A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Not of a useful or practical nature, my lord,” said Bellamie Ranowen. In her own way she was looking haggard too. “If there is, of course I shall tell you. But there is one last thing I would say… even though I don’t want to say it.”

  Brice smiled, very faintly, as though he and the College tutor were sharing a joke. “Of course. Speak your mind. Honesty is the only currency of value in this Hall.”

  “Then, my lord, honestly? If we don’t find a way to heal Dorana, and soon, I believe its unravelling will proceed apace. I believe there is the danger that it will spread first throughout every district, and after that beyond our borders. And if that should happen…”

  She didn’t need to say more. Venette, feeling her mouth dry, stared horrified at Brice.

  If that should happen, the whole world will be at risk.

  Ink-stained, her head pounding, Barl pushed aside her scribbled-in journal and pressed the heels of her hands against her dry, tired eyes. Frustration was a hot ball in the pit of her stomach, a creeping heat over every bit of her skin.

  With a wordless cry, she leapt to her feet and stamped about the library.

  “This is ridiculous! I know it’s possible. Anything is possible. All I have to do is find the right incant to point the way!”

  But she was beginning to suspect the right incant might not be here. Or, if it was, she had found it already, and already discarded it because she couldn’t see what she needed to see.

  I promised Morgan we’d find a way to cheat death. I won’t break my word to him. I won’t. I can’t.

  Because sometimes, in the middle of the night, as she lay awake beside him watching him sleep, he wept while he was dreaming… and begged her not to die.

  She spun round at a knock on the library door. “Yes? What is it, Rumm? What do you want?”

  The door opened, revealing the master servant’s very blank face. “Mage Lindin. You have a visitor.”

  Lady Martain.

  “Mage Lindin,” the councillor said, sweeping in past Rumm. Her green silk tunic was rumpled. “Am I disturbing you? I’m sorry.”

  Barl looked at Rumm. “Thank you. Don’t bother with tea. Lady Martain won’t be staying very long.”

  As Rumm pulled the door closed, Venette Martain dropped uninvited into a chair. “Where is Morgan?”

  With a great show of indifference, Barl swept together her notebook and jottings and pushed them into a drawer.

  “Asleep.”

  “Asleep?” The woman stared out of the window. “But it’s barely past sunset.”

  “He’s been working very hard. And I’m sure it never occurred to him that he should ask your permission before retiring.”

  Venette Martain’s eyes narrowed. “Mind your tongue.”

  There was enough sharpness in the woman’s voice to make her wince.

  Careful, Barl. You’re not Lady Danfey quite yet.

  “Lady Martain, was there something you wanted?”

  “I wanted to see Morgan.”

  “Well, I’m not going to wake him.”

  “He’s been mageworking, you say? You both have?”

  There was something oddly intent in the look Venette Martain gave her. “A little,” Barl said, instinct prompting the lie. “Hardly at all. Mostly he’s been teaching me various theories of magework. Since I’m denied the College—” She flicked her hand at the book-lined room. “This has become my new schoolroom. He’s a very good teacher. I’m learning a lot.”

  Venette Martain’s lips pinched. “Yes. I’m sure you are.” She stood. “I came here out of courtesy, one friend to another, so do be sure you pass my message to Morgan. There will be an edict issued in the next day or two. Complex mageworking is to be restricted, by order of the Council.”

  Barl stared at her. “Why?”

  “Tell Morgan if he wants to know more, he knows where to find me. Good evening, Mage Lindin. I’ll show myself out.”

  Horrible woman.

  Alone again, Barl retrieved her notebook and notes. Slapped them down on the table and folded back into the chair.

  Complex magework to be restricted? What is the Council up to now?

  Then she shrugged. Morgan would find out. But anyway, it didn’t matter. No Council edict would ever apply to them.

  Frowning, she returned to her work.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  So,” said Barton, his voice heavy with melancholy. “That’s it, then.”

  Slumped on Batava schoolhouse’s front step, Remmie nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”

  Barton sat, keys dangling from his fingers. Keys. They needed Brantish locks to secure the schoolhouse’s classroom doors because a warding couldn’t be trusted to take, or last any length of time if it did.

  “It’s hard to fathom, Remmie.” With a sigh, Barton rested a hand on his shoulder. “I never thought I’d live to see this. I never thought such a thing was possible.”

  “Neither did I.”

  They were surrounded by a dreadful silence. All the children had been sent home. The schoolhouse’s classrooms and playground and field were empty, save for the random manifestations of mage-mist that had made them unsafe.

  Barton heaved a sigh. “So, Mage Lindin. What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m not sure. You?”

  “Remember my uncle, in the Third district? I’m going to him.”

  Barton’s uncle? Oh, yes. The baker. “That’s good,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. “At least you can make bread without magic. Yeast’s a magic all its own.”

  Barton heaved another sigh, then leapt to his feet as mage-mist thickened into existence halfway across the schoolhouse assembly yard. Cursing, he snatched up a pebble and threw it. The mage-mist spat and sparked and sizzled it to dust. Then it faded, capricious, as swiftly as it appeared. No need for the banishing incant that only worked one try out of three.

  “I can’t believe this,” Barton said, his voice shaking. “Dorana’s falling to pieces around us, faster and faster every day. And what is the Council of Mages doing to save us? Nothing… except take away more and more of our magework. All those high and mighty ranked mages and what use are they? None!”

  “Steady on,” Remmie murmured. “I’m sure they’re doing their best.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  No. It wasn’t. “When will you leave?”

  “As soon as I can buy a seat on Benyt’s wagon.”

  Nib Benyt, who owned The Greased Pig. There was a man quick to take advantage of strife. With travel incants too dangerous now, he was running a wagon from Batava to Fothel, in the Fifth district. Not that he was the only one. Dorana’s roads and byways had grown Brantish busy, crammed full of wagons and carriages and carts and horses.

  “Remmie—” Barton stared around them. “I know the District Council has said you’re welcome to stay in the cottage, but you won’t, will you? Won’t you go to Elvado?”

  Nearly four months ago, with too much of The Greased Pig’s ale in his belly, he’d told Barton that Barl would soon be Lady Danfey. Had shown him the incants she’d sent him, the first of many… or so she promised.

  But it hadn’t quite worked out that way.

  “Remmie?”

  He looked up into Barton’s puzzled face. “I’d like to visit Barl, yes. Make sure she’s all right. But I don’t know if I’ll stay there.”

  He didn’t know if he’d be welcome.

  “Travel with me, then,” said Barton. “At least as far as Fothel. I’d appreciate the company.”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  Another glum silence, as they considered their forlorn surroundings.

  “Let’s see Benyt now, then,” Barton said at last. “Buy ourselves passage out of this cursed place.”

  For one awful moment Remmie thought he might weep. He loved this schoolhouse. Had poured heart and soul and sweat and dreams into it. Remembering his pupils’ faces, their cries of dismay as he told them there’d be no more classes until Dorana�
�s troubles passed, he had to bite his lip.

  “Come on, Remmie,” said Barton, sadly. “Let’s go.”

  Nib Benyt sold them two seats on his wagon, leaving Batava on the morrow, at first light. Returning to his hushed cottage, Remmie picked himself some fresh beans from the garden then went inside to prepare them and make a small chicken pie. And after that, with supper cooking, he washed himself clean of pastry-makings and retired to the parlour, where he kept Barl’s letters in a carved cherrywood box. Staring at the small collection of folded notes, he felt anxiety stir.

  Almost three weeks had passed since he’d last heard from her. In the beginning, after her surprise visit and her even more surprising news, she’d written twice a week. Kept her word and sent him incants copied from Morgan Danfey’s books. But then twice a week became once, and once a week became sometimes. When he’d heard nothing for twenty-six days, he wrote to her. Was something wrong? Could he help?

  Her reply, when it finally came, was curt and hurtful.

  Stop bothering me. I’m busy. I’ve sent you plenty of incants. Amuse yourself for a while.

  His first instinct had been to turn up on her mansion doorstep demanding an explanation. But then he changed his mind. She’d not thank him for ignoring her. Besides, shouting at Barl never got him anything but a sore throat. Better to do as she asked and bide his time, trusting… hoping… that she knew what she was about.

  Only now things were different. Dorana’s troubles were deepening, swiftly. And he couldn’t sit in Batava with no pupils to teach, not knowing how bad things were where she was, not knowing if she was in trouble. If Morgan Danfey still loved her.

  If he ever loved her at all.

  She’d sat in his kitchen and created a lily. Terrifying magework. Rules tossed aside. He had no doubt she was ignoring the Council’s edicts, knew in his bones she was mageworking still. Then, it was a lily.

  But what is she creating now?

  If she was creating anything. What if the Council had found out she was defying them? What if Danfey had indeed tired of her and handed her back?

  Or what if she’s still with him, and he’s encouraging her, and something’s gone wrong?

  Crushed with guilt, with fear, he slammed the cherrywood box’s lid closed on her letters.

  I should’ve trusted my first instinct. I shouldn’t have left her there alone. I promised I’d take care of her.

  And now that promise was as broken as Dorana itself.

  His wagon trip with Barton could not come fast enough.

  Venette looked up from pushing a wrapped packet of dried burgot leaves into the bag she’d already stuffed as full as she dared with catalysts. Orwin was staring again, shouting with his silence. As though he’d actually spoken, she shook her head.

  “I’m sorry you don’t approve, my dear, but I have no choice.”

  “There is always a choice, Venette,” he said, standing in their town house workroom’s doorway. “Morgan made his weeks ago. The wrong one. There is no need for you to compound his mistake.”

  “I am not compounding anything! I am trying to make the best of a ridiculous situation.”

  Orwin slapped the open door with the flat of his hand, so loudly, so not like him, that she gasped and jumped.

  “Venette, you are conspiring with Morgan Danfey to subvert the law in the midst of the gravest crisis Dorana has ever seen!”

  “No, Orwin! I am aiding a fellow councillor in his attempt to save Dorana in the midst of its gravest crisis! Justice knows no-one else seems to be of any use!”

  Including herself, but that thought was far too painful for any close examination.

  “Venette… please…” His voice gentle, his own again, Orwin stepped into the room. “Don’t do this.”

  She reached for the small jar of tinctured bidaline and pushed it into the bag’s last nook. “I wouldn’t have to, Orwin, if Brice and Sallis and Shari weren’t forcing my hand. But Brice is so overwhelmed, he’s letting Sallis and Shari bully him. It is madness to keep Morgan from returning to the Council.”

  “Morgan prevents his own return, my dear,” Orwin said wearily. “All he has to do is renounce Barl Lindin and every objection to him will be dropped. But he won’t.”

  Finished lacing the bag shut, Venette hefted its long leather strap over her shoulder. “And can you blame him? I can’t. As much as I deplore his slutting with an unranked mage, I despise Sallis and Shari even more. That they would risk Dorana to pursue a petty, personal vendetta? It’s disgraceful. And as for Brice’s refusal to call their bluff? Well. He drives me to despair.”

  “But Venette…” Orwin moved to stand between her and the door. “You don’t even know what Morgan wants with those catalysts. You have no idea what magework he performs!”

  “I don’t have to know the particulars. He’s told me he works toward saving us, and I believe him.”

  “Why?”

  Sighing, she rested her palm above Orwin’s heart. “Because for all his faults, and justice knows they are many, Morgan loves Dorana. He always has. He always will.”

  Orwin’s kindly face was racked with anguish. “If he loved Dorana he would discard that wretched girl!”

  The bag of catalysts was cumbersome. Easing its weight on her shoulder, Venette raised an eyebrow. “And if you were Morgan, Orwin, would you discard me?”

  An unkind question, but it had the desired effect.

  “Go to bed, my dear,” she said. “And I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She met Morgan on the empty Brantone road, beneath a night sky full of stars. Most of the day had been rainy. The open meadow on either side of her smelled of wet grass and burned mage-mist. Harnessed between her small buggy’s shafts, her horse tossed its head, whickering, at the sound of another horse’s approaching hooves.

  Since not even glimfire could be trusted any more, she lit a torch and waited.

  “Venette,” Morgan said, drawing rein just out of the flickering light’s reach. “You’re alone?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Not ridiculous,” he chided, nudging the stallion into the light. “Cautious.”

  She hadn’t seen him for many weeks. He looked tired… but then, these days, who didn’t? Beneath the weariness she thought she could see something else. An almost frenetic excitement, at odds with his usual reserve.

  “Well? Did you bring them?”

  She hefted the leather bag in her lap. “Orwin thinks I’m making a terrible mistake.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think I’d like to know what it is you’re doing.”

  He shrugged. “I told you. Magework to save Dorana. Did you remember the azafris? And the susquinel? I know they make you nervous, but they’re vital. I promise.”

  “What’s vital, Morgan, is that I don’t end up regretting that I’ve broken the law helping you!”

  He smiled, and for an instant looked like his old, familiar self. “There is only one law that matters now, Venette. The law of survival. I don’t see that dying with our hands clean is anything to celebrate.”

  And of course, he was right. Why else was she here?

  As he took the bag of catalysts from her, he hesitated. “How is Maris?”

  “Oh, Morgan.” She could easily have slapped him. “Don’t pretend you care.”

  “I do care,” he said, settling the bag on his hip. “I am sorry she was hurt. No child should be a pawn of its parents’ ambitions.”

  She wasn’t about to argue the matter. Not on the Brantone road in the middle of the night.

  “The Garricks are like the rest of us in Elvado, Morgan. Frightened.” She leaned forward, feeling desperate. “Promise me you can do something about that.”

  “I can,” he said, that odd excitement flaring. “And I will. I swear it.”

  “How? Morgan, how is it you can keep mageworking when the rest of us are practically crippled? And what are you working on, that you’re so certa
in will drag us back from the brink?”

  His expression was smoothly unreadable. “I still think it’s best I don’t say. Venette… either you trust me or you don’t. I think tonight is proof that you do. And since you do, then trust me. I’m not a perfect man, but in this? I’ll not lead you astray. People are frightened now, that’s true. But the fear won’t last forever.”

  She felt sick, she wanted to believe him so badly.

  I have to believe him. If I don’t, I’ll be lost.

  “Can I rely on you to help me again?” he said. “We run through our supply of catalysts very quickly, and with Sallis Arkley grown so vigilant I must be miserly in the use of my… irregular sources.”

  We.

  Her fingers tightened on the horse’s reins. “I wish you wouldn’t magework with her, Morgan.”

  “Or fuck with her?” He laughed, mocking. “There isn’t one without the other. And Venette, like it or not, you need the other. Without Barl Lindin, Dorana cannot be saved. Thank you for these supplies. I’ll send word when I need more.”

  As she sat in the flickering torchlight, listening to his horse’s hoofbeats fade into the distance, mage-mist appeared in the meadow beside her. Her shouted incant dispersed it. A miracle. She watched it dissolve, and then was violently ill over the side of her buggy.

  Churning with sickness and hatred, her mouth sour, tasting foul, she turned the buggy and headed for home.

  Morgan found Barl in the library, reworking his next reworking of Hartigan’s transmutation. Complementing his brilliance with her own. Hearing him enter, she looked up.

  “Well?”

  Every time he saw her anew he felt his bones turn, just for a moment, to water.

  He sighed. “My love, if you don’t trust Venette, then at least trust me. Yes. We have more catalysts.”

  Frowning, she abandoned her work and went to him.

  “You look tired, Morgan,” she whispered, combing her fingers through his unbound hair. “You’re not sleeping enough. Isn’t it time you told me what you work on, once I’ve gone to bed?”

  He should have known he’d not keep that a secret. Brushing his fingertips over her breasts, he enjoyed the little catch in her throat, the shiver his touch always sent through her body.