A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Then it’s best Rumm makes his purchases from more than one supplier,” she said. “He must become a busy little bee, dipping for nectar from a variety of blossoms. That way nothing he does will be remarkable—or remarked upon.”

  And that was only one reason to love her. She had a quicksilver mind that was forever in tune with his.

  “Morgan.” She touched her fingertips to the back of his neck, making him shiver. “Speaking of the Council… it’s a week since your father died. Ranmer has held his tongue so far, but we can’t trust he’ll not let slip the truth. Or if Lord Varen asks him directly how your father does, of course he’ll answer.”

  And if that happened, they’d have Varen and the others on their doorstep, overflowing with spurious sympathy and likely demanding his return to the Hall. He was surprised he’d not already had to fend off Venette. So much for her claims of affection and concern.

  Barl slipped her arm through his. “What are you going to do? If the Council recalls you to duty, will you go?”

  “I won’t have a choice,” he said, resentful. “But never fret, my love. Our magework will continue. Not even Brice Varen can be allowed to interfere with that.”

  She nodded. “Agreed. Now come see what I’ve done with this next variation. I fear the transmutation will still be deadly, but I think I might now have found a glimmer of hope.”

  For the next few hours they worked side by side, deconstructing Hartigan’s reimagined incant syllable by syllable, searching for the elusive combination of paired harmonics that would let them create a transmutation without killing the subject. So far they’d had no success with that. And until they did, his dream of an invincible defender for Dorana would never be more than a dream.

  The thought of failure was a constant haunting. If it hadn’t been for Barl, he wasn’t sure he could sustain his hope. But with her at his side, he could believe nothing was impossible. The sun would be his, and the moon, and the stars.

  As the morning ticked its steady way toward noon, Morgan kept catching himself no longer working, just watching, entranced by the way his beloved lost herself inside her mind.

  His father’s last words to him were a wound yet to heal. If he still lived, Greve Danfey would claim his son’s adoration of Barl Lindin was merely a childish rebellion. Greve Danfey would say that, a man who never loved his wife.

  He never knew what love was. He never loved me, I think, to want for me a loveless union like his.

  Tongue nipped between her teeth, Barl scribbled down more of her quicksilver thoughts. Then, feeling his regard, as she always felt it, she glanced up.

  “What?”

  Instead of answering, he kissed her. And in kissing her ignited his passion, which these days was insatiable, sleeping lightly beneath his skin. No need for words, for asking permission. If he wanted her, she wanted him no less fiercely. Ink, quill and scribbled incants were swept to the floor. A jar of rathil crashed after them, scattering glass splinters and expensive dried leaves. Pleasure was pain, and pain gave pleasure, and when he looked into her eyes he saw nothing but the future.

  In the aftermath, replete and panting, she pushed back her tousled hair and laughed. “Curse you, Morgan. Now I don’t remember what harmonic key I wanted to use.”

  “You will,” he said, sliding off the workbench. Then, as he put his clothing to rights, he smiled. “Think about it while I fetch us lunch. Oh—and while I’m doing that, you might also tidy this workroom.” Glass cracked beneath his feet as he retreated to the attic door. “Such a disgrace, these unranked mages. No sense of decorum, no notion of tidiness…”

  Laughing, he closed the door on her outraged shriek.

  But his amusement was short-lived. Rumm intercepted him on the third floor landing, his jaw tight, his eyes anxious.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I did my best, but… she was insistent.”

  Morgan felt his cheer fade. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Lady Martain? Well, I suppose it was only—”

  “No, my lord. It’s Maris Garrick.”

  A shudder of revulsion. “Maris?”

  Very upright, very proper, Rumm clasped his work-roughened hands behind his back. “If you recall, my lord, two days ago I did draw your attention to several letters received that you are yet to open.”

  Letters from Maris. He’d lacked the stomach to read them. Had thrown them back at Rumm, now he thought of it, with a curt order to keep unwelcome missives out of his sight.

  He sighed. Now was his hand forced. How easily he could hate Maris, for ruining his peace.

  “So, Rumm. You are proven right, yet again.”

  “I am sorry, my lord.”

  In passing, he patted Rumm’s dejected shoulder. “No need for apologies. This is my doing.”

  Because her arrival had unnerved him, or because he knew precisely how poorly she’d be welcomed, Rumm had left Maris to amuse herself in the foyer. Hearing footsteps on the staircase she looked up, her expression twisted between hope and annoyance. She was dressed with a restraint that belied her wanton nature, her cream silk tunic throat-buttoned, her skirts almost sweeping the floor.

  “Morgan!” she said brightly, seeing him. Her eyes were cautious, her fingers tight. “So you’re not ailing after all. It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you I was convinced you suffered an ague.”

  He stopped on the fourth stair from the bottom of the staircase, hands clasped before him. His tunic was unbuttoned, his skin still damp with sweat and warm from the memory of Barl’s fingers and lips.

  “No, Maris. As you can see, I am well.”

  A hint of puzzlement in her face. “Yes. And your father? How does he go on?”

  “Alas. My father is dead.”

  Her lips parted. “Dead? But—” She frowned, the puzzlement growing. “There has been no announcement.”

  “I haven’t made one yet.”

  “Dead,” she said again. “So that means—”

  And if it was a pleasure watching Barl think, it turned his stomach watching Maris. “Yes. I am now Lord Danfey.”

  She took a step toward him, almost eager, then halted. “Morgan, I am sorry. Why did you not send for me? It’s not right, you shouldn’t be alone with your grief. You shouldn’t—”

  “I don’t care to discuss my grief, Maris,” he said. “It’s a private thing.”

  “Private?” Breathing hard, her milky skin flushed, she stared at him. “Morgan, what is going on? Why do you look at me so strangely?”

  They had coupled in a closet, he and this girl. The tawdry memory shamed him. Felt like a betrayal of the woman he loved. Looking at Maris now, he was astonished at himself.

  Did I truly think I could marry her? Did I imagine I could ask Barl to live with being second-best? I must have been mad. Yes. I was out of my mind.

  Watching the colour fade from Maris’s cheeks, he felt a vague wash of pity. True, she was cold and calculating… but in fairness, he’d been just as prepared to use her. Justice be praised he’d come to his senses in time.

  Maris took another step forward. “Please, Morgan. You’re frightening me. Something else has happened, hasn’t it? Tell me. Whatever it is, we can face it together.”

  He offered her a small, regretful smile. “You shouldn’t have come here, Maris. Not without an invitation. It was unwise—and impolite.”

  A breath of shocked laughter escaped her. “Impolite? Morgan, has grief disordered you? We are handfast. How can you stand there and talk to me of impolite? If we must discuss a lack of manners, let us consider your disheveled appearance, shall we? To present yourself to me as good as half dressed, with your hair unbound and unbrushed? It is most unbecoming of you!”

  “Unbecoming?” an amused voice said, from behind him. “Oh, I don’t think so. Myself, I think he’s as comely as can be.”

  Barl.

  As Maris’s face blanched snowish, Morgan held out his hand. Smiled to feel his beloved’s fingers slide over his. Through his. Tighten, until two
were become one.

  Maris was staring. “Morgan, who is this—this—”

  “Person?” said Barl, helpfully.

  She bared her teeth. “Whore.”

  “No, Morgan,” Barl said sharply, as he tensed. “It’s all right. The only thing we’ve left her is anger.” Slipping her fingers free of him, she continued down the staircase until she reached the foyer floor. Her tunic was fastened, but not every button was in its hole. “I am sorry, Mage Garrick. But he was never really yours.”

  Tears glittered brilliant in Maris’s slitted eyes. “Lord Danfey and I are handfast.”

  “No,” said Barl. “You were. But his lordship has changed his mind.”

  Maris gasped. “Morgan?”

  He said nothing, content to let Barl and his silence speak for him.

  “Think,” Barl said. “If he loved you, could I—could anyone—come between you?”

  Maris’s glittering tears fell, raining rage down her cheeks. “Who are you?”

  “My name would mean nothing to you, Mage Garrick.”

  Maris took a step back. “You are unranked?”

  “Ranked or unranked, what difference does it make?”

  “What difference?” Maris shook her head, disbelieving. Shifted her gaze past Barl. “Morgan—”

  Impatient now, he trod the last four stairs lightly and stood beside Barl. “If this discovery distresses you, Maris, you’ve only yourself to blame. I intended to withdraw my pledge to your father in a manner that would have shielded you. It was your choice to impose yourself upon me like this.”

  She chewed her lip, gaze stabbing back and forth between them. “I think… I think…” She breathed out, a snake hiss. “The loss of your father has clearly unbalanced your reason, Morgan. And I believe it is not unheard of, in times of distress, for a man to seek solace in common female flesh. I will not judge you for it. No. I will forgive you. Especially since no-one need know of this… lapse. You can send this slut packing and we need never mention it again.”

  “If I send any slut packing, Maris, that slut will be you,” he said, out of patience. “Do you imagine I fucked you for any reason but filial duty? Do you think I don’t know who it was sent you into that closet? It was business, Mage Garrick. And it happens I’ve decided to take my business elsewhere.” With a snap of his fingers he swung wide the foyer doors. “You showed yourself in. You can show yourself out.”

  She stood before him an ice maiden, still and cold as winter. And then, without another word, she left.

  “That was unkind, Morgan,” Barl said, pressing her hand to his back. Hot and heavy it rested there, thawing his own icy rage. “You can’t blame her for being hurt.”

  He waved the doors shut. “She wasn’t hurt, Barl. She was insulted. Maris Garrick never loved me.”

  “But I do,” Barl whispered. Sliding her hand around him, she passed it softly over his face. “And I always will. So no more frowning, Lord Danfey.” Her other hand slipped inside his tunic, shivering his skin. “Let’s eat, shall we, and then get back to work. We’ve incants to finish, and a shopping list to compile.”

  He let her tug him to the stairs leading down to the kitchen, where they’d taken to eating their meals so there’d be less cleaning up for Rumm. Her loving comfort was a balm to his frostbitten soul. Thanks to Maris Garrick, their idyllic respite from the world would soon end. He could hate the bitch for that, if for nothing else.

  But I don’t care who she tells, or how hard she stamps her feet. There is no law in Dorana that compels a mage to wed. A handfast is simply a promise… and promises are broken every day.

  Heart sunk almost as far as her silk slippers, Venette cast a resigned look at her husband.

  “You’d best go, Orwin,” she murmured. “I’m sure Maris will feel better with only another woman for company.”

  Orwin nodded. “Indeed,” he said, thankful, and made his escape.

  She rolled her eyes. Typical. And then forgot him as she turned her attention to Maris.

  Distraught, too angry to weep, though doubtless tears would come, the girl was batting her way around the town house parlour like an exotic moth trapped in a jar.

  “Maris,” Venette said, yet again. “My dear, you really must compose yourself. Please, do sit down, and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Although she was tolerably certain she knew the answer already, or part of it. Morgan. Only a man could put a woman into such a state.

  Chalky pale, Maris whirled about, narrowly missing an exorbitantly expensive Feenish vase. “Who is she, Venette? Who is the whore with her claws sunk into Morgan Danfey?”

  The whore? What was the girl talking about? Who could—And then she realised. Barl Lindin. Flooding cold, Venette stared.

  Oh surely not, Morgan. Surely not, you fool.

  “Ah! So you do know her!” said Maris, angrily triumphant. “Don’t bother denying it, the truth is written all over your face.”

  Venette sat a little straighter. Chilled her voice. “Do be careful, my dear. I’m not in the habit of being spoken to like that.”

  But Maris was too upset to notice her trespass. “I don’t understand, Venette! I thought you cared for me!”

  “Don’t be silly, Maris. Of course I care!”

  “Then how could you push me into Morgan’s arms knowing he already had a mistress? He flaunted her before me, Venette. I could smell the passion on them, they stank like alley cats. Who is she? I shall ruin her. I shall see that she is dragged through the mud.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she snapped. “You will leave this to me.”

  “To you?” Maris’s laugh was almost hysterical. “Venette, you are the cause of this debacle! I’m spurned. He’s discarded me. For that nobody, that unranked mage, that thieving little whore!”

  Much more of this unbridled hysteria and she’d be forced to slap Maris’s face. “Mage Garrick! Control yourself! You will leave this to me!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m telling you to. Because the situation is more delicate than you realise. There are ramifications that—”

  “Do not speak to me of ramifications!” Maris said, close to screeching. “I know there are ramifications, Venette! What mage of rank will wed with me now? When news of this spreads, I—”

  “Maris, it won’t spread,” she said quickly. “Between us we’ll make sure of that. You’ll not be humiliated.”

  Maris snatched up a pillow and threw it, haphazard. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen them together!”

  She felt a wave of rage at Morgan so thick and hot that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

  Oh, Morgan, you thoughtless, selfish bastard.

  “Maris,” she said, fighting for composure. “Please, my poor child, sit down so we can discuss this matter calmly.”

  The tears came then, as she’d expected. She let Maris sob stormily for a few moments, then handed her a handkerchief.

  “Dry your eyes, my dear, and catch your breath. You’re upset, it’s only natural, but I think you’ll agree that Lord Danfey won’t let Morgan do anything so crass as spurn you. I’ve known Greve most of my life, and while he might be unwell at present I can promise you he won’t—what?”

  Maris was staring again, her mouth almost comically open. “You don’t know?”

  Another shiver of dread. “Know what?”

  “The old man’s dead, Venette. Morgan is Lord Danfey now.”

  The old man’s dead.

  She sat there, unmoving, not sure of what she felt. Shock, yes. Grief. Of course. But most of all she felt a fresh wave of searing anger.

  How could you not tell me, Morgan? How could you let me find out like this?

  “No,” she said, hearing her voice oddly distant. Detached, as though she’d never even met Greve Danfey. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “He hasn’t told anyone,” said Maris, sneering. “He’s been too busy fucking his whore. Venette, I’d be surprised if his father is even crypted.”
r />   She shook her head. “No. No. Not even Morgan at his most careless would leave his father to rot.”

  Maris sneered again, trembling fingers twisting and untwisting the damp handkerchief. And then her sickly pale face crumpled. “Oh, Venette. What shall I do?”

  “Go home,” she said, wincing as a vicious pain stabbed behind her eyes. “And stay there. Tell your parents what’s happened, and then tell them they must speak to me before they say or do anything.” She raised a warning finger. “I can salvage your pride, Maris. I can, with some wrangling, undo the damage Morgan has wrought. But only if you and your parents hold your tongues. Discretion is vital. Is that clear?”

  Breathing quickly, Maris wrestled with that dictate. At last she nodded. “But I want him punished, Venette. If he walks away from this unbruised, if he is allowed to insult the Garricks in such a fashion and pay no price, then I swear you’ll see ramifications the likes of which Dorana has never known.”

  “Have no fear, Maris. Morgan will not go unscathed.”

  “And her?” Maris demanded. “His whore?”

  Barl Lindin. Who I knew full well was trouble the moment I laid eyes on her. “You can leave her to me.”

  Maris said nothing for some moments, her gaze narrowed. “She was laughing at me, Venette.”

  “I promise you, Maris. By the time I am done with that little bitch, laughter will be the furthest thing from her mind.” And then, as though she were seeing Maris for the first time, she frowned. “My dear—how did you get here? Weren’t you still at your family’s country estate?”

  “Yes,” said Maris. “But I used a travel incant. How did you think?”

  A travel incant, and over such a distance. What a mercy nothing had gone wrong. And it could have, easily. Bellamie Ranowen’s latest report to the Council had warned them the mysterious instability was growing more marked. She’d urged them again, forcefully, to begin magework restrictions. She’d practically begged them to put a stop to incant travel. Brice had once more refused the College mage’s request, but it was clear his resolve was weakening. Even Sallis and Shari were beginning to rethink their stance, because at last they’d felt the wrongness for themselves.