The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (72 page)

“Rafel?” said Arlin, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

Sweat prickling, Morg’s hate darkly whispering, he ignored poxy Arlin Garrick. Finished shrugging out of his pack, let it and his sword fall to the stone staircase beside Tom, then dropped into a crouch to fumble at its buckles. He didn’t dare try to do this from memory. He’d read the incants a number of times since copying them in Da’s library but he was a long way from trusting himself to know the words and sigils by heart.

I can do this. I have to.

But this was such a poisoned place. Tollin and the others, they’d struggled with their magic here. What if he struggled too? What if the dregs of Morg’s blighting magic tainted the spells? Tainted him? What if—

I have to try.

Tom was weeping now, little sobs of unbearable pain. He and Nib Hambly and Hosh Clyne—they didn’t have much time. Morg’s malevolence was crushing them. It was trying to crush him. He’d die before he let it.

“Rafel!”
Arlin stepped closer again. “What are you—”

Tugging the folded papers out of the pack, Rafel looked up, knowing his eyes were terrible. Knowing rage and power burned in his stare.

“Shut up and stand back. I ain’t got the first sinkin’ idea if this’ll work.”

And if it doesn’t I really will be a murderer.

But he couldn’t think on that. Leave Tom and the others here, send them back across the mountains on their lonesome, or kill them by trying to conjure them home. Whatever he did they’d be just as dead, and he’d be to blame. But at least this way the poor bastards stood a chance.

Finding the scribbled page he was after, he folded the others and shoved them back to safety in his pack. Then he read the conjuring incants quickly, looking for the one that would best suit his purpose.

“Rafel, what are you
doing?
”

He almost laughed, he felt so frighted. “I’m sending them home, Arlin. Now bloody
stand back
.”

Scowling, Arlin retreated three steps. “
Sending them home?
Rafel, have you lost your mind?”

Shutting out Arlin’s nagging voice, shutting out fear and doubt and every scent and sound around him and every hurt in his body, Morg’s insidious magic, Rafel tucked the sheet of paper under the toe of his boot… rested his left hand on Tom Dimble’s lolling head… read out loud the words of the incant… said
“Dorana City”
in a clear voice, holding in his mind’s eye an image of the Council chamber… wrote burning sigils on the curdled air with his right forefinger… and waited.

Nowt happened. Nowt happened. He nearly wept with despair. Then the power inside him stirred, hugely and hotly. He felt dizzy. Felt vomiting sick.

A twist of pain… a flare of tarnished gold… and Tom Dimble disappeared.

S
tunned silence. Then Arlin stirred. “What was that? Rafel,
what did you do?
”

Fingers trembling, head pounding, that pulse of pain still burning, he retrieved the sheet of scribbled incants. “Don’t you bloody listen, Arlin?” He glanced up. Wished there was time to enjoy the look on Lord Garrick’s face. “I sent Tom home. Now shut your trap so I can send Hosh and Nib after him.”

Leaving Arlin gaping he climbed down to Hambly and Clyne, tumbled like Deenie’s childhood dolls on the narrow stony stairs. Almost as still as dolls now. Dangerously close to death. Twice more he recited Durm’s conjuring spell. Twice more seared flaming sigils into the air. One after the other, the Olken men disappeared.

A heartbeat later he sat down, hard enough to rattle his teeth. Bright with pain and oddly emptied, he put his head between his bent knees. Waited to see if the spasm would pass, or if he’d just pass out.

I did it. Da, I did it. Even in this filthy place. The spell worked, I could feel it. What does that mean? What else can I do?

A scraping of boot-leather, heels hammering stone steps. Then brutal fingers tangled in his hair. Dragged his head up and back till he was staring into Arlin Garrick’s furious face.

“Where did you get those incants, Rafel? That magic is
unknown
.”

No matter what happened next, this would be worth it. He smiled. “Not unknown, Arlin. At least not to Durm.”

Shaken, Arlin let go of him. Stepped back and nearly tripped onto his own arse. “
Durm?
That’s not possible. Durm’s library of magic is—it’s—” His voice died in his throat. “I have read the Council library, Rafel. Every book, every scroll. The conjuring incant you just used—”

“Ain’t there,” he said, and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. A bonfire was burning unchecked behind his eyes. “For bloody good reason, it turns out.”

“Your father,” Arlin whispered. “He repressed the knowledge? He
dared
to decide what the Doranen shall know of their own
heritage?
”

Rafel looked up. For the smallest, swiftest moment felt a twinge of sympathy. Could see his own remembered rage echoed in Arlin. And then he recalled who and what this man was, and fleeting sympathy died.

“Durm decided it first, Arlin. He’s the one who kept those magics hidden. Him and every Master Magician since Barl’s time. Da took their advice, is all. You want to complain? Complain to them.”

Arlin flung out his hand. He was shaking with his fury. “Give those pages to me.
All
of them. They are
nothing
to do with you, Olken.”

“No,” he said, pushing unsteady to his feet. “And I’m warning you, Arlin—try taking ’em off me and I’ll send you home, too. Only it won’t be the Council chamber you wake up in. Try anything mucky on me and I bloody swear, I’ll drop you smack dab into one of those whirlpools you and your meddling Da helped make.”

“My father was right,” said Arlin, his voice low and choking. “You’re an abomination. The midwife should’ve drowned you at birth.”

“And
I
should’ve let
you
drown in Westwailing.”

And there it was. The ugly truth. A lifetime of rivalry, resentment and bitterness, of petty cruelties and secret revenges stripped bare.

Arlin’s fingers were fisting and unfisting, aching to strike out.
“
Rafel
—
”

“Y’know,” he added, in a mood to twist the knife, “since it seems we’re upending all our dirty little secrets? On the day I turned eleven I pinched a spell from that book you liked to flash around at school. Remember the one, full of clever Doranen magic? That was my birthday present to me. And every bloody day after, Arlin,
every bloody day
—I pinched another one. Right under your nose. And you never knew.” He smiled again, wider this time. Nearly laughing at the look on Arlin’s face. “So in case you get any clever ideas, Lord Garrick? Now that Tom and the others are gone? I ain’t green when it comes to Doranen magic. And that conjuring spell is only the start of what I know.”

For a long time, Arlin was silent. Whatever his feelings now, he had them well hidden. Then he stirred. “That spell. Can you use it to conjure us to Lost Dorana?”

“If I could, don’t you think I might’ve mentioned it already?” He shook his head. “No, Arlin. It only works if you know where you’re going. And since we don’t… we’ll have to get there the hard way.”

Leaving poxy Lord Garrick to stare at thin air, he returned to his abandoned pack. Shoved the scribbled page of incants inside, shrugged it on, his unused sword awkward in its scabbard, then retrieved his walking staff. Stared up the steep stone staircase in front of them.

“Well? Are you coming?”

Arlin answered by pushing past him and taking those steep stone steps two at a time. Rafel shook his head, and followed.

Let him take the bloody lead. I don’t care. And I’m safer with him in front of me than I am with him behind.

The stone staircase continued down the other side of the mountain. A hairsbreadth from a fatal fall, they took each weathered, rocky step slowly, one at a time. Who had built the staircase, and why, Rafel couldn’t imagine. Didn’t care. It meant there’d been people here once. Barl willing, they’d find them. Barl willing, they’d find Goose and the others, too. Alive.

’Cause if they ain’t…

But he couldn’t think on that. He had enough trouble to fight without thinking on Goose dead, with Arlin for company and the sickening remains of Morg’s magic sullen in his blood. And in these new lands. It was a puzzle, why Tom and the others had fallen to it and he hadn’t. Arlin was mostly all right. ’Cause he was Doranen? Was that the key? And was it his own Doranen magic that saved him? He thought it must be.

So I guess that makes me lucky, Da. Bloody lucky I got you for my father.

Of course, that didn’t solve the biggest puzzle of all: how it was he and Da could do Doranen magic in the first place. With Da hating his magic, they’d never talked on it. Prob’ly now they never would. Unless he and Arlin managed to stumble across Lost Dorana. Could be he’d find his answers there.

If it even exists. If this ain’t a bloody great waste of time… and our lives.

At last they reached the bottom of the stone staircase, without mishap. Took a moment to catch their breaths, get their bearings. Stretching before them, a wide expanse of open country. No trees. No animals. No dwellings, or even ruins. Everything was silent and still. Shadowed in the distance, at the furthest limits of sight, a vague hint of… something.

Arlin pointed. “There.”

“I agree.”

“And I could care less if you agree or not.”

“Arlin…” Sighing, Rafel looked at him. “Like it or not we’re in this together. Like it or not we need to trust each other, ’ cause—”

“
Trust
each other?”

He watched Arlin stamp a few paces, then spin round to confront him. Beneath the dirt and sweat and stubbled beard, the Doranen’s face was livid.

“That’s right, Arlin,” he said quickly. “
Trust
. Which ain’t got a sinkin’ thing to do with
like
. I
don’t
bloody like you and you don’t like me. But this ain’t Lur, where that doesn’t matter. Barl alone knows what we’ll run into out here. Could be there’ll come a time when I’m the only thing standing between you and a grisly death.”

Arlin laughed. “And you expect me to believe you’ll
stay
standing between us?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it,” said Arlin, eyes glittering. “Give me those spells you stole.”

Bastard
. He shook his head. “I can’t.”

The anger died out of Arlin’s face, leaving it cold and white. “Fend for yourself, Rafel. From this point I travel alone. Follow me? Hinder me?
Trust this.
I’ll make you sorry.”

Almost,
almost,
he let Arlin walk away. Let the poxy shit go and if he died, good riddance. But he couldn’t. He needed to find Lost Dorana, and to find Lost Dorana he needed Lord bloody Garrick.

One day I’m going to choke on needing him.

“All right!” he shouted. “Arlin, all right! I’ll show you!”

Arlin slowed. Stopped. Didn’t turn round. Stifling a groan, because he was so tired, so ill-at-ease, Rafel forced himself into a jog-trot until he caught up.

“I’ll show you,” he said again, as Arlin stared at him in hostile silence. “I will. But not now. Tonight. When we make camp, wherever we make camp. I’ll show you then.”

Arlin started walking. Groaning again, Rafel followed.

They trudged for hours across the greyish-green, unwholesome turf. Even in the thin, unclouded sunshine the air felt dark and dangerous. Smelled… wrong. These lands were oppressive, steeped and soaked in the most perverse of magics.

Arlin glanced sideways at Rafel, walking two good arms’ length distant. As much as he wanted to disbelieve the Olken, to disbelieve he had some special connection to the earth, it couldn’t be denied the man looked… unwell. There was something more at work in him than mere weariness from their arduous crossing of the mountains.

He’s right. This place is poisoned. And while I can taste it, while it gripes in my belly, it isn’t eating at me. Not like it eats at him.

If this was anyone else, even any other Olken, he might feel something. Feel sympathy. Offer help. But this was Asher’s son, the great Rodyn Garrick’s murderer, and a thief besides. Remembering Rafel’s mocking smile, he felt his belly gripe tighter.