by Karen Miller
“I will. Just… not yet.”
Her fist spread to fingers. Tangled in his tunic and tugged his lips down to hers. “Don’t be too sure of that, my lord.”
“My lord!”
He let his forehead thud gently to the top of Barl’s head. “Rumm, I swear. I am going to put a bell on you.”
“My lord, Nydd is here.”
Nydd? He turned, baleful. “It’s past midnight.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Rumm. “He’s says he’ll not leave until he’s seen you.”
“It must be urgent, my love,” said Barl. “I’ll take myself up to the attic and finish my work there.”
As she left, notebook under her arm, he frowned at Rumm. “Show him in.”
“Lord Danfey!” Nydd said, almost scuttling into the library, far from his usual composed, dapper self. “I apologise for the late hour, but this could not wait.”
“For your sake, Nydd, I hope that’s true.”
Nydd eased a finger between his neck and the high collar of his sober linen tunic. “Yes. My lord, as far as I can ascertain, what I am about to tell you is not common knowledge. Perhaps the Councils know. I cannot speak to that. But I believe the rest of Dorana is ignorant. Although that surely won’t remain the case for much longer.”
“Nydd.”
Nydd let out a shuddering breath. “Forgive me. I am quite overturned.” With a shaking hand he pulled a sheaf of papers from his satchel and held them up. “As you know, my lord, I maintain a comprehensive network of subordinates, overseers and other functionaries to keep me apprised of your family’s business interests. They report to me on a regular basis so that I might report to you on the state of your affairs. And this afternoon I received some very disturbing news, from three different sources.”
News that warranted an intrusion like this? With a shiver of apprehension, Morgan clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me.”
“My lord…” Nydd groped within his tunic for a handkerchief and dabbed dry his sweaty forehead. “Whatever is afflicting Dorana, I regret to tell you that it has spread. Mage-mist has been encountered at your Brantone vineyards, and on the suswill farms in Trindek and Manemli. In all three cases your properties lie close to the Doranen border. This suggests that the trouble has not spread far, but—”
“But it has spread.”
“I fear so.”
“There’s no doubt it was mage-mist?”
“None, my lord. The descriptions tally in every respect.”
“I see. And who else have you told?”
“Who else?” Perplexed, Nydd stared at him. “No-one, my lord. Of course.”
“And the subordinates who sent you these reports?”
“They’ve been told to hold their tongues, on pain of severe retribution,” said Nydd. “But chances are they’re not the only witnesses. Chances are the mage-mist will be seen elsewhere, and reported on. There will be panic, my lord, which does not bode well for your interests.”
It did not bode well for a number of things. Curse it. Showing nothing but a restrained concern, he nodded.
“You were right to bring this to my immediate attention, Nydd. Now go home and steady yourself with some brandy. If you receive any more reports of mage-mist beyond our borders, inform me at once. And above all else, maintain your excellent discretion. Not a word of this is to pass your lips. Understood?”
“Of course, my lord,” Nydd murmured. “I will leave these reports with you, that you might peruse them at length.”
As soon as the library door closed, Morgan sat at the nearest reading table and frowned at the smears his dragging fingertip left on the polished wood. Frowned at the letters Nydd had left behind.
Mage-mist in Brantone? In Manemli and Trindek? I did not anticipate that.
He hadn’t anticipated the depth of Dorana’s disruptions, either. Still, the trouble was temporary. Everything would return to normal once his transmutation work was complete. If he was certain of anything, he was certain of that. Everything he understood about syllabic harmonics confirmed it. Neverthless, this spreading of the mage-mist was a most inconvenient development. If Venette lost faith in him, she’d withdraw her assistance.
There is only one remedy. Barl and I must redouble our efforts. We’re in a race against time now. A race we must win.
“What did Nydd want?” his beloved said, when he joined her in the attic. Her eyes were heavy with weariness, her cheeks pale from lack of rest. “Is everything all right?”
He’d decided not to tell her how disruptive their more complicated transmutations were proving. He did not doubt her resolve, but preferred to let her remain undistracted. If she thought her brother was in peril, she’d leave. Fortunately she was so engrossed in their magework she had no interest in the world beyond their heavily warded estate… and with Rumm warned not speak of what was happening in Dorana, she remained comfortably ignorant.
Which was for the best.
“Morgan?”
“A mine collapse in Trindek,” he said, and kissed her. “Some deaths. Very sad. He thought I should know of it without delay.”
She stared. “In the middle of the night? That’s hardly considerate. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do.”
“True,” he said. “But Nydd is nothing if not conscientious. My love, are you too weary to keep on working? For if you’re not I’d like to finish this incant before we sleep.”
“Too weary? Never,” she said, then stifled a yawn. “Here. See what I’ve done?” She pushed the notebook toward him. “I think this reworking of the second stanza will allow us to transmute the armoured carapace into flexible scales without any more suffocations.”
And of course, she was right. A flame of excitement, leaping. Familiar heat in his blood. Underneath that, a tiny prickle of resentment, swiftly quashed. But oh, sometimes it was hard to accept how easily she reworked him. How she could look at his incants and see at once where he’d misstepped.
And after all this time, I still cannot break her wards.
“Morgan?”
He kissed her, deeply, smothering pettiness with pleasure. “Yes, my love. That’s it exactly. Let’s go through the whole incant again, to be certain… and on the morrow, we’ll test it.”
But on the morrow, Morgan received a note, by extremely roundabout means, from one of his mysterious catalyst suppliers.
“More bad news?” Barl said, as they shared breakfast in the mansion’s bread-scented kitchen. “Please don’t say we’ll have only Lady Martain’s goodwill to sustain us from now on.”
Folding the note, Morgan shook his head. Then he slipped it inside his tunic. “No. But I will have to meet with him.”
“Here?”
“Never here. I’ll be gone several hours. You’ll manage on your own?”
She threw a toast crust at him. “Mind your manners, Lord Danfey, or you’ll be tidying your own incants.”
He still looked tired, but his smile was as dazzling as ever. “Yes, my lady.”
Yes, my lady. He often said that, to tease her, but it was just a tease. They weren’t handfasted yet. Of course they were very busy, the magework had to come first. And of course he loved her. That hadn’t changed. But now and then she couldn’t help wishing…
“Will you indulge me, my love?” he said, standing. “Will you leave the testing of that incant until I return?”
Oh. “Must I?”
He came round the table, bent down and kissed her. Slid his hand behind her neck and held her, in the way she liked best. “Please,” he said against her lips. “If we were still transmuting chickens I’d be easy. But we’re not, and I’m not.”
When he asked her like that, how could she refuse?
“Yes. All right. But you won’t be gone all day, will you?”
He kissed her again, on the forehead this time. “Not quite all, no. I promise.”
Because poor Rumm was run off his feet these days with a whole mansion to care for, after Morgan lef
t she cleared up in the kitchen, took the new bread from the oven and set it on racks to cool, peeled potatoes for lunch, hauled washing out of the laundry tub and wrung it sloppily dry, then traipsed upstairs to the library. If Morgan was going to be gone several hours, here was a chance to break her stalemate with the incant she’d promised him. The incant she’d promised herself.
Nearly two hours later, chance became reality.
Trembling with excitement, she stared at the latest variation of sigil and syllables designed to cheat death. And felt that funny click when all the pieces fell into place and the rightness of the magic turned her blood to liquid light.
“Oh, Morgan,” she whispered. “Oh, my love.”
I did it. Justice save me. I really am a brilliant mage.
But she wouldn’t show it to him yet. She’d save it as a surprise. No, a wedding gift. What could be more perfect than that?
Alone in the library, she danced a silly jig of joy. Oh, she’d forgotten how it felt to be carefree, after so long in the attic workroom and the poultry coop, the kennels and the stables, struggling with transmutation after transmutation. Failure after failure. Grieving for the ruined animals. Watching Morgan’s fear and impatience wear on him. Feeling her own fear steal her breath. Knowing, always knowing, that every day brought Dorana’s unknown danger one day closer.
But she wasn’t going to think about that now. She’d done something extraordinary. She was going to enjoy that for a while.
Only first I have to hide this incant… and not only by stuffing it into a drawer.
So she incanted the incant to change her handwriting, and then inscribed the notebook with another mage’s name. Finally she shoved it amongst the magework books dealing with childhood ailments, tolerably sure Morgan would never rummage through those.
And then she took herself outside for a days’ long overdue breath of fresh air.
Someone was walking up the long estate driveway. For one heart-stopping moment she thought it was Morgan, thrown from his horse or in some other way hurt. But when she looked again she realised she was wrong. But even so… the walk was familiar. And then she recognised who had turned up, unannounced.
“Remmie?” she said, staring. Incredulous. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Will you never even once do what I ask?”
As soon as he set foot on the Danfey estate’s driveway, Remmie could feel that something had changed. There was magework here, clean and powerful, as he’d not felt it for so long. He could feel Barl in it. Feel someone else too, Lord Danfey most like. Their combined talent was… formidable.
I don’t understand this. How can they magework, and nobody else?
Tired, hungry and unkempt after six days cooped up in various wagons, he tramped the long stretch of gravel. Not as well-kept as he’d expected. There were weeds, and bare patches. There was a beautiful silence, though. A sense of sweetness and harmony. No sense of the wrongness he could feel everywhere else. The woodland ringing the Danfey estate seemed to keep out the world.
No wonder Barl likes living here. I think I’d like it myself.
And speaking of Barl…
There she was. Standing up ahead of him, in the middle of the driveway, sunlight sheening her head-to-toe blue silk. Golden head tilted, hands fisted on her hips, and he didn’t have to be any closer than this to know that her eyes were narrowed with annoyance.
“Remmie!” she said, when he was a stone’s throw away. “What are you doing here? Have you gone quite mad?”
Relief had him stumbling. He slowed and slowed and halted and drank the sight of her, whole.
“You’re all right,” he said, hearing his voice crack round the edges. “I was so worried. The whole journey here, the things I’ve seen. The things I was imagining… Barl, it’s good to see you.”
She was staring at him as though he’d grown another head. “Remmie, weren’t you listening? Why are you here?”
“They closed the schoolhouse,” he said, and had to fight a fresh surge of grief. “I had nothing else to do, so I came to see if you were all right.”
“Closed the schoolhouse? Why?” And then she was shaking her head, not giving him a chance to answer. “Oh, look at you. When was the last time you saw soap and water? And a razor?”
“Last night,” he said vaguely. “I’ve taken a room at the Shooting Star. But it’s a long walk from Elvado. Lord Danfey likes his solitude, doesn’t he?”
“Come on,” she said, and took his arm. “You’d best come inside. I can’t believe you’re here. It’s a good thing Morgan’s ridden out on business, for if he hadn’t we’d be mageworking and I’d have no time for you at all.”
Remmie fell into step beside her, and they tramped along the driveway toward the imposing stone mansion.
“I felt something… odd… as I crossed the estate boundary. Some kind of—”
“It’s a warding incant,” she said, glancing sideways. “Morgan and I are as fond of privacy in our magework as we are of solitude.”
“A ward? And it’s holding?”
She gave him another baffled look. “Yes, of course it’s holding. Why wouldn’t it?”
“Barl—” Stopping, he caught hold of her wrist. “I know you get blinded by your magework, but… you do know what’s happening in Dorana, don’t you? The mage-mist?”
“Mage-mist?” she said, suddenly wary, and tugged her wrist free. “What do you mean?”
A cold slap of understanding stole his breath. “Justice save me. Is Danfey keeping you a prisoner here, still?”
“No, of course not! Remmie—”
Heedless, he took hold of her shoulders. Shook her a little, staring into her face. “Barl, when was the last time you left this estate?”
This time she didn’t pull free of him. “Why?”
“Just answer me.”
“When I came to see you. Why?”
Letting go of her, turning away, he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, breathing hard. When he could trust himself, he turned round. Rage was coursing through him, bitter and hot.
“So you don’t know. Which means Danfey’s been lying to you. I’ll wager everything he’s ever said is a lie.”
“That’s a lie!” Barl retorted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“And you don’t know Dorana is falling apart!”
She stepped back. “Falling apart? Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense,” he said. “Something’s gone very wrong. I can’t believe you don’t know.”
She was standing still and straight, her fingers clenched by her sides, all the colour drained out of her cheeks.
“Then it’s happening,” she whispered. “What Morgan’s feared for so long. But why didn’t he tell me? We’re not ready, and it’s my fault. I can’t keep the transmutations consistent. Every time we use the incant, it warps the syllabics and the magework fails, horribly. And then we have to go back to the beginning and start over, again and again. Oh, why didn’t he tell me? I’d have done more, I’d have tried harder, I—” She squeezed her eyes shut, her face a mask of distress. And then she looked at him, her wide eyes filled with a sudden dawning hope. “Oh! But Remmie, now you’re here. You can help. You might be out of practice after all that stodgy teaching, but you’ll find your feet quickly enough. What a mercy the schoolhouse closed. You’ve got here just in time!”
The flood of words left him feeling battered and dazed. “Barl, what are you—”
She snatched his arm again and started for the mansion, dragging him with her. “You remember the lily?”
How could he forget? The flower was still in the cottage kitchen, air-dried in a jar.
“What does your irregular flower have to do with any of this?”
“Everything,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
In horrified silence, he stared at the chickens huddled in the corner of the coop. Well. The things that used to be chickens. He didn’t know what to call them now. Barl’s mood had ligh
tened, bringing him here. She was talking about the transmutation incant that had altered the birds, changed their feathers to living armour, their stubby beaks to living swords, their harmless scratching chicken feet to wicked, tearing talons. Telling him how difficult it had been to get the sigil and syllables balanced just right, how so many chickens had died before the first one lived and thrived.
If anyone in their right mind could call such a miserable existence thriving.
“Of course,” she added, “they’re not really good for anything. I mean, what we end up with won’t be based on a chicken. Mainly we were trying to perfect the melding of carapace and feather. For protection. You understand?”
No, Barl. None of it.
But he couldn’t trust his voice, so he nodded instead.
“We tried to change the hounds, but that didn’t work at all,” she said, frowning. “So we’re trying something else now, something much closer to what Dorana needs, but it’s not right. Not yet. I’ll show you, Remmie. Only I’ll warn you it’s a bit upsetting. All right?”
No, it wasn’t all right. None of this was all right. She’d kept calling him mad, but he thought she was the one whose reason had flown.
She’s transmuting living creatures. Deforming and killing them by the dozen… and she doesn’t seem to care.
This wasn’t his sister. This wasn’t the Barl he knew.
I will murder Morgan Danfey. This is his fault.
“Remmie?” Barl touched his arm. “It’s out here, on the other side of the coop.”
It was the most appalling thing he’d ever seen… and after seeing the corpse of a woman caught in mage-mist just outside Fothel, he’d not imagined there could be anything worse.
The dead calf’s body was covered in grey scales, like a lizard. Scales crusted over its eyes and nose and mouth. Wicked spurs, like a fighting cockerel’s, jutted from its spindly legs. A single horn, like a Trindeki spear, thrust out of its forehead.
Remmie felt his empty belly roil. No. No. This had to be a dream. “You did this, Barl? You made this?”
“Morgan and I did, yes.”
