by Karen Miller
The injustice of Rumm’s accusations left her gaping.
“We start our duties early,” he said. “You’ll be roused before dawn. So you decide how much sleep you’d like tonight.”
Teeth sunk into her lower lip, she let him leave without offering a word in her own defence. She didn’t dare try. She’d only end up shouting… or worse.
Every breath she took, she took afraid she’d wake her binding.
At long last, with the final pot clean and dried, she drained the horrible water from the sink, wiped down every flat surface, bathed in the servants’ scullery then staggered off to the pokey little cupboard they’d cleaned out for her to sleep in.
Knowing she had no glimfire, someone had left a lit candle in her tiny room. The small, unexpected kindness touched her on the raw. Then, when she saw her old canvas carryall, stuffed full with clothes to wear in her exile, she had to blink and blink again to clear her blurred vision. And when she found Remmie’s hastily scribbled note, and read it, she burst into tears.
I’m thinking of you every minute. Don’t be afraid. I’ll find you a way out of this. Remmie.
Fighting back despair, Barl stripped off her stinking clothes, pulled on her nightshirt, blew out the solitary candle and crawled beneath the blanket on her lumpy, straw-mattress bed.
Oh, Remmie. Remmie. I’m sorry. Please help me.
Alone, in the darkness, she shivered herself to sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Like a beautiful voice raised in song, the magic lilts through her, making her weep. She feels like a golden fish swimming a river of power. Magic cradles her, carries her sweetly in its golden arms. There is pleasure here, and the glory of serenity. When she swims in magic’s river she is entirely herself. Fear is banished, doubt washes away. Surrounded by magic she is strong and sure. She knows who she is, knows what purpose she was born for.
She sees the clock in her mind’s eye, small and shimmering and perfect. A mystery clock, this one, intended to baffle its beholder. Only the greatest artisans can create such splendour. A mystery clock melts and remoulds itself seemingly on a whim, now a sphere, now a square, one moment green, the next blue. Blink, and it shines scarlet. And when it speaks, it speaks with a panoply of voices. At one o’clock it whispers. At ten o’clock it shouts. It strikes these minutes like drumbeats, and those it tickles like a mother her giggling child.
She thinks of herself as a mystery clock. The clock she sees in her mind’s eye is herself, Barl Lindin made of magic. Fluid and formless, obedient only to her whim, she confounds expectations, dares what other mages only dream… and if a price must be paid for that then she will pay it, with pride.
Magic swells within her, demanding release. She feels her blood simmer with power, feels the tingle in her fingertips, the tremble in her tongue. Her tongue is heavy with words of power, words that must be spoken else she burst into flame. There is a clock in her mind’s eye, and she has to create it. She opens her mouth to speak the words, quell the fire, create the clock she can see in her mind’s eye—
—but instead of uttering words, all she can do is scream…
Barl sat bolt upright on her miserly straw mattress, her throat raw, the pain in her so terrible she could hardly breathe. Desperate, she looked at her raised hands but the dreadful burning was only in her mind. Except it felt so real, and now she was weeping as well as screaming.
The door of her tiny prison chamber banged open.
“What is the meaning of this brouhaha?”
And that was Master Servant Rumm, fully dressed, neat as a pin. Did he never go to bed, or was it already a new day?
“Mage Lindin!” Master Rumm dropped to one knee beside her lumpy pallet. “Enough of this caterwauling! What’s amiss?”
How could she answer? She could barely think straight. Morgan Danfey’s woken binding had a stranglehold on her throat, had set her bones on fire, threatened to make of her flesh nothing but stinking, bloodied ash.
“Enough, I tell you!” Rumm commanded. “You’ll not disrupt the entire household, I won’t—”
His fingers closed around her wrists… and the flames leapt so high and hot she thought she would die.
“Mage Lindin, stop!” Rumm shouted after her, shoved ignominious onto his back. “Come back here!”
Running almost blindly, Barl smashed her way through the mansion’s cavernous kitchen, crashing pots and pans and eggs to the floor, catching hip and shoulder on half-opened doors, scattering startled servants as she banged her way up the stairs. Staggering, she reached the mansion’s front door, wrenched it wide enough to slip through and stumbled into the cool, damp dawn beyond. She was still screaming, but on the inside now. Where Morgan Danfey wouldn’t hear her.
The binding he’d sunk deep in her flesh was howling for revenge. Sobbing for air, she struck out across the mansion’s front lawn, away from the gravelled drive, toward the estate’s belting of dense green woodland. She’d be safe in there, with only the deer and the owls and the shadows for company.
Rumm shouted again, not far behind her. Would he get into trouble for this? Most likely. But it was his choice to be her keeper. He could’ve said no and spared himself the trouble.
A timber fence overgrown with flowering ashlin separated the cultivated estate grounds from the wilderness. There was no gate. Barl flung herself at the top rail and wriggled over it, cursing and coughing as she crushed the yellow blossoms in her haste. The sweet fragrance cloyed in her nose and throat.
As her feet touched the rough ground on the other side her ragged breath was stolen by another shuddering scream. A flare of light. A crack of sound. The Danfey estate’s civilised boundary was warded.
Oh, Remmie. I’m moonstruck. I should’ve thought of that.
Her bones had turned to water, and the water was boiling. Graceless on her back, she stared at the distant, cloud-laced sky and heard herself grunting, felt warm spittle oozing onto her chin, as her limbs spasmed and twitched in a parody of running. The pain was unbearable, yet she seemed to be bearing it. Or perhaps she was dying.
And if I am, do I care?
Footsteps racing over the grass, coming closer. Someone breathing hard and harsh. “Mage Lindin!”
Of course. It was Morgan Danfey. Humiliated, she shivered and twitched and waited.
A rustling of ashlin vine as he vaulted over the fence. A thud she could feel as he landed on both feet, unperturbed by the warding that still battered her watery bones. Another thud as he dropped to his knees beside her.
“You stupid girl. Look at me.”
His hand cupped her face, fingers curved and forceful. Furious fear burned in him like a torch.
“Why would you run?” His voice was splintered with feeling. “Do you want Sallis Arkley to win? And your brother, you’d leave him a grief-stricken wreck?”
She felt tears scald her cold cheeks. Tried to answer, and couldn’t.
“Yes, Mage Lindin, you weep,” he said, sneering. His harsh fingers were warm. Branding her. “Weep for the stubborn pride that will keep you diminished like this forever unless you come to your senses and trust me.”
The cloud-streaked sky above the fringing woodland was tinting rose and gold. Sunrise, swift and glorious. Deep within the sheltering trees a joyous chorus of birdsong burst forth. For a moment its sweetness dulled the binding that wrapped her tight in streamers of fire.
Morgan Danfey leaned close. “You’re in pain, aren’t you? Good. Remember it, Mage Lindin. Burn the pain into your memory. Burn it deep so you don’t forget.”
Helpless, she stared at him as he watched her suffer. And as she stared, his eyes shimmered and sheened. She felt her laboured breath catch.
He weeps for me? No. He can’t be. I’m dreaming.
He snatched his hand free as though her pain burned his fingers.
“Ba’tari,” he said, and sketched a swift sigil. “Nebek tu.”
Another flare of light, a final pulse of flame, and the worst of the
pain fled. He’d deactivated the estate’s warding. The relief was enormous.
“Sit up,” he said roughly, then caught her by the elbow and tugged. “No mage should cower on the ground.”
Struggling, she managed to lift herself. “But I’m not a mage, am I? Not any more.”
“Don’t be foolish. Your binding is temporary.” His fingers still tight around her elbow, he shook her. “And what were you thinking, attempting magic while bound?”
The mystery clock. Remembering it, Barl felt her heart hammer her ribs. She pressed a fist to her chest. “I didn’t.” Dropped to a whisper, her roughened voice broke. “I was dreaming.” A wonderful, beautiful, impossible dream. She turned on him, lashing out. “And what kind of man are you, to give me agony in my sleep? Is that the Council’s justice? Is indiscriminate cruelty all an unranked mage can expect?”
He made no attempt to defend himself. Releasing her elbow, he allowed her to strike him again and again. Let her rage and weep, freshly woken to what she’d lost, what was taken. What he’d taken. This was his fault.
I hate you. I hate you. Stop looking at me like that!
Why, oh why, was he looking at her like that?
Exhausted and hurting, she let her fists fall. Stared at him, dispirited. “And now I suppose you’ll punish me for hitting you.”
She’d marked his face. A little red smudge high on his cheekbone. His fingers touched the bruise, lightly. She braced herself, expecting retribution.
“I can make you a posset,” he said. “It will help you sleep more deeply, and most likely stop the dreams.”
The sympathy in his voice was a ruse, it had to be. A cunning strategy to lull her into further personal betrayals.
“Why would you do such a kindness for me?”
“You cannot control your impulses, Mage Lindin. I’d not further inflict your lack of self-discipline upon Rumm. He has enough to do without waiting with bated breath for the next time you put the household in an uproar.”
Her bones still felt watery, but she pushed to her feet regardless. Swaying a little, she glared down at him. “Anyone would think I woke in torment for no better reason than to inconvenience your servant.”
Lithely, Morgan Danfey rose to face her. Now there was a mocking light in his eyes. “It would not surprise me. You delight in the discomfort of those you consider inferior.”
And there was just enough truth in that to sting. She tilted her chin. “And you’d know, of course, after our lengthy acquaintance.”
He shrugged, almost smiling. “Whet your tongue on me if you must. But I do know you… and better than you think.”
Her heart was hammering again. “Is that so?”
“It is,” he said, still with that taunting near-smile. “And I can prove it.”
He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of his skin, and breathe in a hint of some rich, masculine scent. She fought the impulse to step back.
“Just as I can prove I’m not to be feared, but trusted.”
“How?” he said, one supercilious eyebrow lifting. “Not that you frighten me.”
She did something. A pulse beat fast at the base of his throat, revealed because he’d neglected to properly fasten his hunter-green silk tunic. Seeing that swift pumping of blood beneath his skin, Barl hesitated.
If it’s not fear, then it’s an emotion… more base. I must use that. I have no other weapon.
Lifting her gaze, she softened herself. “Unbind me, sir. You have my word I’ll not run. I’ll stay on your estate and obey Master Rumm from dawn to dusk, for as long as the Council decrees. I won’t complain. I won’t cause trouble. Only please don’t ask me to endure another morning like this.”
“I told you.” Councillor Danfey cleared his throat. “I will make you a soothing posset.”
“Possets don’t agree with me.”
A shadow of distress touched his eyes. “Mage Lindin, I cannot unbind you.”
“Yes, you can,” she insisted. “No-one will know, so long as I pretend I’m still bound. You can leave the estate warded. That will keep me your prisoner. That—and my word.” She folded her arms. “Unless the word of an unranked mage carries no more weight than a promise made by a Feenish mud merchant.”
“Stop harping on this business of being unranked,” he said, turning aside. “You make the notion of ranking a nonsense.”
She couldn’t afford to care for his grudging admiration.
“If that was true, Councillor, I’d not be standing here bound. So please don’t insult me by—”
“Insult you?” Ivory-pale skin flushing, he seized her shoulders. “From the moment you crossed my path I have done nothing but protect you!”
“How?” she demanded, wrenching free of him. “Like this?”
Reckless, she snapped her fingers and tried to summon glimfire. The elementary incant set her on fire instead… and even though she’d been expecting it, still the furious pain knocked her to the ground.
Morgan Danfey leapt for her. “Barl!”
This time she managed to keep the screams trapped in her throat. Didn’t protest as he snatched her close, though his touch was another kind of pain.
“You little fool,” he said, his voice ragged. “You think to bully me? You think to force my hand by watching you weep?”
Eyes blurred almost blind by tears, she leaned back and looked at him. “Yes. Is it working?”
One explosive, obscene Trindeki oath—and he snapped free the binding incant.
She flung her arms around his neck, not caring that she looked desperate. Not caring that she wept. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Barl…” Hesitantly, his arms closed around her. “Don’t thank me. I can’t leave you unbound.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “Oh, why not?”
He pushed her away, roughly, then stood and took two staggering steps backwards. Not supercilious now, no. And not haughty. His eyes were anguished, his handsome face ravaged with a resentful, angry grief.
“You know why not! On any day, at any hour, Lord Varen could come here to see how you conduct yourself. Or Sallis Arkley could come. Shari Frieden. Venette. You cannot deceive them!”
He was right. She couldn’t. “Then tell them they aren’t welcome!”
“What?” He laughed, despairing. “Barl, have you not grasped the truth of this yet? You are the Council’s prisoner, its property.”
“And you can stomach that, can you?” she whispered. “It makes you proud to be a councillor?”
“Barl, please, I—”
And then he was looking past her. Turning, she saw that she’d run out of time. Keeping his discreet distance, Rumm was waving his arm.
Oh, you horrible, inconvenient man.
Because now she was certain she could break Morgan Danfey. Just a minute or two more…
“Barl,” he said again, still pleading. “You cannot think it amuses me, to see you writhing in pain. That it gives me pleasure knowing how we waste your unique talent. A mage gifted as you are should be celebrated. Not bound. But I cannot sway the Council. Not in this. In my own way, I am as bound as you. And if you think that delights me…”
Silent, she stared at him. Unbound, so close, she felt his windstorm of power. She felt more than his power, and felt herself shrink. There was no denying the pain in his eyes. Pain for her… which hurt him.
Hard on the heels of sympathy came anger.
Why should I care for his pain? Why should I care that he cares for mine? His caring only goes so far. He’s going to bind me again, for no better reason than to protect himself and his ranking. He knows it’s wrong but he’ll do it anyway. That’s who he is. That is Morgan Danfey.
But this time, when he bound her, as she screamed… she thought she heard him screaming with her.
“House party? What house party? You can’t mean to go gallivanting now, Morgan. Not when you’ve dragged that bound troublemaker beneath my roof.”
Knowing that too much would sh
ow in his face, Morgan continued to collect his father’s scattered breakfast leavings. By rights he should call for a servant to deal with it. If his father weren’t so displeased he’d be calling for a servant himself, and berating his son for dallying with a task far beneath him.
“Speaking of the wench, where is she now?” his father added. “And what mischief is she up to?”
He’d left Barl in Rumm’s care, with a stern warning to keep her calm and quiet until the worst of the binding’s aftereffects were past. And after that she was to perform light duties only. Rumm had nodded, perfectly obedient, but there’d been questions in his watchful eyes.
Questions I cannot answer. Questions I do not dare ask myself.
“No mischief at all, my lord,” he said, at last trusting himself to look round. “You have my word.”
Lord Danfey was in a quarrelsome mood, with hooded eyes and the corners of his slackened mouth turned down. There were crumbs on his brocade dressing gown, a smear of egg on his chin. Seeing them, Morgan hid a wince. His father was a fastidious man. Such small, seemingly insignificant tells spoke to him of a mind slowly but surely coming to grief.
“And when I’m slaughtered in my bed, Morgan, what will your word do for me then?”
The breakfast leavings tidied, he risked further censure by pulling back the parlour curtains to admit more fresh air and light.
“There’ll be no slaughtering, my lord, save of chickens for the pot.”
“Ha! So you say!” his father retorted. “But I say I don’t want you romping at house parties. What if I should need you? No. You do not have my leave to leave. You’ll stay on the estate, where I can easily put a hand on you if it’s required.”
The peremptory tone woke memories of stifled childhood. Irritated, Morgan frowned. “My lord, I must think you weren’t listening. I do not go to romp, but to make myself amenable to Maris Garrick’s family. If I am to tie myself to Maris Garrick, then—”
“If?” His father struggled upright in his wingbacked chair. “If?”
A delicate, beautiful face. Blue eyes that seemed to plumb the depths of his soul. A raging courage that would not admit defeat. Her scream as for the third time he bound her, tearing his newly woken heart in two.
