A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  A house party? And what was this, a ploy to secure his interest? A way for Lord Parnel Garrick to insinuate himself into a prospective goodson’s good graces? A Councillor’s good graces?

  They are not subtle, these Garricks. Their idea of stealth is to gaily blow trumpets as they blunder through the woods in search of their fox.

  But he was no man’s fox. Though he might play at being the quarry, he was the true hunter here. He would catch Maris Garrick in his own time, and keep her on his own terms.

  Provided I want her. And that is yet to be settled.

  “A house party sounds delightful,” he said, being sure to sound sincere. “Alas, I am reluctant to travel so far from home. Lord Danfey, you understand. His health continues precarious.”

  “Oh,” Maris said, all sweet concern and, heedless of her watching companion, reached across the table to press fingers to his arm. Her wrist was laden with a gold and ruby bracelet. A vulgar, boastful thing. Luzena would never have worn it. “Oh, of course. You worry for him. No wonder your palate is jaded.”

  Reminded, he looked at his burdened plate. If he did not eat all but a mouthful of his rabbit, word would go back to the kitchen and dismay would ensue. Furthermore, it would be noted by The Opal’s other diners. He was known here, his every smile and swallow and sigh avidly noted. If his demeanour so much as hinted at dissatisfaction, gossiping tongues would wag until they fell out entirely.

  “Did you hear? Councillor Danfey was indifferent toward his dinner at The Opal. I wonder if there is some magery trouble in the place?”

  And that would hardly be fair to Harlim Seffley, The Opal’s proprietor and senior mage. Harlim’s establishment wasn’t to blame for Councillor Danfey’s distracted thoughts.

  Lifting his knife and fork, Morgan shook his head. “Jaded? Not at all, Maris. I am merely distracted.”

  She pouted. “By me a little, I hope, as well as your mysterious Council business!”

  No mention of his father. But then, Greve Danfey was nothing more than an obstacle, was he?

  “Of course,” he replied, forcing another smile. “My dear, you must not entertain any doubt on it, or fear that kind of distraction could be considered unpleasant.”

  As Maris simpered at the compliment he relieved his feelings by shoving rabbit, prune and bacon between his teeth. Never once in her too-short life had Luzena simpered. Nor could he imagine the young mage in Hahren’s antechamber simpering. No. He’d seen too much strength in her fine-boned face for that. Who was she? Who was she?

  “Perhaps,” Maris said, slender fingers caressing the stem of her wineglass, “Lord Danfey would care to join us? At the house party, I mean. As it happens my mother’s cousin is an exceptional pother. I’m sure—”

  “Maris,” he said, and lowered his hand. Try as he might, he could not smile this time. “It’s a kind thought, but I cannot entertain it. My father’s recovery is much slower than I would like. Subjecting him to a long journey, and then so much social excitement, well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. But do extend my appreciation to your parents for the invitation.”

  “The invitation is mine, Morgan.” There was now the hint of an edge to her playful voice. “As for your dear father, perhaps he should be permitted to accept or decline for himself.”

  And now she far overstepped the mark. A curt reproof trembled on his tongue. But indulging it would not be wise. Everywhere he turned, it seemed, he was trammelled.

  “Of course, Maris,” he said smoothly, the salty sweetness of the rabbit turned rancid. “And I shall be sure to mention it to him on the morrow. If I seem ungrateful, I apologise. Knowing my father’s health as I do, and knowing too how Pother Ranmer so jealously guards his patient’s frail condition, I simply leapt ahead to voice his most likely opinion. An opinion I am bound to respect, for my father’s sake.”

  “Morgan…” Maris’s eyelashes fluttered. “Your loving loyalty quite steals my breath.”

  And there she was, simpering again. It turned his stomach. She smiled, expecting a compliment in kind. If he disappointed her, if he spurned her, she might well slip from his grasp.

  The truth was he didn’t want her… but he didn’t want to lose her, either.

  Taking her left hand, he turned it over and caressed the soft inside of her wrist. Her warm, rapid pulse thundered against his fingertips.

  “I think you’ll find, Maris, that I have many ways of stealing your breath.”

  “Morgan!” She feigned shock, pulling her hand from his, but her cheeks were pink with pleasure. A discreet flick of her fingers kept the alerted companion in her seat. “How bold you are, sir.”

  And what a hypocrite you are, my lady. Oh, Luzena. She’s so petty. So small, and obvious. How can I think of shackling myself to her… after you?

  It was almost impossible to keep the thought from his face.

  Maris was pouting again. “Well, I suppose if you can’t attend the house party, we must think of something else to do. You work so terribly hard, Morgan. You need to take care of yourself. And if you won’t, then your friends must do the caring for you.”

  Friends? He and Maris weren’t friends. He’d been friends with Luzena. Could he even imagine that kind of friendship with Maris Garrick?

  Perhaps. I don’t know. But if I’m to do this, I must find a way. The thought of spending the rest of my life tied to a woman I can neither like nor respect is enough to freeze my blood. Father, Father… what you ask me to do!

  Maris still watched him, like a cat waiting for cream. He offered her another hard-fought smile. “You think to spoil me, my lady Garrick?”

  More eyelash fluttering. “Well, of course! In fact—”

  He was saved from her fawning by the return of their table attendant. “Forgive me, Lord Danfey,” the man murmured, bending low, “but an urgent message has arrived for you.”

  Mouth dry, aware of Maris’s ill-concealed pique, he took the folded note. “Thank you.”

  “Is something amiss?” said Maris. “Please don’t say you have to go!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, light-headed after a glance at the brief message. Return to the Council chamber. V. “A councillor cannot safely call his time his own. But you should stay, Maris. I see no reason for us both to have dinner spoiled.”

  She wanted to complain, he could see it, but she wanted to be Lady Danfey more. So she sighed instead, and offered him an understanding smile.

  “I suppose I shall have to get used to these interruptions. Perhaps we can dine again properly another night this week?”

  He pushed his chair back and stood. “Perhaps. Let us hope so.” Taking her hand, he kissed it. Perfume breathed from her skin. “I am truly sorry. I’d looked forward to seeing you.”

  She smiled again, and for a moment seemed genuinely sweet. Seemed an innocent young girl, disappointed, and not the simpering, calculating woman on the hunt for a lord. Perhaps if he could be sure that was the Maris Garrick he’d be marrying…

  “Good night, Morgan,” she said softly. “Whatever calls you back to the Council, I do hope it’s resolved soon and to your satisfaction.”

  Nodding, Morgan signalled to their attendant. “See to my guest and her companion. Anything they desire. Tell Harlim I’ll settle with him on the morrow.”

  The attendant bowed. “Of course, Councillor Danfey. Good evening, sir.”

  Escaped outside to the street, he took a moment to steady himself. For one terrible moment, before he’d read Varen’s note, he’d thought the message was from Rumm. He’d thought—

  Angry, he shook his head. I must stop borrowing grief. Justice knows it will come for me soon enough. Then, breathing deep of the cool night air, fingers wrapped painfully tight about his locket, about Luzena, he made his brisk way back to the Hall.

  When he saw Voln Hahren standing in the Council chamber he came dangerously close to breaking stride. This was why he’d been summoned? The nonsense over Lord Jordane’s useless daughter?


  If Hahren has dared lay complaint against me, I shall make him rue this day.

  “Lord Varen, I apologise,” he said, glaring at Hahren. “I made it plain to Lord Hahren that I would keep the Council informed of how things stood with Nevin Jordane and his concerns. If he has—”

  “He hasn’t,” Varen said curtly, as though the man wasn’t standing in their midst. “We don’t know what he wants. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  As Venette rolled her eyes at Brice Varen’s testiness, Sallis Arkley cleared his throat. “But, since you touch upon the subject, Morgan, what have you—”

  If he smiled, there would be trouble. Morgan kept his face severe. “In a nutshell? Bellamie Ranowen is blameless. The fault lies with Jordane’s daughter. She is insolent, and her lack of aptitude makes her unfit for her place in the College. Proctor Lowyn and Lord Hahren, here, are looking more deeply into the matter. I’ll have a full report for the Council soon.”

  Varen tapped his steepled fingers, unhappy. “You’re sure of this, Morgan? There can be no mistake?”

  “None, my lord,” he said, taking his seat at the table. “But I’m confident we can prevent an open scandal.”

  “Yes, that would be preferable,” said Varen, very dry. He looked at Sallis. “I don’t want the matter discussed beyond this chamber. If Jordane should press you, Sallis, I expect you to put him in his place.”

  Sallis was looking shaken. Beside him, Shari Frieden shifted her hand slightly toward his.

  “Of course,” he said, subdued. “But I confess, I find Morgan’s conclusion difficult to accept.”

  “Doubtless you do, Sallis,” said Varen, dismissive. “But accept it you will. Unless you wish to contend he’s made the whole thing up out of spite?”

  Sallis Arkley would like nothing better, but not even he would go so far. “Of course not,” he muttered.

  “Good,” said Varen, and slapped his palms to the table. “Hahren, you’ll be equally discreet, is that clear? And you’ll warn Proctor Lowyn, though I suspect he’s already stitched his lips shut. Now does that conclude our business?”

  “I’m afraid not, Lord Varen. And I’m sorry to have summoned you, but I felt it was imperative.”

  “Let’s hope your feelings haven’t led you astray,” said Venette. “Because I, for one, could have done without traipsing back here.”

  “And I,” said Sallis, scowling. “If it turns out this would’ve kept till the morrow, Hahren, you’ll have cause for regret. The Council of Mages isn’t your tame dog to be summoned at a whistle.”

  As Hahren stumbled over a more fulsome apology, Morgan noticed he had a bruise blooming over his left cheekbone. And there was—yes!—a hint of dried blood in his nostrils. Which hadn’t been the case when he left the man before joining Maris for dinner.

  The girl in his antechamber? Surely she’s not responsible.

  Remembering her, he felt his heart leap.

  “Enough, Hahren,” said Lord Varen, with an impatient glance at Sallis Arkley. “You can be sure we know you’ve an understanding of what is important, and what isn’t.”

  Sallis folded his arms, resenting the unsubtle rebuke.

  “Yes, Lord Varen,” said Hahren, not quite wise enough to hide all his triumph. “My lord, I—we—have a problem that I feel must be dealt with by the Council. If you recall some weeks ago I passed on to you a request for College admission from one Mage Barl Lindin?”

  “Vaguely,” said Venette, not waiting for Varen to speak. She was the only one of them who could get away with such impertinence. “A little nobody from an outlying district, isn’t she?”

  Hahren’s cheeks reddened, making the bruise stand out more starkly. “The Eleventh district, yes. But she is far from a nobody, my lady. She’s a proven troublemaker. I’ve received warnings of her from the artisan mage who recently dismissed her for knavery, and from the Artisan’s Guild.”

  “Is that so?” said Shari Frieden, her lips pleated with distaste. “Hahren, you appear a trifle the worse for wear. Do you claim this Mage Lindin has attacked you? With magic? And you were unable to defend yourself?”

  Caught between humiliation and outrage, Hahren hemmed and hawed, then nodded. “She turned up without warning, demanding to see me. I thought it best she be dealt with once and for all, so I gave her a few minutes. When I didn’t say what she wanted to hear, she lost her temper. And when I attempted to remove her from my office…”

  “She attacked you?” Lord Varen leaned forward, fingers drumming the Council table. “Hahren, this is a grave charge indeed.”

  “When you say you attempted to remove her,” Morgan added before Hahren could reply, risking censure and not caring, “do you mean you laid hands on her?”

  Hahren’s eyes glittered with woken fury. “She wouldn’t leave when I told her to! She stood there, in my office, and defied me!”

  “So you did lay hands on her. In effect, you attacked her first.”

  “Councillor Danfey, I did no such thing!” Hahren snapped. “I told her she had no claim for a dispensation, that the College’s decision was final, and instructed her to leave. Instead of obeying me, she threw a tantrum! Said she’d go nowhere without first speaking to the Council of Mages. I told her that was out of the question. That’s when she called me a spruling jigget.”

  Venette muffled a snort of laughter. “Indeed. How very provoking.”

  “And then, when I ordered her yet again to leave, and still she wouldn’t, I took her by the arm. Just by the arm, mind you, and not roughly. There was no violence about it. Certainly no magic. All I did was try to escort her from the room.”

  “She took exception?” said Venette.

  “Exception?” Hahren’s chest heaved. “Lady Martain, she hurled me across my own chamber with a repulsion incant!”

  Morgan sat back in his chair. “Because you attacked her.”

  “How many times must I say it?” said Hahren, close to spluttering. “I did no such thing!”

  “Care to explain why you’re defending this unranked upstart, Morgan?” said Sallis Arkley. “Seems to me you should be spitting fire at her temerity.”

  Yes. He should be, shouldn’t he? But all he could do was smother the smile that threatened to ruin his Council career. This unranked girl, this Barl Lindin, she of the strong, beautiful face and plain linen tunic and shimmering promise of power, in the Hall of Knowledge itself dared to challenge Lord Voln Hahren.

  What an extraordinary young woman.

  “I defend nothing and no-one, Lord Arkley. I merely suggest that we give the girl a chance to explain herself.”

  “Really, Morgan?” Venette considered him. “What further explanation do we need? This Barl Lindin used magic against a Council-appointed official who was merely doing his duty. A trifle crudely, perhaps, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is—”

  “I think, Lady Martain, the point is that she might have thought herself in real danger,” he said, meeting Venette’s unsympathetic stare. “Would you punish her for being afraid? That’s harsh, even for you.”

  Lord Varen forestalled Venette’s heated reply with a raised hand. “Hahren, where is Mage Lindin now?”

  “Outside this chamber, my lord,” said Hahren, with a jerk of his chin. “Held in close custody and awaiting your pleasure.”

  “There’s no pleasure in this,” Shari complained. “I have the megrim. I want my bed.”

  “Bring the woman in,” said Varen, ignoring her. “And we shall decide what the consequence of this hubble-bubble shall be.”

  Looking pleased, Hahren retreated to the chamber door, tugged it ajar then beckoned into the antechamber beyond. A moment later the girl entered, flanked by two of the Hall’s duty mages. Her colour was high, her linen tunic dishevelled. Her clear blue eyes were alight with defiance. Acutely aware of Venette’s speculative scrutiny, that in Shari Frieden and Sallis Arkley he had enemies, not allies, Morgan kept himself strictly in hand.

  And then Barl Lindin’s
blue gaze fell on him… and she faltered. Her shock, seeing him, was shocking.

  She feels it, just as I do. What does this mean?

  He knew what he wanted it to mean, even as he knew such a thing was impossible. She was unranked, and brought before the Council on the most serious of charges. But how could he not think of it? Even as her beauty beat through his blood, her breathtaking power lit a flame in his heart.

  “Well, well,” Venette said under breath. “Nobody or not, she has a surfeit of aptitude.”

  From the looks on their faces, the others could feel it too. Varen, who never slumped, somehow managed to sit even straighter in his chair.

  “You may leave us, Lord Hahren. Take the duty mages with you. They can wait outside.”

  Hahren hesitated longer than was wise, then nodded. His eyes raged with disappointment. He’d wanted to see the girl punished. “My lord. Councillors,” he murmured, then withdrew, the duty mages silently obedient at his heels.

  As the chamber door closed behind them, Varen drummed his fingers on the table. “Very well, Mage Lindin. Account for yourself.”

  “Is there any point?” the girl asked. Her chin was up, her expression defiant. “Surely you’ve already decided to condemn me.”

  “Tread carefully, Mage Lindin,” Sallis snapped. “You are in perilous straits.”

  A faint flush of colour touched the girl’s cheeks. “What did Lord Hahren tell you?”

  “We aren’t interested in his tale,” said Venette. “We want to hear yours.”

  “You didn’t before,” the girl said. Beneath her defiance she was frightened. “You dismissed me before, without giving me the chance to prove myself worthy of a place in the College.”

  Varen’s drumming fingers drummed louder. Then he slapped the table. “Enough posturing, Mage Lindin. You do not impress.”

  Barl Lindin stared at the floor. Watching her closely, Morgan thought she was making a deliberate effort not to look at him. And he thought that effort cost her something. Still aware of too-perceptive Venette beside him, he did his utmost to show the girl nothing but indifference.