The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (75 page)

Snared by that burning gaze, like a bird caught in quicklime, Rafel blinked. “You don’t remember?”

Baden reached out both hands. His touch was fire and ice. Rafel felt himself weeping. Felt his strength stolen. Could hardly breathe.

Baden could breathe. Eyes closed, he breathed in deeply and slowly. “I do know you…” he murmured. “I know your scent. It is familiar. I know the taste of your magic. I know—” His crazed eyes flew open. “I know your father. You’re
his
son.”

Behind him, yoked to helplessness, Pintte was yelling round the wooden gag in his mouth. In front of him Arlin was staring, at last—too late—an awful suspicion dawning in his arrogant face. “Rafel—”

Sarle Baden was smiling. “Rafel? That’s your name? Oh… the power in you, Rafel. Have you any idea? Do you know what you are? What you could have been? What you will never be? I have been searching twenty lonely years for you…”

He tried to speak. Tried to break free. Tried to drop dead on the spot.

Sarle Baden pulled him close until they rested brow to brow. Deep in his eyes a black flame leapt high.

“Say goodbye, Rafel…” the Doranen whispered. “Say goodbye, little mage…”

He felt a battering of darkness. His heart pounding in terror. Revulsion and fury and grief and despair.

No—no—no—no—

The sun went out. His heart stopped. The screams died in his throat. And then, a lifetime later, he opened his eyes. Looked around himself, a new man. Looked around himself.

Morg
.

Tim Holman, who rode this one with grace and patience right down to the wire.

The Orbit team, without whom I’d be a sadder, sorrier author.

Ethan Ellenberg, agent and wise counsel.

Mary Webber, Peter and Elaine Shipp, Glenda Larke and Mark Timmony, whose courage in throwing themselves onto early draft manuscripts is worthy of a silver star.

The booksellers, writing’s often unsung heroes.

The readers, who make all this possible.