The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (4 page)

Father nodded. “True, Ennet,” he said, with a surprising lack of temper. “Nothing’s changed in Lur. Unless of course you count the Olken and their magic.”

“But I don’t,” said Lord Vail, sneering. “You can’t say you do, surely? You can’t even say it’s magic, Rodyn. Calling what the Olken do magic is like calling a candle-flame a conflagration.”

Contradicted again, and still Father did not snap and snarl. Bemused, Arlin set the blocks on the desk and sat once more in his straight-backed chair. The blocks jostled before him, their energies tugging fitfully at each other. With a thought he calmed them, smoothed them to amity. Then, picking up the foundation block, he let his gaze slide sideways, beneath his lowered lashes, to see what happened next.

Instead of challenging Lord Vail, Father looked at Lord Baden. “Sarle, what do you know of Ain Freidin? Didn’t you court her cousin?”

Lord Baden laughed. “Years ago, without luck. And Ain was a child then.”

“What did you make of her?”

“Make of her?” Lord Baden stared at Father, surprised. “She was a
child,
Rodyn. What does one make of a child?”

“Whatever one needs,” Father murmured, smiling faintly. Then he frowned. “Was she precocious, when you knew her? Was she inclined to take risks?”

“Risks?” Lord Baden tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips. “I don’t know, but now that you mention it, Rodyn… she was certainly
bold
.”

“In the hearing she was accused of destructive magics.”

Lord Vail grimaced. “You’d take the word of an Olken?”

“Never,” said Father. “But I can’t deny it’s likely she was caught out in some mischief. She accepted the adverse ruling and the fines without fighting them and was quick to avoid explaining herself to the Mage Council. That says to me she had something to hide.”

“It’s your opinion she’s been… experimenting?” said Lord Baden, after a moment. “If that’s so, then she’s grown more than bold.” He glanced over. “But perhaps this isn’t a fit topic of conversation. Young Arlin—”

“You needn’t concern yourself with Arlin,” said Father. “My son knows how to hold his tongue.”

“It’s not his discretion I’m concerned with, Rodyn. He’s a boy, yet. I don’t care to—”

“And
I
don’t care to be lectured, Sarle,” Father snapped. “Arlin cannot learn soon enough what it means to be Doranen in this new Lur of ours.”

“For the life of me, Rodyn, I can’t see what you’re getting at,” Lord Vail complained. “Lur hasn’t changed.
We
haven’t changed. All is as it was, aside from the Olken and their dabblings and as I keep telling you, they don’t count. They weren’t important before and they’re not important now.”

Father leaned forward in his comfortable leather armchair, elbows braced on his knees, his expression keenly hungry. “That’s my point, Ennet. As Sarle so rightly has said, the destruction of Barl’s Wall and the fall of House Torvig—the end of WeatherWorking—that was a moment when our lives could have changed.
Should
have changed. But we allowed ourselves to be overcome by the upheaval. We permitted ourselves to be paralyzed with guilt, over Morg, over Conroyd Jarralt, and Durm. Instead of seizing our chance to become more than what we are, we stepped back. We abased ourselves before the Olken. Instead of consigning that mongrel Asher to Olken oblivion we stood aside and countenanced his elevation to Lur’s hero.
Worse
than that—some of us even championed the brute.”

Lord Vail and Lord Baden exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Well, to be fair, Rodyn,” said Lord Baden, “he did save us from Morg.”

“And if he did?” said Father. “I think you’ll find he was merely saving himself. It was chance he saved the rest of us along with him. But even so, should we now, ten years later, continue to afford him authority over our lives?”

“Are you looking to challenge this latest ruling in Justice Hall?” said Lord Vail. “For I don’t see how you can. If Ain Freidin was indeed experimenting then she’s broken Barl’s Law of Magics. That’s nothing to do with Asher—or any Olken. Any one of us sitting in judgement would have ruled against her.”

“True,” said Father, and sat back. “Ennet, that is quite true.”

“This isn’t about Asher, or the Olken, is it?” Lord Baden said quietly. “This is about Barl’s magical prohibitions. This is about what we can and cannot do as Doranen. Am I right?”

Instead of answering, Father got up from his chair and crossed to the cabinet that held his liquor and costly crystal glasses. Arlin busied himself with his blocks, pretending he wasn’t listening. Pretending he didn’t care, or understand. It was always better when Father forgot his presence.

“Barl’s Law of Magics,” said Father, pouring brandy for himself and his friends. “I freely concede it served a purpose, once. When we were ruled by a WeatherWorker it served a purpose. Magical restraint was paramount in those days. Nothing could be permitted to disturb the balance lest the Wall be brought down.”

“And now there is no Wall,” said Lord Vail. “So it follows there’s no need for such restraint? That’s your contention, Rodyn?”

Smiling, Father handed his friends their drinks. “Is it so outrageous a notion?”

“You want to experiment, is that it?” said Lord Baden. “Like Ain Freidin? If indeed she has been experimenting. She’s not admitted it.”

“Not in public,” said Father, returning to his armchair with his own glass. “I’ll know what she admitted to Asher in private once the Mage Council next meets.”

“Rodyn, my friend, I sympathise with your frustration,” said Lord Baden. “I do. But I can’t bring myself to think there’s anything but danger in the notion of abandoning Barl’s prohibitions against experimental magics. It was Morgan and Barl’s unwise meddling that set our people on the road to ruin. Would you steer us into a second Mage War? When this tiny kingdom is the only untainted place we know, would you risk it for no better reason than you’re bored?”

Father tossed back his brandy in one angry swallow. “
Bored?
I invite you to my home that we might discuss the future of our people and you call me
bored?
Sarle, I’m insulted.”

Wincing, Arlin abandoned the training blocks. Lord Baden shouldn’t have said that. He was Father’s friend. Didn’t he know better? Perhaps he thought Father wouldn’t shout because they were both men.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Rodyn,” said Lord Baden. “It wasn’t my intent to insult you. And I can’t fault you for feeling frustrated, or slighted, but—”

Father banged his emptied crystal glass on the wide oak arm of his chair.
“Slighted?”

“Now, now, Rodyn, there’s no profit in working yourself into a temper,” said Lord Vail. He sounded uneasy. “And there’s no need to take umbrage when Sarle says you’re feeling slighted. Barl knows
I
do. And I warrant Sarle feels the same way. What you say is true. We did make a mistake in the weeks after Morg. We let that Asher and his woman and the rest of the Olken ride roughshod over us. But it happened, and what’s done is surely done.”

“No,”
said Father. “What’s done can be
undone,
if we have the will and the courage to undo it. Do you think Ain Freidin is the only Doranen tempted to explore forbidden magics?”

Father’s friends stared at him. “Rodyn,” said Lord Baden, his voice husky. “Surely you’re not admitting—”

“I’ve broken no laws,” said Father. “I’m not such a fool. I’ll do nothing to jeopardise my place on the Mage Council. Someone needs to keep a close eye on Asher. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think—
dream
—of a different future. It doesn’t mean I don’t envisage a time when our people are freed from the cage Barl made for us.”

Lord Vail sipped his brandy. “You think you’re the man to turn the key in its lock?”

“I think I’m the man who’s noticed there
is
a lock,” said Father. “
And
a cage.”

“Then why do you need us?” said Lord Baden. “Why summon us here?”

Father smiled. “As I said, Sarle, I’m no fool. I can’t do this alone. I need good men, like yourselves, who’ll help me make the dream a reality.”

Father’s friends exchanged another look, guarded this time. “And what is it you dream?” said Lord Vail. “These vague hints do you no credit, Rodyn. Come. Speak plainly, since we are your friends. What do you want us to help you make real?”

Father turned his head. “Arlin.”

He jumped a little in his chair, then slid to his feet. “Father.”

“Come here,” said Father, beckoning.

Was it the blocks? Had he done something wrong with the blocks? But he hadn’t, he knew he hadn’t. They were stacked perfectly now, their competing energies correctly aligned. Nothing would scatter them. Until he released them they would stand tall and strong.

“Arlin,”
said Father, his eyes narrowed, and snapped his fingers.

Doing his very best to conceal his trembling, he crossed the library to stand before his father. “Sir.”

Father handed him his emptied brandy glass. “Transmute it.”

“What?” said Lord Baden, startled. “Rodyn, the boy’s
ten
. He’s not old enough to—”

“Show him, Arlin,” said Father. His eyes were glittering. “Make a liar out of my dear friend, here.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

With an apologetic glance at Lord Baden, he balanced Father’s empty crystal glass on his carefully flattened palm. The brandy-smell lingered, smeared in traces of amber. It tickled his nose. Teased him almost to sneezing. He didn’t like its sharp taste in his throat. But that wasn’t important. Pleasing Father was important. He let his eyes drift half-closed, and coaxed his idled powers to life. They answered him readily, pliant and supple, and he understood why he’d been set to working with the blocks. They were a limbering exercise. One trotted a horse before galloping. This was no different.

Transmute the glass. Into what? Father didn’t say, so the choice must be his. A bird, perhaps. He liked birds. He envied them their wings, and the sky.

The transmutation incant flowed as easily as Father’s brandy. The sigils were in his fingers, waiting to be released. He felt the air ignite in brief fire. Felt the crystal warm, and melt, and remake itself as he commanded.

“Amazing,” said Lord Vail, and laughed. “Rodyn, that’s
amazing
.”

Arlin willed his power to sleep then opened his eyes. Cooling and perfect on the palm of his hand, a crystal falcon. Curved beak open, wings mantled in defiance, it sparkled in the light from the library’s glimfire chandelier.

“He’s only ten,” said Lord Baden. He was staring at Father, the strangest look on his face. “He can do this at ten? As I recall, you struggled with that incant when you were—” He stopped, and cleared his throat. “What else can the boy do?”

“This and that,” said Father, his eyes still frightening. “He’s not without promise. But what good is promise, I ask you, when he is chained by the past? When he is bound by outdated prohibitions? Strangled by the fears of inferior men? My friends, I’ve sired a mage who could rival Barl herself and who will ever know it?”

“This is your dream?” said Lord Vail. “To free Arlin?”

Father stood. “To free all of us, Ennet. For six hundred years we’ve cowered like field mice in the wheat, terrified of every shadow that flies overhead. But Morg is dead and all danger died with him. I say the time has come to stop cowering. I say we stand tall and proud in the sun and reclaim our heritage. We are
Doranen,
my friends. No more shame. No more apologies. No more fear.”

Lord Baden was frowning. “Stirring words, Rodyn. But what do they mean?”

“Sarle,” said Father, “they mean whatever we want them to mean. It is for us to decide. The future of our people is for us to mould, not the Olken. And not Barl either, six hundred years dead. So. Are you with me? Will you help me unlock the cage so our people might be set free?”

“I don’t deny I’m tired of answering to Olken,” said Lord Vail. “And I won’t pretend I’ve not had my own dreams of unfettered magic. Very well. I’m with you, Rodyn—provided we act within the law and provoke no violence.”

“No violence,” said Father. “A firm resolve only. Sarle?”

Lord Baden stared at the crystal falcon. “I have doubts, Rodyn. I think this will not be as easy as you imagine.”

“I don’t imagine it will be easy,” said Father. “But I believe it is right.”

“Right,” Lord Baden murmured. “Well. Time will tell, I suppose.” He nodded. “But I’m with you. We’ve deferred to the Olken long enough.”

“Excellent,”
said Father. “Arlin, you can go. And toss that thing in the fire. Crystal baubles are girlish.”

There was no point protesting. “Yes, Father.”

As he passed the fireplace on his way to the library door he threw the falcon he’d made into the greedy flames. Perhaps one day he’d make another. When he was older, his own man, and Father could no longer tell him what to do.

He was very, very careful to close the door quietly behind him.