The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (67 page)

Eyes blurred and burning, grief like a white-hot coal lodged in his heart, Rafel leaned forward. Bent low. “Da, it’s Rafe. Can you hear me?”

Silence. Slow breathing. Beneath the warm blankets his father slept, still as a doll.

“Da
…
”

Not enough words. More words than he could count.

He kissed his father’s thin, stubbled cheek… and walked away.

Mama and Deenie looked so forlorn, standing in the Tower foyer. They were saying goodbye here, since his leaving wasn’t public. He hugged them both, hard. Felt the depth of their fear for him racking through them, mingling with the strident pain in the earth.

Mama fixed the collar on his long oiled riding-coat, then smoothed her fingers over his hair. “Be safe, Rafel. Be watchful. Trust your instincts.” Her lips trembled. “Come home.”

He felt like a sprat again, caught out in some mischief. “You do know why I’m going, Mama? You know—”

“I know, Rafe,” she said. Her eyes were dry. “I’m proud of you.”

And that nearly undid him.

“Don’t pick fights with Arlin,” Deenie whispered, her thin arms around his waist. “He can’t help being a sinkin’ bloody fool.”

Painfully smiling, he kissed her hair. “He could try, the little shit. Deenie, take care of Charis for me. Uncle Pellen—”

“I know. I will,” she said, her arms tightening. “She’ll be here when you get back. You make sure you bring Goose back. And yourself.”

He nodded. “Promise. Deenie—”

She pulled away. Her eyes were shadowed-smeared and trickling tears. “Go, Rafe. Just… go.”

He was right to do this. He had to do this. If Da were awake they’d be doing this together. But riding away from the Tower was the hardest moment of his life.

He joined Arlin and his fellow Olken travellers in the old palace’s privy royal chapel, hardly used these days, where Barlsman Jaffee was waiting with prayers and a blessing. Couldn’t help a sneer, catching sight of Rodyn’s son. Not even the prospect of endless toil and stark danger could prevent the new Lord Garrick from flaunting his inherited wealth. Velvet. Seed pearls. Slender gold rings. What was he thinking—that he’d dazzle the darkness beyond the mountains into submission?

Prob’ly. Arlin really is a sinkin’ fool.

Done droning the daily invocation, Jaffee smudged pungent oil on the insides of their wrists so the strong pulse there could carry Barl’s love to their hearts. Then he folded his hands and stared down at the five of them, kneeling humbly before him.

“My sons, you do a great thing,” he said, his thready voice heavy with emotion. “Every day of your journey will see you in my fervent prayers.”

Clyne, Dimble and Hambly murmured something, being grateful. Rafel heard Arlin swallow a sharp breath. Bitterly resenting these Olken intruders. For himself he didn’t much care they were coming. Could be Jaffee was right, and they’d be safer five than two. Arlin prob’ly would be. The three of them could pull him off the poxy shit when his temper finally snapped. As for the men as individuals, well, he knew Tom Dimble from his work with Da at Justice Hall. Close to middle-age, he was. Da called him trustworthy, and that was good enough for him. Nib Hambly and Hosh Clyne, a few years older again, he knew only to nod at in the street, or propping up the bar in the Dancing Bear. Whether they chose this task, or got asked by the Council, either way they had gumption, agreeing.

And it could be worse. They could be Doranen.

“Here is my final stricture, upon all of you,” Jaffee added. “As you climb Barl’s Mountains leave your former selves behind. When you reach the summit and descend into the unknown, let there be no more Doranen and no more Olken. Know yourselves only as men of Lur. Strive together for the saving of this poor, stricken kingdom, for should you fail in this task I fear all of us will perish. Barl go with you.”

And the blessing was done.

Arlin had agreed to provide the large carriage that would carry them to the Black Woods village of Gribley, nestled at the foot of Barl’s Mountains. Waiting in the old palace’s stable yard as the horses’ harness was checked one last time, Jaffee’s written instructions on what to do once they reached Gribley safe in his pocket, Rafel looked up at the grey, drizzling sky. Remembered the day, nearly sixteen years ago, when Tollin and the rest rode out of Dorana City on their big adventure.

So much
excitement,
there’d been. In warm sunshine he’d watched them ride through the City’s gates, laughing, ’cause even though Da had been dead set against the expedition he’d not stopped Mama from taking spratty Rafe to stand with the cheering crowds. Excitement too those scant weeks ago, when Goose rode off with Fernel Pintte and Sarle Baden and those other hopeful explorers. The sun had shone in the bright blue sky that day, as well. The people of Dorana had cheered.

And today it’s raining, and we’re leaving Dorana by the back door with only a handful of folk to know. But I ain’t about to think anything on that.

The three Olken councilors were stood in a tight-knit group, talking together in low voices. Pale and uneasy, they flicked him glances that told him gumption or not, they weren’t altogether sure about what they were doing, or who they were doing it with.

And Arlin? Arlin was grousing at his coachman, complaining about something that wasn’t done to his satisfaction. The coachman bore the abuse stolidly, staring at the wet ground. An Olken would need to be desperate to work for that little shit.

Sink me sideways, Da. This’ll be fun.

Dismissing his coachman back to the carriage, Arlin next lashed out at one of the old palace stable lads. Rafel hunched his shoulders, biting his tongue, as the rain dripped steadily off the brim of his leather hat and splattered the shoulders of his oiled riding-coat. He could’ve stood under shelter, like the councilors, but seeing as they were about to be cooped up in Arlin’s carriage till long past nightfall he wanted as much fresh air as he could get. Behind the glooming clouds thunder rumbled, like giant marbles rolled over a wide wooden floor.

Firedragon, left to his own devices in a spare stable, waiting to be retrieved by one of the Tower lads, poked his head over the half-door and curiously eyed all the goings-on. Rafel stared at him, swamped by a sudden wave of affection. Swamped by fear he’d never see the horse again.

And then, just as sudden, the thought of travelling all the way to Gribley in Lord bloody Garrick’s fancy carriage, with bad-tempered, mean-mouthed Lord bloody Garrick for company, was more than he could stomach.

“Oy!” he said, and marched over the slippery cobblestones to Arlin, who was still tongue-lashing the hapless stable lad. “Change of plans. I’m riding to Gribley.”

Arlin turned. Even his travelling coat was made of the finest, most expensive leather in the kingdom. And the stitching on his gloves? That was gold thread.

“What?” he snapped, impatient of interruption.

“You heard me,” Rafel said mildly, ’cause staying mild with Arlin was a sure way to fratch him. “I don’t fancy sitting on my arse all day. Not in a carriage, any road. I’m riding.”

“Really?” Arlin looked at him. Looked at the carriage, loaded with their packs and other equipment. Looked at the three councilors, men he loathed for no better reason than they were Olken. He turned back to the lad. “Send to my townhouse. Have them bring me my brown stallion.”

“Yes, m’lord,” the browbeaten stable lad murmured, and bolted.

Rafel didn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed.
And there was me looking forward to riding to Gribley on my lonesome.
“Time’s marching on, Arlin. We can’t hang about here waiting for your horse. We’ve got to be on our way before folk arrive here to start work. Besides, it’s a long day’s travelling to Gribley.”

“Then leave,” said Arlin, looking down his nose. “My animal’s the best-bred horse in Lur. I’ll join you soon enough.”

And he bloody would, too, even if he had to kill his stallion to manage it. Rafel shrugged and smiled, mildly. “Suit yourself.”

Leaving Arlin to fume, he asked one of the other lads to saddle Fire-dragon then crossed to the clutch of whispering councilors. “Carriage is all yours, Tom. Lord Garrick and I feel like riding today.”

Tom Dimble folded his skinny arms, brows pulled low. “Do you, now?” He sounded… suspicious.

“Tom—” Rafel shook his head. “Don’t be a numbskull. We ain’t about to leave you stranded. You know what the pass-note says. Five to travel over the mountains. If there ain’t five, nobody goes.”

Tom thought on that. “I suppose,” he said at last, grudging. “But Rafel, the weather’s foul. Why would you want to—”

“Ride all the way to Gribley cooped up in a carriage with Lord Arlin bloody Garrick?” He snorted. “I don’t know, Tom. Let me think on that, why don’t you?”

“Well…” Tom said, with a hint of amusement, and looked at his fellow councilors. “Perhaps it’s not so hard to figure, at that.”

“And if Arlin rides, you’re spared him too,” he added. “So we’re all happy, eh?”

“Happy,” said Tom, with another look at Hambly and Clyne. His amusement vanished. “Yes.”

He stepped closer, and lowered his voice. “Tom, you don’t have to do this. There’s time to change your minds. I know the Council reckons it’s safer to send all of us but—Garrick and I ain’t helpless. We can protect ourselves just fine. So if you don’t want to come…”

Hosh Clyne, by a whisker the oldest, shook his balding head. “Decision’s made. We should go.”

And that was that. So he nodded at the three men who didn’t want to be here, who weren’t wanted by him or by Arlin bloody Garrick, and fetched Firedragon from his stable. The councilors loaded themselves into Arlin’s fancy carriage and the coachman picked up his water-slicked reins.

“Mind you don’t spring those horses,” Arlin snapped at him. “I’ll see you sorry if there’s one pulled muscle between them—and if I find a bowed tendon when we reach Gribley I’ll—”

“My lord,” said the coachman, touching his hat-brim. “They’ll reach Gribley sound.”

As the carriage-horses tossed their heads, restive, and Arlin glared his mistrust at the coachman, Rafel vaulted into Firedragon’s rain-speckled saddle. “Well, Arlin,” he said, his booted feet groping for the stirrups, “I’ll be seeing you by and by. Ride safe, now. Don’t go tumbling, trying to catch up. A nice safe, steady jog—that should do it.”

Arlin’s answer was a silent snarl. Rafel swallowed a grin. So, looked like Jaffee’s pious prating was nowt but a waste of breath. Arlin didn’t look a mite interested in letting bygones be bygones. Not that he was bothered by that. He already had a best friend. And to save Goose he’d cross Barl’s Mountains with the sorcerer Morg himself.

He nudged his heels to Firedragon’s flanks. The horse grunted, muscles bunching, then launched into a prancing trot out of the stable yard and into the puddled driveway beyond. He didn’t bother looking back to see how closely the carriage followed. He didn’t care.

Parades and cheering and the City’s streets lined with excited faces… how would it feel to ride out of Dorana like that? Better than how it felt to be skulking away like a thief in the night, even though he knew why the Council had decreed they depart through the old palace grounds’ privy gates, with the sun barely risen and not a soul to see them go.

But it was a forlorn hope, that they’d keep this desperate expedition secret. Word of their going would spread soon enough. With the pain in Lur’s earth a relentless, grinding ache in nearly every Olken’s bones, folk were frighted and talking openly of trouble. And sooner or later, Asher’s son would be missed. Councilor Hambly, being a farmer—could be few folk in the City would notice him gone. But Tomas Dimble? His absence in Justice Hall would be loud as a shout. And Clyne’s barber shop was always full of customers, and they’d soon be wondering where their favourite barber was gone. Besides. Someone else in the Council would talk. Someone always did. That was just people.

But that ain’t my worry, is it? It’s for Jaffee and Shifrin and the rest to lose sleep on. I’ve got my own worries
.

Like the sick fear that they’d acted too late and he’d not be in time to save the kingdom or Goose. That even if he did return from over the mountains with everything and everyone he loved made safe, he’d come home to find himself lacking a father.

Wait for me, Da. Don’t you dare bloody die while I’m gone.

With Arlin’s coachman keeping his horses in hand, and Firedragon eager to splash from puddle to puddle, he reached the rarely used palace gates with the carriage well in the rear. Not caring for that, not caring for Arlin, neither, still waiting for his horse to be brought up to him from his townhouse, he eased Firedragon to a quivering halt. Used his burning Doranen magic to swing the gates open… then let loose his hold of the bit. Firedragon, so responsive, feeling his tension, feeling the muddled mess of his fears and hopes and griefs, flybucked twice, stretched his neck out, and leapt.

More than anything he wanted to let the stallion gallop unchecked to Gribley. But he couldn’t. So he let Firedragon bolt a little way then gradually, regretfully, made him slow down and wait. At last the carriage reached them, wheels splashing fresh rainwater and mud, and they continued sedately, together, beneath the grey and drizzling sky.

Eventually, with palace and City lost to mist and mizzle, they turned off the Small City Road onto Black Woods Way, the narrower road that would take them into the forest and on to Gribley. Barl’s Mountains loomed in the distance, cloud-topped and forbidding. Just as forbidding, the spreading skirts of the shadowed, mysterious forest. Wolves lived there, and bears. Some Olken. Veira had lived there. She’d left Mama her cottage, but Mama had long ago given it to somebody else.