A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  Call without stirring his binding from sleep.

  What was going on? She felt his power in the hair clasp. She’d felt his unbinding incant, seen its sigils, when by rights she should have been numb to it, and blind. Before his ward overcame her she’d felt the shape of that, too. It had to mean something. Something out of the ordinary.

  All right. I can feel Morgan Danfey’s magework. What else can I do?

  She could close her eyes. She could breathe out despair. She could open herself to his magic… and see what happened next.

  The hair clasp felt warm and comfortable against her skin. More than comfortable. Comforting. Again the conviction that she wasn’t alone. Letting her puzzled mind drift, deliberately not thinking about what that might mean, she summoned from memory the shape and sound of the unbinding incant. Heard its sharp syllables. Saw its sigils burn the air. Waited and waited for the binding to wake.

  But it didn’t.

  “Oh, Remmie,” she murmured. “This is so strange. I’m mad. I must be. But I have to find out.”

  She wasn’t brave enough to risk speaking the incant’s syllables aloud. But she uncrooked one finger… and traced its first sigil in the dark. In her tight grasp, the gold and black hair clasp shivered. Caught tight in its binding, her mage-sense shivered in reply. In the air, a flash of crimson. A sigil, that briefly burned then died out.

  “It’s not possible,” she said, and started at the sound of her own voice. “It can’t be. Either I’m bound or I’m not.”

  But it seemed she was both, which made no sense at all.

  So does this mean I have a chance to override Morgan Danfey’s binding?

  It didn’t seem likely. Nor did it seem wise. If somehow, inexplicably, she managed to unbind his binding, what then? How would she explain it when the councillor returned?

  Perhaps I could claim the incant unravelled itself in the midst of my suffering. If I made him feel guilty enough, he might not look too closely at the lie.

  Oh, she was mad to even think of it. Undo Morgan Danfey’s magework?

  I can’t. How can I? I’m not a tapestry he’s stitched, that I can unstitch like a seamstress. Magework has rules. I’m bound. And Morgan Danfey is a powerful mage.

  The most powerful she’d ever met. And what was she?

  Desperate.

  Tapestry. Perhaps that was the key. She wasn’t Barl Lindin, a flesh-and-blood woman, she was Barl Lindin’s embroidered recreation. Embroidered women weren’t afraid. They didn’t miss their brothers, or feel their bellies churn because they were weighed down by chains of magic. Chains with barbs in them, that bit, vicious as any hunting hound.

  If I’m a tapestry woman, perhaps the binding won’t wake.

  A forlorn hope, surely. But it was the only hope she had.

  Her breathing unsteady, Barl wriggled until she lay flat on her back, her spine taut as a drawn bowstring. In her fisted hand she felt the hair clasp, warm and somehow alive.

  Then, without warning, she was deathly afraid. Only once before had she ever felt this kind of fear. The day her parents died. When she’d realised that aside from Remmie she was alone. For a moment, just a moment, she’d stared into a pitch black abyss. The warm and familiar stolen, her whole world turned to ice. But then Remmie had fallen to pieces, grieving, and there’d been no time for fear or despair. He’d needed her to be strong, so she was strong. And that was that.

  I’m still strong. I am. The binding hasn’t ruined me quite yet.

  To prove it, she closed her eyes and went looking for the way to break Morgan Danfey’s magework.

  She finds herself in the darkness, in a space of silence between heartbeats. Like thistledown she floats through herself. Like a breeze she hears herself sigh. With her closed eyes opened inwards she sees the binding laid upon her. She sees Morgan Danfey’s fingerprints on the needle that against her will has stitched her tight and bound her to pain. There are gold threads wrapped around her. They are beautiful. Like him. In the silence she feels his power. She sees his sigils brightly burning. They are the knots that keep her bound. Magelore states, unequivocal, that the mage who utters the binding incant must be the mage who breaks it. But in this dark, silent place she knows that rule does not rule her. In this place, which is her deepest self, she can unbind his binding, needing neither his help… nor his permission. And she wants to. Oh, she wants to. So she becomes the seamstress and she unpicks his golden thread. Stitch by stitch she undoes him until the last stitch is undone. And then lights the darkness with his sigils… and sets herself free.

  Was she drowning? She was drowning. There wasn’t enough air to breathe. Arms thrashing, lungs heaving, Barl battered her way back to the ugly, cramped cupboard Rumm had shoved her in, like a broom. She dropped the hair clasp, kicked the blanket away, thrust the pillow aside then tumbled half off her uncomfortable pallet, banging knees and elbows in the lightless room.

  Without thinking, she summoned glimfire… and it chased away the dark.

  “Oh, Remmie,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Remmie… what have I done?”

  The impossible, it seemed.

  Trembling, she called more glimfire in little glowing balls, and set them to dancing just to prove that she could. Pretending magic could only be amusing and beautiful and had never been used against her.

  But the pretence wouldn’t hold.

  Ball by ball she blew on the glimfire until her cramped cupboard of a room plunged back into darkness. In darkness she curled up under her blanket, breathing softly, feeling like herself again. She’d not realised how deeply altered she’d been until the ugly alteration was removed.

  Until I removed it. I did it. Me.

  She shouldn’t have been able to. Tampering with Morgan Danfey’s binding should have left her wracked with pain. Instead, she felt reborn. No. Not reborn. Remade. Become a new Barl Lindin, forged in the fires of injustice. The Council’s mages in their meanness, in their desire to keep all the best things for themselves and their ranked brethren, had given power to a voice that for too long was kept silent. But she’d stay silent no longer. Someone had to speak for the unranked mages of Dorana.

  I wonder… I wonder… what else can I do?

  Chapter Twenty

  Morgan! Morgan, are you in here?”

  Finding solace in shadow, Morgan closed his eyes. Maris. Could she not give him even five minutes of peace? Could he not sit in this sadly inadequate Garrick library, far from the muttering intrigues of her father, her brother, her cousins and the family’s simpering friends, and nurse a too-early snifter of second-rate brandy without she must pursue him like a cat pouncing a hobbled mouse?

  “Morgan?”

  No, it seemed she could not.

  “Well, there you are!” said Maris, finding him, and pressed her hands to her hips as though she meant to scold.

  She’d again forsaken her fitted silks and instead wore yet another of her favoured loose, striped cotton gowns which were fashioned after the attire of Ranoushi plainswomen. Quite eccentric. But Venette had assured him a great many of Dorana’s young mages were these days adopting fashions with quaint foreign influences. Hadn’t he noticed them parading their Trindeki and Manemlin finery through Elvado? Coloured glass and crystal beading, exotic patterns embroidered in silver thread, even the startling hint of feathers in their hair?

  No. He hadn’t. He had better things to do than ogle strangers in the streets. But if such clothes amused Maris, he’d make no objection… at least, not before they were wed. Afterwards he wouldn’t tolerate her eccentricity.

  Luzena would never have dressed in such garb.

  Maris was frowning. “Morgan?”

  If he could smile at Sallis Arkley, it was in him to smile at her. “Forgive me. I was adrift in my thoughts.”

  Her lips pouted. “Oh.”

  On arriving at the Garrick estate, knowing he’d leave it bound to this young woman, he’d sworn he’d find a way to make his sacrifice at least bearable. And now
here was his soon-to-be betrothed, garish and at the same time alluring in her outrageous, faddish costume. The deep rose and grass green hues of the cotton gown suited her gilded prettiness, and the thin fabric clung without fear to her curves. He could see how her long legs flowed into a smooth glide of hip, moulded into a narrow waist, a slender rib cage. How her modestly revealed breasts rose and fell with her breathing.

  Desire stirred.

  “Morgan?” Maris glanced at the open library door. A wave of her hand closed it. “My dear, was there something you wanted?”

  What he truly wanted he could never have. But did that mean he must live the rest of his days deprived?

  He put the dreadful brandy on the small table beside him, and held out his hand to the woman he did not wish to marry. “I want many things, Maris.”

  “As do I,” she said, and went to him. “Do you suppose you and I might want the same things?”

  “Some of the same things.” He laced his fingers with hers and tugged until she tumbled into his lap. “But what they might be, I think we are yet to discover.”

  If his boldness alarmed her, she hid it well behind her smile. With the tips of her fingers she traced a line of fire from his brow to his chin. And then she touched his lips with hers, lightly, the teasing promise of a kiss.

  “Do I shock you?” she murmured, her eyes half-lidded and heavy with a rising desire of her own. “Will you discard me as a wanton if I tell you I’ve longed to do that since the night of Venette’s party?”

  Will you discard me as a wanton?

  When it came to matters of the flesh, there were rules for ranked mages. Bloodlines were jealously guarded, casual couplings strictly discouraged. The power of magic extended only so far. Accidents still happened, despite all the best precautions. Some mages tempted fate, but he doubted Maris was one of them. Luzena had been as careful, even though they were handfasted. Respecting her, loving her, he’d held himself restrained and endured nightly torments, recalling her kisses and caresses that went so far… and no further. Since her death, restraint had become a habit… but now self-control chafed.

  “If feeling desire is wanton, Maris, then must I stand condemned.”

  With a shuddering sigh she pressed his hand to her breast. “I’ve longed for this, too, Morgan. I want to feel your skin naked against mine. When do you intend to speak with my father?”

  This was his fourth day on the Garrick estate. The house party’s invitation was for five. “Tomorrow,” he said, as her heartbeat thudded through his damp palm, his hot blood.

  “Not today?” She kissed him, more deeply this time. “Morgan, why not today?”

  Because today I wish to savour as my last day of freedom.

  He took his hand from her breast. “Now you sound wanton.” Standing, he tipped her without courtesy from his lap. “Conduct yourself with more decorum, Maris. As the future Lady Danfey it’s the least you can do.”

  Her eyes furious, Maris scrambled to her feet. “Fie, sir! I’m not some unranked doxy to be tossed aside on your whim. I am a Garrick, and this is my future as well as yours. I’ve a right to know what you’ll make of it, and when.”

  The only rights she had were the rights he decided to grant her. She was too sure of herself, puffed up in the conceit of her so-called superior ranking. Let her think to browbeat him with that and he would never have a moment’s peace.

  “Maris, understand this about me,” he said, desire cooling. “I am—”

  They both turned as the library door pushed open. “Maris? Are you in here?”

  Venette. Her carefully plucked eyebrows rose, seeing them. “Maris, dear, your mother’s on the fret for you. Perhaps you ought to see what she wants.”

  “Of course, Venette,” said Maris, but instead of instantly withdrawing, she shifted her gaze back to him. “You think to scold, sir, so I am meek and biddable. But would you breed a son from a woman with blood like watered milk?”

  He could feel Venette’s intent stare, unwelcome, and made sure not to look at her. “No.”

  Maris smiled. Not sultry now, no banked desire, only anger and pride. “No. So perhaps you should not be so swift in your temper. This will be a marriage of equals, Morgan, or no marriage at all.”

  “I hope,” said Venette, watching Maris leave, “that you provoke her because you’re bored, and for no other reason.”

  “I don’t provoke her at all,” he said, reaching for his glass of inferior brandy. “She provokes me.”

  “Oh!” Venette laughed. “Well, then. Good. You sound married already.”

  His mood was just sour enough that he could easily start a quarrel with her. Since that wouldn’t be wise, he drank the rest of the brandy.

  “I know that look, Venette. Say what you came to say and be done.”

  While she’d never stoop to striped cotton, Venette had relaxed her standards far enough to wear a luscious silk daffa, patterned after the royal robe favoured by the Iringan court. He had to admit it became her. The abundant fabric rustled richly as she avoided answering him by turning to the nearest bookshelf and inspecting its unexciting contents.

  “Venette—”

  Her glance was full of censure. “You shouldn’t have threatened Sallis Arkley, Morgan. That was foolish of you. And very clumsy.”

  Glass met side table with a crack as he set down the emptied brandy snifter. “That’s not your concern.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, glaring. “You’re my friend.”

  “I’m more than happy to relieve you of the burden.”

  “And at times like this I’d be more than happy to be relieved! But even were we sworn enemies, I’d still be involved.”

  He almost wished he’d never constructed those incants. “I’m sorry if my personal business interferes with your house party frivolities, Venette.”

  She slapped the bookshelf. “I give you fair warning, Morgan. Continue to treat Sallis like an underling and he will interfere with your Council frivolities! Do you imagine he’s toothless, simply because he’s old?”

  “I imagine it’s been too long since someone stood up to his bullying.”

  “And you’re the mage to make the difference? Oh, Morgan. While I must deplore your lack of tact, I suppose I must also admire your nerve.”

  “You’re too gracious,” he said, with a mocking bow. “And how is it you know what transpired between me and Sallis?”

  “Parnel told me, just now.”

  “And how would Lord Garrick know?”

  “Oh, how do you think?” Venette demanded. “Just because you and Greve hold yourselves aloof, do you suppose the rest of us do? Did you honestly think Sallis wouldn’t punish you for that challenge?”

  “By attempting to ruin my standing with Maris’s father?”

  “By any means he can lay hand to! Morgan—” With an effort, Venette calmed herself. “You really must learn patience. Sallis isn’t—”

  He lifted his hand. “Enough, Venette. I don’t wish to discuss Sallis Arkley.”

  “Obviously,” she retorted. “For if you did, you’d have asked my advice about bearding him in his den.”

  “What need of that, my lady, when I already know what you’d advise?”

  Giving him another censorious look, she crossed to his abandoned armchair, picked up the emptied brandy glass, sniffed, then grimaced.

  “Horrible. I should’ve warned you to bring a bottle of your own.”

  “It would’ve been the friendly thing to do.”

  “Yes,” said Venette after a moment, considering him. “But these days it’s hard to know with you, Morgan, whether friendship will earn a smile or a snarl.”

  His turn to walk to a bookshelf and pretend interest in the tired books it contained. “Don’t be foolish. Friends can be friends without they endlessly agree.” He resisted the urge to look at her. “So. Did you spring to my defence with Parnel?”

  “You need to ask?”

  “Thank you. It’s appreciated.”r />
  But also unnecessary. The Garricks might outrank the Danfeys, but he was a councillor… and because of that would forever hold the upper hand.

  Venette put down the empty glass. “You intend to proceed, then? You’ve not changed your mind?”

  If only he could. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m rehearsing the speech I must make to Maris’s lordly father. And when I leave this estate, I’ll leave it as a handfasted man.”

  Arms folded, she frowned. “Yes. But will you leave it as a man in love?”

  In love? With Maris Garrick? “She stirs me.”

  “Lust is not love, Morgan. Moreover, it is fleeting.”

  He turned. “I have always been a mage before I was a man. Ask me about my magework. I’ll show you passion then.”

  Another silence, as she looked at him. “I warned you before, my dear. I’ll warn you again. Do not make me regret that I championed you to Maris.”

  “She’ll have no complaint of me, Venette. I know my duty and the kindness owed to a young girl.”

  “Kindness?” Her fingers tightened, as though she longed to slap him. “When a woman gives herself to a man she is owed a great deal more than kindness.”

  “Maris Garrick will have all I have to offer. Neither you nor she can ask or expect more than that.”

  Sighing, Venette relaxed her fingers. Crossed the distance between them and laid her palm to his cheek. “Of course we can. What you have and what you offer aren’t always the same thing. Did you think we don’t know it?”

  “How should I know what women know?”

  She let her hand fall to her side. “You realise, of course, that once you’ve settled terms with Lord Garrick, you must find somewhere else for Mage Lindin to serve her penance.”

  Barl. He felt his blood leap, swiftly heating. Felt pleasure, and pain. Since leaving home he’d managed to banish all thought of his bound prisoner… but with one mention of her name she was summoned instantly to mind. No matter who she was, what she’d done, how disastrous his feelings, those feelings, it seemed, were not to be denied.