The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (66 page)

The thing he needed most was a way to protect himself from whatever darkness lurked over the mountains. If the enemy was miasma, blight and foul enchantments, natural things turned lethal like the waterspouts and whirlpools now infesting all of Lur’s harbours, then he needed some way of banishing them. Collapsing them. Or shielding himself, at least. But if his enemy was flesh-and-blood, some race of men warped and twisted by Morg’s foul magics, or maybe even demons who’d not perished when the sorcerer perished, then the spells he was after would have to give him the power to kill. The way Da had killed the day the Wall came down.

I wish I had those magics. I wish they hadn’t been lost.

Killing with magic… the thought did give him pause. Pushed to it, could he kill a man? Smash him to blood and splinters with nowt more than words? Words… and the power burning inside him.

Da did it. And we’re the same. If it comes down to Lur and some man I don’t know… if I had to, I could kill.

One by one, reading quickly, he worked his way through Durm’s books and scrolls. He found spells of compulsion and transformation and deconstruction and repression. Magics that in the wrong hands could cause untold harm. That no Olken would have a chance of resisting, not even if they were strong in the earth like Meister Gamble of the Speckled Rooster in Riddleton. Touched by these magics, Gamble would burn like paper.

Heart pounding, Rafel saw how the spells might be used as weapons. And he needed weapons. Against the darkness, against the mountains. Maybe even against Arlin. So he snatched quill and paper from Da’s desk and started scribbling down the incants, scribbling any kind of magic that might be turned to his advantage.

He found five different spells for conjuring objects from one place to another. Of course he knew the Doranen did that—he’d seen it—but it was never an incant he’d managed to pinch from Arlin, and though he’d tried to fuddle it on his lonesome he could never make it work. Odd, that Da would’ve kept such commonplace spells secret. And then, reading more closely, he saw that while one conjuring spell was for objects, the rest were for the conjuring of
living
things, small to large. And that would explain them being locked in the trunk. Get one of these wrong…

He felt himself turn a little queasy, discomfort that had nothing to do with Lur’s suffering earth. But he scribbled them down anyway. Better safe than sorry.

Pity we daren’t risk ’em to get us over the mountains. That’d save a few blisters and uncomfortable nights. ’Cept then folk would know this kind of magic exists… and we’d likely get ourselves in all kinds of bother.

The next spell he read was for seeing things over long distances. He grinned.
That
could come in mighty useful. And then he chewed his lip, so tempted. It was late. He was hungry. And he should really make certain these magics would work…

Closing his eyes, he reached for his power. And there it was, waiting for him, dangerous and beautiful.
So beautiful.

Drifting, his blood humming, he looked at the faded-ink words of the incant scrawled in Durm’s dashing hand. Let its lilting syllables sink into his mind. Breathed them out again, a whisper of words. A single sigil, caressing the air. Thought of the place he wanted to see…

… and was in the Tower kitchen. Glimlit, but empty. He could smell the spicy sweetness of fresh baking. On the wide shelf beside the window, that magical place where Rafel-the-sprat had loved to stand and sniff, a ginger cake on a pottery plate. Moist and golden brown. Still warm. A heady aroma. He heard his belly growl.

So, turning his mind to those other spells, he conjured it.

Warmth like kissing, coursing through his veins. A surge of bright power to drown Lur’s constant drone of pain. Beyond the library window the constant rain poured down. Barely noticing it, stunned, he touched the conjured ginger cake with his fingertips. Felt its stickiness and touched fingertips to his tongue. The taste burst through him, like magic.

He nearly ruined himself, trying not to laugh.

Next, he conjured a sharp knife and cut himself a fat slice.

After that, his growling belly silenced, he returned to the task of sifting through the rest of Durm’s books and scrolls. And even though this was serious, even though there was grief and anger and fright hovering, still… as his fingers scrawled spells, scrawled protections for his dangerous journey, whenever he looked up at the window he could see himself smile.

Word was sent from the Council early the next morning. A summons, no fancy folderol. No
Your kind attendance is requested.
Just
Come now. Jaffee’s privy chapel
.

Mama and Deenie were both still abed—or not venturing beyond their chambers. Rafel left a note, saddled Firedragon and rode through the mizzling rain down to the Market Square. Gave the stallion to the Barlschapel stable lads and made his quiet way inside, where a cleric led him to Barlsman Jaffee’s secluded rooms.

Arlin was there already, velvet and seed pearls gleaming gently in the glimlight. At the sound of footsteps he turned in his wooden chair, his dissatisfied expression tightening to anger.

“No need for cartwheels,” Rafel said, with his own sneer. “You ain’t the face I was looking for, neither.”

Arlin didn’t answer. Arms folded, eyes slitted, he stared stony at his knees.

Poxy little shit.

Propping himself against the nearest bit of stone wall, he lapsed into silence. Let his gaze drift about the chamber, with its plain stone floor and its plain wooden desk and chairs and the portrait of Barl in its beautiful frame. Somewhere in the greater chapel the acolytes were singing hymns. Learning, or practicing. Their sweet voices rose and fell, praising the mercy of Barl.

A short time later, Barlsman Jaffee swept into the austere chamber. He looked weary. Sleepless. His Barlsbraid was unravelling, its offering flowers fallen out. Creases and wrinkles marred his fine clerical robes.

“There will be no parade,” he announced curtly, taking his place behind the desk. “No public business of any kind that draws attention to your leaving. Nor will you be going alone.”

Arlin sat a little straighter. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sit, Rafel,” Jaffee ordered. “And you, Arlin, be quiet. I have had enough deliberation and argument for the time being. Accept the Council’s decision or go home to your vineyards. It’s up to you. Rafel,
sit
.”

Feeling sleepless himself, twitched with the leftovers of Doranen magic and too much ginger cake and the pain in Lur that wouldn’t leave him alone, Rafel glowered at Jaffee a moment then dropped into the privy chapel’s other wooden chair.

“I am not satisfied with this decision,” said Arlin. “I wish to present myself before the entire Council, not—”

“No,” said Jaffee, hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robe. More authority in him now than Rafel had ever seen. “I speak with the Council’s united voice. Accept or reject these terms as you like, Lord Garrick. No other terms shall be offered to you.”

“In that case,” said Arlin, standing, “I shall make my own arrange ments.”

“That would be pointless,” Jaffee replied. “Recall that Barl’s Mountains are warded. Not even you are strong enough to break them. If you wish to enter the pass at Gribley, then the official wardkeeper must clear the way. And she will do so only with specific instructions from the Council.”

Rafel watched Arlin wrestle with that, amused. Then he looked at Jaffee. “What did you mean, we’re not travelling alone?”

“The Council has chosen three of its own to journey with you across the mountains,” said Jaffee. His lips curved in a bleak smile. “It is felt your lack of friendship with Lord Garrick might prove to be a… hindrance to success.”

Arlin was breathing hard with temper. “And I am to have no say as to who—”

“None.” Jaffee’s eyes were cold. “Lord Garrick, we stand upon a precipice which even now crumbles beneath our feet. If you would save this kingdom, save the lives of its innocent inhabitants, do such service to Barl as makes you beloved in her eyes, I implore you: do not make this a matter of your pride and ambition. You would have tens and tens of thousands perish because you think yourself better than an Olken? Because you and Rafel cannot see eye to eye? Because you chafe against the Council’s authority and restrictions? If that is true—”

“Of course it’s not true,” Arlin snapped. “If I had no care for Lur and the lives here, would I be risking my
own
life?”

“No,” said Jaffee, gentle now. “You’re a good man and a brave one, Arlin, and we stand in your debt. But I urge you to set aside all personal considerations. The only thing that can matter is finding a way to save Lur and, Barl willing, the other expedition. For all your differences and difficulties, you and Rafel hold that belief in common. Let it be the start of a better, kinder understanding.”

From the look on his face, Arlin wasn’t anywhere near to being convinced. But he nodded. “Very well.”

Rafel hid his amusement. “So which councilors are coming with us, Barlsman Jaffee?”

“Nib Hambly, Hosh Clyne and Tomas Dimble,” said Jaffee. “Three good men. Dedicated, strong mages—” He cleared his throat, abruptly uncomfortable. “And unwed.”

“Three
Olken?
” Arlin choked, incredulous. “Are you mad, Jaffee? What use are
Olken?
Rafel’s power might be warped and unnatural but at least—”

“Have you forgotten, Arlin? No unwed Doranen might sit on the Council,” said Jaffee. “Our own people’s rule, and perhaps not wise.”

“Then choose a
married
Doranen; send—”

Jaffee shook his head. “There is no
sending
. No-one can be forced to this undertaking. Besides, Arlin—it would seem being Doranen is little or no protection against the dangers that lie beyond the mountains. Or is Sarle Baden not the mage we believed?”

And
that
shut Arlin’s trap good and tight. Rafel stood. “Seems we’ve a mite to do, then, Barlsman. Best we get to it,
’
cause the sooner we leave, the sooner we get the good folk of Lur off that bloody precipice.” He turned to Arlin. “Agreed, Lord Garrick?”

“Have I a choice?” Arlin said sourly. “It’s agreed.”

T
hey had one day to ready themselves. One single, rainy day to breathe in the last they might ever see of their loved ones. Of home. Trying not to dwell on that, Rafel prepared for the arduous journey. Kept himself busy so there wasn’t time to think. When he was done, his bulky pack was full of jerky, hard-baked biscuits and nuts, the kind of food that would sustain him in the arduous climb over the mountains. Two canvas waterskins. Two spare shirts. Spare socks and underdrawers. Heavy leather gloves. A talking stone like the one Pintte and Baden had taken with them, strong enough to reach the Council. Flint and striker. A canvas groundsheet. To go with the pack, he collected a stout walking stick, a knife, a coil of rope—and a sword. That prompted a grim smile. He’d had to dig through piles of mouldering relics in the old palace to find it. Swords belonged to the long-dead time of Trevoyle’s Schism. Cleaned and sharpened, its scabbard saddle-soaped then oiled, the weapon was a stark reminder of the dangers he’d be facing.

Last, and most important, he had Tollin’s parchment, folded small, and the collection of spells taken from Durm’s secret library. They were rolled tight and tucked safely out of sight, for he didn’t dare let Arlin get a glimpse of them. It would make learning them tricky—but he’d find a way. He had to.

The whole frantic day, he didn’t see his family. Suffering, Deenie stayed in her chamber. And Mama—Mama stayed with Da. They didn’t even share a farewell supper. The Tower was full of silence, and dread. So he ate alone, and sat alone, and used the time before sleeping to study Durm’s spells.

Sunrise came meanly, murky behind the low clouds. Watery light seeping to the ground, seeping between the partly drawn curtains in his father’s chamber. Brought to this terrible moment at last, Rafel sat by the bed.

Sweet air. Cool silence. Not enough words. More words than he could count. This man.
This man
. Who loved him. Who lied to him. Who trusted him with his life. Who put him on his first pony. Held his hand. Wiped his tears.

“Da…”

Nowt had changed. Weeks slid by since the Weather Chamber, and nowt had bloody changed. Da just lay there, not speaking, not moving. Morning and afternoon, Kerril or Mama spooned gruel down his gullet, fed him possets and potions meant to keep him alive. He swallowed them. He didn’t wake. He didn’t wake now, with his cold hand held so tightly.