by Karen Miller
“Mage Lindin?”
She turned from the window to see that he was facing her again. Waiting. The power she’d felt in him at Winsun, that echoed around them now, was ruthlessly leashed. But she had no illusions. He could unleash it with a thought and destroy her for what she’d done… and not a mage on the Council would call it murder.
“I don’t know how I did it.”
His fist struck the door beside him. “Mage Lindin—”
“I don’t!” she insisted. “Not to explain it, or show you. For some reason it seems I have an affinity for your magework. I can see the warp and weft of it and—and have it do as I bid.”
“I see. And how many other mages’ incants have you interfered with?”
She almost said none. But then she sighed. Her life was already in his hands. Too late now to turn back. “Only one. Baret Ventin’s. When I saved Arndel’s artisanry.”
“But for all you know,” he said slowly, “you can override any incant. And if that’s true there’s not a mage in Dorana who’s safe.”
“You mean from me?” she said, shocked. “But I would never—Councillor Danfey, I wouldn’t. And I’ll prove it. Bind me again.”
His laugh was derisive. “When you can snap your fingers and unbind yourself on a whim?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“And why should I believe you?”
She stepped closer, beseeching. “Because I’m not lying! Can’t you tell?”
He looked at her oddly, then. “And what of your brother?”
Remmie? Why would he—
Oh. Oh, no.
She stepped back. “Leave Remmie out of this.”
“How can I? He’s your twin.”
“I never told you that!”
“You didn’t have to. I met him, remember?”
“It doesn’t matter we’re twins,” she said, feeling so sick. “Councillor Danfey, he knows nothing about this. And he’s nothing like me.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if your brother possesses this same inconvenient quirk of talent? Have you any idea what—”
“You can’t lift your hand to him!” She wanted to scream. “Remmie’s done nothing wrong, he’s broken no law! If you persecute him for no better reason than he’s my brother, I’ll—I’ll—”
Morgan Danfey raised an eyebrow. “You’ll do what, Mage Lindin?”
She had to blink and blink to defeat the stinging tears. “I’ll never forgive you.”
He stilled so completely she could believe she’d turned him to stone.
“If you don’t want me here, Councillor, I’ll understand,” she said, when he remained silent. “You can send me away. Send me back to the Hall or give me to Lord Arkley for guarding. I don’t care. I don’t. Only please, don’t hurt Remmie.”
Morgan Danfey breathed out a shuddering sigh. “And I’m to accept your word, unproven, that he’ll never use magic against another mage? That you won’t, even though you’ve already done so?”
“Yes.”
“How can I?”
She shrugged. “Because I won’t.”
“Mage Lindin…” He sighed again, so harshly it was almost a groan. “You seek to make this simple. But you are a complication the likes of which I’ve never known.”
And if she was, she’d never wanted it. All she’d ever wanted was to be left alone to pursue her magework, and be fairly recognised for her achievements. Why was that so unreasonable? Why did she seem fated to encounter nothing but jealousy and meanness and people who would not rest until she was humbled in the dust?
Blinking back another sting of tears, she folded her arms. “Very well. I’m a complication. Perhaps you’re right, and I’m dangerous. So what?”
Instead of answering, he crossed to his workbench, picked up an empty crucible and with his back to her wrapped it in a heavy ward. Even distressed she could feel the stirring of his power, feel the binding threads he wrapped about the heavy stone. When he was finished, he turned.
“Break this,” he said, and threw the crucible at her.
Startled, she caught it, gasping as its weight sang a pained protest through her wrists and forearms. As his convoluted warding prickled over her skin.
His eyes were glinting. “Break it, Mage Lindin. And then I’ll decide.”
She tried to ignore him as he prowled his attic, but it was impossible. In the confined space she found his woken power overwhelming.
“Well?” he demanded. “Can you do it?”
“I can, yes, provided you stand still and hold your tongue!”
When was the last time an unranked mage had dared speak to him like that? From the look on his face, she suspected never.
Too bad, Morgan Danfey. It’s long past time you were spoken to like an ordinary man. And if you make a fuss, well, I’ll keep to myself what I can tell you about your reworking of Hartigan’s incant.
And she could tell him a great deal. For where he was stumbling, she could see a clear path.
Still staring, he shook his head. “Your impertinent arrogance knows no bounds.”
But he stopped prowling, as she’d known he would.
The weight of the warded crucible was making her arms ache, so she lugged it to the end of his workbench and let it drop with a thud.
Break the ward. Break the ward. Of course I can break the ward.
It was difficult to believe that this cold, uncompromising man was the mage who’d created a purring toy cat and a tea set to delight little girls.
Because I broke his binding I thought that I knew him. I think I don’t understand him at all.
But she couldn’t dwell on that. She couldn’t let fear rule her. She had to protect Remmie. Nothing else could matter.
Closing her eyes, she sank into Morgan Danfey’s magic.
Watching Barl Lindin closely, Morgan wrestled his howling disbelief into submission. However ludicrous her claims might appear, there was no arguing with the evidence of his own eyes and senses. The ward protecting his workroom was undone. And the mage he’d bound so carefully stood before him now, unbound.
Why he’d even bothered to look for her up here, he couldn’t say. He’d certainly not expected to find her. But he and Rumm had searched everywhere else, the other rooms in the mansion, the poultry coop and outbuildings, even the flower beds and manure pile. Desperation, not conviction, had sent him up the attic stairs.
And there she was.
Halfway up the final staircase he’d felt it, of course. The unravelling of his attic ward. The neat, precise severing of its threads and counter-threads, its undoing as accomplished as if he’d unwarded the door himself. The shock of it had nearly dropped him to his knees.
Who is Barl Lindin, that she could break my ward, break my binding? Hide from me? What is she, this young mage, that I should look at her and feel… awe?
Feel awe and despair, wretched and wracking, that he could not have her instead of Maris Garrick. For were he and Barl Lindin bound together, what magics couldn’t they achieve?
She’s right. The Council cannot be told. Compared to Barl, Bellamie Ranowen is no more dangerous than a lamb. They will put her down if they learn what she’s done. I’ll threaten as I must to keep her compliant, but her gifts must remain secret. They must remain… mine.
Which meant he couldn’t send her away from the estate. There was nowhere else in Dorana he could keep her safe. And what Maris would say to that—what Venette would say—he shuddered to think.
But none of that can matter. What is Maris to me, or Venette, compared to this?
And this was the sight of Barl Lindin unravelling his warded crucible as easily as another woman might unpick a skirt’s hem. Astonished, he felt the shift in the shape of her magework, how she’d melted and moulded it to echo his own.
With a small, tight smile she looked up. “There. It’s done.”
Such arrogance. He could have slapped her. Wanted to kiss her. His coupling with Maris was a fast-fading dream.
<
br /> Joining her at the bench, he took the unwarded crucible to examine it. No sign of his warding, the stone washed clean as a window in a rainstorm.
I watched her do it, and it’s still hard to believe. This girl is unranked. What kind of accident created her?
“It might not just be me, you know,” Barl said, watching him. “Perhaps any mage could do this, if they felt threatened enough. If they thought they would die if they didn’t.”
If she threw his imminent murder of her at him one more time…
Throttling temper, he put down the crucible. “That’s most unlikely. Countless mages throughout history have felt threatened, Mage Lindin. The Council would know if they’d defended themselves like this.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “Perhaps not. After all, how likely is it they’d tell you?”
Arrogant… impertinent… Glaring, he showed her a little of his temper. Smiled to see her see it, and see her bite her lip. Cheeks colouring, she clasped her hands behind her back.
“Councillor, I’ll make a bargain with you. Leave Remmie be, and I’ll show you where and why your reworking of Hartigan’s incant has gone wrong.”
For a moment he thought he must have misheard her. But then he realised no. And for a moment found it very hard to breathe.
“I know it was rude,” she added, “but I read some of your notes. You can’t get the syllabic balance to hold, can you?”
He found his voice. “My magework is none of your business. The incant is nothing. A theoretical puzzle to be solved, that’s all.”
A scornful glitter in her eyes. “Really? Now who’s lying?”
She meant it. This girl, this unranked nobody, thought she had the skill to outmage him.
“You’d school me, Mage Lindin? When I am a dozen years or more your senior? College trained? Patented and the youngest mage ever appointed a member of the Council?”
She tilted her chin at him. “Yes.”
She was outrageous. And also… magnificent.
“You take a grave risk, Mage Lindin. I could promise you anything and then carelessly betray you once I had what I desired.”
A pulse was beating at the base of her throat. Her slender, elegant, kissable throat. Beneath her crumpled linen tunic her breasts rose and fell as she breathed.
“If ever you betrayed me, I think it would not be careless,” she whispered. “I don’t think you’ve lived a careless day in your life.”
“And you’ve not lived a safe one.”
Despite her unease, she gave him a brief, mocking smile. “Since when is magework safe?”
He was drowning in her blue eyes. His blood threatened fire. If she touched him he’d ignite. He thought he might die if she didn’t.
You’re handfasted, you fool. You’re to wed with Maris Garrick.
Mere hours since he’d breached Parnel Garrick’s daughter, and he couldn’t remember the girl’s face.
“Since you’ve read my notes, Mage Lindin, you know that aspects of my magework are… unorthodox.”
Her smile widened. “You mean someone like Lord Arkley is bound to disapprove?”
“Not just Sallis.”
“Good.” She almost spat the word. “I’m not inclined to court the approval of a man who wants me dead.”
He snorted. “You and I both know you’re not inclined to court anyone’s approval.”
“And why should I?” she said, haughty and unsmiling now. “I tell you, Councillor, my days of bowing and scraping before lesser mages are done with.”
“And are all the other mages of Dorana lesser, in your eyes?”
She looked at his notebooks. “No, Councillor. Not all.”
It was a compliment, and it thrilled him.
“So, do we have a bargain?” she said… and couldn’t quite keep her voice steady.
Let her know what she did to him, and he’d be forever lost.
“Not quite,” he said, showing her nothing but indifference. “Prove to me this is more than desperate bravado. Prove to me you’re as great a mage as you claim. Show me where I have misstepped with my incant… and I will keep your brother safe.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Agreed.” Then she straightened again. “And me? What will happen to me?”
“Never fear, Mage Lindin. I’ll keep you safe too.”
“From the Council, you mean?”
From everything and everyone who might dare to harm you.
“Yes.”
“And when will I be released from your custody?”
“When the Council is convinced you’ve been punished enough.”
Grimacing, she turned away. “In other words, never.”
“Have patience, Mage Lindin. Give their tempers time to cool.”
“Patience,” she muttered. “Not one of my strengths.”
“Indeed,” he said, very dry. “I would never have known.”
Cheeks flushed, she scowled at him. “And my own magework? You’ll let me pursue it?”
Ah. He had her. “We will have to take precautions,” he said, hiding his jubilation. “The servants. Lord Danfey. But yes. You’ll have your magework.”
“And you won’t bind me again?”
“Mage Lindin—” Barl. He gentled his voice. “By taking precautions I meant allaying suspicion with the Council. If they should visit they must find you bound. But at all other times you will be free. I promise.”
He could see she was desperate to believe him, but couldn’t bring herself to trust.
“I know you count me an enemy,” he said, cajoling. “Because I’m granted status and privilege denied to you and your brother. But a man is born where he is born and has no say in the matter. And if you let me, Mage Lindin, I’ll prove an enemy can become a friend.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” she said, after a silence stretching beyond bearable. “If I hold my tongue on your magework, you’ll harm Remmie.” Her fingers clenched. “I hate this.”
“Then we have our bargain,” he said. “And we will both keep our word. As for my stubborn incant—” He frowned at his notebooks. “It will have to wait. I have matters requiring my attention. Stay behind a short time after I leave, then make your way downstairs and outside. I shall deal with Rumm. Meet me back here at midnight.”
Without giving her a chance to reply, not trusting himself to remain aloof in the face of her trembling relief, he left the attic.
“Sir!” Agitated, Rumm waylaid him in at the foot of the staircase. “I have scoured the grounds twice and Mage Lindin is not to be—”
“Fret not, Rumm. I found her, and have dealt with her intransigence. Where is Ranmer? Still upstairs with his lordship?”
“No, sir. He awaits you in the library,” said Rumm. If he was taken aback, he was too well trained to show it. “Shall I bring sherry?”
He could do with something stronger, but that would only make Rumm stare. “Yes.”
Ranmer was dealt with quickly enough. After a closer examination, the pother could safely say that Lord Danfey’s collapse had no obvious cause. Still, it should be remembered that a man in his doubtful condition was subject to relapse. The good news was that he rested comfortably, and there were new draughts and possets and herbals for him to take. He was to be kept quiet, no excitement. A few days rest should see some improvement.
It wasn’t hard to hear what hadn’t been said aloud. Smothering grief, Morgan kept Ranmer company with one glass of sherry apiece, then saw the pother off the estate and turned his attention to letter writing. A note to Parnel Garrick, explaining the situation, begging leave to delay further talk of a wedding until his father was more settled. Another to Maris, saying much the same. Courteous in tone. Regretful. No mention of what had happened between them in that closet. Such a mistake he’d made there. He’d been a fool to let himself be ruled by his body.
I will be certain not to make that mistake again.
With the notes sealed and set aside, he returned upstairs. Heavily dosed with soporific, hi
s father heaved for air, his paper-thin eyelids lowered over sunken, restless eyes. Seated beside him, Morgan closed his own eyes and conjured Barl Lindin’s arresting face to mind.
She broke my ward. She broke my binding. She challenged me beneath my own roof and won. She is glorious. But can she do what she claims? Can she complete my reworking of Hartigan’s transmutation? For if she can… if she can…
Thud, thud, thud, boomed his heart within his chest. Blood heated. Desire stirred. Not the brutish, lustful passion he’d felt for Maris Garrick. Nothing so simple as the need to rut and fuck. This was sharper. Cleaner. Mixed pleasure and pain. This was—this was—
Love.
Chapter Twenty-two
The flaw in your thinking is here.” Barl pointed at Morgan Danfey’s scrawled sequence for the reworked incant. “The flow of energy through the fourth to fifth syllabic vibration. On its own the incant keeps balance, but the second sigil—this one—” She tapped her finger to the page. “It’s counter-compatible. The energies work against each other, you must see it.”
Past midnight in his glimlit workroom. Below their feet, the mansion slept soundly. Standing beside her, the councillor shook his head.
“No, I do not see it. Nor do I find it credible that you see this apparent flaw, given all you’ve done is read my notes.”
She folded her arms. “Just because you can’t see what I see, is that any reason to call me a liar?”
His sidelong glance was skeptical. “Others have thought so.”
Artisan Master Arndel. Would the old toad never cease troubling her? “And others are wrong.”
“No, I think you’re wrong,” he snapped. “There is no indication of counter-compatibility. After some initial resistance the sigils coalesced to perfection. And I paid particular attention to that syllabic sequence when reworking the original incant.”
“I’m sure you did,” she said, striving for patience, “but it doesn’t matter how careful you were, does it? Not when the result is failure.”
