The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (43 page)

Arlin gasped, understanding.
But he’s not.

Asher battled the waterspouts but it was
Rafel
who was controlling the skiff. Wrapping it in compulsion and moulding the waters beneath its hull. And that meant Rafel was—was—

Like Asher
.

Sick with dismay, Arlin stared at Asher’s arrogant son.
Of course
. And now he understood his immediate, persistent antipathy towards Rafel. All their lives, from boyhood, he’d
felt
the potential in the Innocent Mage’s firstborn child. When his flesh crept, when his blood stirred,
this
was why.

Because Rafel is wrong. Like his father, he’s wrong. Like his father he can kill us with magic
.

“The liar! The filthy
liar!
” His father was trembling, bone-white with fury. “He said his son was plain Olken, but the perversion breeds true. I’ll see him thrown off the Mage Council for this. I’ll see him censured and sent packing as far from Dorana as can be contrived!”

Arlin’s mouth was cottony dry. He had to cough and spit before he could speak. “What about the daughter?”

“How should I know?” said his father, venomous with contempt. “But I’ll find out. I’ll—” And then he was choking with disbelief. “Barl’s mercy, what is he doing? He can’t—he
can’t
—surely not even
Asher
can think—”

But clearly Asher could. Asher did. Like his father, Arlin could feel it: the Olken’s desperate push against the rapidly growing whirlpool.

“Rodyn!” cried Ain, hurrying to join them. Though she was spray-soaked and exhausted, still she was glorious.
Please, Ain, smile at me.
Sarle Baden and Ennet Vail hurried at her heels. “You feel it?” she said, breathless. “Is it even possible, do you think?”

Before his father could answer, he stepped forward. “It might be, Ain. Asher is—”

“Hold your tongue,” said his father, fingers biting into his arm. “You’re embarrassing me.”

So many times he’d promised himself he would stand against his father’s unkindness. He’d not kept his word once. He’d not keep it today, either. At least not here, and not now.

But when this crisis is behind us… when we’re safe again on dry land…

“Rodyn?” said Sarle Baden. His eyes were red-rimmed, the rest of his face bloodless from the effort of fighting the reef. “Is he really—”

“Yes,” Father snapped. “But not even the vaunted Asher can hope to destroy that whirlpool. It’s being fed dark power from the reef. Not even with the help of his gross son can he succeed.”

“Yes—his son,” said Ennet Vail, looking as wretched as Sarle Baden. “Rodyn, we can’t permit—”

“Never mind that now, Ennet! We must help the Olken collapse the whirlpool.”

“You want us to
help
him?” Baden demanded. “That upstart Olken bastard?”

Father turned on him, snarling. “I want to live, Sarle. Don’t you? So let us render him our assistance, shall we? Let us save him so he might save us, so that we, at our leisure, might see him thrown down at last. Arlin! Have you the wit to join us?”

He flinched, and hated himself for flinching. “Yes, sir. I stand ready.”

I always stand ready. I am always your obedient son, no matter what you do or say.

His father’s smile was so fierce that even Ain and the others had to look away from it. “Then let us save ourselves, shall we? While we still can.”

*   *   *

Thrumming with power, holding the skiff dangerously close to the reef and the whirlpool, Rafel risked a look sideways. “I don’t think you should do this, Da. I don’t think—”

“What?” Da unslitted his eyes long enough to glance at him. “That I be up to it? Bite your tongue.” He tried to smile, but only managed a dreadful grimace. “I ain’t even got one toe in m’grave.”

There was no time to argue on it. All he could do was keep the boat off the reef and out of the whirlpool. Lend Da more strength, if more strength was what he needed. Breathing hard, he fought the water beneath them, struggled to hold the skiff in one place, as Da poured every bit of power and magic he possessed at the relentlessly expanding whirlpool.

Except it won’t be enough. It can’t be enough. He’s only one man. But—

He heard Da gasp, even as he felt the slap of fresh power himself. Startled, struggling to keep hold of the water beneath them, he stared across the whirlpool at the blue and yellow fishing boat so perilously close to being sucked to its death.

“Sink me bloody sideways,” Da muttered. “Do you feel that, Rafe? Or did I tumble into dreamin’ unawares?”

“No, Da. You ain’t dreaming.”

The Doranen mages were trying to link with them in a working. Rodyn Garrick and his poxy son and the other three. It wouldn’t work for any other Olken… but because it was Da—

And me. They know about me now. That’s going to cause some ructions when this is over—if I ain’t dead. Prob’ly even if I am
.

“Let ’em in, Rafe,” said Da. Fresh blood was trickling from his nose. “Can’t hurt now. Might even help. They ain’t tryin’ to kill us. They be tryin’ not to die.”

Tightening his grip on Da’s shoulder, feeling Da’s fingers take a brutal hold on him, he opened himself to the Doranen mages’ power. Let Rodyn in. And Arlin. Let in the other three. Pushed their strength from himself into Da, who was a crazy man, trying to tame a whirlpool.

It was odd, how he could be so hurt and angry and still feel this proud.

Da was breathing harshly, long slow drags of air that sounded like his lungs were tearing. Blood leaked from his eyes.

“Let me
help,
Da,” he said urgently. “You can’t do this alone!”

“I ain’t alone, sprat. Got them fancy Doranen mages holdin’ my hand,” said Da, trying to smile. Trying to comfort him. “Just you keep the boat still. Keep it off the reef and away from that whirlpool. The bloody thing’s a bastard. Don’t reckon I can—”

Rafel shouted, feeling Dragonteeth Reef’s poisoned magic wrench and twist and writhe, feeling it fight his father’s efforts to destroy the roaring whirlpool. Morg was dead and still the sorcerer was fighting, determined to destroy what he could not steal or possess. Horrified, he felt Da sink to his knees. Felt pain blossom in him as it blossomed in himself.

The skiff’s canvas sail cracked once, and the stern began to slip… and slide…

“Hold on, Rafe!”
Da shouted, furious. “Don’t you pay no notice to me! Hold this bloody boat
steady!
”

“But Da—”

“Do it, sprat, or you’ll kill us all, y’hear? You want to murder me, Rafel? D’you hate me that much?”

Close to weeping like a girl, like his sister, he closed his mind to pain, to fear, to the imagined look on his mother’s face when she learned that Da was dead of fighting the magic in Dragonteeth Reef. Instead he sank all thought and feeling into keeping the skiff steady a flea’s jump from the whirlpool. But it was so hard. Morg’s magic was thick like tar, trying to trap him and suffocate him. Trying to win, even though he was long dead.

Help me, Barl. Ain’t you in there too? It ain’t only him in there. This is your fight as much as ours, so bloody fight!

Two more waterspouts screamed into life, so close he could feel their spray stinging his face.

“Rafel—” Da groaned. “Get rid of ’em.”

Get rid of ’em? How? There’d been no time to teach him the spell. Except… he hadn’t known how to pick that lock, had he? And if he could pick a lock, at age ten…

Desperate, dizzy, he reached deep inside himself, summoned what was left of his newly woken magic—and threw it haphazard at the whipping waterspouts. Searing power poured out of him. Half-blinded, retching, he could see with his inner eye the dark tracings within the writhing towers of water. See the violent confrontation between his magic and Morg’s.

The waterspouts collapsed.

Shocked, he nearly lost his balance. And then he felt something shift. Something
give
. Turning, he saw the whirlpool was slowing.

“Da!” he shouted. “You’re doing it! Sink me, Da, it’s
working!
”

“Aye,” Da said faintly. His legs gave way, abruptly, and he thudded to the rower’s bench. “Aye—just a bit more—a bit more—”

The Doranen mages on the fishing smack were starting to fade too. They’d poured everything they had into the working, to help Da.

But not ’cause they care if he lives or dies. Only to save themselves. Best not to forget that. Especially since they’ve gone and found out the truth.

The whirlpool’s dull roaring had changed pitch. It was lighter now. Softer. Splashier. Holding his breath, Rafel watched the churning water slow… and slow… willed the sinkhole to collapse—to die—but that was too much to ask, even of the Innocent Mage.

But I ain’t complaining. You’re a bloody miracle, Da.

“Rafe…” Da’s voice was the merest thready whisper. “Rafe… hurry. We ain’t got long. Get us over to that smack—”

He was nearly emptied of strength himself, drained right down to his dregs. Feeling his own blood trickle hot and wet from his nose, he gathered the restless water beneath the skiff and rolled them forward again, between the hungry reef and the slowing whirlpool, heading for the blue and yellow fishing boat and the folk they’d risked themselves to rescue.

Closer… closer… his head pounded with the effort. He didn’t dare look at his father, though he could hear Da’s laboured breathing.
Barl, help him. You better help him
. And then they were close enough and he eased the skiff to a stop.

The fishing boat’s captain was still alive, but it was Rodyn Garrick who did the talking.

“You’d best climb up here, Asher,” he called down, chalky-pale from the mageworking—but strong enough still to throw his weight around, the arrogant bastard. “Then you and that boy of yours can do whatever it is you do—” His face twisted with disgust.
And there’s Doranen gratitude for you. Typical.
“—so we might return safely to the pier.”

Da gripped his knees, slumping, his face screwed up in pain. Rafel took one look at him and realised he didn’t have the strength to speak. He barely had the strength to keep the whirlpool at bay.

Hold on, Da. Don’t you let go now or we’re all bloody sunk.

“Sorry,” he called back, staring up at the Doranen. Rodyn Garrick, with poxy Arlin beside him, his face a white mask. The other three, hovering behind. “That ain’t going to happen. You’ll have to float back to shore with me and Da.”

Garrick laughed, disbelieving. Nodded contemptuous at the skiff. “In
that
thing?
All
of us?”

The small boat shuddered beneath his feet, fighting his uncertain control. Magic and chit-chat at the same time… not as easy as it looked. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face and spine. Exhausted, hurting, he let temper have its way.

“Well if it ain’t good enough for you, bloody stay where you are! Think I give a shit? My da’s nigh on killed himself to save you but if you don’t want to be saved, fine. Stay there and bloody drown—you and your
boy
.”

“You’re Asher’s son?” said the captain, voice raised strong over the mayhem, while Garrick spluttered, lost for words.

“Aye,” he shouted. “Rafel.”

“Hayle,” the captain answered. “And we’ll be down to you directly.” His tired gaze flicked sideways. “Leastways, those of us who ain’t got a yen for bein’ drownded’ll be down.”

He turned away from the railing, calling for his crew. Light-headed with relief, Rafel dropped to one knee beside his father. “Hold on, Da. We’re nearly done.”

Da nodded weakly. “Hurry, sprat,” he breathed. Scant paces distant, the swirling whirlpool growled. “It’ll slip me any ticktock…”

No. No
. He laid an arm across his father’s shoulders. “We’re hurrying, Da. Just you bloody hold on.”

Looking up, his gaze collided with Arlin Garrick’s narrow-eyed glare. Such fury. Such hatred.
Guess he ain’t best pleased to find out what I really am
. Despite the killing effort of steadying the skiff, he grinned.

“Something you wanted to say, Arlin?”

“Arlin!”
snapped Rodyn Garrick, over his shoulder.

Cringing like a kicked dog, Arlin fell silent.

Then Captain Hayle returned with his crew—what was left of them, any road—and they started tying oiled ropes to the railing. Rafel counted heads.
Six—seven—eight—
It was going to be a bloody tight fit.

“Is that everyone?”

Hayle nodded, knotting off his rope. “Aye.”

No, someone was missing. “Where’s Fernel Pintte?”

Hayle nodded behind him. “Mayor Pintte’s senseless. Hit his head. We’ll lower him to you first.”

Pintte senseless? That was a blessing. “Fine, Captain, but crack on, eh? We ain’t got much time before—”

“Aye,” said Hayle, glancing at the whirlpool. “Can you get that skiff of yours a mite closer?”

Barl save me
. Sharply aware of silenced Arlin staring down at him, feeling him use his magic, feeling his pain and exhaustion, he coaxed the water beneath the skiff to lift them—lift them—until the skiff’s blunt bow kissed the fishing smack’s hull.