, and the king gave him leave to speak.

  “Good,” he said, backing to the armoury door. “Tav—if the king’s more snappish than you’d like, he’s got worries. Be easy.”

  Tavin grunted something, then swung himself off the whetstone. “You ride safe, boy. We’ll cross swords when you’re home.”

  “We will,” he said, smiling, and ducked out into the day.

  “Is that all your talking done, you old biddy?” Padrig demanded, grinning, watching him vault onto Granite. “Can we go now, can we?”

  Blood him, Ewen. That’s my wish. Remembering the king’s command, he felt his smile freeze. “We can go,” he said, and loosened Granite’s reins. The horse bounded out of the barracks stable yard, and with a whoop Padrig kicked his horse after them.

  “So, what did the king want?” he said, as they clattered abreast down the wide road leading out of the High Vale.

  By now the sun was well clear of its circling sweep of woodland, which meant they weren’t the only folk out and about. Ewen nodded at Brown Willem, passing them with his trio of brindled milch cows off to be milked at the dairy. Willem nodded back, cheerful enough.

  “Ewen?”

  He glanced at his brother. “Not here. We’ll talk when only the sky’s listening, I say.”

  Padrig gave him an odd look, but didn’t argue. For the next small while they threaded their way past more well-behaved milch cows, a bevy of goats off to chew the edges of the common pastureland, and a few wives carrying trays loaded with proven bread dough to be set baking in the big oven down by Market Square. They knew everyone by face and name, and nodded or exchanged brief greetings. For all they were the king’s sons, the High Vale was too small and its people too used to them for bowing and scraping. Besides, the king discouraged it. After countless generations of serving the sorcerer on their knees, he said the people of Vharne must never bow or scrape again.

  At last they reached Humpy Bridge, arching its stone back over meandering Cottle Creek. It marked the boundary of the High Vale. No more cobbled road after this, just grassy tracks leading through open country and secretive woodland to the Vale’s far corners. A good thing they’d spent their childhood and youth gallivanting. Knowing the Vale so well meant they could leave a guiding scout behind.

  Feeling jaunty, the horses squealed and kicked as they cantered over the bridge. On the other side they reefed against their bits to go faster. Laughing, Padrig let his roan Larkspur have its head. Granite plunged after them and Ewen didn’t argue, standing in his stirrups as the satchel of shirt, bread, cheese and apples banged and bounced against his back and the chilly autumn air whipped strands of hair across his eyes.

  They drew rein at the old lightning-struck thrane tree, where the grass-and-dirt road forked. Walking now, the horses warm and blowing, they turned right for the Eastern Vale. The climbing sun was bright in their eyes.

  “If that’s food you’ve brought, I’ll eat some,” said Padrig, holding out his hand. “The king chased us off so fast my belly’s still growling.”

  Ewen unlaced the satchel and pulled out an apple. “Make do with that, you can. The rest is for nuncheon.”

  “Worse than Tavin for orders, you are,” said Padrig, taking it, and crunched through the small, tart fruit to spat-out pips in two bites.

  “You’ll thank me, you will, when your belly’s rumbling at noon.”

  “I’ll thank you for saying what the king wanted, I will,” Padrig retorted. “The sky’s listening, Ewen. Not a soul else.”

  Instead of answering, Ewen looped his reins into the crook of one arm, pulled the leather thong from his hair and re-tied it.

  “Ewen.”

  Spirit save him, he could almost hate the king for this. “It’s quiet you were, when I spoke of the wanderers from Manemli.”

  “I was waiting for the king to start a brawl over Tavin,” said Padrig. “But he didn’t. Surprised me, that did.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a fool who brawls with his brother when his house is caught on fire.”

  “Vharne’s on fire, is it, Ewen? Is that what the king said?”

  Padrig was young enough yet that he couldn’t hide all his fear. “No. Not that. But if it’s not on fire, Padrig, there’s smoke in the wind. Smell it, I can. These blighted Manemlims. The others crossed to us from Iringa. Now this Eastern Vale man, brain-rotted. I’ve no proof, I say it plain, but I have a feeling where he’s the first but he’s not the last.”

  His brother was staring. “But that’s not what the king said. That’s not why you’re skittish.”

  H
ow to say it? How to tell him? Padrig was a feisty one, lusty and quick-tempered. As easily as he laughed, he clenched a fist or danced a jig.

  It’s all his life I’ve known him, and never can I say what will tickle his fancy or strike him raw.

  Shifting in his saddle, Ewen looked his brother full in the face. “The king wants you blooded, Padrig. You’re to put down this man in the Eastern Vale, you are.”

  The wind-whipped colour leached out of Padrig’s lively face. “He told you that? You he told, and not me? What’s his game there, Ewen? That’s a nonsense, that is.”

  “Padrig.” Nudging Granite closer to Larkspur, ’til his knee was touching his brother’s, he breathed out hard to settle his own flighty emotions. “It pains the king, it does, to put this thing on you. He thought it might sound easier coming from me.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Padrig, his jaw tight. “It’s sour news from you or anyone.”

  “I know,” he said, aching. “But Padrig, there’s dark trouble stirring beyond Vharne. The king needs you blooded to face it. He’s got two sons and it’s both of them he needs, with more blighted madmen wandering over our borders.”

  Padrig’s answer was to clap heels to Larkspur’s flanks and bolt ahead down the road.

  Curbing Granite’s resentment, Ewen let his brother go. Chasing after him would only see both horses sweaty and tired. Let Padrig gallop himself to a standstill. After that they could talk like sensible men.

  Underfoot, the open countryside began to rise and fall. A smudge of woodland appeared in the distance. That was Branin Forest, that was, and far on its other side lay the Eastern Vale. He could see Padrig ahead of him, dwindling. Was he going to gallop all the way to the trees?

  For a moment he thought the answer to that was yes, but then his brother slowed, and slowed, and finally stopped. When it seemed Padrig had decided to stay put, he let fretting Granite bounce into a fast canter. The horse’s long strides swallowed the gap Padrig had opened between them, but just as he reached his brother, Padrig urged Larkspur into a slow trot.

  “Padrig, I’m sorry,” he said, gentling Granite to keep pace with the roan. “I’d not have this for you ever, I wouldn’t. But it’s the king’s command, it is. I can’t disobey it.”

  Blue gaze resting on Branin Forest, every muscle in his face tight with temper and dismay, Padrig grunted.

  “You know it’s a kindness, putting them down,” he added. “Brain-rot’s a cruel way to die, it is. And putting them down keeps Vharne safe, Padrig. A man or woman with brain-rot will likely rot others. You know it happens.”

  Another grunt. Then a rabbit sprang from cover and dashed across the grassy track, almost under their horses’ hooves. Granite and Larkspur startled, and for the next few moments they were too busy to talk of blooding.

  Once the horses were settled again, Padrig thumped one fist lightly against his saddle’s brass-mounted pommel. “You like your swordplay with Tavin, you do. I never did.”

  “So it follows I’ve no qualms sliding my knife into a rotted man or a woman?” Offended, Ewen stared at him. “Harsh words, little brother.”

  “Life’s harsh,” said Padrig. “That’s the king’s song, isn’t it?”

  Angry, he kicked Granite forward then swung the horse athwart his brother, halting them both. “It’s not willingly he sings it! Life is what it is, Padrig. Here’s a task fallen to us, brother, and like good sons we’ll see it done. There’s a castle roof over our heads, there is, when others sleep beneath mouldy thatch and broken tiles. Keeping Vharne and the Vale safe is how we repay that, it is.”

  Padrig glared, rebellious. “Then I’ll find myself a tumbled cottage with mouldy thatch, I will. Spirit knows how many there are scattered through this empty kingdom. Better an ague in my chest than blood on my hands, I say!”

  Shifting Granite again, Ewen leaned over and took hold of his brother’s wrist. “Padrig, it’s not murder.”

  “You say!”

  “The king says.”

  “He says what he says to see his commands obeyed,” Padrig retorted. “If it’s murder to me, I say it’s murder, I do.”

  “Padrig.” He tightened his grip. Beneath his fingers he could feel his brother’s racing pulse. “I’d do it for you, I would. But this is your task, this is. Someday a life could depend on you being blooded. It’ll be hard, I know, but you’re not alone. I’ll stand with you. Padrig—”

  Padrig wrenched his wrist free. “You don’t care it’s not what I want?”

  “I care,” he said quietly. “But not more than what’s good for Vharne, I don’t.”

  “Oh,” said Padrig. He sounded very young, and lost. “Ewen, it’s a lover, I am. Not a barracks man. Not a swordsman.”

  He snorted. “Maise tell you that, did she?”

  “This man in the Eastern Vale,” said Padrig, ignoring that. “What wrong did he do, for me to slide a dagger in him?”

  “That’s boyish, that is,” he said, thinking of Tavin’s sharp reproof. “You know better, Padrig.”

  A long silence, then Padrig sighed. Piercing the cool morning, a lone eagle’s cry. Larkspur stamped a hoof.

  “Think, Padrig,” Ewen said softly. “Where’s the right in leaving a man to suffer, but not a broken-legged horse?”

  “I know,” said Padrig, and dragged a hand down his face. “It’s right you are. The king, too. It’s my task and I’ll do it. But don’t ask me to smile.”

  He’d won the argument. He should be pleased. But as he swung Granite out of the way, so he and Padrig could ride on for the Eastern Vale, he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that somehow he’d failed.

  “It’s in there, he is,” said their dead mother’s cousin, Nairn, and pointed across the square to the Eastern Vale’s squat stone council house. “Tied good and proper, five stout men with cudgels on guard. No chances taken.”

  Ewen nodded. If he’d not known Nairn shared blood with him and Padrig, there’d be no guessing it. There wasn’t so much as a nose between them. Close to the king’s age, but with less hair and all of it grey, the Eastern Vale’s spokesman had greeted them on the last stretch of road into the village. Then he’d led them the rest of the way, riding a bony, spavined nag, his tongue running on and on about their capturing of the rotted man.

  “And does he have a name?” he said, because not once in all his babbling had Nairn called the man he and Padrig had come to kill anything but “he.”

  Nairn opened his mouth to answer, but Padrig raised a hand. “His name’s no matter.”

  Nearly five hours’ steady riding, and they were the first words Padrig had spoken since the end of their short, desperate fight. As Nairn stared at him, uncertain, Ewen looked around at the gathering of Eastern Vale villagers. None of them had heard Padrig’s harsh words, thank the spirit. Instead they clotted together in small groups, holding hands, holding breaths, sickened to silence by the tragedy.

  “You know why the king’s sent us?” said Padrig, his eyes so bleak they were unfamiliar. “You know what we’ve been tasked to do?”

  “I thought—” Nairn cleared his throat. “We’ve goodwives in the Eastern Vale, know their way around healing herbs, they do, but up in the High Vale—you’ve got proper healing men there, you have—I thought—”

  Ewen laid a hand on Nairn’s shoulder. “It’s sorry we are, but there’s no cure for brain-rot. This man of yours is dead already, he is. But before he dies he could do some mischief.”

  “I know,” Nairn said, his voice cracking. “Tried already, he did. We stopped him.”

  “Nairn, how did this happen? Do you know that?”

  “For certain?” Nairn shook his head. “He was riding the rough, hunting wild goats. Need the meat and hides, we do. Could be he rode too close to Iringa.”

  Seven brain-rotted wanderers over the border in less than a month… “What do you know of Iringa?”

  “Nothing,” said Nairn, flinching. “A scout rode through the Eastern Vale a while back. He ti
pped us a warning, he did. Told us we’d be wise to stay close to home. So we do, most of us.”

  A scout rattling his tongue? Meaning well, but causing strife. Tav’ll know who it was. Then there’ll be sharp words spoken. “But your blighted man paid no heed, you think?”

  Nairn’s brown eyes filled with tears. “His name’s Jeyk. A friend to me, he is. There’s a wife and four chil’en, he’s leaving.”

  “It’s the king’s sorrow, they have. Nairn—” Ewen shook his mother’s cousin gently. “Waiting makes this no easier. Take us to your friend. We all want this done with, we do.”

  A small, stifled sound of anguish, then Nairn nodded. “Come, then.”

  With the silent, staring villagers at their backs they crossed the square to the council house, Jeyk’s prison. Four strides from its stone steps the door flew open and a woman staggered out, weeping, pursued by a ragged, shouting voice full of hate.

  “—bitch, you slut, you treacherous whore! I’ll burn your lying eyes out, I’ll plant a poison toad in your belly!”

  “Joan!” Nairn leapt for her. “Joan, are you mad? What sent you in there? Told to keep away, you were!”

  “Five men with cudgels?” said Padrig, as the woman shivered and sobbed in Nairn’s arms. “Deaf, blind and dumb, are they?”

  The woman lifted her ravaged face. “Don’t blame them, you can’t,” she said hoarsely. “Lied to them, I did. I said Nairn gave me leave to bid my man farewell.”

  “And they believed you?” Padrig shook his head. “So Nairn, it’s none but fools live in the Eastern Vale, is it?”

  Ewen touched his arm. “It’s tossed about, everyone is, Padrig,” he said. “Don’t sharpen your tongue on him. Nairn, see her to a friend. Then come back and hold the door. Nobody else to come in, I say.”

  As Nairn led the distraught woman away, Padrig cursed under his breath. “I didn’t want his name, I didn’t want to know there was a wife and children. Ewen, they should’ve brought him to us in secret, in Branin Forest.”

  No matter what he said, or how gently, it would make Padrig angry. He sighed. “Let’s go in.”