A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Show me,” Morgan said, pulling the paper toward him.

  Though he knew syllabic harmonics were her strength, he never would accept her corrections without first poking and prodding and twisting them about. His unwillingness to capitulate had irked her until she realised it was simply his way of making peace with imperfection.

  By now used to waiting, she wandered to the attic window and gazed at the distant woodland. How long was it she’d been on this estate? Weeks, now. Had she ever stayed anywhere so long and never left it? No. And yet she didn’t feel trammelled. She felt utterly free.

  If I’d listened to Remmie, been meek and apologetic, I would’ve missed this. Missed Morgan. Let that be a lesson. First and foremost, I must always trust myself.

  Dear Remmie. If her joy was marred it was marred by knowing he could know nothing of her life here. Not until she was freed by the Council. Then she’d send for him, and they’d celebrate, and he would marvel at what she’d achieved.

  He’ll be so proud of me. We’ll forget we ever had harsh words. And if Morgan’s right and my artisan work makes me rich, then I’ll buy him a cottage wherever he likes, even if it’s pokey little Batava, and after Morgan’s married maybe I’ll live there too and maybe I won’t… but he’ll be happy. We’ll be happy. Everything is going to be all right now. I know it.

  Behind her, Morgan slapped his hands to the workbench. “Very well. Have it your way. Four then two then five. But if we can’t use Berring’s Compulsion, Mage Lindin, what do you suggest?”

  A few weeks ago she’d never even heard of Berring’s Compulsion. But the books in Morgan’s library had taught her so much she sometimes thought her skull would burst. Hiding a smile, she turned away from the window.

  “I thought perhaps Chalwyn’s Quatrain? The alternating rhythms are compelling, but still subtle.”

  Morgan considered her a moment. “Elzear’s Variation carries more weight. And this is a difficult transmutation.”

  Difficult didn’t begin to describe what they’d be attempting. And in truth, there was almost nothing to choose between the two incants… so surrendering with grace would do her no harm.

  “Elzear’s Variation it is, Councillor.”

  Together they crafted the new version of the reworked transmutation incant. When at last they were satisfied, Barl retreated from the bench.

  “You can deal with the beetle, Morgan. I don’t like creepy crawly things.”

  Which was true… but it wasn’t the whole truth.

  And Morgan knew it, of course. “You still fret for the beetle’s insignificant life?”

  “No,” she said, lying. “The work must come first. But in killing this beetle, though it be for a noble cause, we break our mage oath. I don’t want us to overlook that because the life lost is so small.”

  There was an intent, almost angry look in his eyes. “You think I have no respect for the rule of law?”

  “I think…” She swallowed. “I think that when you believe you’re right no law ever written could stand in your way.” No law. No person. “I think I want you to think about that, before we do something that can’t be undone.”

  “I have thought about it!” he snapped. “Would I cross this line if I didn’t know I had to?”

  He sounded hurt as well as angry… and why wouldn’t he? He’d asked her to trust him, to have faith in him, and instead she was berating him with suspicion and doubt.

  Remmie would question if I can trust someone I’ve known only a handful of weeks. But he fell for that girl in Granley the first time he met her. And Morgan has risked so much for me.

  She managed a trembling smile. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Morgan. I should be braver than this. I should be fearless.”

  “You are fearless,” he said fiercely, and held out his hand. “Is there another unranked mage who would have stood before the Council and demanded justice? Barl, I know this is daunting… but we’ll do it together. And in times to come the mages of Dorana will know that this was the moment we saved them.”

  Yes, but saved them from what? Before they went too much further with this, she’d insist that he tell her. But for now…

  Breathing out hard, she took his hand. Felt its warmth. Its strength. Felt her blood leap at his touch. Watched his eyes widen as he felt it too.

  This is for Dorana. And it’s only a beetle.

  “Very well,” she said, tightening her fingers before releasing him. “Let’s begin.”

  Feeling nervous… and she never felt nervous… Venette sat in the corner of her town house workroom and waited for Brice to finish performing a difficult fourfold transmutation: silk to glass, glass to flint, flint to sand, sand to silk. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to happen next. If Brice felt nothing out of the ordinary then she was made to look silly and gullible, hardly a welcome outcome. But if he did feel what she’d felt, after four days of searching…

  Then we are in a great deal of trouble.

  It had taken a certain amount of trial and error to hit upon the level of mageworking that let her feel what Bellamie Ranowen had felt. Well. Claimed she’d felt.

  I’m still not convinced either of us felt anything. We could both be suffering from overactive imaginations.

  Beyond her workroom window, dusk was slowly creeping through the streets of Elvado. Soon the glimlamps would ignite, casting shifting shadows over cobbles and walls, transmuting window after window of stained glass into darker, subtler, more mysterious colours. A kind of magic in itself, and only one of many reasons why she loved this city.

  A shiver through her mage-sense turned her attention back to Brice. He was halfway through the transmutation now. Sweat beaded his brow and glistened at his temples as he took a moment to gather himself ready for the next step in the magework. Then with his left hand he inscribed a sigil on the air. The effort of it tremored him. Fresh sweat stippled his skin. The sigil ignited, burned dark green, then fitfully faded. Brice began the next sigil—and then stopped on a sharp breath.

  Oh.

  Feeling ill, Venette stood. Brice, his eyes closed, slowly lowered his upraised hand, fingers clenching to a fist. Tiny spasms of pain flickered over his face and his breathing, usually so controlled, became ragged.

  Oh, justice save us.

  With a grunt, Brice wrenched himself free. Blinking rapidly, in the workroom’s soft glimfire his eyes were wide with shock.

  Not needing to ask, Venette crossed to the cupboard, withdrew a bottle and a glass and poured him a generous helping of icewine… then raised an eyebrow as Brice tipped it straight down his throat.

  “More?”

  Coughing, he shook his head. “As much as I’d like to drain the bottle, this is something best dealt with sober.”

  “Really? I think I’d rather get uproariously drunk.”

  His gaze met hers bleakly. “Bellamie Ranowen was right.”

  On second thought, I’d prefer to look foolish.

  “Whatever this is, Brice, it must be spreading. Or deepening. You felt it more quickly than I did. It took me many mageworking attempts… and I got to the very end of my fourfold transmutation.”

  “Whereas Bellamie Ranowen felt it before either of us,” Brice said, frowning. “In magework that did not demand so much. I know, I know, you’ve not been mageworking of late. But Venette, I have. I noticed nothing.”

  And that realisation had shaken Brice to his foundations, something she had never thought to witness.

  “Don’t blame yourself. I doubt there’s a mage in Dorana who could’ve imagined something like this.”

  Banging his emptied glass to the workbench, Brice flicked her an impatient look. “I am head of Dorana’s Council of Mages. It is my duty to imagine something like this.”

  “But Brice, truly, for all we know this—this—whatever it is—might have been present for months. Perhaps years. Just because Bellamie Ranowen stumbled across it a few days ago doesn’t mean its origin is recent.”

  “Venette�
�” Brice rubbed a hand across his face. “Let’s agree we’ll not waste time attempting to make each other feel better.”

  “Fine,” she said, a little stung. “How then would you like to waste it?”

  That earned her another look. “The Council will have to meet at once. And I’ll send for Bellamie Ranowen to attend.”

  “What of Morgan?”

  Sighing, Brice shook his head. “No.”

  “But Brice—”

  “No, Venette. This matter is extremely grave. I’ve no desire for distractions.”

  Cold with dread, she took an imploring step forward. “Brice, please, reconsider. When Morgan learns he’s been excluded from dealing with something this important he’ll be furious. And rightly so. You said he’d be summoned if he was required to—”

  “Precisely, Venette. If he was required. At the moment we have no idea what we’re dealing with. So until we do, we’re better off if he stays where he is.”

  “You’re being unjust,” she said, hearing her voice unsteady and not caring. “Which isn’t like you. First you condone Sallis’s underhanded behaviour toward him… and now this? Brice—”

  Brice snapped his spine straight. “No. I have it on excellent authority that Greve Danfey will very soon breathe his last. Given that, not only would it be cruel to take Morgan from his side but even if I did, would his counsel be reliable with his mind mired in grief?”

  Shocked, Venette retreated to her chair and sat. Greve was that far gone? Why hadn’t Morgan told her? With an effort she smothered the swift hurt.

  “You underestimate him, Brice. As much as Morgan loves his father, he loves Dorana more. If we truly are facing a disaster then—”

  “Then there will be time for him to help avert it,” Brice said flatly. “Venette, I’m in no mood to sit in a room listening to Morgan and Sallis bicker while Dorana’s mageworking fabric unravels around us! And please, do not try to tell me there’ll be no bickering.”

  She wished she could, but of course he was right. “Then exclude Sallis, not Morgan. He provokes most of the unpleasantness, you know he does.”

  “Impossible,” said Brice. “However provoking Sallis might be, he is the senior councillor and Morgan is already excused.”

  She knew him well enough to realise that further argument was pointless. So she stood again, with all her dignity on show. “As head of the Council your word is final, of course. But Brice, I warn you, this is a mistake.”

  Brice offered her a wry, tired smile. “And if it is, Venette, it’s not my first and likely won’t be my last. Come. We should make haste to the Hall.”

  “Give me a moment,” she said, resigned. “I’ll need to tell Orwin I’m going out.”

  “Then I’ll see you in the Council chamber,” he said. “But Venette, you cannot mention this discovery to your husband. No-one can know. Not until we know exactly what we’re dealing with. And perhaps not even then.”

  After nine years, dear Orwin was used to her keeping Council secrets. But even though she knew Brice was right, that news of Bellamie Ranowen’s dreadful discovery could not be allowed to escape, still she found herself resenting the stricture.

  She had a terrible feeling that this was one burden she’d soon be desperate to share.

  “Barl. Barl.”

  Moaning, Barl opened her eyes. “Morgan?”

  “Here,” he said, bending down and holding out his hand. “Can you sit up?”

  There was blood on his face. Why was he bleeding? And why did her ears ring as though her skull had been turned into a bell?

  Then she remembered.

  Gasping, she knocked aside his offer of help and scrambled to her feet. “Did it work? I felt—I thought I felt—” Her tongue was stumbling over the simplest of words, and she could feel the salty tang of blood on her lips. “Morgan, did it work?”

  He was laughing, his eyes brilliant, hands clasped behind his back. “Of course it worked!”

  “And the harmonics are holding?”

  “Of course. Why, did you doubt me?”

  “Every good mage fosters a healthy sense of skepticism, Councillor. You know that.”

  He laughed again, so excited. “I know you’ll have to say you’re sorry!”

  “Oh.”

  She stared at the greeny-gold rook’s feather lightly held in his fingers. It was oddly sheened, as the Trindeki beetle’s armoured greeny-gold carapace had been sheened. Her gaze shifted past the feather, past Morgan, to rest on the workbench. Only a wet smear of the beetle remained.

  Funny. I thought… I hoped… it would vanish entirely. That way—

  Morgan stepped sideways, shielding her. “Don’t look. Don’t spoil this. Barl… we did it.”

  When she held out her hand, palm up, he laid the feather across it. The unexpected weight sang through her bones. It was still warm. Still alive with the power that had moulded and melded and made it something new.

  Something that has never before been seen in Dorana.

  “Try to bend it,” Morgan suggested.

  She tried, but the feather remained straight.

  “Now try to break it. Go on. Throw it on the floor and do your worst.”

  “Morgan—”

  “Go on!” he insisted. “Try!”

  So she dropped the feather, jumping a little as it struck the wooden floorboards with a clatter. And then she stamped on it, hard, with the sturdy heel of her shoe.

  “Ow!”

  Laughing again, Morgan retrieved it. “You see? Didn’t I tell you that—”

  “Councillor! Councillor!”

  And that was Rumm. Morgan’s bloodied face went very still. Heart aching, Barl took the feather back from him.

  “Go,” she said gently. “I’ll put this place to rights. But make sure to clean yourself. You don’t want to frighten his lordship.”

  As the attic door banged shut behind him, she laid the transmuted feather on the end of the workbench. Couldn’t stop herself from flinching at the heavy, unfeatherlike sound it made. Flinched again as from the corner of her eye she caught another glimpse of those smeared beetle remains.

  This is no different than the rabbits used to demonstrate Mage Tranter’s incant at Winsun. Besides, Dorana must come first.

  Quickly, efficiently, she cleaned up the mess. And after that she summoned the funeral clock to the attic. It was almost completed. Only one or two finishing touches required. She should do that now, just in case…

  And if she kept herself busy with clock-maging, she’d have no time to think about transmutations. About how it felt to be the first mage in history to transmute a living creature. How the power of the incant had flooded through her like fire, like honey, like Morgan’s lips in a kiss.

  No, no, no. Best not think about that.

  “Councillor?”

  Startled by the touch on his arm, Morgan jerked his head up. “Ranmer. What time is it?”

  “Some hours past midnight,” said Ranmer, bending low beside the bedside chair. “And I must tell you there is now nothing more I can do.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to look at the bed. “Then go.”

  Ranmer hesitated, then straightened. “I have other patients, Councillor. They—”

  “I said go! And be certain you hold your tongue on this, Ranmer. If you don’t I will hear of it… and I won’t be amused.”

  The pother collected his coat and leather bag and let himself out of the hushed chamber. In the hearth the fire crackled, obscenely cheerful, its scented logs not quite masking the smell of impending death.

  Untouched by the flames’ warmth, Morgan steeled himself then looked at his father, so frail beneath his burden of blankets. His life measured in embers.

  The end has come so swiftly. Ranmer said we’d have months yet. It seems the fool lied.

  The rise and fall of his father’s chest, the flaring of his nostrils, were almost imperceptible. But then his head shifted on his pillows and he muttered something under his breath. Eyes b
urning, Morgan took his father’s hand and felt the terrible, bone-deep cold stab through his trembling fingers.

  “My lord,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

  His father’s darkly veined eyelids fluttered open. “Morgan.” A slow breath, rattling deep in the throat. “New daughter. Where is she?”

  His gaze flicked upward, toward the attic. And then he remembered. No, he means Maris. “She’s with her family, sir. She sends you her love.”

  Which was true. Twice a week like clockwork, Maris Garrick wrote him letters. Good wishes for Lord Danfey mixed with inane gossip, always ending the same way: I do hope to see you soon. He made sure not to answer all of them. When he did reply, he kept it short. His lordship slowly recovers. Your wishes are kindly received. No more encouragement than that. How could he encourage her? His heart was full of Barl Lindin.

  “Morgan.”

  Leaning closer, he gagged. The oozing sores covering his father’s face and scalp were odorous and putrid with pus. Nothing Ranmer had given the ailing man could keep the rot at bay.

  “She should be here,” his father wheezed, clouded eyes alive with anger. “Maris Garrick. You should be rutting with her. You promised me your son.”

  “My lord, don’t distress yourself. There will be a son, in time. I will—”

  “Too late.” His father’s voice broke. “You’ve failed me, Morgan. Without an heir to follow you, the Danfey estate will go to your mother’s cousins. The Jarralts will take all.” Blood-tinged tears leaked down his cheeks. “Ah, what a ruination it is, to have a feckless son.”

  The injustice of that was sharper than any uncivilised spear or sword. “I am sorry, my lord, that I could not marry fast enough to suit you. But I have some good news. That incant I have been working on? I succeeded. Look.”