The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (73 page)

For years, he stole from me. Made a fool of me. I will punish him for that. Perhaps not today, or even tomorrow. But I will have my vengeance. When I no longer need him, I will make him pay
.

Stolen magics…

If he let himself, he’d still be reeling from the shock of those three conjurations. Three living, breathing men banished home by magic. By Rafel.

What else does he know? What else did Durm hide from us that Asher’s son can do… and I can’t?

He’d grown up on tales of fantastic Doranen magics. Fallen asleep to his father’s railings against Barl and her betrayals, to his lamenting the loss of their heritage because she’d been weak and afraid. If Father and Ain Freidin hadn’t perished, perhaps they’d have discovered what Barl had thrown away. And then Ain would have taught him those magics and he would have become the greatest mage in Lur.

And Ain would have smiled at him.

“Arlin?” said Rafel, slowing. “What is it?”

They’d not spoken a word since starting across this wasteland. Barely looked at each other, each pretending they walked alone. And now here was Rafel, genuine concern in his voice. How much did it
gall
him, that Asher’s son could sense his disquiet?

“Nothing.”

Shading his eyes, Rafel stared ahead. After so many hours’ steady progress they at last were close enough to make sense of the smudged shadows they’d glimpsed from the stone staircase.

“I can feel it too. I think it’s a village. Likely the same village Tollin found.” The Olken shivered. “It feels bad, doesn’t it?”

Yes, it felt bad, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Wasn’t about to do or say anything to give Rafel the impression they had even that much in common.

“I wonder if we’ll find Fernel Pintte there. And the others,” Rafel added. “Sarle Baden. Goose.”

There’d been not a sign of them yet. If they did find their missing men in the village, most likely it would be as rotting corpses. Their message to the Council had been discouraging, at best. He couldn’t find it in him to grieve. Baden alive would only be an obstacle. His blind determination to steal Father’s dreams proved that.

The day was dying, sliding towards twilight, but if they picked up their pace they should reach the village before dark. Never mind his exhaustion, he’d happily run the rest of the way. It was hard to think beyond the promised chance to look at Durm’s spells.

“We should pick up our pace,” said Rafel, glancing at the sky. “Night’s coming, and I’d rather not be out in the open when it does. For all we know there are creatures here who shun the light, and feast in the dark.”

What a charming thought.

He started walking again, leaving Rafel to follow or stay behind or drop dead. After a few minutes he broke into a shuffling jog. When his chest hurt too much to breathe comfortably, he slowed. Walked until his breathing eased, then shuffle-jogged some more. Walk, jog, walk, jog. Rafel kept up with him. The bastard was nothing if not stubborn.

When at last they reached the village the world was swathed in a purplish dusk. Like Vont Marbury before them they found old bleached bones, empty ruined cottages, cracked and weed-wrecked cobbled streets, and dry wells. If the mountains had often been silent, this place felt like a tomb. Was cold like a tomb. Smelled like one, dry and musty and drear. And like a tomb it held nothing of life.

They stood in what had likely been the public square, where naked, yellowed skeletons dangled from sagging, half-rotted gibbets. The rust on their chains spoke of infrequent rain.

“They’re not here,” said Rafel, and rasped a gloved hand down his face. “I don’t understand. Where could they be?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere. This can’t be the only village.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the first one,” said Rafel. He sounded dismayed. “They’d have stopped here. Why isn’t there some sign?”

“Stopped here for what?” he said, impatient. Irritated by the man’s distress. “The place is barren.”

“I can see it’s bloody barren, Arlin. I ain’t blind.”

He stared at Rafel, silent, until the Olken dropped his gaze. “We should make camp. Come dawn we can inspect the place more thoroughly.”

“Aye,” Rafel muttered. “Aye, we might as well.”

“
Rafel
—
”

“I said all right! Don’t you start with me, Arlin. I ain’t in the bloody mood.”

That was better. A dispirited Rafel was more likely to limp than leap between him and a grisly death.

“I’ll find some firewood,” he said. “You pick somewhere for us to sleep.
Not
inside. If there are… creatures… in this blighted place, we must be able to see them coming.”

Leaving Rafel to his task, he went foraging for something, anything, he could get to burn. Fuel was scarce. By the time he’d gathered enough half-rotted, splintered wood—cottage shutters, doors, window-frames—to keep them warm for an hour or two, the Olken had settled on the remains of a tumbledown hovel one street behind the square. The shelter it offered was meagre, at best. The roof was long gone, which meant there was no
inside
. Two of its stone walls remained upright; the other two had half-collapsed. But at least if it rained, or if a wind came up, they’d be a little protected.

Provided the other walls don’t collapse, and crush us in our sleep.

“I’m glad you find this amusing, Arlin,” said Rafel, scowling. The glimfire he’d conjured lit the paltry hovel with a fitful, reluctant glow. “How much food and water have
you
got left?”

“Enough,” he said, and busied himself getting the fire started. Once it was burning, the only cheerful thing in the whole wretched village, he spread his groundsheet and sat. Ate and drank sparingly, trying to ignore the queasy churn in his guts. Morg’s leftover magics had smeared these lands like old, rancid oil, leaving nothing untouched. He could almost imagine himself breathing in the foul incants. Could almost feel them coating his bones.

Under cover of throwing more wood on the fire, he looked at Rafel, leaning against a bit of wall, hunched and miserable. Feeling their surroundings, yes, but moping for his missing friend as well. Sentimental fool. And then the Olken felt himself being watched, and looked up.

“I didn’t bring all Durm’s spells with me, you know,” Rafel said, defensive. “Just a few. And not a single one my da used against Morg. Those spells don’t exist anymore.”

Carefully, he sat down again. “So your father claimed. But we know now your father was a liar.”

Rafel’s face darkened. “
Is
a liar, Arlin. He ain’t dead. And he ain’t a liar, either. He danced around the truth a bit, to protect Lur. It ain’t the same thing.”

“Danced around the truth?” he said, incredulous. “He said there was nothing out of the ordinary about you.
Lie
. He told Jaffee he never once felt unrest in the earth.
Lie
. He said the Council had seen all that was left of Old Doranen magic.
Lie
.”

“Like I said,” Rafel muttered. “He was protecting Lur.”

“What else has he lied about? And don’t tell me
nowt,
because I know that’s not true.” He leaned forward, the fire’s heat caressing. “Tell me, Rafel. What can it matter now? Lur’s far, far behind us.”

“Maybe, Arlin, but once we’ve found Lost Dorana we’ll be going back there, won’t we?” Rafel retorted. “D’you think I’m going to tell you anything as’ll hurt him?”

“Do
you
think he’ll be alive to care?”

Rafel shook his head. His shadow-smeared eyes were wide, and shocked. “You are a sinkin’, poxy bastard.”

And you murdered my father. Don’t think I’ll forget.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging. “Keep your little secrets, Rafel. I don’t care.” He held out his hand. “Just give me those spells.”

“In the morning,” said Rafel. “I’m tired now. I want to sleep.”

“You’re
tired?
” He had to wait a moment. Had to subdue the urge to strike. “I see. So that was a lie too? A shining example of like father, like son?”

Rafel didn’t quite manage to hide his flinch. “Those spells are dangerous, Arlin. They’re weapons. And like I said, I’m tired. I’ll show them to you when I’m feeling more rested.”

“You think I’ll
attack
you?”

Rafel smiled. “I think you think I murdered your father.” He snapped his fingers, and the glimfire went out, plunging his hollowed face into shadow. “Get some sleep, Lord Garrick. Morning’ll be here soon enough.”

Long after Arlin had surrendered to his furious exhaustion Rafel sat awake, too tired to sleep, listening to the night’s relentless silence. Feeling its emptiness. The deadness of this land scraped his nerves raw. Even Lur’s discordant music was better than—than this
nothing
.

And underneath the deadness, a dreadful, rank disease. The blight he’d felt in Dragonteeth Reef, in the Weather map, unchallenged here and left to flourish. Sour and knotted, twisting everything it touched.

Will it twist me too, if I stay here long enough? Will it twist Arlin?

Although in Arlin’s case, it might not be possible to tell the difference.

The fire was dying, their supply of wood run out. But he didn’t want to risk hunting for more. Arlin might wake. And if he woke alone, he’d go after Durm’s spells. And that wasn’t—

“You hear that?” Arlin whispered, in the dark. “There’s someone out there. In the street.”

Yes. There was.

He heard it again, that peculiar, snuffling grunt. Almost like an animal, but the shape of it felt
wrong
. The sense, the presence. It was a man. Or almost a man. Heart thudding, raw nerves thrumming, he cautiously unsheathed the sword he’d hoped never to use and stood in one smooth motion, tension obliterating his loud aches and pains. Arlin was on his feet already, easing close to what passed for the tumbled cottage’s door.

Joining him, Rafel touched his arm lightly. “Wait.
Wait
.”

A stealthy, shuffling sound. Another snuffling grunt. Whoever—whatever—was coming, it was close to them now. Close… closer…

“Now!” he shouted, and pushed Arlin into the street. Leapt right after him, and as he leapt conjured enough glimfire to wash night bright as day. The man’s—the creature’s—snuffling grunt slid into a panicked scream. Half-blinded himself, Rafel raised the sword ready to maim or to kill.

And then he caught sight of their attacker’s terrified face.

“Goose
?
”

Flinging the sword away to clatter on the cobbles, he rounded on Arlin. Shoved him hard, both hands to the chest, as the Doranen prepared to strike with magic.

“Don’t!
Don’t!
Can’t you see, Arlin?
It’s Goose!
”

Arlin stepped back, for once surprised out of his customary self-contained arrogance. Leaving him to fend for himself Rafel turned again, to his friend.

Blinking in the glimlight, Goose shuddered like a shambled ox. Clothes near to rags. His filthy hair wild and unkempt, his face scabbed, his sparse beard straggled. Thin, so bloody thin. Worst of all, the dumb terror in his eyes.

Sickened, Rafel took a step towards him. “Goose? It’s all right. It’s me. It’s Rafel.” He took another step, reached out his hand—and stopped as Goose raised an arm, whimpering.

“He’s lost his mind,” said Arlin, his contempt like a knife. “His wits have wandered.”

Poxy bastard. “Shut up, Arlin. You’ll fright him.” Gentling his voice, he eased another step forward. “Goose… Goose… don’t be frighted. I ain’t going to hurt you. You’re safe. I promise. It’s me. Rafel. Remember?” He heard his voice break, felt tears sting his eyes. “Arlin—fetch Durm’s spells from my pack. I’m sending Goose home.”

“No,” said Arlin. “You can’t. He has to stay.”

“Stay?”
Even though Goose whimpered again, this time he didn’t gentle his tone. “He can’t
stay
. Look at him, Arlin. Something’s happened to him. He’s
hurt
. He needs help. Pother Kerril.”

Arlin shrugged. “And he can have Pother Kerril—but not yet. We need him, Rafel, even if he can’t find his own pizzle to piss with.”

“Need him?” he said blankly. “Arlin—”

“Are you as witless as he is?” Arlin demanded. “Rafel, we’ve got to find Sarle Baden and the others. We need all the mages we can get, in this place. And your friend here might be our only chance of finding them.”

What?
“Arlin, how can he?
Look
at him. Look at his
face
.” Like poor ole Jed’s face, the eyes vacant. The wits—yes—wandered. “The only place he’ll lead us is over a cliff.”

“So I was wrong about you, Rafel,” said Arlin, coldly. “You’re not your father’s son. You’re a pathetic, mawkish dolt. You’d let a kingdom perish to spare one man.”

Arlin might as well have picked up that ole sword and shoved it right through him. Thrust it in one side of his heart and out the other. Spare Goose or lose Lur. Were those his only choices?

You think I don’t know how you feel, sprat? I know. I spoke the words that killed my best friend.

Da’s words to him before he poured himself into Barl’s Weather map, and nearly died.