A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Of course I’m listening, my dear. I’m just not sure what you want me to do.”

  “Talk to her! Make her tell you what she’s thinking, what she’s doing!”

  Another rule she’d made for herself was that she must always take her meals in the camp’s small, root-knotted central square. That no matter how sad or weary or defeated she felt, she could never retreat into solitude, into the privacy of her tent. The exiles of Dorana must see her every day, brave and determined and undefeated by their tragedies.

  Which meant that on this one hundred and twelfth morning in Lur, she ate her breakfast with Remmie in full sight of their fellow mages. The few who’d braved the sunrise, at least, aside from those whose turn it was to cook. Hayne Jarralt, Tarlin Amsher, Vonie Trevoyle and her young son, Abbet. Most everyone else stayed late abed, though, these days… and while she deplored sloth, she found it hard to lay blame. With nearly all magework forbidden for the time being, so as not to alarm the Olken, there was little for the weary, heartsick mages of Dorana to do.

  Hearing Remmie’s raised voice, those hardy few early risers cast surreptitious glances at them.

  “Now, now, Mage Lindin,” she murmured, reproving. “I’ll have no ructions causing dismay.”

  Glowering, he pushed aside his half-finished porridge and leaned forward. “Are you going to talk to Barl, or not?”

  “Remmie…” Venette sighed. “I’ve already talked to her. Well, I tried. She’s no more forthcoming with me.”

  “And that doesn’t alarm you?”

  Of course it did. But she saw little purpose in telling him so. He was on edge enough already. “My dear, your sister will confide in us when it suits her, and not a moment before.”

  Remmie grunted a grudging acceptance, then ran a hand down his lightly stubbled face. “Will you speak to Elder Chaffie today? See if the Olken are any closer to a decision?”

  “Yes. But doubtless she’ll give me the same answer. Until your sister can explain what she meant by us helping them, they can’t be expected to say one way or the other.”

  “Which is why you should make Barl tell you what she’s doing,” said Remmie, retrieving his porridge bowl. “Venette…” He swallowed another mouthful of the unpalatable mush. “We did the right thing, didn’t we, leaving Benbarsk? Coming here?”

  A question she’d asked herself every day since they began their terrible struggle over the mountains. And every death in those jagged peaks, every broken bone, every bloodied scrape and bruise, had served only to gouge her deeper with doubt.

  But she couldn’t tell Remmie that, either.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “Here, with the Olken, we have a chance to rebuild our lives. To rebuild Dorana, after a fashion. Benbarsk would have become our tomb. For certain, Remmie, we did the right thing.”

  “Even with the drought that’s gripping this land?”

  “Droughts end. Rain returns.” If they’d been alone she’d have touched him. Perhaps stroked his hair. But because others were watching, she had to content herself with a smile. “And don’t forget your exasperating sister, my dear. We must have faith that what she’s working on will help.”

  He didn’t smile back. Birdsong from the surrounding trees lifted the woodland gloom. No bears here. No Iringan spears, no swordsmen of Vharne. Things weren’t perfect, that was true… but they could be much worse.

  “She’s still convinced Danfey is a danger, you know,” he said at last. “She says she still dreams him.”

  Venette looked away. Morgan. She did her best not to think of Haeth’s son. When she thought of him, she thought of Orwin… and then she wept herself sick.

  Orwin. Brice. Bellamie. Even Sallis and Shari. And all those other mages, most of whom I never knew.

  How many wounds could a heart bear, before it tore apart completely?

  “Morgan is the past, Remmie,” she said, standing. “He is caged, and will stay caged. We are safe here, I’m sure of it. And I’m sure that in their own time, the Olken will decide we can stay.”

  Staring at her, his eyes troubled, Remmie tapped his whittled wooden spoon against his porridge bowl. For a moment she thought he was going to argue, but then he sighed.

  “I’m teaching, later. Will you come?”

  “Of course,” she said warmly. “And perhaps you could ask Maris to help? She’s good with children. Perhaps you’ve seen her with her nephew? And I know she’d like something useful to do.”

  Remmie gave her a look. “Yes. I suppose I could.”

  She knew better than to push any harder than that. “Good. Now, my dear, I must spread myself about a bit. I’ll see you in class.”

  And leaving him to think about Maris, she hoped, she joined Hayne Jarralt and the others, whose enthusiastic greeting chased away the shadows of pain… for now.

  Nine days after hearing the Doranen’s sorry tale from Barl Lindin, and then not another word nor even a glimpse of them, the Olken gathered in Gribley were starting to get restless. Elder Chaffie had already broken apart two brawls, and was threatening to send the next troublemakers back to their home villages.

  Nursing a half-mug of cider in a corner of the village’s smokey alehouse, Jervale let his head rest against the wall behind him and drifted his eyes nearly closed. Nine days since he’d confronted Barl Lindin in the woodland. Nine days since he’d dreamed… or slept well, because of it.

  “Jervale! There you are.”

  And that was Bannet, shifting his way through the midday crowd to join him. Bannet, a good man, a new friend, who was part of his last dream. The only part of it he recognised. The five other faces he’d dreamed… he didn’t know them. He’d seen them round about, they’d all come to Gribley from villages scattered the length and breadth of Lur, but he didn’t know them. Not to trust. And yet there he was, dreaming them, and his nagging inner voice wasn’t nagging any more, it was shouting.

  These folk are Lur’s future. And when it’s time, you’ll know.

  But time for what? He didn’t know that. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to. He was tired of secrets. Even more tired of waiting. And as for his dreams… He felt sick to his stomach. What was Barl Lindin doing? What was taking her so long? Should he go and find her? Perhaps she needed his help, perhaps for all her fancy Doranen magework the magic of Lur was too wild for her taming.

  What am I meant to do? I don’t know what to do!

  “Jervale?” Bannet slid onto a stool opposite, and thumped his own mug of cider on the rough bench between them. “Is aught amiss? You look like a man with a mortal bad bellyache.”

  Should he confide in Bannet now? Was this the right time? He didn’t know. His inner voice was silent.

  Best I follow Bene’s favourite saying, then. When in doubt, don’t.

  He picked up his mug and took a comforting swig of strong cider. “Nothing’s amiss, Bannet. Save I’m weary of being such a long way from home. It’d be easier to bear if the chiming stones were more reliable, and I could have a word with my Bene and Tilly.”

  But that was proving nigh impossible. Gribley was so far away, and there were so many of them trying to chime home at once. Lur’s troubles meant their stones stuttered and would not hold their notes.

  “I hear you,” said Bannet, who was missing his own wife and two sons, back in Salting. “And I can tell you, we ain’t the only ones put out. There’s folk mighty grumped on all this thumb-twiddling, and starting to lose any kindness they might’ve felt for these mages. If they don’t answer their own riddles soon, then—”

  “Hey-de-ho!” said a cheerful voice, and there was Del of Westwailing come to sit with them. She carried a tray with three bowls of what smelled like bean stew, and her own mug of cider. “Make room!”

  So they shifted about, and Del settled at the bench. After taking a mouthful of stew, she sat back and grinned.

  “You’ll not believe it. I’ve come from talkin’ with that mage, Barl Lindin.”

  Bannet snorted. “Hope you told
her we’ve got better things to do than sit on our arses waiting for her to show us her magic tricks.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” said Del. “Seein’ as how I ain’t a sinkin’ fool.”

  Hiding a smile in his mug, Jervale once more felt the odd, inner tugging that told him this young woman was important. He’d given up trying to figure out why. Neither dreams nor instinct would tell him—and there was no point pushing for an answer. He’d know when he needed to know. If he needed to know it.

  “What did Mage Lindin want of you, Del?”

  Del hunched a little, and beckoned them close. “She wanted me to tell her about the coast,” she said, near to whispering. “What the weather was like southwards. What storms rolled in and when. Did we ever set sail on the open ocean? And when I told her about the bits and pieces left of the reef? She went very quiet. And there was a look in her eyes…”

  Despite himself, Bannet was intrigued. “Why? What do storms and an old reef matter?”

  “I don’t know,” said Del, shrugging. “But if she took time to ask me, then I reckon they must. That handsome brother of hers came along while I was with her, but she sent him away with a flea in his ear.”

  “Handsome?” Bannet stared. “Young Del, what did I tell you about the folly of Olken lasses mooning after strangers with blond hair?”

  Del flushed bright pink. “I ain’t mooning! He’s handsome, is all.”

  “Now you listen to me. If they stay here, there’ll be no good come of us and them getting tangled,” said Bannet, crossly. “Besides, you said on the road you were promised to a lad in Restharven.”

  “Aye, that’s right, I’m promised to Bede. But I can still look at a pretty face, can’t I? Ain’t no rule against lookin’.” Aggrieved, Del dug her fork into her bowl of stew. “So, Jervale, what d’you reckon Mage Lindin’s wonderings mean?”

  There was little he could say that wouldn’t reveal the things he knew… and Del of Westwailing wasn’t one of the Olken he’d dreamed.

  “I reckon we’ll find out when we find out. Don’t borrow trouble, that’s what I say.”

  “Oh, sink you,” said Del, and fell into more cosy brangling with Bannet.

  Content for now just to listen, Jervale busied himself with his stew.

  It comes down to Barl Lindin. As soon as she breaks her silence, that’s when I’ll know what to do.

  Thirteen days after learning the truth of the Olken from Jervale, Barl sat in her stifling tent, cold to the marrow, and went over and over and over her magework. Perhaps she’d made a mistake. Perhaps she was wrong, and her mad plan wouldn’t work after all.

  Except she wasn’t wrong, and she knew it.

  I can keep Morgan at bay forever. I can preserve what’s left of Dorana, and save the Olken people from a slow, tormenting death by drought and famine. I can turn their little land into a paradise. And all I have to do is… die.

  Unless the convoluted syllables and sigils of her incants could be combined in a kinder, gentler, less murderous way. Could they? Had she missed a different method of melding Doranen and Olken power so they would break the drought, heal the ailing land and seal the Doranen and Olken safely behind Lur’s towering mountains?

  Hours later, sweating, shivering, she threw aside diary and pen and pulled her knees to her chest. No. Try as she might, she couldn’t escape the stark truth. The final incant she’d need to coalesce the disparate Doranen and Olken magics, to create an impenetrable barrier around Lur, marrying safety and weather into a perfect, seamless whole, would simply… unmake her.

  After a time, her shivering stopped. Then, feeling strangely calm, she went in search of Remmie and Venette. Found them sitting in the camp’s square with Maris Garrick. The faint dawn daylight was surprising. Yet again she’d worked through the night.

  Remmie took one look at her face and dropped his mug of tea, splashing, to the ground. “Barl? What is it, what have you—”

  Ignoring him, she nodded to Maris. “I’m sorry, Mage Garrick. Would you excuse us? I have something privy to discuss. Remmie? Venette? Walk with me.”

  Leaving Maris to complain about certain people’s lack of manners, she led Remmie and Venette away from the barely stirring camp and into the surrounding woodland. Summoned glimfire to dispel the swiftly descending gloom and kept on walking the narrow, winding tracks, though there was muttering behind her.

  “All right, Barl, we’ve gone far enough!” Remmie said at last, catching her arm. “Stop.”

  She’d not spoken properly with either of them for days. Hadn’t spoken to anyone, save for that Olken girl from the coast, and Elder Chaffie. But that had been on purpose. She’d been afraid that if she let herself dwell on family, on friends—though it still felt odd to think of Venette Martain as a friend—she might surrender to cowardice and turn away from her task. She was afraid of that now. The fear in Remmie’s wide-eyed stare threatened to curdle her blood.

  Venette sighed. “What have you done, Barl?”

  Shifting her gaze from Remmie, she lifted her chin. “I’ve found a way to keep us all safe. I’m not finished, there’s a great deal of magework to complete, but—I have the bones of it. And the bones of it are sound.”

  “That’s for us to decide,” Remmie snapped. “This isn’t something you’ll do on your own.”

  Of course it was. It had to be. But he’d need time to accept that.

  The hushed, glimlit gloom of the Black Woods cradled them. The ground beneath their feet thrummed softly with Olken magic, that strangely gentle power that was the key to all she would do. Jervale had said the land was wounded. She still couldn’t feel it. Had to trust that even if he was right, it wouldn’t make a difference.

  Doranen magic is stronger. Ailing or not, I can bend the Olken’s magic to my will and purpose.

  “Come, Barl,” Venette said, coaxing. Not sounding at all like the arrogant mage she used to be. “You’ve brought us out here to tell us.”

  So she told them of the magework she’d imagined, the syllables and the sigils that would entirely change their world. And when she was finished, found a fallen tree and sat, exhausted.

  “I… don’t know what to say,” Venette murmured. “Truly, Barl. You have astonished me. And to think you are an unranked mage.”

  She felt a prickle of temper. That’s the Lady Martain I remember. “And I think we need to leave that kind of nonsense on the other side of the mountains, Venette. What I want to know is if you think the notion wise.”

  “Wise?” Venette laughed. “My dear, it is the most magnificent folly. I can’t think of a single mage in our history who would even dream up such a thing—let alone possess the talent to create it.”

  “I do.”

  “Yes, most likely, and the arrogance to accompany it.”

  Barl looked at Remmie. “You’re very quiet.”

  He shrugged. “Like Venette, I am astonished.”

  “Remmie—”

  He threw up his hands and half turned away. “What? What would you have me say? Your plan is brilliant and demented. And if the Olken agree to it—if they agree to do everything you ask—”

  “We won’t be trapped here forever,” she said softly. “Morgan is powerful and angry but he’s still just a man. Forty years from now, fifty, the warding can be released. And if the world beyond the mountains has healed itself… and I must believe it can and will heal itself… then Dorana’s mages can go home.”

  Shifting round, Remmie stared at her, the puckered scar on his cheek livid against his pallor. His eyes glittered in the glimlight, brightly sheened with grief and pain. And then he walked away.

  “Give him a moment, my dear,” said Venette, holding out her hand. “This magic of yours…” She cleared her throat. “You ask a great deal of him.”

  Only what she asked of herself. And if she could face this, then so could he.

  “You do realise everything depends on the Olken?” Venette added. “Your magnificent folly will come to naught
if they choose to stay as they are.”

  “Yes, but why would they?” she said, baffled. “When I am offering them abundance and prosperity and an end to their troubles. This land is dying, Venette. I can’t believe they’ll not save themselves.”

  Venette shook her head, wondering. “Magework to rule both weather and ward. To think I’ve lived to see such a thing.”

  Barl smiled, wryly. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

  “And I won’t, Barl, if you don’t convince the Olken to help us. The time’s come to talk to them. I know you think the choice is obvious, but I suspect that getting their consent for this won’t be a swift or easy matter.”

  “Fine, fine,” she said, knowing Venette was right. “Can you ask Elder Chaffie to have everyone gather in the hall after supper? I’d like to rest for a few hours, before I speak to them.”

  Venette nodded. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at her brother, standing a long stone’s throw distant with his back turned and his outstretched arm braced against a tree. As though he’d fall in a heap if it didn’t hold him up. “Can you find her now? I’d like a moment alone with Remmie.”

  “My dear,” said Venette… and shockingly, bent and kissed her cheek.

  “Don’t,” Remmie said, when they were alone and she’d walked slowly, her heart unsteady, to stand behind him. “There is nothing you can say that will make this all right.”

  She felt a rush of tears. Blinked them back. “You could finally say I told you so. That might help, Rem.”

  On a choked sob, he shook his head. “If you do this, it’ll kill you.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Oh, Barl,” he said, and spun round. His cheeks were wet. “Don’t insult me. I’m not some ignorant Olken.”

  “They’re not ignorant, Remmie. Just different. And a bit like children. Simple.”

  His face twisted. “And yet you’d give your life for them?”

  She wanted to touch him, to hold him, but she feared they’d both shatter if she did. “Not for them. For us.”