by Karen Miller
He’d planned on riding into Elvado for the afternoon’s Council meeting. Desperately needed the exercise and the solitude, but thanks to Venette he’d have to forgo the pleasure. Whatever she wanted it had better be important, or without compunction he’d take his fear and temper out on her.
After swallowing a hasty breakfast, he closed his eyes and reached out to Barl. And yes, there she was, surrounded by chickens. Glowing like a burning diamond. She’d promised not to hide from him again. It still amazed him that she could hide herself at all. Where had she sprung from, this fiery, potent young mage? Nothing in her bloodline so much as hinted at what she could do.
She is a mystery.
His mystery. After last night’s magework he had no intention of giving her up. He and Maris would reach an agreement. After all, Parnel Garrick’s fortunate daughter should be required to pay something for her imminent climb up the social ladder.
And if Maris refused to accept that, well…
But she will accept it. She has to. I will rule my own life.
Venette waylaid him in a Hall corridor, on his way to the Council chamber.
“Not in there. Brice is huddled with Sallis and Shari.” She beckoned impatiently. “Step out to a balcony with me.”
She sounded as disapproving as Rumm. Even her attire was severe today, midnight brocade cut and stitched without embellishment. She wore her short golden hair slicked close, and her earrings were restrained rondels of striped moss agate.
Immediately wary, and not pleased by her tone, Morgan allowed her to hustle him out onto one of the Hall’s sixteenth floor balconies overlooking the plaza. The fountain’s leaping water dazzled in the sunlight, its frivolous mosaic designs a blur so far below. Elvado’s bustle was muted up here, distance lending it dignity, the silence a solemnity. The stirring air was cool and clean, caressing his face like a lover.
“I did not look to see you here, Venette,” he said, making sure to keep his own voice friendly. “Don’t tell me you tired of the Garricks’ hospitality.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, oblivious to Elvado’s beauty. “I’ve come back early for Maris. Morgan, how could you of all people be so crude and clumsy? I wouldn’t have believed it had she not shown me your note. Stars above, my dear fool, whatever were you thinking?”
“For one thing, that my correspondence with Maris is private.”
Venette flung up her hands, as though beseeching patience from a Trindeki god. “Trust me, Morgan, I heartily wish it was! Then I’d not be subjected to floods of tears and grief-stricken prostrations! Have you no imagination? Did you not consider for even a moment how such a careless missive would be received?”
He had no desire for this conversation. He was tired, and more than tired, of Venette’s meddling in his life. Glancing sideways, he tried to catch a glimpse through the Council chamber’s window but the balcony was too far away.
“Tell me, why do Sallis and Shari huddle with Lord Varen?”
Arms folded, one hip leaning against the balcony balustrade, heedless of the sheer drop, Venette rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you three guesses.”
He needed only one. “My pending patents. Lord Arkley’s stirring trouble?”
“Did you think Sallis wouldn’t use your absence to make mischief? I told you it was a mistake to threaten him, my dear.”
“Then why aren’t you huddled with them, Venette? You have a say in the matter of patents.”
Venette poked his arm. “Brice is well aware of my opinion on the matter. There’s nothing more that I can add that won’t harm your case instead of help it. Now stop changing the subject. I will have this out with you, Morgan. You left the house party because of your father. But if you’re here for a humdrum Council meeting that means he’s not at death’s door. So why do you not return to the country to be with your bride?”
“She is not my bride yet.”
“You asked Parnel to grant her to you, and Parnel agreed! You’re wed with her now, Morgan, save for the ring and a public declaration. That means your place is with Maris. Go to her.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And am I answerable to you, Venette? Must I gain your permission before I live my life as I see fit?”
“Do not take that tone with me! Maris is crushed. You couldn’t be handling this courtship less adroitly if you tried. Do you want to have her slip through your fingers?”
“Oh, so you do care what I want?” he retorted. “This isn’t simply about Maris Garrick, whom you think of as a daughter.”
“Somebody has to,” said Venette, close to scowling. “Justice knows her mother is a ninny. It had to be me who—”
“Who what?” he prompted, when Venette turned to stare across the city as though seeing it for the first time. “Venette… what did you do?”
Her cheeks were tinted deep pink. She didn’t answer, or turn back.
“Venette,” he said, sharply enough to make her wince.
Wince, but not answer him.
A nasty, sneaking suspicion. A knifing twist in his guts. Maris, in the closet. So forward. So bold. Too bold for an unranked mage of gentle breeding. Enticing him. Seducing him.
Oh, Venette. Say you didn’t.
“It was your idea?” he whispered. “Her breaching? You’re the one who saw me thrust between her legs?”
“She came to me,” said Venette, her voice low and unsteady. “She asked me if I thought you desired her. She thought you did. She wasn’t sure. She loves you, Morgan. She wants you, more than anything. I told her about Luzena. I said your heart was healed, but scarred. I told her to give you a new and kinder memory. I said nobody would know if she took her pleasure sooner rather than later. If you both did. And that if you did…”
“Our handfasting would be assured.” He let out a slow and shuddering breath. “Well played, Venette. I must give you this game.”
She spun round. “I wasn’t playing! I just wanted to make certain. You carry Luzena’s memory in you like a shroud. I wanted you free of her, Morgan. I wanted you for Maris.”
Venette and his father, both forcing his hand. Both of them claiming love for him, neither of them offering him the smallest respect.
“And what you want, naturally, must come before all.”
“Morgan—” She took a step after him, her footfall unsteady on the balcony’s smooth tiles. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t—”
Ignoring her, he let the balcony door slam shut between them and made his way to the Council chamber.
“Morgan,” said Lord Varen, his tone mild, his eyes wary. “You are come a little earlier than the allotted time.”
“My lord,” he said, with most of his attention given to Sallis Arkley and Shari Frieden, seated side by side at the chamber’s table and smirking. “Forgive me. I did hope for a privy word with Lord Arkley before the Council’s business commenced.”
“No privy words are necessary,” said Sallis, relaxed as a cat. “I have been discussing patenting business with Lord Varen. We know you’re anxious for an answer on your magework, and now that a decision has been reached I’ll gladly give it. Both your patents are denied.”
It took every lesson of self-restraint he’d learned not to wipe the smirk from Sallis’s face with physical violence.
“Lord Arkley,” Varen murmured, reproving. “There is no need to gloat. I agree with your decision, but do show some consideration for a fellow councillor’s sensibilities.”
As Sallis made insincere noises of regret, Morgan stared at the floor. Varen was being too conciliatory for Sallis to have told him of their angry exchange of threats in the hot room. That meant the man’s interference extended only to Parnel Garrick, an action that, if challenged, could be passed off as undeliberate.
Which means I was right. Lord Arkley is vulnerable.
But not so helpless that he couldn’t strike a blow using his Council authority as a shield.
I cannot swallow this without protest. To accept defeat too easily will be
to invite further aggression.
He looked at Brice Varen. “My lord, I am not convinced of Lord Arkley’s competence to judge my magework. Nor do I have faith in Lady Frieden. I request an impartial adjudication.”
Lord Varen silenced Sallis’s gobblings, and Shari Frieden’s shrill protests, with a sharp look and a raised hand. “You’re within your rights to do so, Morgan. But you’d subject all recent patenting decisions to scrutiny and doubt and thereby undermine confidence in this Council. Is that what you want?”
“I want justice, my lord. Am I to relinquish the rights granted to the least mage in Dorana for no better reason than I serve it as a councillor?”
Settling his clasped hands on the table, Varen took a moment to reply. “Morgan… were you not listening? I said I concur with this decision. The incants you submitted are not worthy. There is a roughness in the syllabic harmonics. And none of us was convinced of their wider application. In truth, though it pains me to say so, those incants are far from your best work.”
Stunned, Morgan stared at him. Not worthy? His magework?
Last night I transmuted a living flower. You doddering old fool, what would you know of worthy?
“Brice is right, Morgan,” Venette said behind him, her entrance into the chamber silent and unobserved. “You can do better. You will do better. And when you do, the work will be recognised. There is no vendetta here.”
Ah, dear Venette, meddling yet again. Assuming her unrequested opinion was welcome. He turned, letting his eyes inform her how far she had misstepped.
“No vendetta, Lady Martain? When Lord Arkley and Lady Frieden have done nothing but belittle me from the first day of my appointment? When they have snatched at any and every excuse to call for my dismissal? Are you addled, my lady? Are you—”
Varen slapped the table. “Watch your step, Morgan. You forget yourself and the respect owed your seniors.”
“Respect is earned, not owed. Lord Varen, I do not accept the decision. It is my right to—”
“To hold your tongue before you talk yourself into real strife! As head of this Council, Danfey, I command your silence!”
“For pity’s sake, Morgan,” Venette implored, taking his arm. “Don’t let our falling out goad you into folly.”
He shook himself free of her. “Lady Martain, you hold yourself too lofty.”
“Morgan, that is enough!” Breathing heavily, Varen stood. “I am gravely disappointed in you. I had high hopes when confirming your appointment, but now I am forced to wonder whether Lord Arkley and Lady Frieden weren’t right after all!”
Venette stepped forward. “Brice. Please, don’t be too harsh. Remember that Morgan is under great strain.”
“You’d have him hide behind his father’s bedpan?” Sallis snorted. “Disgraceful.”
“That was uncalled for, Lord Arkley,” Varen said. Then he sighed. “Lady Martain makes a salient point. No man can be temperate when faced with his father’s demise. Morgan, I think it best we overlook this entire unfortunate conversation. Go home, where you’re needed, and stay there until—” He hesitated. “Until matters are resolved. It is unreasonable of us to expect reason from you while you endure such trying circumstances.”
Morgan swallowed. “My lord—”
“No, Morgan. It’s done.”
He was dismissed? Sent to his room like a schoolboy in disgrace? He looked at his fellow councillors’ faces. Saw angry sympathy, naked hatred, sorrowed despair… but no hint of a reprieve. Sickened, he realised what he’d done.
I’m a fool. I’ve let Sallis Arkley manipulate me.
Any anger he felt was at himself, most of all.
“And as for your unwise prisoner,” Sallis added, freshly gloating, “I think Mage Lindin must be—”
Protected. My lord, do not test me on this.
“She goes nowhere,” he said flatly. “The girl is kept well occupied with chicken shit and dusting. In my custody she gives this Council no trouble. And as I am still a councillor, despite your best efforts, Lord Arkley? I see no reason to alter the arrangement. Unless you wish to accuse me of some malfeasance?”
“There is no question of malfeasance,” Varen said, silencing Arkley with a look. “If you are confident you can keep her restrained while dealing with your father’s illness, I see no reason to remove her. As far as other Council business is concerned, you’ll be sent for if you’re needed. But for now, Councillor Danfey, you are excused.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Morgan’s return to the Danfey estate was so stormy that Barl, washing dishes, dropped a soap-wet tureen to the scullery floor where it smashed into glazed clay shards.
“Mage Lindin!”
On her hands and knees, picking up the pieces because Rumm couldn’t know she was unbound, she winced. Of course the master servant had to be passing the scullery’s open doorway at precisely the wrong moment.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’m not interested in apologies!” Rumm snapped, glaring. “Be more careful in future. I have no desire to present Councillor Danfey with a new list of household expenses!”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hastily scraping the shattered tureen into a prosaic dustpan. One piece missed. She reached for it and cut her finger. Blood welled, dripping. Curse it. Sucking the shallow, stinging wound, she could feel the master servant’s unsympathetic regard like dragon’s breath on the back of her neck.
“I notice you’ve still not taken the kitchen scraps out to the poultry.”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, I—”
“You will be if you don’t complete your tasks in a more timely fashion.”
Biting her tongue, Barl tipped the bits and pieces of tureen into the scullery bin. Then, because life would be far simpler with Rumm on her side, she showed him her meekest face.
“I was wondering, sir, how his lordship’s faring after the pother’s visit.”
From the way Rumm tensed, she’d have to guess badly. His lips thinned. “That’s no concern of yours, Mage Lindin.”
“I’m under his roof, Master Rumm, so I think it must be, a little,” she said, daring. “I’ve no wish to leave here. There are far crueller places for me to serve the term of my punishment.”
“Since you have no say in the matter, I don’t see how it serves you to dwell on it,” Rumm said. “Dwell on not breaking any more crockery, instead.”
And with that reproof delivered, he left her to the sink full of soapy water and dirty dishes.
She finished washing them without breaking any more, even though Morgan’s distress still shivered through her. Next she dried the plates and pots and pans and put them away. With no further tasks to be done inside, she found some astringent ointment for her cut finger, then collected the scrap pail from the kitchen and resigned herself to an afternoon with the chickens.
Morgan found her in the poultry coop an hour later, sticky with feathers and sneezing as she emptied the laying boxes of their fouled straw and refilled them with fresh. Alone, save for the crooning, clucking birds, they stared at each other across the complicated distance between them.
Last night he kissed me, and told me to speak his name. But now the sun’s shining. Has anything truly changed?
Not really. Even unbound, she was still a prisoner. Still dependent upon this volatile man’s goodwill. And she’d be wise not to forget it.
“Something’s happened,” she said at last. “Can I help?”
Ignoring the cackling hens, the dusty air, the stink, indifferent to the muck smearing his tunic, Morgan turned to pace the cramped coop.
“My patents are denied. Sallis Arkley, he lives to thwart me. Made some nonsense claim that my magework lacks sophistication. He’s a fool. I am three times the mage he will ever be and yet—”
A bubble of laughter escaped her before she could burst it. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, as he whipped round. “Only, well, now you know how I feel.”
“You think your disappointments are comparabl
e to mine?”
Irked by his dismissive scorn, she folded her arms. “Yes, I do, Councillor. And why shouldn’t I?”
Scowling, he looked away. A victory. Then he dragged a hand down his face.
“I challenged the ruling. There was… a dispute. Now I’m stood down from the Council. Sent home to rusticate.”
Two bruises to his pride with one well-placed blow. No wonder he was stormy. So stormy he’d not stopped to think. “Perhaps Lord Arkley has done you a favour.”
The councillor scowled. “How so?”
“Well, every hour you’re not in Elvado, fretting over petty rules and getting into arguments, is another hour you can spend on your magework. And since he thinks you defeated, Lord Arkley will find someone else to upset. That’s all to the good.”
He stared at her, an oddly arrested look on his face. And then his lips quirked in a brief smile. “That’s very true. How devious you are, Barl. I think I approve. And I told you to call me Morgan.”
It was dangerous, surely, to feel such pleasure hearing that. She did her best not to show it.
“Anyway, you shouldn’t care what an old frog like Sallis Arkley says. Could he have reconfigured Hartigan’s transmutation incant? Would it even have occurred to him that he could try?”
Morgan’s face lit up with laughter, banishing the discontent, making him beautiful again. “Devious and disrespectful. No wonder I—”
She waited for him to finish. When he didn’t, she busied herself emptying the next laying box of fouled straw.
“Barl…”
He was right behind her. She didn’t have to turn round to know it, she could feel him, his heat and power. Her lips tingled, remembering that fierce, devouring kiss.
Don’t be a fool. It meant nothing. It can’t.
“Barl, look at me.”
Reluctantly, she straightened and let the half-filled hessian sack drop to the ground. “If I don’t finish these boxes, Master Rumm will have my hide.”
“Look at me.”
Oh, he did love to bark orders, didn’t he? As though he was the lord of her. As though she were still bound. She shifted far enough to see him from the corner of her eye, and no further.
