A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  With an effort he kept his confusion secret from Venette. Showed her in its place a cool, familiar haughtiness. “Indeed. Must I?”

  “With Greve so uncertain, you won’t delay your marriage. You can’t think to take Maris home with that dangerously misguided mage still under your roof!”

  “Refresh my memory, Venette,” he said, insincerely pleasant. “When exactly was it I invited you to pass judgement on me?”

  Hissing with frustration, Venette took a step back. “Don’t be a fool, Morgan. There are limits.”

  “To everything, I know,” he said. “And you should know, Venette, that you have just found mine.”

  Brushing past her, ignoring her exclamation of regret, he left her adrift in the library. With no thought but the need for solitude he turned left along the corridor, intending to seek it in the Garrick mansion’s formal gardens—but instead found himself roughly tugged into a closet.

  Maris.

  “Why do you let her rail at you like that?” the girl demanded, shoving the door shut and calling a teardrop of glimfire to show him her face. “Venette might mean well, but she’s insufferable. I swear she thinks she knows what’s best for the whole world.”

  In the soft light Maris was luminous, her eyes wide and full of fire. She slid her palms beneath his correct velvet tunic, pressing them hard to his silk-clad chest. Her scent was intoxicating. His head swam, his vision blurred. It had been a long time since he’d let himself feel passion.

  “She rails at me over you,” he said, almost whispering. “She says I must wed you before some other mage notices your charms and attempts to steal you from me. Do you say she’s mistaken?”

  Maris’s fingers moved, lightly caressing. “Who is Mage Lindin?”

  “You were listening?” He pulled back. “That was impertinent.”

  “I didn’t hear much,” she said quickly. “I swear it. Morgan, who is she?”

  “Barl Lindin? No-one,” he said… and felt his breath catch at the betrayal. Felt a helpless rage that it should strike him as betrayal. Barl Lindin was no-one and for the sake of everything he valued she had to remain no-one.

  “She must be someone,” said Maris. “Or why would Venette care? What has she done that she should be punished at your estate?”

  “Maris, it’s Council business. I can’t—”

  Her lips were sweet, her breath sweeter. She kissed him with ardour, stirring heat to raging flames. Now her breasts pressed against him as her hands slid around his ribcage, tugging them heart to drubbing heart.

  “When we are wed,” she breathed, “we’ll be as one. And then you’ll tell me everything, Morgan.”

  Shuddering, he gasped as her lips found the wild pulse beating at the base of his throat. He raised his hands to push her away, to end this madness, but instead they slid down her back to her cotton-clad buttocks. She laughed as he clutched her, laughed again as he pulled her hard to him.

  “I’m not afraid, Morgan. If you want me now, take me. With you I am wanton. I’d be no other way!”

  The blood was thundering in his ears, lust like a wildfire burning away restraint. Maris was grinding her hips against him, her fingers kneading his buttocks, little mewling cries escaping her lips. The closet’s shelves, laden with tablecloths and napkins, tins of polish, spare heavy silver candlesticks and other mansion oddments, pressed across his shoulderblades and into the curve of his lower back. Somehow the pain of it only added to his pleasure. Still mewling, close to sobbing, Maris shifted herself, snatched one of his hands from her clenched buttocks and fumbled his fingers between her legs. He could feel the heat of her through the thin, striped cotton of her dress.

  “Morgan,” she groaned, her eyes slitted. “I’m unbreached, but I know enough to know where I want you to touch me.”

  He’d kept himself from Luzena, but before her he’d tempted fate with eager young women. Not many. He’d learned quite young to keep his passions in check. But before the lesson had sunk in he’d played the rutting stallion. He knew what to do. The question was, should he do it?

  If I heed her, there can be no going back. I can’t use her and discard her. This act will make me hers.

  Which would be for the best, surely.

  Her face flushed, her breathing stormy, Maris unlaced her bodice and bared her breasts for his taking. Crushing her pale flesh in his hands, he stared into her glazed eyes.

  “You’re certain, Maris? You want this?”

  “More than anything,” she said, her voice husky. “Now, Morgan. Hurry.”

  He nodded. “Then ward the door.”

  On a gasp she sealed them safely into the closet. There was no time to strip naked, even if it were wise… which for certain it was not. Between them they fumbled themselves naked enough to achieve their mating, and when he was sure she could take him in he wrapped her legs about his waist and breached her, and after that did his best to make sure she wasn’t sorry. His own release followed soon after hers, years of drought doused in a blinding flood of pleasure.

  “Oh… oh, Morgan…” Sighing, content to have him bear her full weight, Maris dropped her head to his shoulder. “I’ve been dreaming of that ever since the night we met. I knew it would be wonderful. No, glorious.”

  As cold, of a sudden, as he’d been hot moments before, sickened to retching by what he’d just done, Morgan eased apart their sated bodies and set Maris on her feet.

  “We must put ourselves to rights. Lace your bodice and smooth your hair.”

  “Morgan?” Sounding hurt, she touched her fingers to his face. “Are you angry?”

  He had no idea. He felt so much it was the same as feeling nothing. “Of course not.”

  “Then I hope you don’t feel guilty,” she said, her voice more sharp than cajoling. “We’re to be handfast. We took our first pleasure a little early. There’s no shame in that.”

  If he offended her, if he caused her even a moment of doubt, she could cry rape and see him ruined. So he kissed her swollen lips.

  “No guilt, Maris. No shame, or regret. I am simply lost for words.”

  And that was not a lie.

  “Morgan…” Smiling now, Maris kissed him. Not ravenous this time, but sweet. Almost chaste. The taste of her did nothing to ease the gripe in his guts. “We’re well suited, you and I. It’s good to know such things. And when we can take our pleasure in a bed, and not a closet, can’t you imagine how it will be?” Eyes glinting, she nipped his bottom lip with her teeth. “Exquisite.”

  Even as she stirred him anew, he felt himself recoil. There was something predatory in her passion, an unwelcome greed in the way she danced her fingers over his groin. As though he were her possession. As though he’d just sold himself to her.

  “We shouldn’t linger, Maris,” he said, capturing her hand in his. “If it’s safe to go, you should go. I’ll follow discreetly.”

  She pressed her ear to the closet door, waited, then unwarded it and slipped out, extinguishing the glimfire she’d conjured with a careless finger-snap. Plunged into darkness, he let himself sag against the nearest shelf. The lingering remnants of pleasure sparked in his cooling blood, defying his revulsion at such a brute and hasty coupling.

  I’m no better than a Feenish shuckster, a cock-boy, spilling seed for coin with a stranger in a stinking alley, or a ditch.

  He couldn’t even find comfort in knowing he’d done it for his father. For the Danfey name, the future and honour of his house.

  Can a man purchase honour by selling his own? I don’t think he can. I think—

  But it was best that he didn’t think. That way lay despair. So he checked to see if the corridor beyond the closet was empty, then stepped into its deserted silence as though he’d not a care in the world.

  The house partyers and their hosts collected in the mansion’s conservatory for luncheon. Of the guests, Venette and her husband Orwin were the only mages Morgan knew or cared to know. Maris’s three cousins didn’t interest him, they were young and fli
ghty, irrelevant to his purpose. As for the other two couples enjoying the Garricks’ hospitality, they were provincial mages with sufficient rank to be acceptable, but not enough mageworking talent to have made themselves known in Elvado. Which meant Venette had… exaggerated… to get him here. Another mark against her.

  For this meal, Lord Garrick’s son Ehrig was playing the jovial host. Ehrig’s wife, quiet and colourless for all she was a strong enough mage, tended to their three children and left the talking to him. Apparently he’d married a copy of his mother.

  “Wine, Councillor?” Ehrig said, lifting a bottle.

  He’d happily dive into a vat of the stuff. Though she was demurely seated beside her mother at the other end of the table, he could feel the gloating heat in Maris’s glances. She’d changed out of her cotton dress into silk tunic and leggings for the afternoon’s lawn games. She looked the perfect model of a gentle, well-behaved and unbreached ranked family daughter.

  Remembering her lush body, her urgent, pleasured whispers, the way she’d abandoned herself to him and screamed her violent climax into his mouth, he felt a wave of heat scorch through his blood.

  “Morgan?” Seated at his left hand, Venette touched his wrist. “Are you well?”

  “Of course,” he said, hiding curtness inside a smile. Be quiet, Venette. You’ve meddled more than enough. “A trifle weary, perhaps. No doubt due to all the fresh country air.”

  Finished pouring icewine for his parents’ guests, Ehrig laughed. “Are you certain? Your estate’s in the country, isn’t it, Morgan?”

  He’d not given Ehrig permission to use his given name. Maris’s horse-breeding brother had simply assumed the right, adopting a presumptuous demeanour within five minutes of their meeting. And what could he say against it? Both he and the Garricks knew why he had come. To insist that he should be addressed otherwise was out of the question.

  So he endured.

  “After a fashion, Ehrig,” he said, shrugging. “But the Danfey estate lies in sight of Elvado. Here we are surrounded by vast tracts of—” Nothing. “Delightful farmland. I do promise you, there’s a difference.”

  “Of course there’s a difference!” said Ehrig’s mother, close to tittering. “Silly boy. Now do take your seat, Ehrig, so the servants can fill our plates.”

  Parnel Garrick darted a quelling look at his son, then followed his wife’s lead and laughed. “He’s a prankster, is Ehrig. Full of youth’s juices. Always has been.”

  Ehrig Garrick was past thirty. If he knew what was good for him, he’d dry up his youthful juices and conduct himself like a sober man.

  Once I’m married to his sister I’ll give him no choice in that. I won’t have my reputation harmed by the likes of Ehrig Garrick.

  Morgan smiled again. “And why not? How dull life would be without a dash of levity.”

  Little sighs of relief from Parnel Garrick and his wife, Beys. Beside him, Venette drowned dry amusement in a mouthful of wine. She knew him too well. He must strive to remember that.

  Parnel Garrick nodded to his senior dining servant, and a few moments later a parade of lesser servants filed into the conservatory, burdened with plates and tureens and bowls of sauced and spiced meat, fish and fowl. The Garricks’ cook prided himself on his wide knowledge of foreign foodery, and so inflicted upon them dishes inspired by Dorana’s mostly uncivilised neighbours.

  “Eat hearty, Morgan. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  But he’d not taken his first mouthful of pungently spiced fish when the Garricks’ master servant slipped into the conservatory and bent to whisper in Parnel’s surprised ear.

  “Morgan—” Deliberately, Maris’s father set down his knife and fork. “There is news.”

  He knew the tidings before being told. Felt Venette’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. Though he was out of charity with her, still… the comforting touch was welcome.

  “Lord Danfey,” he said, his voice steady. “He’s—”

  “Not dead,” Parnel Garrick said quickly. “But he’s taken a bad turn.”

  “Oh, Morgan!” Maris slid from her chair and hurried to his side, as presumptuous as her brother. “I’m so sorry. Tell me, what can I do?”

  You can at least pretend you’re not seeing yourself as Lady Danfey, my dear.

  He pressed her forearm, a neatly correct gesture. “Hold a good thought for him, Maris. Though my father is not a man to give up without a fight, this enemy is fearsome.”

  “You’ll go to him, of course?” said Venette. “Morgan, if you’re not properly satisfied with his pother, you need only say so. I’ll have—”

  “I will,” he said, turning to her. The sincerity of her concern for him stole his voice, for a moment. “Thank you.”

  “Let us know how he goes on,” Orwin added. “And whatever Venette and I can do…”

  Venette’s husband was a good-natured clodwit, but despite that Orwin was still a decent man. “I’ll not hesitate to ask, my lord.”

  Parnel Garrick stood. “We won’t think to see you return to us, Morgan, obviously. It’s been an honour to host you here these few days, and a great pity we must lose your company before time. Don’t fret about your belongings, I’ll see them safely returned. You’ll take our hopes for a speedy recovery to Lord Danfey?”

  “Of course,” he said, pushing his own chair back. “And while I must immediately depart, my lord, if you could spare me a moment?”

  “Certainly,” said Parnel Garrick, very formal. Seated beside him, his wife remembered to breathe and Maris, clever enough to present a shy and properly innocent demeanour, slipped back to her place.

  Leaving the conservatory, Maris’s father silent by his side, Morgan willed the churning in his guts to abate.

  I might as well declare myself now. If I can tell my father the marriage is agreed upon, if I can promise him a grandson within the year, then he’ll rally. It might even be enough to forestall his leaving.

  And that was more than worth the price he’d have to pay.

  “My lord,” he said, slowing, as they reached the country house’s spacious foyer. “I think you must know what it is I wish to say.”

  “I do,” said Parnel Garrick. “So I’ll invite you to call me Parnel.”

  He nodded. “Parnel. I would offer myself as a husband for your daughter. But before I do, I must set things straight. I’m told Lord Arkley has spoken slightingly of me.”

  “Ah.” Maris’s father cleared his throat. “Yes. As to that—”

  “You should know, Parnel, there is no love lost between Sallis and I.” Morgan offered a faint smile. “Which is talking out of turn, but I know I can trust your discretion. Are you and his lordship friends?”

  “We rub shoulders now and then,” Parnel Garrick said. “And have done business together in the past. But our families aren’t close.”

  So that was something. “Parnel, I see no point in unpacking my dispute with Lord Arkley. At best it’s unreliable hearsay, and at worst tawdry gossip. But if it means you now mislike the match between myself and Maris, then—”

  “Mislike it? Not at all!” Parnel Garrick said quickly. “What man has never disagreed with another? Lady Garrick and I gladly bestow Maris upon you, Morgan.”

  And just like that, so simply, even carelessly, his future was set in stone.

  “Thank you, my lord.” He wanted to weep. “Let me be comfortable with my father’s condition and then I will return, so we might talk more thoroughly about this—this most pleasing arrangement.”

  A flicker of uncertainty in Parnel Garrick’s eyes. Did Maris’s father sense his hesitation? Was he astute enough to see beneath the polite, polished mask?

  No matter if he does. He’ll not rescind his welcome. They are ambitious, these Garricks. What I offer they’ll not spurn… though Maris be made miserable because of it.

  Not that he intended to make Maris miserable. As far as he was able he would do what was right.

  “Farewell, for now,
Parnel,” he said, bowing, and then took his leave.

  “Morgan… where have you been, boy? I was calling. A disobedient son, you are, not to come at once.”

  Speechless, Morgan fumbled for his father’s wasted hand. He’d only been away from the mansion a matter of days, yet his father looked to have aged thirty years. Scabbed, spittled and shrunken, he huddled beneath his blankets like a corpse.

  “I’m here, my lord. What’s this nonsense now?”

  Wheezing, his father hawked and rattled the muck in his throat. “Nonsense? I’ll give you nonsense. Answer me. Where have you been?”

  “Taking a little time with the Garricks, my lord. There was an invitation, do you recall?”

  “An invitation,” his father mumbled. “Yes… yes…”

  Pother Ranmer stepped to the bed. “Don’t be alarmed, Councillor. His lordship’s weak, and tires swiftly.”

  “I have eyes, man. I can see that.”

  “But in truth, sir,” Ranmer added, “your father is much improved. Seeing you has strengthened him. You should take heart from that.”

  Improved? Strengthened? Surely Ranmer had lost his wits. “How do you explain this marked collapse in so short a time?”

  “I’m sorry,” the pother said with care. “I thought you understood that his lordship’s condition is uncertain.”

  He looked up, feeling savage. “There’s uncertain and then there’s this. Do you tell me his deterioration is natural?”

  “Councillor… death is a natural thing,” Ranmer said gently. “Painful, but natural.”

  Not always. Venette’s angry warning sounded in his memory.

  “Did you honestly think Sallis wouldn’t punish you for that challenge?”

  Sallis Arkley had connections, men and women who were in his debt or who looked to perform a service in the hope of future advancement. And there were ways other than magic to harm another mage.

  Could Ranmer be the cause of Father’s falling away? No-one else is preparing his pills and possets.