The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One Read Free

dragging a Doranen into Justice Hall, forcing him to defend his use of magic, was demeaning. It was an
insult
. Placing any Olken hedge-meddler on level footing with a Doranen mage was an insult. And that included the vaunted Asher of Restharven. His mongrel abilities were the greatest insult of all.
    “Father…”
    Rodyn Garrick looked down at his son. “What?”
    Kept out of the schoolroom for this, the most important education a young Doranen could receive, Arlin wriggled on the bench beside him. And that was
another
insult. In Borne’s day a Doranen councilor was afforded a place of respect in one of Justice Hall’s gallery seats—but not any more. These days the gallery seats remained empty and even the most important Doranen of Lur were forced to bruise their bones on hard wooden pews, thrown amongst the general population.
    “Arlin,
what?
” he said. “The hearing’s about to begin. And I’ve told you I’ll not tolerate disruption.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Arlin whispered. “I’ll ask later.”
    Rodyn stifled his temper. The boy was impossible. His mother’s fault, that. One son and she’d coddled him beyond all bearing. A good thing she’d died, really. Undoing ten years of her damage was battle enough.
    Justice Hall buzzed with the sound of muted conversations, its cool air heavy with a not-so-muted sense of anticipation. Not on his part, though. He felt only fury and dread. He’d chosen to sit himself and his son at the rear of the Hall, where they’d be least likely noticed. Aside from Ain Freidin, against whom these insulting and spurious charges were laid, and her family, he and Arlin were the only Doranen present. Well, aside from his fellow councilor Sarnia Marnagh, of course. Justice Hall’s chief administrator and her Olken assistant conferred quietly over their parchments and papers, not once looking up.
    Everyone was waiting for Asher.
    When at last Lur’s so-called saviour deigned to put in an appearance, he entered through one of the doors in the Hall’s rear wall instead of the way entrances had been made in Borne’s day: slowly and with grave splendour descending from on high. So much for the majesty of law. Even Asher’s attire lacked the appropriate richness—plain cotton and wool, with a dowdy bronze-brown brocade weskit. This was Justice Hall. Perhaps Council meetings did not require velvet and jewels, but surely this hallowed place did.
    It was yet one more example of Olken contempt.
    Even more irksome was Sarnia Marnagh’s deferential nod to him, as though the Olken were somehow greater than she. How could the woman continue to work here? Continue undermining her own people’s standing?
Greater?
Asher and his Olken brethren weren’t even
equal
.
    Arlin’s breath caught. “Father?”
    With a conscious effort Rodyn relaxed his clenched fists. This remade Lur was a fishbone stuck in his gullet, pinching and chafing and ruining all appetite—but he would serve no-one, save nothing, if he did not keep himself temperate. He was here today to bear witness, nothing more. There was nothing more he could do. The times were yet green. But when they were ripe… oh, when they were ripe…
    I’ll see a harvest gathered that’s long overdue.
    At the far end of the Hall, seated at the judicial table upon its imposing dais, Asher struck the ancient summons bell three times with its small hammer. The airy chamber fell silent.
    “Right, then,” he said, lounging negligent in his carved and padded chair. “What’s all this about? You’re the one complaining, Meister Tarne, so best you flap your lips first.”
    So that was the Olken’s name, was it? He’d never bothered to enquire. Who the man was didn’t matter. All that mattered was his decision to interfere with Doranen magic. Even now he found it hard to believe this could be happening. It was an affront to nature, to the proper order of things, that any Olken was in a position to challenge the rights of a