A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Go on,” Brice invited. “I am interested.”

  “If Dorana is unmaking itself, then I believe our only course of action is to summon to the First district every ranked and unranked mage of talent, and under the auspices of this Council and the College, strive to save it in a working. Our many voices of healing must be raised to drown out the lone voice of disease, before we all perish… and take the wider world with us. Or before the wider world decides it can live without us.”

  “It is an intriguing notion,” Brice said slowly, looking round the table. “Venette, has Mage Ranowen, have any of the College mages, suggested a similar approach?”

  “No,” she said, still looking at Dreen Brislyn. “They—we—have been focusing on the cause of the problem, assuming that no answer is possible before that cause is understood.”

  Dreen Brislyn frowned. “Has there been any glimmer of understanding so far?”

  “To an extent,” she admitted. “The damage to the magical plane, for want of a better description, is not constant or consistent. It breaches, it ripples then cobbles together, only to breach in a new harmonic key, and ripple there, and finally cobble again. Mage Ranowen and her colleagues and I have had some small success healing, let’s say, a few of these breaches, but…” Painfully reminded of recent frustrations and despair, she had to clear her throat. “To borrow Mage Ranowen’s fanciful analogy, if Dorana is a tapestry, then something is wildly dashing about with a sword, slashing holes in the fabric… and we, its mages, dash from slash to slash with needle and thread so we might stitch it back together before the whole collapses entirely.”

  Eyes alight with eagerness, Dreen Brislyn leaned forward. “Then surely you can see that my suggestion is most timely! I say we give you and the College’s mages thousands of needles!”

  “What say you, Venette?” Brice prompted. “It sounds like a possible answer to me.”

  She was tempted to retreat to the balcony herself, just to escape the pressure of everyone’s stares. Even Sallis and Shari seemed impressed with Dreen Brislyn’s suggestion.

  “Sounds like, yes,” she said. “And yes, it might be possible. But I caution against taking my analogy too literally. Until we know why these tears and instabilities are occurring, it could be very dangerous to throw so much magic at them at once. Instead of healing Dorana, we could destroy it ourselves.”

  “That’s true,” Dreen Brislyn said. “But will you at least take my suggestion to the College, Lady Martain? Today? If its mages deem there is some merit to my suggestion, it will take time to organise. And I’m not sure how much time Dorana has. Quite apart from our dilemma, our neighbours are impatient… and not much inclined to give us the benefit of the doubt.”

  Venette looked to Brice. “There can be no harm done asking Bellamie’s opinion.”

  “Agreed,” said Brice. “You should both go and sound out the College on this notion. But first, Lady Brislyn, we have privy matters to discuss. Perhaps you’d care for some refreshments? The duty mage will gladly escort you to the dining hall. Lady Martain can find you when our business is concluded.”

  Dreen Brislyn stood, and offered them a brief nod. “Lord Varen. Councillors. The General Council thanks you for your time and co-operation.”

  “Arrogant wench!” Shari spat, once Dreen Brislyn was gone. “I don’t care how clever she is, that lowly ranked upstart needs putting in her place. She—”

  “Putting in her place, Shari? Really? The head of Dorana’s General Council?” Disgusted, Venette shook her head. “D’you know, I might well have had my fill of the rabble but when I hear you say things like that, I’m forced to admit they might have a point!”

  “Do not start your bickering,” Brice snapped. “But instead consider the news Lady Brislyn has brought.”

  Sallis’s eyebrows lifted. “You take this threat seriously, Brice?”

  “You do not?”

  “If you mean do I fear a rabble of unwashed, stick-wielding Trindeki plainsmen then the answer is most emphatically no.”

  Brice sighed. “Then you prove yourself a greater fool than ever I imagined, Sallis. Lady Brislyn is right. Without magic we are as lambs before a wolf pack… and with the magickless nations ranged against us, outnumbered.”

  “Or do you believe that your sharp tongue alone can save you from a murderous Trindeki?” Venette said, poisonously sweet.

  Sallis shut his mouth with a snap.

  “Brice…” Bracing herself, Venette turned to him. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but it’s time we brought Morgan back into the fold. Whatever his transgressions, surely—”

  “Surely he has demonstrated he’s not to be trusted!” said Shari.

  “You want to worry about his sexual peccadilloes, Shari, with Dorana falling apart and five warlike nations baring their teeth in our direction?”

  Shari’s lips thinned to a stubborn line. “A man careless and unthinking in his privy life will be careless and unthinking in his magework. At which, I say again, he is not so remarkably gifted!”

  “He was gifted enough to be granted a seat on this Council, Shari! Either its mages are the finest in Dorana or they’re not! Which is it?”

  “Even this Council can make a mistake!”

  Her hand itching to slap the stupid woman silly, Venette turned to Brice. “I want this matter decided, Lord Varen, once and for all. I want you to rule on Morgan’s position. I’m tired of you letting Sallis and Shari decide for you.”

  Brice’s eyes glinted. “Be careful, Venette.”

  “I have been careful! And I’ve been patient! For weeks now I have waited for you to do the right thing. Well, my lord, I am tired of waiting. I’m tired of listening to Sallis and Shari malign one of our own, knowing that you’ll not lift a finger to stop them!”

  “Very well, Lady Martain,” Brice said curtly. “Here is my ruling. The fact that Sallis and Shari dislike Morgan does not mean their concerns lack credence. The harsh truth is that no matter his talents, which are many, I grant you, Morgan Danfey is unstable. There is an inconstance revealed in him that I fear one day will be his undoing. A mage and his magework cannot be taken apart. Who we are, what we are, informs everything that we do. You rail at me for not making my ruling sooner? Well, I have been waiting too. Waiting for him to come to his senses and ask me for the chance to prove his worth. Instead he remains on his estate, sulking and fucking. That is not the conduct of a councillor, Venette.”

  She thought she might drown in Sallis and Shari’s gleeful smugness. She thought she might weep, because Brice was wrong… and she could say nothing. Confess that Morgan was mageworking, and that she abetted him, and she’d be censured. Likely stripped of her position. And if she wasn’t on the Council, she couldn’t help Morgan at all—or Dorana.

  So, with teeth gritted, she accepted what she could not change. “Lord Varen.”

  With a sharp nod, Brice looked to Sallis and Shari. “You are unwise to dismiss our neighbours as beneath contempt. For countless generations they have known one thing above all else: the mages of Dorana are untouchable. But now this generation has seen us stumble. And though we shall regain our feet, it will be a long time before they forget what they have seen. They might even be emboldened to test our resolve. Therefore you’ll retire to the archives and read every history book, every note, every scribbled scrap, in search of magics that we can use to defend ourselves should this generation seek to press their advantage.”

  They sat, grimly silent, contemplating a future they did not wish to face. Perhaps did not even know how to face… though not a one of them would admit it. At least not yet.

  Venette turned her shoulder to Sallis and Shari. Lowered her voice. “Brice… will you at least let me be the one to tell Morgan?”

  “Very well,” he said. “But after today, Venette, I will not discuss him again.”

  And that was that.

  Nearly two hours after Remmie’s furious abandonment, Rumm found Barl weeping outside the poult
ry coop, slumped on the grass beside the dead, ruined calf.

  “Mage Lindin!”

  Humiliated, she scrambled to her feet. “Oh, Rumm. Morgan’s right. He should put a bell on you!”

  The master servant, thinner and far less immaculate these days in trousers and shirt sleeves, no buttoned tunic, took a prudent step back. “I’m sorry. When I called you for lunch and you didn’t answer, I became concerned.”

  “Lunch?” Squinting, she glanced at the sky. And there was the sun, slid past its high point on its lazy glide toward the horizon. “Oh.”

  “Are you hungry? I’ve made some pea soup.”

  “No. Yes. Perhaps.” She dragged her silk sleeve over her wet face, and when Rumm clicked his tongue at that gave him a look. “Careful, or you’ll be wearing those soupy peas.”

  “Mage Lindin,” he said, very correct.

  She watched him as he tried not to look at the dead calf. All the terrible things Remmie said came back to her, and she lifted her chin.

  “Well? Go on, then, Rumm. Tell me I’m cruel. Tell me I make monsters. Tell me how much I enjoy killing helpless beasts like this.”

  Shocked differently now, his gaze shifted back to her. “I would never say any of those things, Mage Lindin. Much of your work is distasteful, but it’s for the greater good.”

  He answered to Morgan, not her, but she’d chance a question anyway. She had to know. “Is something wrong in Elvado, Rumm? Something Morgan’s told you to say nothing about?”

  Rumm’s eyes flickered. Seeing it, Barl felt her insides twist. So Remmie was right? Morgan was keeping things from her? She wanted to weep again, but managed to hold the tears at bay.

  “What’s gone wrong, Rumm? Tell me!”

  “What makes you think anything’s wrong, Mage Lindin?”

  She slapped him. “Stop it! Don’t you dare stand there treating me like a block of wood, you stupid man. My brother was here. He says Dorana’s falling apart! Is it?”

  Rumm’s cheek was marred by a red mark where her hand had struck. “And was it your brother who said those hateful things, too?”

  “Being hateful doesn’t make him a liar! Rumm, so help me, I won’t ask you again!”

  “Mage Lindin, I’m sorry. You’ll have to take this up with his lordship.”

  “You’re sorry?” She pressed her trembling lips together, hard. “I’m going inside,” she said, when she could trust her voice. Then she kicked the dead calf’s spindly leg. “Burn this. Or bury it. I don’t care, only get it out of my sight.”

  Rumm bowed. “Mage Lindin.”

  “And so that we’re clear? I’d drink rat poison before I touched your pea soup again. It’s horrible. It always has been.” Not waiting for him to answer, she turned on her heel and marched away. Only got a few steps before she thought to turn round. “And if you dare tell Morgan that Remmie was here, I’ll make you drink rat poison. Don’t think that I won’t.”

  As she often did, she waited for Morgan in the library. But for the first time since she’d set foot in the splendid room, it gave her no pleasure.

  Morgan lied. He lied.

  Or held back the truth from her, which amounted to the same thing. She was too angry for more weeping. Not even Remmie’s hatefulness had hurt her like this.

  How can he love me, and lie to my face?

  He came home just on sunset, with the clear sky streaking mauve and gold. Strode into the library smiling, jubilant, a heavy satchel on his shoulder.

  “My love! Good news! I have azafris, I have—”

  “One chance to explain, Morgan, why you’ve been lying to me!”

  He checked like a deer struck through the heart by an arrow. “Lying? My love—”

  “Don’t!” she said, sliding out of the chair and lifting her hands. “I’m warning you. Don’t. What’s mage-mist?”

  “Oh.” Slowly, he let the heavy satchel thud to the floor. “Rumm!”

  Snatching up a cushion, she threw it at him. “You leave Rumm alone. He’s got nothing to do with this. Morgan, when were you going to tell me that things in Dorana had turned so bad?”

  “I wasn’t,” he said, watching her carefully. “At least, not until I had no choice. Barl, who told you about mage-mist? Was it Venette? Has she been here?”

  She didn’t know whether to weep or scream. “No, it wasn’t Venette, it wasn’t Rumm, it doesn’t matter who it was! What matters is that you lied to me. Why would you do that?”

  “To protect you, my love.”

  “Protect me? When have I ever asked you to protect me?”

  His face was pale, his eyes distressed. “You don’t have to ask, Barl. I love you. I will always protect you.”

  “Not by lying to me, you won’t! What is mage-mist?”

  “Oh, Barl.” He closed the distance between them, pulled her to his chest and rested his cheek on her hair. “Mage-mist is a leaking of raw magical energy into the air. It’s unpredictable and destructive and it’s causing some problems.”

  She didn’t put her arms around him. Her insides were twisting anew with a terrible foreboding.

  “Morgan… is it because of the transmutation incants? The shifting syllabics? Is this trouble our fault?”

  He sighed. “And this is why I didn’t tell you. It might be. I don’t know. But even if it is, what Dorana will gain from our magework far outstrips this tiny tempest.”

  She tried to pull away, but he tightened his arms. Held her prisoned against him, and kissed her. And because he was a fever in her, because she needed Remmie to be wrong, she kissed him back. Nipped his lower lip to blood, though, because she was still angry.

  “You had no right to keep the truth from me. Say you’re sorry. Say you’ll never do that again.”

  “I’m sorry.” He dipped his head. Bit her breast through her silk tunic, not quite gently. “Never again. Forgive me.”

  His contrition and the small pain ignited a firestorm of pleasure. But she couldn’t let that distract her. Shuddering, she ignored it.

  “Morgan, if this trouble is our doing, then we must undo it.”

  “And we will,” he said, his hands busy. “When we finish what we started, all will be well again. You’ll see.”

  He had her blood thundering. It was hard to breathe. “Morgan, I want to know what we’re creating. All of it. Not just hints. I want to know what you’ve been working on without me.”

  He groaned against her. “Not yet. Soon.”

  “You keep saying that, but—”

  “Barl…” Pulling his head back, he looked down at her, his eyes almost blind with pleasure. “My love, don’t you trust me?”

  “You know I do,” she said, hearing her voice hitch. “But Morgan—”

  His lips stole whatever she’d wanted to say. “Then trust me.”

  Those busy hands were driving her out of her mind. Taking them, she pressed him to her, high and low, letting out a soft cry as he did what she wanted.

  “All right. All right.” The words escaped her in swift, breathless pants. “But Morgan, we have to hurry. We can’t let Dorana suffer. And I think it’s time to step out of the shadows. We’ve worked in secret long enough.”

  He groaned. “Soon, my love. Soon.”

  “No, Morgan. Now. Now now now now.”

  Laughing, his eyes blazed at her. “You want now? All right. Now.”

  He dragged them both to the carpet. Stripped her bare, and made her scream. It wasn’t what she’d meant, and he knew it.

  But it would do… for now.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Lying in bed beside Morgan, head turned on the pillow to watch him sleep, Barl marvelled at the moonlit planes of his face. She thought she could stare at him for hours, for ever, and never grow weary of his cheekbones, his lips, his nose. His hair was unbound and silver gilt, spread like spun silk on the pillows between them. Unfurling her fingers she stroked it, and felt her skin shiver. She loved his hair. She loved him. Even when she was angry with him, still she lov
ed him. The simplicity of that stole her breath. The power of it sustained her. If they had to live apart on this estate for the rest of their lives, she didn’t care. For where they loved, they would endure.

  So long as Dorana endures.

  “You mustn’t fret, my love,” he said, not opening his eyes. “All will be well in the end.”

  Because he was awake, she slid her fingertips down his arm. “I know.”

  “And don’t think I am crushed by the Council’s rejection. I outgrew those fools some time ago.”

  Venette Martain had brought them the news, not long after they’d sat down to their supper. She’d been so upset she’d actually deigned to join them at the kitchen table and let Rumm feed her plain mutton stew.

  “I know that too. But Morgan…”

  Venette Martain hadn’t only told them about the loss of his position. There was worse news, that had killed appetite stone dead.

  “Barl.” Morgan took her hand. “What have we been preparing for, if not the predations of our neighbours?”

  She hid her face against his shoulder. “Yes, Morgan, I know. But we’re not ready for them, are we?”

  “We will be.”

  “Oh, Morgan.” Letting go of him, she sat up. “Must we have this argument again? So soon? You are not confident, my love. You’re as worried as I am. Put on a brave face for Venette Martain and Rumm, if you must, but don’t try to cozen me.”

  He opened his eyes. “All right.”

  “So… what are we going to do?”

  “We’re doing it, Barl. We are creating the magework that will save Dorana. Provided we hold our course and keep our nerve, we will prevail. Do not doubt that for a moment. And I am not cozening you,” he added, pressing a finger to her lips as she began to protest. “I believe it, wholeheartedly.”

  She could see that he did. If only I could believe it. “Morgan, how is it our magework is unaffected when the rest of Dorana is in such a state? Even Lady Martain seemed baffled.” She pulled a face. “Relieved, too, curse her, but baffled.”