by Karen Miller
Why was he being so nice to her? Why did he care for how she felt, what she thought? Unless…
He finds me appealing? Is that why he’s done this? Venette Martain thinks so. She thinks I’m a threat.
Councillor Danfey frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? The binding?”
The laden tray was growing heavier by the moment. She tried to ease its weight by shrugging her shoulders a little. “No, sir. I’m fine.”
He stepped down another tread. Now he was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “That’s not true. Tell me what’s troubling you. Perhaps I can help.”
She couldn’t tell him the truth. Causing trouble between him and Lady Martain would do her no good at all. But if he meant what he said…
Remmie.
“It’s my brother, sir. He’s bound to come looking for me, and once he learns what’s happened I’m afraid he’ll do something rash. Please, will you let me write to him? Will you—” Her voice cracked, because her fear for Remmie wasn’t a lie. “I’d bear my punishment with a far better grace if I could just stop him from getting into trouble because of me.”
Morgan Danfey looked at her, his expression guarded. “This brother of yours,” he said at last. “You must love him very much.”
“I do, sir,” she whispered. “Remmie’s a good man. I don’t want him touched by my strife.”
“A good man deserves an explanation in person, don’t you think? I’ll go to him myself. I’ll tell him what’s happened.”
She almost dropped the tray. “You’d do that?”
“I’ve just said so, Mage Lindin. Do you doubt me?”
“No, sir,” she said quickly, and pulled her scattered wits together. “Of course not.”
This time his faint smile had an edge to it. “Good. All I need is the incant you’d use to travel home. Wait—” he added, as she opened her mouth. “You mustn’t utter it while you’re still bound.”
She wasn’t certain she could take any more surprises. “You’re going to unbind me?”
“Only for a moment. Now I suggest we’re careful, and do this off the stairs.”
Feeling numb, she retreated to the second floor landing. There she put down the tray and waited, docile as a child, for Morgan Danfey to join her.
He rested one elegant hand on her shoulder. “The unbinding won’t hurt you. But when I rebind you—”
It would hurt a great deal. She didn’t care. It was for Remmie. “Go ahead, Councillor. I’m not afraid.”
“I know. Now, you’ll need to close your eyes.”
Because he didn’t want her to see the sigils that formed the unbinding incant. So. He may be reckless in his magework but he wasn’t a fool.
Eyes obediently shut, she listened to him recite six harsh syllables of power. Out of habit, not really out of hope, she bid them sink into her memory. Then she felt the air stir as he inscribed it with two linked sigils. Just in time, she managed to muffle her surprise. She was bound… and yet she could see their complex shapes clear in her mind. If he’d asked her to draw them, she knew that she could.
Is that usual, with a binding? I wish I knew. I can’t ask.
The councillor’s fingers tightened. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m fine.”
“Nearly done.”
One more syllable, swiftly spoken, and she felt his binding incant spring free. Between heartbeats her trammelled mage-senses sprang back to life. The pleasure of it was so great she gasped and opened her eyes. The shock of his power, so close to her, buckled her knees. She would have fallen if he hadn’t taken both her arms.
“The incant,” he said, shaking her. “Quickly. The longer I wait before rebinding you, the worse it will be.”
Desperate, she looked up at him. “Please, Councillor Danfey, can’t you leave me unbound? I won’t run away, I won’t—”
He shook her again, harder. “Mage Lindin, don’t make me regret my kindness. Give me the travel incant, now, or I’ll rebind you and your brother can fend for himself.”
Hating him, hating herself for showing weakness, for giving in to despair, she told him the incant’s syllables and showed him its single sigil. He repeated the words to make sure he had them aright, then used his left hand to sketch the sigil, not quite completed, making sure it didn’t engage.
“That’s right,” she said. “You have it.”
His eyes and face lost their fierce coldness. “Good. Now brace yourself.”
The second binding was even more painful than the first. But only because this time she knew what it meant, what she was losing, how his words would make her cloddish and blind. As the cruel incant sprang closed around her, setting her nerves on fire, she cried out and fell against him. Expected to fall like a witless animal to the floor.
Instead he held her close as she wept.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. Be strong, Barl. Be yourself.”
Through the terrible burning, she could feel his heart beneath her cheek. It was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer, his broad chest the anvil, shuddering with her pain. His arms tightened, cradling her. Had she ever felt so safe? Had she ever, in her whole life, felt as protected as she did now?
Confused, she struggled free. “I’m all right.”
His fingers caught her chin, forced her head up so she was looking at him. “You’re certain? If I leave now, for Batava, I’ll not find you collapsed when I return?”
There were tears on her face. Humiliated, she brushed them away. “You can’t go now. Remmie’s a schoolteacher. At this time of day he’ll be in class.”
The councillor shook his head. “There’s no school today.” Releasing her, he retrieved the silver tea tray and held it out. “Tell Rumm I’ll be back before dinner. If his lordship asks after me, I’m about Council business and had to step out betimes.”
“Yes, sir.” She took a deep breath and tightened her cold fingers on the tray. “Sir, the incant will put you at our front gate. If there’s no answer at the door, go round behind. Given half a chance Remmie will spend hours pottering with his vegetables. And sir—”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Mage Lindin?”
“He’ll have to know the truth, there’s no avoiding that. But if you could spare him a little, in the telling of it? He’s going to take this hard.”
Morgan Danfey nodded, his expression cool and disinterested again. “I’ll do my best, Mage Lindin. Now get back to Rumm, before he comes looking for you.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, and even started down the stairs. But then she stopped and waited, watching as he used the incant she gave him… and stepped into the air.
Sighing, Remmie held the ravaged carrot-top high enough for the sun’s light to lift it from shadow. Frowned at the tiny insects scurrying along the vulnerable green fronds and sighed again.
Naphins. I knew it.
“And that means poison,” he said glumly, tossing the ravaged carrot aside. “Which I hate.” He pulled another carrot from the carefully tended, damp earth. “But not as much as I hate you.”
Indifferent to his enmity, the naphins scurried and chewed.
So much for his plan to take dinner at The Greased Pig, Batava’s cosy alehouse, then stay after for Griff Holcomb’s fiddle-playing and a game or three of spindle stones with Barton and Hobbie Melton and Mickel Dassify. And he’d been looking forward to it, immensely. An evening with friends was guaranteed to take his mind off his infuriating, terrifying, angrily absent sister.
His heart thudded hard, once. It did that every time he thought of Barl, remembered their last harsh conversation. And now she was run off to Elvado, likely mired to her armpits in trouble by now, and one minute he was all set to chase after her, then the next he dug his heels in and told himself no. Because leaving had been her choice. Ignoring him? Her choice. Refusing to admit she might be wrong? Her choice. Proud, stubborn and unreasonable. That was his sister.
Miserable, he slapped at hi
s spoiled carrots. Curse you, Barl, come home. Or if you won’t, at least—
“Remmie Lindin?”
Startled by the unexpected voice, deep and melodious, he pushed onto his knees and turned. Saw a mage walking down the garden toward him, tall and expensively dressed and oddly familiar.
“Yes, I’m Remmie Lindin,” he said, and got to his feet. Where had he seen this man before? He knew him from somewhere… “Winsun! You’re the councillor who demonstrated Mage Sorvold’s incant.” Which meant—
Oh, justice. Barl, what have you done?
The councillor halted at the edge of the vegetable patch. “You were there?”
Remmie nodded. “With my students. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know your name. You were never formally introduced.”
A glitter of amusement in the mage’s clear blue eyes. “I am Morgan Danfey.”
“And you’re here because—” He had to clear his throat. Tighten his fingers by his sides, to still their trembling. A mage from the Council was standing in his garden. “My sister. Barl.”
Councillor Danfey nodded. “We should go inside. Some discussions are best held privily.”
“Of course,” Remmie said faintly, sweat rolling down his ribs. “If you’ll follow me, sir?”
He escorted Councillor Danfey to the parlour, then excused himself so he could wash clean of garden dirt and sweat. When he returned, the councillor favoured him with a raised-eyebrow look.
“Do you have tea, Mage Lindin? Travel incants wake in me a raging thirst. We could sit in the kitchen and talk.”
In the kitchen? So was this an official visit or not?
“Of course, sir,” Remmie said, cautious and confused. “This way.”
As he took the kettle off the hob and filled it at the sink, Councillor Danfey stared out of the kitchen window.
“I’ve never been to the Eleventh district before.”
“Nor had I, sir, before I took a place teaching here.” He put the kettle back and fired up the range. “Batava’s very quiet, of course. Not as grand as Elvado. But then, where is?”
Turning, Councillor Danfey smiled. It made him seem friendly. Just a regular mage, no great power at all. But that was an illusion… and he’d best not forget it.
“Nowhere,” the councillor said, with a careless shrug. “But I’d think there’d be worse places to live than this.”
Remmie pulled out a chair at the table. “Please, sir. Have a seat. Would you care for some cake with your tea? It’s baked fresh, and I’m counted a passable cook.”
Another smile, as the councillor dropped neatly into the chair. “Unlike your sister, or so she says.”
Startled, Remmie almost dropped the tea caddy. “Sir? Please tell me, where is she? What’s happened? I know it’s bad. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. But—”
“Make the tea, Mage Lindin,” said Councillor Danfey, lowering his hand. “And by all means cut me a slice of cake. I’ve been working all morning and neglected to take breakfast.”
Oh. So it was that bad, was it? Well, yes, of course it was. Barl never did anything in half measures.
He made the tea, poured it into his two best cups, cut the pear and bassiberry cake into generous slices, then laid the hasty feast on the table.
“Don’t stint yourself, sir,” he said, sliding into the other chair. “A cake’s easily baked.”
“Perhaps,” said Councillor Danfey, after his first mouthful. “But rarely so well.”
Remmie tried to smile, but his face had forgotten how. “Thank you.”
As the councillor continued to eat and drink, he sipped his sugared tea. Didn’t dare eat cake, for fear it would choke him. There was a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow away. Any minute now, surely, Councillor Danfey would say what had happened… wouldn’t he?
The answer, it seemed, was no. Another cup of tea. Another slice of cake. No more casual conversation, just a thoughtful stare through the kitchen window, his brow creased into a faint frown. Remmie bit his tongue. They might be in his home but he felt supplanted as its master. Morgan Danfey wore his mantle of authority as comfortably as his fine silk brocade. The rings on his right hand were fashioned from gold and precious jewels. One was even a firestone, worth more than every personal possession in Batava.
So was it some kind of test, making him sit here in silence? And if he didn’t pass it, did that mean Barl would suffer? Terrified that it might, he kept on biting his tongue. He’d asked twice now for an explanation. He didn’t dare ask again.
At last the councillor sighed, and pushed his emptied cup to one side. “Mage Lindin, tell me about your sister. The hard truth, mind. No sweetening.”
Remmie blinked. And was this another test? He fought the urge to wipe his damp palms down his shirt front. “I don’t—I’m not sure—sir, what do you want to know?”
“Whatever you wish to tell me.”
Oh, Barl. “She’s a brilliant mage,” he said, after a moment. “Sometimes I think too brilliant for her own good. She has a good heart but she won’t suffer jiggets. That’s what gets her into strife. Maybe she’s not—” He chewed his lip. It felt treacherous, what he intended to say. But Councillor Danfey had said he wanted the hard truth. He’d never believe a gushing of honey, no vinegar. “My sister isn’t overburdened with humility, sir. She makes no apologies for her gifts and doesn’t take kindly to those who slight her.”
Councillor Danfey was nodding. “You’d call her ambitious?”
“I would, sir, yes,” he admitted. “But not for fame and fortune, Councillor, though I know it might seem so. She’s hungry for the work. She always has been. And she frets and chafes herself when she feels she’s held back.”
“And that would be why she pressed for entrance to the College?”
Remmie leaned forward. “Yes, sir. That’s exactly why.”
“And do you understand, Mage Lindin, that there never was a question of her gaining admittance?”
“Because our family’s unranked?” he said, and was surprised to feel a twist in his gut. Perhaps it was the way the councillor asked the question, a smooth kind of impatience in him that spoke of unquestioning advantage. “I did tell her, Councillor Danfey. I told her ’til I was blue in the face. Begged her to abandon such a foolish notion. She wouldn’t listen. It was her dream, you see. And Barl never was one for giving up on a dream. Please, Councillor. Where is she? Why hasn’t she come home?”
Instead of answering, Councillor Danfey uncoiled from his chair and paced to the window. Arms folded, a singing tension in his back, he stared at the garden. “Your sister’s in a great deal of trouble, I’m afraid. Formal complaints of her conduct have been lodged by one Artisan Master Arndel, and the Guild of Artisans. Worse than that, she deliberately used magic against another mage. As you’re doubtless aware, that is a privilege reserved to my Council.”
Remmie felt the words strike him like lightning, searing and cruel. But that’s a capital crime. “There must be some mistake. Barl’s got a temper, I don’t deny it, but she would never—”
“I’m afraid the facts are not in dispute,” said the councillor. “Indeed, your sister freely admitted what she’d done.”
“You’re saying Barl killed someone?”
Councillor Danfey turned, swiftly. “No. She merely bruised him. But the end result is the same. She raised her hand to harm him.”
Dazed, Remmie pressed a hand to his face. Of all the things he’d imagined, he’d not imagined this. “Is she condemned?”
“To death? No,” said the councillor. “She’s bound and under house arrest on my family’s estate.”
He didn’t try to hide his relief. When he could trust himself to speak again, he lowered his hand. “And is that your doing, sir?”
“I spoke for her,” the councillor said, nodding. “She was foolish, and is certainly misguided. But there are foolish, misguided ranked mages who have found themselves in strife and weren’t expected to forfeit their lives. It would not ha
ve been justice to expect it of her.”
Remmie found his feet. “Can I see her?”
“No.”
A cold, curt refusal. He wanted to argue, wanted to call that injustice and bully Councillor Danfey into changing his mind. But one look at the ranked mage’s hard eyes and he knew he might as well spit into the wind.
“How long must she stay prisoner? How long must she be bound? I’ve little experience with it, only what most mages know, but I’ve heard a bound mage left bound for too long is often… damaged.” His belly heaved at the thought. A good thing he’d not taken a mouthful of cake. “If that should happen to Barl, I think she’d rather be dead.”
Behind his set expression, something shifted in Councillor Danfey’s face, some kind of revulsion or hint of real pain. “Don’t distress yourself, Mage Lindin. I’ll not let that happen.”
Shivering inside, Remmie dragged one sleeve across his wet face. “You said she’s kept confined on your family estate, sir? Is that usual?”
“No,” said the councillor, and almost laughed. “Far from it. But it was that or see her penned in a judiciary.”
“Sir…” He stood, aware of unsteady legs and a heart pounding too hard for his abruptly fragile chest. “Thank you. My sister and I owe you a great debt. I’d also apologise. You’ve been put to great trouble. I’m sure there are matters far weightier that the Council must address. I hope you’ll believe me when I say Barl wouldn’t have meant for this to happen. She’s not wicked. She’s not dangerous. In speaking up for her, you haven’t made a mistake.”
The councillor grimaced. “So you say, Mage Lindin. But the Council will want more than a brother’s assurance. Your sister must prove her contrition to its satisfaction, and I should tell you that so far she is rather lagging behind.”
Remmie swallowed despair. Lagging behind? Barl had thrown herself into a great, gaping hole. If she stood before him right now he’d be hard pressed not to slap her.
“Sir, you say I can’t see her and I must accept that, I know. But will you take her a message?”
“Yes,” said Councillor Danfey. “That I can do.”