A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  Luzena had been tenderhearted, moved to tears by the smallest plight of the least important Doranen mage. For that alone he’d loved her. This foolish young woman from Batava would have stirred her to pity, of that he had no doubt.

  “If you were still by my side, where you belong, you’d have insisted that I bring her here. I know it.”

  Cold hands framing her cold face, he kissed Luzena’s gently parted lips. Her throat. The swell of her sweet breasts. Their warmth had been denied him for the rest of his life. Now all he had was their cold stone comfort.

  “My love… my love. How I miss you.”

  His fingers caressed the curving lines of her face. Her nose had been the tiniest bit crooked. The imperfection had only made her more perfect. Maris Garrick’s nose was perfect, her entire beauty beyond dispute. Only he wanted, needed, more than beauty. And Maris Garrick did not have it.

  But what do my needs matter? I have a duty, I made a promise, and that must override all.

  He kissed Luzena again, hard enough to bruise lips against teeth. “Dear one, I can see no way of rebuffing Maris Garrick. In every respect counted important she is, without question, a suitable match.”

  Snatching the locket from beneath his tunic, he wrenched it open. His love’s painted face smiled back at him, somehow more real, more Luzena, than the exquisite marble woman laid out before him.

  “Please, my love, I beg you. Forgive me this betrayal. When I bed Maris Garrick there will be no pleasure in it.”

  Glimfire in close quarters was warming, but still he shivered. Kind shadows hid the chamber’s other occupants, but the crypt was a house of death and it pressed down on him, smothering.

  Father will sleep here soon. With all my mage powers I can’t save him. Ranmer with his pills and potions, he can’t save him either. Before the year dies I will be Lord Danfey.

  The thought broke him, and he sobbed without restraint on Luzena’s unyielding breast… but only for a moment. Such displays of emotion did not become a Danfey or a member of Dorana’s Council of Mages. He’d not wept since he lost his beloved, and on that terrible day, when he sought to abandon himself to wild grief, his father had struck him.

  “Disgrace me, would you?” he’d demanded. “Wipe your face, Morgan. You’re not a woman, to drown yourself in tears!”

  Now, as then, he blotted his eyes dry. Stepped back from Luzena’s coffin, his heart pounding, and breathed deep until it slowed.

  “You are dead, Luzena, but I yet live. And so long as I live, I must do my duty.”

  Glimlight danced across her peaceful stone brow, her cheeks, her lips. He stepped back again, because he wanted to climb onto the coffin beside her and imagine himself safe and loved in her arms.

  “Sleep well, my darling,” he whispered, and left her alone in the dark.

  Rumm practically pounced on him as he entered the mansion. “Sir! Thank goodness!”

  “What is it?” he said, fighting a fresh wave of dread. “Lord Danfey? Why did you not—”

  “Sir, sir, please, there’s no crisis,” Rumm said swiftly. “But his lordship is restless. In truth, sir, he’s been kicking up a right dust. I know you told him you were out to dinner this evening but—” The master servant swallowed hard. “Sir, he’s having some trouble recalling it.”

  “I see.” Morgan gave Rumm a curt nod. “Very well.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, his palms suddenly sweaty. Ranmer had warned that his father’s lucidity would likely wax and wane. But he’d been himself for such a goodly time, he’d begun to hope—

  “Morgan!” his father croaked, as he entered the fire-warmed chamber. “At last. What’s kept you so late?”

  Late? Even with that Council business, it was only a whisper past nine. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said, taking the chair beside the bed. “I did not mean to cause concern.”

  Hectic colour burned in his father’s face. His eyes glittered, overbright. “Ha! Dallied at dinner, did you? So the Garrick girl’s truly to your liking?”

  Luzena. “She is most… suitable.”

  “Then best you snap her up, Morgan, before some other wifeless mage gets wind of her.”

  “Yes,” he said, subdued. “Doubtless that would be wise.”

  “And yet you sound doubtful,” his father said, accusing. “What nonsense is this?”

  “My lord, I know nothing of nonsense. But I have been thinking—”

  “Then stop it! What good did that ever do a man? You think too much, Morgan. If you’d please me, then act.”

  Mouth dry, he stared at his slowly dying father. Every time he thought himself reconciled to duty, to Maris Garrick, his misgivings awoke to prick him anew.

  And am I to ignore them, just to keep an old man happy? When he is dying and I’m the one who’ll suffer for the mistake?

  “My lord,” he said at last, sick with apprehension, hurt by the rebuke, “I think of little else but pleasing you. But let me speak plainly now. Let me tell you the truth as it appears to me.”

  His father looked offended. If his wits had wandered earlier, they were sharply focused again. “Did I ever ask for your lies, Morgan?”

  Not in so many words, no. Not quite so plainly. Was his father asking for a lie when he expected to hear only what he wished to hear?

  I think he is asking for a lie’s kissing cousin. But I need to speak my mind. My heart. There is no-one else to speak it for me.

  “My lord, how pleasing will it be if I choose a wife in haste and in so choosing, choose poorly? Once I handfast with Maris Garrick we are parted only by death. I’ve known her only a handful of weeks. I knew Luzena for years. I—”

  “No! The girl is dead, Morgan. Leave her buried.” His father’s feeble fist struck the mattress. “What kind of a son have I raised? One who’d not set a dying man’s mind at ease! You care nothing for me or for the Danfey name. If you could fuck a marble statue you’d do it, leaving me to languish my last days in despair!”

  He had to blink to clear his vision. “That is a monstrous thing to say.”

  “Ha!” His father punched the mattress again, blood-tinged spittle flecking his greyish lips. “The monstrous son calls his father monstrous.”

  Morgan slid from the chair and retreated to the chamber’s fireplace, with its crackling flames. He scarcely felt their fierce heat against his skin. “I never said I wouldn’t marry. I won’t deny you my heir. But we talk of my life. My—my happiness. Am I no more to you than fertile seed?”

  His father had the grace to look taken aback. “Of course not. How can you ask it? Morgan, you’re my son.”

  “Then why will you not grant me a moment to think before I commit myself to Maris Garrick?”

  “To what purpose?” his father demanded, his rheumy eyes blazing. “Name me one First Family ranked higher than the Garricks in possession of an unmatched beddable daughter!”

  Turning, Morgan stared into the fire. “I can’t. But then I’ve not spent so much as a day looking, have I? Maris Garrick was tossed in my lap, like a ripe peach, and that was that.”

  “Tossed by Venette Martain, who seems to care more about the future of this family than you do.”

  Another barb, sunk deep into his flesh. “That’s not true.”

  Then what? You’d reject the Garrick girl and taint our bloodline by marrying some chit from a Family ranked below our own? Is that it?’

  In the leaping flames Morgan saw, leaping, Barl Lindin’s striking face. Fear and defiance. Passion and pride. He felt again the pain he’d caused her, and remembered her battle not to break before the indifferent Council’s might.

  What a pity she’s unranked. There is more power in that girl than was ever dreamt of for Nevin Jordane’s crippled embarrassment of a daughter. Dorana has need of talent like Barl Lindin’s. If I could match myself with her…

  But he couldn’t, and he was mad to torment himself with the thought. Mad to let himself wonder, even briefly, what her lips might taste like. How it w
ould feel to feel her fingertips on his skin.

  Fool. You can’t have her. Let her go.

  Mingled longing and regret throbbed through his blood. The woken need was a cruelly taunting pain. This was what he should be feeling for Maris Garrick. The thought of bedding her without it… the thought of bedding her at all…

  I am mad. Barl Lindin is so far beneath me I should be ashamed for even entertaining the notion.

  But he wasn’t. Instead he was resentful, not only for himself but for all of Dorana as well. Barl Lindin had a talent that defied explanation, that properly trained and channelled might accomplish astonishing work. Wilfully wasting such a resource was nothing short of a travesty. Yet the Council was wasting it. Worse, it had deliberately turned the girl into a cripple.

  And I’m as much to blame as Brice Varen or Sallis Arkley. I should have refused to bind her. I should have insisted she be seen as a gift, not a curse. Of course rank matters, of course it must be considered, but we were wrong about Bellamie Ranowen and we are wrong this time, too. Surely we cripple ourselves when we—

  His father’s snapping fingers jerked him out of turmoiled thought.

  “Morgan! You dare ignore me?”

  Startled, he looked at the bed. “No, my lord. I was simply—”

  “I do not care about your simply. Answer my question! Has your gaze lit upon a ranked Family that you know I will not like?”

  “No, my lord.”

  His father coughed wetly, the wheeze in his chest returned double-fold. “Then you’d destroy us entirely by marrying out of the First Families?”

  Morgan felt his throat tighten. “My lord, you have me at a loss. What is it that prompts these wild accusations? Why would you even—”

  “I might be dying, Morgan, but I’m not dead yet. No, and I’m not blind either. You were thinking of someone, I could see her in your face!” His father’s head fell back against the tumble of pillows. “Oh, what a son I have. What a glorious son!”

  So, in letting his thoughts drift too close to his surface, he’d betrayed himself. He breathed out, suddenly cautious.

  “My lord, I promise you I wasn’t—” But that wouldn’t do. Not only would his father never believe him, he couldn’t lie to him in cold blood. Not now. Not when—“Forgive me, sir, but I think we speak at cross purposes.” He returned to his chair beside the high bed. “You are right, after a fashion. I was thinking of an unranked mage. But she’s Council business. Naught to do with my marriage though I would discuss her with you.”

  His father was frowning. “I see.”

  Smiling again, though his face felt frozen, he took his father’s thin, gnarled hands in his. “My lord, it breaks my heart that we find ourselves so at odds over my marriage, which should be a cause for celebration. If I’ve grieved you, if I’ve been selfish, I’m sorry.”

  “Morgan…” His father sighed. “This habit you have of harking back to Luzena Talth, measuring all other women against her. It doesn’t help.”

  He strove to keep his voice mild. “To me it seems only natural that I would—”

  “But that’s my point!” his father said, snappish. “It’s not natural. Morgan, you have a disposition that will not let go of the past. I am only trying to protect you from that.”

  In other words, forget Luzena ever lived. Forget that I loved her. Do you know me so imperfectly, sir? Is that the kind of man you think I am?

  Yes, and yes. But they had argued around and around this point, never once reaching an amicable understanding, and it was clear to him now that they likely never would. So either they could continue to argue, and make their remaining time together a misery, or…

  Morgan tightened his fingers on his father’s frail hand. “Perhaps I do dwell too much on Luzena. I shall—I shall—” The words stuck in his throat, threatening to claw his flesh bloody. “To please you, I shall put her from my mind.”

  “Shall you?” said his father, closely watching him. “Good. I’ll help.”

  And with a snatch and a twist, more swiftly than his feeble strength should allow, his father tugged Luzena’s locket, snapping the chain, and threw the golden treasure into the fire.

  “Leave it there!” his father commanded, as Morgan tensed himself to leap. “Let it melt. Let her burn. She is the past. Maris Garrick is your future.”

  Half-slid from the chair, stunned, he watched the locket glow, and glow, and then start to buckle.

  Luzena.

  “Morgan—” His father’s rough voice dragged his gaze back to the bed. “That was harsh. I know it. But I’ll not beg your pardon. In time you’ll come to see I was right.”

  Was he angry? Hurt? Or simply… unsurprised? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he felt diminished, as though some strange and terrible incant had alchemied him into a child.

  “I’ve been patient long enough, Morgan,” his father said, his blue-tinged lips trembling. “I can’t afford to wait any more. I have to know this business of your marriage is settled.”

  The answer to that was obvious. So you can die happy, my lord, and I can live bereft. But of course he couldn’t say the bitter words out loud. Swallowing them, he looked again to the fire.

  His locket was bubbling around its smooth, fragile edges. He’d never warded it. Had never imagined the need. In fourteen years it had never once been unclasped from his neck.

  Luzena… Luzena…

  Stiff-spined in the bedside chair, Morgan looked at his father. What should he do? Walk out? He was well within his rights. He was a man, not a child, and no man should submit without protest to such rude handling. But if he walked out, his father would suffer. With Lord Danfey’s end come so near, could he forgive himself for hastening it? What would Luzena want him to do?

  Stay. Make peace. She would never bear a grudge.

  He needed no locket to remember her. Luzena was engraved on his heart and his soul.

  “Then let us be clear about the matter, my lord,” he said. Not warmly, for he still felt frozen. “You are content that I wed with Maris Garrick? You’ll not turn about in a week’s time and upbraid me for choosing a girl who, for all her ranking, you suddenly deem stands beneath us?”

  “Am I content?” His father, exhausted, rolled his head on the pillows. “No, Morgan. Maris Garrick lacks Luzena Talth’s breeding and background. But she is the only mare to hand and she is not impossible, so I say you will ride her.”

  Morgan bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  A lengthy silence, filled with crackling flames and harsh breathing.

  “Morgan… do not strife yourself over this,” his father murmured, dragging open his half-lidded, cloudy eyes. “You are a great man who will in time become greater. Once the Garrick bitch has whelped you a son you need not muddy yourself with her after. Most like you’ll not have time, your magework and Council duties will take up your days.” He managed the faintest of smiles, as though the locket weren’t ruined, as though an only son’s happiness had not been sacrificed without a second thought. “I have no doubt you’ll be Council leader within a hand’s span of years.”

  And what did it say about him, that despite his pain, his anger, his father’s praise was welcome and warming?

  “Brice Varen will doubtless have an opinion about that.”

  His father snorted. “That old goat. It’s true he’ll outlive me, but I dare say it won’t be by so very many years.”

  It cost him, more than he wanted it to, but he once again took his father’s wasted, unsteady hand. “My lord, I have high hopes you will see my first son born.”

  “I won’t,” his father said roughly. “Don’t talk like a fool, or think I’m to be comforted by flummery.” He tugged his hand free. “Now, who’s this unranked mage you wish to discuss?”

  “Her name is Barl Lindin,” he said, after taking a moment to order his thoughts. “She was brought before the Council tonight as a miscreant. I bound her, and told Varen that from the morrow I’d keep her close here, beneath our
roof, while more thought is given to her disposition. She can help Rumm. There’s always dusting to be done about the place.”

  “You bound her?” Wheezing, his father struggled to sit higher against the pillows. “Morgan—”

  “Don’t fret, my lord,” he said, and gently eased his father back to the bed. “I’ll not call the experience pleasant, but I took no harm from it.”

  “So you might think, but binding magic is not to be trusted,” his father retorted. “It can strike back at you without warning. I’ve seen it before, a vile thing. You should send for Ranmer, have him brew you a nossip to ward off an ill flux. I tell you, Morgan, you won’t tread careless over this!”

  He does care. I must remember that. Even when he wounds me, he wounds me out of love.

  “My lord, you can be sure I know what signs to look for,” he said, soothing. “Varen schooled me most carefully when I was taught the binding incant. I feel nothing untoward. But if I do, I promise I will send direct to Ranmer.”

  Little by little, his father calmed. “This bound mage. This miscreant. Must you bring her here?”

  “She’ll make no trouble,” he said, sidestepping the question. “You have my solemn word on that.”

  “Still, the woman gives you pause. Don’t try to deny it.”

  My lord, my lord, she gives me more than pause.

  Meeting his father’s narrowed gaze, Morgan pretended an indifference he was very far from feeling.

  “Any mage who flouts the law is at least a mild cause for concern,” he said. “But I think her errant ways have been nipped in the bud. She simply needs to learn her place. A week or two of being bound and obeying Rumm should neatly suffice.” He stood. “And now, sir, I think I must leave you to rest, and take some rest myself. As you say, binding is no easy magic.”

  “Yes… yes…” said his father. “But Morgan, before you go, why is it I’ve heard nothing more of this grand experiment of yours?”