The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (56 page)

“Da—Da—” He was weeping, and he didn’t care. “Da, stop. There’s something wrong. I don’t think it’s meant to be like this…
Da!
”

Lost inside the Weather Magic, Da couldn’t hear him.

Rafel tried to let go of his father’s hand, but he couldn’t. The magic had melded them. Was draining both of them dry.

Without warning, the sunlit weather chamber plunged into darkness. Eyes bloodied, vision blurring, Rafel looked up. Saw ugly greenish-black clouds boiling above the glass dome. The temperature within the chamber plummeted. Hail rattled. Rain pounded. The chamber’s parquetry floor shook.

“Da! Is that you? Are you doing this?” he shouted. “Da, you’ve got to stop! Da, stop it,
please!
”

Beneath its wet, scarlet mask, Da’s face had drained milk-white. Desperate and dizzy, Rafel struggled to prise his father’s fingers loose, struggled to get free of him, to break the cruel bonds of magic before it killed them. As the sudden storm raged overhead, and the Weather map beneath his hand thrummed and sizzled and burned with power, he fought to save them…

Except he had no idea how to break a working.

But I can figure it out. I figured how to crack stones, and dance leaves, and make waves in my bath. I unpicked a Doranen lock and I collapsed waterspouts in Westwailing Harbour. I did all of that, I can bloody do this.

But before he could defeat the pain, he had to accept it. That was the hardest part—letting the pain take him and shake him like a rat-dog with a rat. Surrendering, he sank himself beneath the surface of raw magic…

… and saw the bonds of Da’s working like ropes of fire, binding him and his father so tight. But the scarlet flames were blighted black, infected by Morg’s lingering malice. Twisted, distorted, they tried to destroy what they were designed to nurture. Burning, they burned him. He was weeping with the pain.

I can’t… I can’t…

Da’s strength was swiftly failing, even as the storm beyond the Weather Chamber grew more and more ferocious. His own strength was failing. He could feel himself being emptied without mercy, feel the ravenous theft of everything he had, everything he was and hoped one day to be. His mind was spinning. Fading. Within heartbeats he’d be gone—and so would Da.

Now or never.

With the scant power that remained to him, trusting to instinct, trusting himself, he ripped the binding ropes apart. Destroyed the working link. Pulled himself free from death, and Da with him. He hoped. He heard Da cry out. Felt him shudder. Felt Barl’s Weather map writhing in pain. Felt the earth of Lur writhe with it, convulsing, and his body being tossed aside as the storm beyond the Weather Chamber shook its fist and smashed harder.

Rafel opened his eyes.
“Da.”
His voice was shredded. His throat raw. “Da, can you hear me?”

Da was groaning, his breathing harsh and disordered. Splotches of his dripping blood disfigured the Weather map. He was still sprawled across it, still trying to give it power. Rafel could feel his Weather Magic sparking, struggling, feeding the map and the storm beyond the chamber in mean dribs and drabs.

But dribs and drabs were enough. The damage continued.

“No—Da, no, you have to stop,” he said, and rolled disjointed to his hands and knees. Crawled by inches back to his father. Took him by the shoulders and tried to drag him off the map. “Please, Da—please.
Help
me. You have to
stop!
”

But lost inside the Weather Magic, lost to sense and reason, Da fought him. Rafel felt his tears fall hot, like burning embers.

This is my fault. It’s my fault. I was meant to keep him safe.

“Da, please, please, come back. Please let go.
Come back
.”

And with the little strength that was left to him, the miserly dregs, like cracking stones as a spratling he wrenched his father free. Tumbled with him to the parquetry floor. Held him close, as though he was the father and Da was his son, wounded and in dire need.

“I got you, Da, I got you,” he whispered. “It’s Rafel, Da. I got you. Don’t fret, I won’t let go.”

No reply. Could Da even hear him?
What do I do now?

And then the chamber door flew open and Mama burst in, raging worse than any storm, soaking wet and steaming with fury. Deenie crept in behind her. Just as wet, but not angry. Weeping. Trembling so hard her teeth chattered.

She felt us. Oh, sink me. Of course she bloody felt us.

“What’s he done, Rafel?” Mama demanded as she strode across the floor. “What’s the bloody fool done? Has he killed himself? Has he killed us all?”

Rafel scrambled sideways as Mama dropped to the floor beside him and hauled Da into her arms. “He—he was trying to fix the Weather map. Fix Lur. With Weather Magic. Like he did last time. He—we—the map—”

“We?”
Mama demanded. “Do you mean you were
helping
him?”

Her eyes were so dreadful he couldn’t look at her. He stared at the floor. “Aye,” he whispered. “He asked me to. Mama, he practically begged me. How could I say no? But something went wrong. The Weather map, it—”

“Of course something went wrong!” Mama shouted. In the chamber doorway, Deenie sobbed. “The bloody map’s
wrecked
. It’s
ruined
. It nearly killed him the last time and he swore to me, he
swore
—”

“Dathne,” Da said, his voice a croak, and opened his blood-caked eyes. His reaching fingers touched her tear-streaked face. “Don’t fratch at the sprat. It ain’t his fault. And don’t fratch at me, neither, you—you slumskumbledy wench. I had to do it. I had to. I—”

“Asher!”
Mama screamed, as Da began convulsing. Began thrashing like a line-hooked fish hauled to its slow death on a pier.
“Asher!”

But Da couldn’t hear her. And over their heads thunder crashed, and lightning cracked, and a terrible, terrible rain poured down…

A
rlin travelled to Dorana City in his father’s expensive, perfectly sprung carriage. Except, of course, it was
his
carriage now. It was all his: the vineyards, the mansion, the City townhouse, the treasury. The library. The Garrick estate, to which he was the sole heir. With so much wealth gained, so swiftly, some might say he should be grateful to Asher and Rafel. He was sure some
did
say it, behind his back, where they couldn’t be overheard.

But let them say it to my face.

Nine days had trudged by since ignorant Sarle Baden had departed the City, leading the expedition that should have been his, too. That would have been his if grief hadn’t felled him. If Baden hadn’t shoved him aside.

And now he’ll fail. He’ll not find Lost Dorana. The fool. If he’d not been so arrogant, so eager to usurp Father’s dream as his own. If he’d been willing to be led. Then I might have helped him. Then I might have told him what Father knew, and I know, and nobody else.

Since the expedition’s departure it seemed Lur was fallen to pieces, was floundering, aimless, as the length and breadth of its dire predicament finally was understood. The rain had returned, soaking into the still-soaked ground. The storms were back as well, causing fresh floods, and the earth tremors, more violent and vicious than ever. Half the Garrick vineyards were rot-ruined already, his envied inheritance turning to slime before his eyes. And Lur was rotting right along with it. Asher’s fault, all of it. No proof yet, but he knew. Every ill in the kingdom could be traced back to him. Every ill…

My father is dead.

The carriage was slowing. They’d reached Dorana already? Well, perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at. With the miserable weather and the constant fear of not knowing where lightning might strike, when the earth might tremble, gaping and greedy to swallow men whole, not many were willing to risk journeying far on the open roads.

He pulled aside the carriage window’s curtain and looked outside. They’d passed through the open City gates and were heading for the General Council chamber behind the central Market Square. He saw rain. Mud. A scattering of wet, unhappy faces. Some misguided, self-deluded Olken were out and about, trying to pretend the world wasn’t drowning around them. Trying to pretend they weren’t drowning with it.

Drowning.
Westwailing Harbour, whipped ferocious and deadly. The cold shock of immersion as he plunged into the water. Pain and confusion as he was dragged into the skiff. And his father… his father… that last dreadful glimpse of him in the whirlpool. Screaming. Spinning. Spinning, then sucked under to die.
Rafel’s fault—and Asher’s. He’d hardly eaten since. Who needed food with a belly full of hate?

I must have justice. Murder cannot remain unavenged
.

And he would have it—but not by proxy. Sarle Baden might have had faith in the workings of Justice Hall, but he knew better. Father had taught him well. The Hall’s corrupt lackeys were not to be trusted. Besides… revenge would mean nothing if it were not deeply personal. Meted out by his own hand.

At last the carriage reached its destination, and he strode into the Council chamber building intent upon driving home to the incompetents who passed for leaders in this soaked, sorry kingdom that the great Rodyn Garrick must be remembered in
blood
. Asher might be lying on his deathbed but his misbegotten, unnatural son lived. His son could pay. His son
would
pay—or Lur’s Olken would feel the weight of Lord Arlin Garrick’s heavy hand.

The Council chamber was in an uproar. Pellen Orrick, grey-faced and surely deserving of his own lingering deathbed, for he looked half-dead—was raging at the gathered councilors.

“—was right!
Again!
Why didn’t you listen? If you’d listened Asher wouldn’t be paying the price for your stubborn disbelief! Barl save us, we don’t deserve him!”

Admitted to the chamber by two easily cowed City guards, Arlin stood unnoticed as Orrick sank sweating and coughing into his chair, and the unchastened Council defended itself against his accusations. Shouted at him, and each other. He felt ill, to be witnessing his people so lower themselves as to seek understanding from Olken.

We are Doranen. The greatest mages the world has ever seen. How have we forgotten that? How have we become these meek, mewling supplicants? Father was right. I never should have doubted him. We have betrayed our proud heritage, inviting our own destruction
.

Speaker Shifrin, that fat Olken fool, was adding to the mayhem by clanging his bell, which not a single councilor attended. Shifrin was useless. So was Barslman Jaffee, more concerned with Orrick’s wheezing than in imposing discipline on the rabble. And Rafel? Where was Rafel? Was he even here?

Yes. There he was. Returning to the Speaker’s table with a pitcher. Watching him succour Pellen Orrick, pour ale into a glass for him and steady his shaking hand as he drank, Arlin felt a wave of loathing so intense that for a moment he thought he might not keep his feet.

And then it passed, and he had himself coldly under control. That was important. Father would despise him should he allow emotion to weaken his resolve.

“Meister Speaker!” he said loudly. “Meister Speaker, I would be heard!”

But Shifrin couldn’t hear him above the gabbling and his own pathetic attempts to restore order. So, uncaring that he had not been invited here, considering himself above such petty considerations, he stalked across the chamber floor.

“Lord Garrick!” said Shifrin, noticing him at last. “My lord—I’m sorry but this is a privy gathering. You’ve not been granted leave to—”

“I will present myself wherever I choose,” he said, making his way towards the Speaker’s table with a studied, deliberate nonchalance. “In case you’ve forgotten, Shifrin, my father was a councilor.”

“What of it?” said Rafel, one hand on Orrick’s shoulder. “Council positions ain’t hereditary, Arlin.”

The chamber was falling quiet, as one by one councilors both Doranen and Olken stilled their chattering tongues. Smiling, Arlin halted. Decided to let the incivility pass, for now.

“And yet here
you
are, Rafel.”

“I was invited,” said Asher’s son, his face darkening. “And my father’s not dead.”