by Karen Miller
Releasing his father, he summoned to hand a potted lace-fern from the foyer. Considered its blueish-green foliage, imagined it different, and then told it to change. The chamber’s warm air quivered. The lace-fern trembled and blurred. A silent explosion of raw power… and then he was holding a fern coloured violet and gold.
“You see, my lord? I have elevated transmutation to an art! And with this new incant I shall protect Dorana from all—”
But his father wasn’t listening. Beneath his blankets he was shuddering, convulsions wracking him head to toe. Eyes straining wide, his face drained of colour, a strangled moan escaped his peeled-back lips. Black blood gushed from nose and mouth. Another shuddering convulsion, bowing him in two.
And then nothing… save silence.
Morgan stared. “My lord? My lord? Father!”
The fern slipped through his fingers. He scarcely felt his knees crush it as he slid from his chair. Heedless of the blood, the pus, the stench, he gathered his father close and held him as he’d never once in his life held the living, breathing man.
Time passed. The world blurred. When he was again aware of himself, he realised he was standing in the corridor outside the attic. Though its door was warded, he could feel Barl within.
A muffled stirring. The ward collapsed, the door opened, and there she stood, his unranked mage, his miracle.
My Barl.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Lord Danfey?”
Pushing past her, he almost stumbled into the attic. The airy space beneath the mansion’s roof was bright as day with glimfire. And on the workbench… on the workbench…
“It’s a funeral clock,” Barl said softly. “I didn’t know your father. But I know you, Morgan. I see him in you.”
Her creation was a fluid, frozen explosion of night-black crystal, dazzled through with tiny brilliant crystals, like stars. Its centre was hollow, and suspended in it the clock’s workings, wrought in pure gleaming gold. Swirling around them a rich constellation of jewels: ruby, sapphire, ambrix.
Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t understand. How did you—when did you—”
“Rumm helped me with what I needed,” she said, her gaze not leaving his face. “And every day, while you sat with your father, I worked on it. Warded it in my chamber so you’d not realise what I was doing.”
He had to clear his throat. “So you knew… you never believed…”
“I wanted to, Morgan. But no-one lives forever. And he was very ill.”
The clock was magnificent. Somehow she’d managed to capture his father’s spirit, his austere, severe and elegant essence. His brilliance. In a clock she’d somehow captured him.
“Oh no, Morgan, don’t,” she said, holding him as the tears came. “He was suffering. It’s better this way.”
He didn’t mean to kiss her. His lips just… found hers. He felt her fingers thread through his hair, tasted her sweetness as she kissed him in return. His senses swam.
“Morgan,” she murmured. “Morgan.”
Entwined with her, drowning in her, he let Barl pull him to the attic floor. Let her hands glide beneath his stained tunic. Didn’t try to stop her as her fingernails scored his skin. Her touch flamed through him like wildfire. He gave her heat for heat, and smiled to hear her gasp. Tasted her again, her lips, her throat… and wondered if he dared taste any more.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head lower. Looked into his eyes, smiling, her own eyes glimfire bright. “It’s all right, Morgan. It’s all right. I’m not afraid.”
Maris Garrick had said that. But Barl wasn’t Maris. She’d not been strumpeted to him by Venette. This time was different. This time he wasn’t prey.
With his last coherent thought he summoned a feather quilt from his chamber. Rolled it beneath them… and murdered grief with love.
Chapter Twenty-five
I’m sorry, councillors,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “But I have no idea what this phenomenon might be. At least—” She shook her head. “Let me rephrase that. I know too well what it might—what is most likely is. What I don’t know is why it’s happening. Which means I don’t know how to stop it.”
Sallis snorted. “And you are held up as some kind of expert? The best mage to advise us the College can find?”
Not waiting for Brice to respond, Venette rapped her knuckles on the Council table. “My lord, please don’t vent your fears upon Mage Ranowen. Without her it’s likely we’d still be ignorant of this strife.” She spared the younger woman an apologetic glance. “Instead I suggest we consider what’s to be done. It can only be a matter of time before this—this—instability comes to wider attention.”
As Sallis opened his mouth to reply, Brice glared. “I warn you, Lord Arkley. I am not in the mood.”
Wisely, Sallis subsided. Beside him, as always, Shari patted his hand in consolation.
“Mage Ranowen…”
Bellamie Ranowen, less drab this time in muted blue, without a sheltering shawl, turned her attentive, carefully noncommittal face toward Brice. “My lord?”
“For the benefit of Lord Arkley and Lady Frieden, who have not felt what you and I and Lady Martain have felt, explain what it is you think we are facing.”
Though it was the early hours of the morning, the young, unranked College tutor did not appear unduly tired. Perhaps she was used to working through the night. Venette, aware of a growing headache and her body’s disgruntled need for sleep, clenched her jaw against a yawn and blinked to focus her eyes. It wasn’t much consolation to know that Brice, Sallis and Shari looked as weary as she felt.
You’d think stark terror would have us on the edge of our seats.
But more than anything, she was filled with a numbing disbelief. This was all so improbable, so terribly unlikely. They had to be wrong. Didn’t they? After centuries of untroubled magework, this couldn’t actually be happening?
“Mage Ranowen?” Brice prompted, when the tutor’s silence continued.
Standing before them as easily as she stood in a classroom, Bellamie Ranowen stirred out of thought.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I was trying to decide how best to answer.”
“Are you suggesting that we are somehow simple?” Shari demanded. “Perhaps I should remind you, Mage Ranowen, of who in this chamber is unranked and who sits upon the Council of Mages!”
Four—nearly five—days ago, Bellamie Ranowen had seemed a woman in want of her wits. Watching her closely now, Venette saw that she had regained her poise and self-restraint. Looking at offended Shari, unintimidated, the young woman merely inclined her head.
“My apologies, Lady Frieden. Of course I am suggesting no such thing. Only I have been told that on occasion my explanations can veer toward the complicatedly theoretical. I investigate questions of magework as much as I teach, you understand. So I wish to avoid the need for tedious explanations when, with a little effort, I might express myself more plainly.”
“Very considerate of you,” said Sallis, unimpressed. “Now do as Lord Varen bid.”
Another polite nod. “Certainly, my lord. In its simplest terms, then, and begging your indulgence for a fanciful illustration, I would say that if Dorana were a tapestry, then some of its threads have come loose.”
Sallis and Shari exchanged looks. Then Shari pursed her lips. “Yes indeed, a most fanciful illustration. But I find myself no more educated than I was before.”
“The warp and weft of magic that permeates the world, that the mages of Dorana can feel and manipulate to everyone’s great advantage, has been damaged,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “How, I cannot tell you. Not yet. But what I can say, Councillors, is this: until the cause of this disruption is found, we cannot continue our magework. If we do, we will only hasten the tapestry’s unravelling.”
Venette closed her eyes. Though she’d fleetingly suspected that what she’d felt might lead to this, hearing the suspicion spoken aloud, so bluntly, made her feel ill.
Sallis was choking.
“You’d have us cease our magework? Woman, are you mad?”
“Mad?” said Bellamie Ranowen. There was an edge to her voice, as though she chided a rude student. “No, my lord. But I am very frightened.”
“And would make cowards of us, to keep you company!”
“Lord Arkley, such invective serves no useful purpose,” said Brice. “Mage Ranowen, you must understand such a suggestion is…” He frowned. “Unprecedented.”
“What is happening is unprecedented,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “And I would prefer to err on the side of caution.”
“No, you’d prefer to set Dorana in an uproar,” said Shari. “Not to mention damage its standing in the wider world.”
His face so grave, so careworn, Brice braced his hands on the table and stood. “Mage Ranowen, your advice is appreciated. Now wait outside, in the antechamber, while this Council considers what you’ve had to say.”
“There’s nothing to consider,” said Sallis, belligerent, even as the door closed behind Bellamie Ranowen. “At best she’s an alarmist and at worst an utter charlatan. Where is her proof? I have not seen it.”
Seated again, Brice stared at him. “So a sighted man says the sky is blue, a blind man says I do not believe you, where is your proof, and you would take the blind man’s side? Is that it?”
“You’re calling me blind?” Clumsy with anger, Sallis shoved to his feet. “Because I am not so quick to believe the outlandish claims of an unranked, overweening young woman who—”
“Justice preserve me, Sallis!” Brice shouted. “This is not about Nevin Jordane! Have you wax plugs in your ears? I felt this unravelling myself, mere hours ago. Venette has felt it and so has Mage Ranowen. It is real, not some fancy born of too much wine or mopeweed. And as the premier mages of Dorana we have a sacred duty to take whatever steps are needed to prevent a disaster!”
Venette watched as Sallis struggled to rein in his temper. “Brice is right,” she said softly. “You know he is, Sallis. But Brice—” She shook her head. “Sallis has a point too. We might be reading these warning signs correctly, but we cannot suspend mageworking throughout Dorana. Not with such flimsy proof. And it is flimsy.”
“Nor can we impose such an edict without a thorough explanation,” Shari added. “Which I’m sure we must be loath to give. Unless of course you are eager to see panic break out from one end of Dorana to the other?”
Brice flicked her an irritated look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, what’s ridiculous is Mage Ranowen’s suggestion!” Shari snapped. “And do not for a moment think I will support it!”
“Nor will I, Brice,” Venette said, still feeling ill. Feeling like a traitor. “Not yet. Not until I can be persuaded there is no other course to take.”
“And what will persuade you, Lady Martain? The wholesale collapse of our way of life?”
The pain in Brice’s voice was shocking. Even Sallis was taken aback. Sinking into his seat, he glanced at Shari then rearranged his face into an expression of solemn concern.
“My lord, of course I do not doubt your experience of this phenomenon,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “And you may be assured that as soon as I’m able I shall seek to confirm its existence myself. But if it were a widespread problem we would know, for other mages would have brought it to our attention. They have not. This gives me some little cause for hope, that whatever this anomaly might be, it is yet in its infancy and so can be easily contained.”
Shari nodded. “Well said. I agree.”
“And you, Venette?” Brice asked. “Do you also agree?”
“I think I must,” she said, after a moment. “It would be tragic indeed if in seeking to save ourselves from one disaster, we created another by acting in haste. Let this Council task Bellamie Ranowen to learn all that she can about Dorana’s unravelling tapestry. And while she investigates, so can we. Let us make discreet enquiries in every district. Learn by diverse and unobtrusive means whether there are other mages who have felt anything… strange. Between us I’ve no doubt we can shed light on this mystery.”
“Very well,” Brice said at last. “For now, that will be our course of action. But let me make one thing abundantly clear. This is now our greatest secret. We in this chamber and Bellamie Ranowen must be the only mages who know of it. Not a word, not a whisper, to anyone else.”
In other words, don’t tell Morgan. Venette met Brice’s cold stare with a coldness of her own, angrily aware of smug Sallis and Shari, gloating.
“What of the General Council?” she said. “Do you mean to treat them with equal disdain?”
“Those fribbles?” Sallis snorted. “Why would we involve them? Half their number at least is unranked. Their acumen is taxed enough with tariffs and petty lawbreakers. This Council has no need of their prosaic advice.”
“I’m sure Lady Brislyn would be edified to hear it!”
“Enough, both of you,” Brice said tiredly. “The time may well come that we must inform the General Council. For now, with the rest of Dorana, they will remain ignorant. Sallis, ask Mage Ranowen to step back in. The sooner we start our investigations, the sooner we can put this distasteful business behind us.”
Morgan opened his eyes to the warmth of Barl curled by his side on the floor… and the freezing memory of his father’s agonised death.
The sunlight shafting through the attic’s window was pale. Insubstantial. So it was early, then. Not much above an hour past dawn. He’d have to go downstairs. The servants must already be stirring. They’d have to be told. And there were things to be done.
But all he wanted to do was stay here with Barl.
Breathing softly, he kissed her forehead. Knew that if he kissed her lips, tasted her again, he might not leave the attic for a week. Her golden hair was tousled, her innocent, exciting hands pillowed under her cheek. The faintest of shadows tinted the skin beneath her closed eyes. The lips he didn’t dare kiss were bruised with last night’s passion. But then, so were his bruised. For all he was the one with experience, they had fallen asleep as equals.
Abruptly, almost painfully, he wanted her again.
Holding his breath, he slid out from beneath the feather quilt. Barl murmured a little protest but didn’t wake. His clothes were unwearable, so he gathered them up and went downstairs to his privy apartments. Cold water from the ewer doused passion and chased away the lingering remnants of sleep. Sober and heavy-eyed, he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the basin.
Lord Danfey is dead. Long live Lord Danfey.
He dressed in black silk brocade and went downstairs to the silent third floor. Stood outside his father’s privy apartments, fingers resting on the door handle, and waited for the courage that would let him go in.
It didn’t come. Perhaps if Barl was with him, then he could face—
Without warning the doors opened, revealing a grimly pale Rumm.
“Sir! I mean—” Rumm swallowed. “My lord.”
My lord. Shuddering, Morgan stared at him. “What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, Rumm stepped aside and held the door open. “My lord.”
So now he had no choice. He had to go in.
Vaguely aware of Rumm following him, he crossed the hushed, empty sitting room and entered his father’s bedchamber. Braced himself, as the door swung open on its oiled hinges, for the sight and stink of his father as he’d left him, bloodied and twisted and fouled in the final indignities of death.
“Rumm?” He turned. “What is this?”
The master servant moved past him to stand at the foot of the neatly made bed, on which lay the bathed, dressed and peaceful body of Greve Danfey. The chamber’s air was sweet again, scented with fresh flowers.
“This is the last service I could perform for your father, my lord.”
What could he say? He lacked the words. And even if he’d had them, he lacked a voice with which to speak.
Rumm’s eyes were full of grief. “My lord, I am so sorry.�
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He nodded. Stood in silence for a time, looking at his father, feeling Rumm’s sorrow like the touch of a friendly hand. Then he looked up.
“Do you intend to stay, now his lordship is dead?”
“What?” Rumm said, startled. “Forgive me, my lord. I mean, yes. Of course. Unless…”
“No. You’re invaluable. But I want the other servants released from their duties. Not permanently, although if they’d prefer that they are free to leave my employ. Otherwise send them home, to be called back in due course.”
“My lord,” said Rumm, severely noncommittal.
“You shouldn’t be overburdened with work. There will only be myself and Mage Lindin to care for. And much of the time, we’ll take care of ourselves.” Despite the pain, despite his dead father on the bed before him, Morgan smiled. “I hope you know which end of a stable fork to use.”
Rumm’s eyes widened, as close to a shout of surprise as he would come. “As it happens, my lord, I do. And, if I might ask, should I also prepare for the arrival of Mage Garrick?”
Maris.
There was no point trying to hide the truth from Rumm. “My courtship of Maris Garrick is ended. My affections have been engaged elsewhere.”
“My lord.” Rumm’s gaze flicked ceilingward. “Yes, my lord.”
He felt himself tense. “You disapprove?”
“My lord, it is hardly my place to approve or disapprove,” said Rumm. “But since you have broached the subject, I will say that it’s clear Mage Lindin makes you happy.”
The man was astonishing. “Yes. She does. Rumm, tell the servants they’re not to speak of his lordship. If anyone asks, they’re to say he rests comfortably. We will crypt him ourselves, tonight, in private.”
“My lord.”
“It is out of the ordinary, I know,” he said, hearing Rumm’s unspoken disapproval. “But I have my reasons. And if you wish to remain here, you’ll not question them. Understood?”
Rumm bowed. “My lord.”
Unable to bear the sight of his father’s corpse any longer, Morgan crossed to the window and drew back its curtain.