A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Which is why, dear Venette, I did not send you to see him alone.”

  The sympathy in Brice’s voice was a surprise, too. She looked up. “Oh.” Terribly weary, of a sudden, she crossed to the parlour’s other armchair and sat. Drank more brandy, then gave him a sideways glance. “Does this mean you are going to accept his resignation?”

  “I take it you think I shouldn’t?”

  “Absolutely! Brice, accepting his resignation would be a grave mistake. Not only do we need his talent during this crisis, if we don’t keep him close to us we’ve no hope of influencing his erratic behaviour.”

  Brice gave her a look. “And you’re of the opinion he’s in the mood to be influenced?”

  “Not just at the moment, I’ll grant you,” she admitted. “But once he calms down…” She bit her lip against a fresh surge of anger. “Once he tires of that terribly tiresome Barl Lindin…”

  “And you think that’s likely? I think he meant what he said, about rousing Dorana against us should we interfere with him and the girl.”

  “Oh, no. Surely not, Brice. He said that in the heat of the moment. Heat cools.”

  “Not always,” said Brice, grimacing. “Some fires burn hot. Some fires burn forever.”

  Luzena Talth.

  “But Brice, he’s only known the wretched girl a handful of weeks,” she protested, not wanting to think that he might be right. “Morgan can’t truly love her. Why, she’s entirely unsuitable. This is simply a childish rebellion against Greve.”

  Brice put down his brandy, unfinished. “Why can’t it be both?”

  “Both?” Disconcerted, she looked at him. “Brice Varen, do not tell me you’re a romantic.”

  A long, thoughtful silence. Elbow propped on the arm of his chair, chin resting on his hand, Brice stared across the room at the fire.

  “I am romantic enough,” he said, at last, “to know that daring Morgan Danfey to prove his love for this unsuitable girl would be nothing short of folly. And while you might not be romantic, Venette, I think you know I am right. You can’t challenge him over her.”

  Yes, he was right, curse it. “Fine,” she muttered. “But what about his resignation?”

  “There, I am inclined to take your advice. I think it’s possible that when Morgan’s temper cools, he might well regret offering it. So, at least for now, I will decline to accept it. As far as Council matters are concerned, as far as the rest of Dorana is concerned, the new Lord Danfey is on a leave of absence for personal reasons.”

  Pleased, Venette savoured another small mouthful of brandy. “Sallis won’t like that.”

  “Oddly enough, I don’t make my decisions based on what Sallis Arkley will or won’t like.”

  Should she confess that she’d asked Morgan about Dorana’s unravelling? No. Best not. That would only to lead to more shouting. But still, she should sound Brice out on enlisting his aid.

  “Brice… even though you’re content to let Morgan remain with Barl Lindin on the Danfey estate, that doesn’t mean we can’t make use of his talents. I know we’ve thrashed this out once before, but—”

  “Venette, nothing has changed,” said Brice, with more forbearance than she’d expected. “Indeed, he is more volatile now than he has ever been. No. Dorana is not in such desperate straits yet that we should risk his uncertain temper. Nor do we suffer such a dearth of talented mages that we must return to him on bended knees and beg for his assistance. We will continue to let him cool his heels while we wait to see how… or if… this unravelling continues.”

  Venette sighed. “All right, Brice. Only you’ll need to keep Sallis on a very short leash. You and I both know he’ll go to bed tonight celebrating Morgan’s tumble from grace. And when Sallis learns that once again you’ve broken his fall…”

  “Never fret,” said Brice. “You may leave Sallis to me. Indeed…” He smiled. “You may leave. No doubt Orwin is missing you.”

  “Oh.” She stood. “All right, Brice. If I’m boring you.”

  “Venette, you are never boring.” Another smile, less gentle. “As you well know.”

  Complimented and insulted, she pulled a face and went home.

  Nearly five weeks later, the first incidents of severe magical calamity were reported.

  “Mage-mist?” Brice considered Bellamie Ranowen from beneath tightly lowered brows. “That is what you’ve decided to call this—this phenomenon?”

  The College tutor, wan with exhaustion and, Venette thought, thinner than she’d been the last time she stood in the Council chamber, clasped her hands behind her back. “Yes, Lord Varen. I’m sorry. Is that too fanciful a term for the Council?”

  “Watch your tongue,” growled Sallis. His temper had been wicked ever since he’d learned Morgan would one day return to claim his place at the table. “This is no time for levity.”

  Pointedly indifferent to his hostility, Bellamie Ranowen shrugged. “No? At times like this, my lord, I find that levity is my only defence against hysteria.”

  “Perhaps,” said Shari Frieden. “But you’ll find it’s not much comfort when you’re being marched into a judiciary!”

  Keeping her gaze on Bellamie Ranowen, Venette snapped at Sallis’s tedious echo. “Shari, don’t be a jigget. I doubt Mage Ranowen is the only one here who’s feeling hysterical. Mage Ranowen, never mind what you’re calling this perfidious substance. Can you tell us what it is? Can you tell us where it comes from? To the best of this Council’s knowledge, it has never been encountered before.”

  “Nor to the best of my knowledge, Lady Martain,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “There is no record of it in the College’s library or archives. And none of my colleagues can—”

  “Your colleagues?” Brice drummed his fingers to the table. “Do you tell us you have discussed your investigation of this new strife with other mages at the College? When you were expressly forbidden to—”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but given that not an hour ago I, and a number of other mages, witnessed a manifestation of mage-mist in the College’s main quadrangle, I’m sure you’ll agree that some discussion of the event was impossible to avoid!”

  Silence in the chamber, as Bellamie Ranowen’s heated words sank in.

  “It manifested in the College?” Sallis said at last, fingers laced tightly before him. “You’re quite certain?”

  Bellamie Ranowen looked at him, then turned to Brice. “Lord Varen, since clearly I do not enjoy this Council’s confidence, perhaps it would be best for all of us if you found another—”

  “No,” said Brice. “Your competence is not in doubt. But so we might be sure we are proceeding in the right direction, be so kind as to explain why you’re convinced that what you saw in the College was, indeed, this mage-mist. Given that by the time you arrived at the location of the other manifestations, the phenomenon had dissipated.”

  “The phenomenon, yes,” said Bellamie Ranowen, unmollified. “But not its effects. There was the same charring of foliage and grass. The same damage to structures and unravelling of magework.”

  “Was anyone injured?”

  “No, my lord. Not this time. Fortunately it manifested when the quadrangle was empty. But there is no doubt this was mage-mist. What we saw matches what others saw in the Third, Fourth and Seventh districts.”

  “Which brings us back to our reason for asking you here this morning,” said Venette. “With your preliminary investigation of those manifestations completed, what conclusions have you drawn?”

  “Conclusions? None,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “I have a tentative theory. I have some suggestions. I have no definitive answers.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  Sallis turned to Brice. “Now will you agree that we should be seeking advice from a more competent mage?”

  “There is no-one more competent,” said Brice, fingers pinched to the bridge of his nose. “I have made extensive enquiries, and opinion was unanimous. Mage Ranowen has no peer when it comes to the theory of magework. Mage Ranowen—”


  “My best explanation is that mage-mist is like a bleeding of raw magic,” Bellamie Ranowen said. “Which is what I call the intangible substance that permits us, as mages, to do what we do.”

  Venette felt herself shiver. “So you’re saying… Dorana is wounded?”

  “Yes.” The College tutor took a deep breath, and steadied herself. “And unstable. And now it would appear the instability is spreading.”

  “And we repair it—heal it—how?” Shari demanded. “Do you still claim we must cease all magework? That somehow we are responsible for our plight?”

  “Lady Frieden, I never said we were responsible. I don’t know that we are. I don’t know why this is happening. All I know is that before things get better… if they get better… I expect they’ll get a great deal worse.”

  If Bellamie Ranowen had shouted the words, they might have hurt less to hear. But her soft grimness gave them a weight that threatened to crush any hope of hope.

  “Mage Ranowen, I fear they have already begun to get worse,” Brice told her, equally grim. “While you have been immersed in your investigations at the College and elsewhere, this Council has been making discreet enquiries throughout Dorana, seeking to learn if the instability is widespread.” He looked down at his sheet of notes. “Alas, the news is not encouraging. It seems that incants that should ignite without effort have been taking two and three attempts. Sometimes more. In some instances, the incants are refusing to ignite at all.”

  “And when you say these incants should have ignited without effort, do you mean they were simple?” said Bellamie Ranowen. “And the mages in question… how would you gauge their skill?”

  Venette shook her head. “The incants were not simple. Transmutations, deconstructions, third and fourth level enhancements. Challenging incants all… but well within the grasp of the mages who reported their difficulties with them.”

  “According to their various testimonies,” Brice added, “there was no ease, no suppleness, in the performance of their magework. The incants felt sluggish, the sigils reluctant to burn.”

  Bellamie Ranowen tapped a finger to her chin. “And where were these difficulties encountered?”

  Brice consulted his notes. “Here, in the First district. And in the Second. Also the Fourth.”

  “Two days ago, in my own street,” said Shari, her face tight, her eyes anxious, “three stained-glass windows of a neighbouring town house shattered. There was no reason for it that anyone could see. No children playing bat-a-ball. No wind to put a branch in the wrong place. The glass simply… fell apart. As though it had been clumsily unmade.”

  “There have also been several instances of catalysts bursting into flame within their jars and bottles,” said Brice. “Violent explosions. Four mages have been injured that way. One seriously.”

  “I have combed through every last recorded note and journal in the Council archives,” said Sallis. “There is no precedent for such events, Mage Ranowen. Since Dorana’s first mage first commanded magic, never has it failed us.”

  “Is that the extent of the trouble?” said Bellamie Ranowen. “Or is there more?”

  Scowling, Sallis dropped his gaze to the table. “There might be more. Dorana has many districts. Our enquiries are ongoing.”

  Slowly, as though his bones ached, Brice pushed his ornate chair back from the Council table and walked to the double doors leading onto the chamber’s balcony. Flinging them open, he stepped into the clouded late-morning sunshine. Let the fresh breeze whip his hair around his sombre face, mould his silver-grey silk tunic to his gaunt frame. He was beginning to stoop, Venette saw, the weight of this mysterious, burgeoning crisis curving a spine that all his life had stood so straight.

  Shaken, Sallis and Shari stared at each other, then at her. “Well—don’t just sit there, Lady Martain,” Sallis snapped. “You know him best. Prod the truth out of him. Is there something else to do with this business that he’s neglected to tell us?”

  Prod the truth out of him? Just like that? How unlikely. But with a warning look at Bellamie Ranowen, who looked inclined to speak up, she followed Brice onto the balcony and even went so far as to rest a hand on his arm.

  “What is it, my lord? You can’t keep secrets. Not from us. Not now.”

  Glancing at her, Brice shook his head. “It’s not a secret. I don’t even know if it’s relevant. More than likely it’s a coincidence, nothing more.”

  “I think you should let Mage Ranowen be the judge of that. You ask us to defer to her opinion in this crisis. Surely you can do no less?”

  Sighing, Brice nodded. “You’re right.” His voice was low, guarded. “But in truth, Venette, I fear to tell her. For if she says that this is relevant… that this is part and parcel of Dorana’s strife, then…”

  “Not so long ago,” she said, dropping her own voice to a near-whisper, “you sat in your parlour and roundly scolded me for surrendering to my fears. Allow me to remind you of what you said, Lord Varen. You said—”

  “Thank you, Venette. I remember quite well what I said.”

  “You said,” she continued, “that Dorana’s Council of Mages must be a beacon of calm and that we, as councillors, should keep our fears to ourselves. So I suggest you take your own excellent advice, my dear. Because as I said, we are looking to you, Lord Varen, to lead us safely through these dark days.”

  Behind them, the Council chamber was quiet. Out on the balcony the wind sighed and moaned. Far below them, the mages of Elvado walked the streets, unaware of the shadow slipping over their bright land.

  Turning his head, Brice looked at her in silence. His eyes were very tired. And then he nodded. “Indeed.”

  Venette followed him inside, and waited for him to retake his seat before she slid back into her own.

  “My late wife’s brother,” Brice said, looking at Bellamie Ranowen but addressing them all, “heads the Guild of Pothers. He came to see me last night. He was… ill at ease. Joryn Torvig’s not one for panicking. Cannot abide histrionics and such nonsense. So when he raises an eyebrow I—well, I take him more seriously than most. He tells me the Guild’s pothers have been talking amongst themselves. Some of their patients are dying unexpectedly, others are not recovering as quickly or as well as their maladies and injuries suggest they should. Joryn tells me the Guild’s pothers are baffled… and growing concerned.”

  “I don’t know,” said Bellamie Ranowen, as all eyes turned to her. “I’m sorry, I wish I could say with certainty that this is a separate matter, but I can’t. It might be connected. Until I understand better the nature of Dorana’s malady, it would be foolish of me to give you false hope.”

  “What do you know?” Shari demanded. “Anything? Or have you come here merely to impress us with your ignorance?”

  Brice glared. “Lady Frieden.”

  “No, my lord,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “It is a fair question. Lady Frieden, I will tell you what I know. I know we can’t keep this a secret any longer. Many things can be explained with a little clever sleight of hand. Mage-mist isn’t one of them. Besides, it is dangerous. I suspect it might even be lethal. People must know how to protect themselves against it.”

  “Is there protection?” said Sallis. “You have not said so before.”

  “I intended to, Lord Arkley. At the College this morning I banished the mage-mist in the quadrangle with a dispersal incant.”

  “You’d use magework to fight magic?” Brice frowned. “Is that wise?”

  Bellamie Ranowen shrugged. “I don’t know how else we can fight it. Something tells me flapping our hands at it won’t frighten the mage-mist away.”

  “What else do you suggest?”

  “That we limit the use of magework until this problem is resolved. Most particularly those incants that require complex syllabic harmonics and sigils.”

  “You still think it’s possible that somehow magework is the underlying cause of Dorana’s wounds?”

  “Lord Varen, it is still too ear
ly to say. I do not care to rule out any explanation. But it’s my opinion that being cautious from now on can’t hurt.”

  “Agreed,” said Brice. “Very well. This Council will issue an edict to that effect.”

  Bellamie Ranowen almost smiled as some of the tension eased out of her body. “My lord, given what happened at the College this morning, I would like to ask several of my fellow tutors to assist me in my investigations. I think I would arrive at the solutions you need far more swiftly if there were more of us asking the questions.”

  For some time Brice sat silent. Then he looked around the table, one eyebrow lifted, inviting objection. When none came, he nodded.

  “Very well. But choose your colleagues with care, Mage Ranowen. They must be sober and dedicated and able to keep their mouths shut. This is not an exciting opportunity. This is a grave challenge, with dire consequences should we fail. Understood?”

  Bellamie Ranowen’s eyes glinted, briefly, as though she found Brice’s comment insulting. “Of course, Lord Varen.” She stepped closer to the table and gestured at the ink pot, quill and paper by his right hand. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  Swiftly, she scribbled an incant then slid the sheet of paper toward him. “This is how I dispelled the mage-mist. Every mage in Dorana should learn this incant by heart.”

  “Our thanks,” said Brice, staring at it. “With the General Council’s assistance, we shall see that they do.”

  “And given what Lady Frieden said about those shattered windows, I suggest that every mage sees to the protection of his or dwelling. And there should be mageworking of all public buildings. At the very least, a warding to keep people away if the incants needed to strengthen them are too deep for safety.”

  Another silence, as the enormity of what they were facing rose to engulf them. Venette, looking at Brice’s face, saw him grow haggard from one slow breath to the next. She felt her stomach clench, nausea roiling.

  Oh, my dear. Hold fast. Stay strong. I was not being fanciful when I said that we need you.

  “Yes,” he said, after a long pause. “That is a wise precaution. Thank you, Mage Ranowen. Was there anything else?”