A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Well?” he said, when she didn’t say a word.

  Her beautiful eyes were wide in her thin, pale face. “What else can you do?”

  So he told her how the Olken lived in harmony with the land. How they sang the seeds in springtime, nurturing new life. Sang their crops to harvest in summer and autumn. How they hunted fish and game with kindness, never wasteful or cruel. How they felt the seasons, shifting, and the coming of the rain.

  Or used to, before Lur’s long and dreary dry spell.

  “And can you feel the drought?” she asked, when he was finished. “Does the earth’s song sound different because there’s no rain?”

  She might be a great mage, but was she a lackwit too? “Of course I can. Of course it does. Lur’s in pain. We can feel it.”

  “Strange,” she murmured. “I can’t. But even so, you can still… sing?”

  “Yes, but it’s harder. And it leaves us feeling sour.”

  She looked at him intently. “And if I could ease Lur’s pain, Jervale? How would you feel about me then?”

  She was a dangerous mage, he knew that much for certain. But even so, she wasn’t wicked. She wasn’t mad, like her Morgan Danfey. And she could ease Lur’s pain. He’d seen it, hadn’t he? He’d felt the land’s joy in his brief, waking vision.

  So she’s our ruin and our saving? How can that be?

  He’d thought this was going to be simple. See the yellow-haired strangers for himself and speak out against them. Save Lur from the trouble they brought with them over the mountains.

  And now it’s all got complicated. Bene, I wish you were here.

  “Well,” he said, cautious. “I’d say you’d be owed something, Mage Lindin. If you could ease it.”

  Up went her chin, so haughty. “I can.”

  “You say you can.”

  “I can,” she insisted. “I am a great mage. And if you know so much, you should know that.”

  Trouble was, he did know it. Trouble was, he knew too much. Feeling sick, he nodded. “Then I reckon you should save us.”

  Her thin face lit with a fleeting smile. It made her beautiful. But then her eyes darkened with shadows, and before he could shift out of reach she wrapped her fingers round his wrist.

  “You mustn’t breathe a word of this, Jervale. Not to anyone. You must keep my secrets secret. Lur’s safety depends on that. The life of every Olken and Doranen depends on it. Swear you won’t repeat what you know, that you won’t betray me. Swear it!”

  He pulled himself free. “I won’t be swearing anything to the likes of you, Barl Lindin! Who are you to ask me to hold my tongue?”

  “I’m the mage who wants to save Lur from the drought… and from Morgan. Would you be the mage who lets Lur wither, and bares its parched throat to his blade?”

  The sharp question stabbed him. The weight of Lur and every Olken on his shoulders… he’d never asked for this.

  “I told you,” he said, scowling. “I ain’t a mage.”

  “Whatever you are, Jervale, you stand at a crossroads,” said Barl Lindin. Her eyes were glittering again, shadows chased away by purpose. “And the fate of your people turns on this moment.”

  She was so young. How could she be so dangerous and so young?

  The fate of my people… and her people… and the world.

  He felt his head swim. His blood thunder. He felt the ground tilt beneath his feet. Saw again that lush green farmland, and heard the twinned joyful voices singing in his bones. Instinct stirred again, sharply prodding.

  “All right,” he muttered. “I’ll hold my tongue. For now. But if it seems to me you’re rushing us down a road as’ll lead nowhere but trouble, then I’ll speak up. I’ll have to. And if that time comes, you’ll show us all what kind of mage you are. What kind of folk you are.” His belly twisted. “You Doranen.”

  And with that, he turned his back on her and walked away. What happened next would happen. He’d wait and see what else his dreams had to say.

  Alone in the woods, Barl slid from the fallen tree-trunk to the cool, leaf-littered woodland floor and opened herself completely to the land of Lur. Watching the Olken, Jervale, as he’d summoned the foxes, feeling the way Lur’s unique magic moved in him, moved him, feeling it suffuse her blood, she’d begun to see her way. Had seen, in brief glimpses, how she could weave Doranen and Olken magics together… or, at least, how it was possible. But whether she was mage enough to achieve such a feat was another question entirely.

  But I have to be. To fail is to condemn all of us to death.

  She had to keep reminding herself of that. It would be too easy to let fear incant her into a coward, if she didn’t.

  Surrendering to the power humming deep in the earth beneath her, she closed her eyes and breathed in the richness of the Black Woods. Breathed in hope. Breathed out fear. Breathed in the future. Breathed out the past. Drifted her mind through the books she’d studied in Morgan’s library, incant after incant, her thoughts and the thoughts of Dorana’s greatest mages shifting and coalescing into something uniquely her own.

  The clock behind her eyes ceased its ticking. She was adrift in this new land, untethered from time, and only the whispering feet of a millepede running over her lax hand brought her back to bare earth and shafts of sunlight and the dark, dreadful feeling that once again, their time was running out.

  She returned to her tent in the makeshift camp at the edge of Gribley village, and settled herself on the cot with her diary and a pen. Writing things down always helped her clarify a problem. Remmie found her there soon after, barging into the oiled-felt tent to glare down at her, his hands tight fists upon his hips.

  “Where have you been?”

  She put the pen down, left the diary open in her lap. “In the woods. Walking.”

  “Avoiding me, you mean.”

  She shrugged. “If you like.”

  “No, Barl, I don’t like!” Remmie retorted, his temper ragged. “You shouldn’t wander alone in those woods. Remember Benbarsk? Remember Dreen? This is a strange land. It could be dangerous.”

  Dreen. Hunched on her cot, Barl squinted up at her brother. Pain spiked behind her eyes as she remembered torn flesh and splintered bones and the last agonised moments of a dying woman. A friend.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “Oh, well, then,” he said, scornful. “That makes everything all right.” He shoved his hands into the baggy pockets of his roughspun trousers. “If you’re interested, Elder Chaffie says she can’t say yet if we can stay. It’ll take some time for her people to make up their minds about us.”

  “I’m not surprised. We’re asking a lot of them.”

  “She was curious about one thing. She’s wondering how we can help them. Funnily enough, Venette and I are wondering the same thing. And we’re wondering why you lied to the Olken. There was no civil war. Mage hadn’t turned against mage. We ran, Barl. We escaped the ruin you and Morgan created. But you didn’t mention that, either.”

  “No, I didn’t!” she snapped. “We want the Olken to help us, not turn away in fear and horror.”

  “They’ll turn away when they find out you lied!”

  “But they won’t find out, Remmie. Not if you don’t tell them. And you won’t.”

  His shoulders slumped. “No. I won’t. We won’t. But Barl, this other business…”

  “Morgan is coming,” she said, with a shiver. “And if I do nothing else, I’m going to keep this land and all of us safe.”

  Groaning, Remmie rubbed at his eyes. “You can’t tell the Olken that. You don’t even know for certain it’s true. You’ve no more proof than a few dreams.”

  She had Jervale. But even as she opened her mouth to tell Remmie what the Olken had said, what he knew, what she’d seen him do in the Black Woods… instinct had her shrinking.

  I need Olken magic to stay secret a little longer, even from Remmie.

  “Barl?” he said, exasperated now. “I’m right, aren’t I?”


  Hurt, she closed the diary and smoothed its scarred, mottled leather cover. “I thought you believed me.”

  “I believe you believe it,” her brother said, after a moment. “And I believe Danfey’s wicked enough to hurt you, if he could. But Barl… Dorana is months behind us. And you think that’s really him, talking to you? No mage is that powerful. Not even Morgan Danfey.”

  “That’s not what you said last night. And it’s not what you said in Benbarsk.”

  He grimaced. “I wanted us out of Benbarsk. If we’d stayed there we’d have all died, for certain. Its people are as deadly as its bears.”

  “So… what? You’ve been humouring me?”

  “No,” he said, after a long silence. “I wanted you to be right. And wrong. If that makes any sense.”

  It made perfect sense. He was afraid she was losing her mind, so he wanted Morgan to be real. But if he was real, then they were in danger again… and he didn’t want that.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “It does.”

  “Barl, I know you think you’re right about Morgan, but you mustn’t forget you’re exhausted.”

  “Exhausted or not, I am right,” she said. “But to be honest, Rem, I don’t care if you don’t believe me?”

  Uncertain, he bit his lip. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that sooner or later we’ll both learn the truth. And in the meantime, I don’t want to fight.”

  “Neither do I,” he said. “So you can stop hiding in here and come and help me with class. It’s past time the children got back to their lessons, before they forget what it means to be a mage.”

  “I can’t. I’m busy.”

  Remmie made a little growling sound in his throat. “What could be more important than making sure Dorana’s children—” And then he frowned at the diary. “Barl? What maggot’s in your brain now?”

  He’d never leave her alone if she didn’t satisfy him with a plausible answer. “Should the Olken let us stay, we’ll suffer the drought and famine with them,” she said. “And Remmie, I can’t bear the thought of watching any more of us die. I think there might be a way for our magic to ease Lur’s suffering. So that’s my maggot. I’m trying to save us from the drought.”

  It was true. And if she was trying to do more than that, well, he didn’t need to know. Not until he believed the threat from Morgan was real.

  Remmie’s eyebrows lifted. “With magework?”

  Oh, why was he so determined to be difficult? “If we can cure renna blight, then why can’t we—oh, I don’t know—coax more of Lur’s springs to the surface, say, or create a crop that needs less water to thrive, or—”

  “No,” Remmie said, his face thundery. “Are you mad, Barl? More transmutations? After what happened at home?”

  She stared. “Of course not! I’m talking about commonplace magework. All we need do is show these Olken that we can make their lives better, easier, and they’ll let us stay. I know they will.”

  Turning away, Remmie pulled back the heavy tent flap and stared across their camp, towards the village of Gribley. “I wish I knew it, Barl. I tell you, I think we’re on the knife’s edge—which is why you can’t breathe a word about Morgan. You were right about one thing, I think. Give these Olken an excuse and we’ll be homeless again.”

  Not even during their dreadful mountain crossing had she heard him sound so dispirited, so afraid. Had he reached the end of his strength?

  He can’t have. Not Remmie. How will I do this if he loses heart now?

  “I promise, I won’t mention him,” she said, trying hard to be gentle. Not to show him her fear. “Now you should go. Your pupils will be waiting. And I need to work.”

  “Barl…” Turning, he showed her a face full of doubt and hope. “They’ve waited this long. They can wait a few days longer. Whatever you’re doing, I can help. Let me help. You shouldn’t be doing difficult magework on your own. You’re too tired.”

  All their strife, all their arguments, and she couldn’t breathe for a moment, she loved him so much. And because of that love she could never involve him in her plan. He’d lost Irielle because of her. He’d lost Dorana. She wasn’t about to let him lose anything else.

  She stood and went to him. Pressed her palm against his thin, scarred face. “I need to work through this alone. If you really want to help, go. Bring me some porridge and a mug of water every now and then. And trust me. Please? Trust me.”

  Deeply distressed, he left her. Guilt mingled with relief. She could hardly think straight in the face of his fear. Could hardly think straight in the face of her own.

  I’m mad. I must be. I failed to ward Dorana. What makes me think I can ward Lur?

  Only Lur wasn’t Dorana… and that was why this was possible. Not only was this place not blighted with mage-mist and instability, it was soaked in its own magic, potent in its own way despite its gentle malleability. Potent because of the Olken’s affinity with their land.

  And that’s the key. Lur’s malleable affinity. If I can meld its soft singing with Dorana’s strident, martial cry I can create a barrier that not even Morgan will breach.

  Only… the cost of it. The terrible cost. If she was right in what she suspected, in a way she’d be destroying the Olken.

  But it’s the only way to save them. And I have to believe they’ll think it’s worth it. I have to believe they’ll give up what little they have to gain so much more.

  Provided, of course, she could see her way through the maze of magework her idea demanded. Provided the smattering of catalysts that had survived the flight from Dorana were enough. Provided—provided—

  Remmie tells me I’m arrogant. I tell myself I’m great. I’ll need to be both if I’m to save two innocent races.

  Frightened, she pressed her hands to her face. If she thought about this too closely she’d never do it. She’d lose faith.

  Stop snivelling, Barl. You can do this. You have to. And that’s that.

  Left unsettled by his encounter with Barl Lindin, Jervale walked the woods on his lonesome for a time, enjoying the solitude after the bustle of crowded Gribley, welcoming the chance to breathe dampish air and listen to birdsong and the hidden business of woodland creatures. It made a sweet change from his dry, sadly silent hamlet of Toblin… but it made him miss Bene too, and his little Tilly. They’d love it here in the Black Woods’ sun-dappled stillness and peace. Thinking of them, he was roiled giddy with homesickness and wept a little, wanting them. Wept for himself, too, because the burden thrust on him was heavier than ever he’d imagined. It made the coming death of Tam and Rinna’s baby seem light… and he’d never thought that could be.

  To cheer himself, he picked a handful of yellow woodland daisies and a scarlet bibiloo, to press dry and take home to his girls.

  When at last he returned to the village, he decided to wander for a while to hear what folk had to say about the Doranen. He was yet to chime Merrin and tell the old man of the day’s doings, since Toblin’s elder was a man who wanted to know first what others were thinking before he said his own piece.

  Besides… his nagging inner voice was on the nudge again, pushing him to mingle with more folk than Bannet and Del. Why that mattered, beyond being friendly, he couldn’t tell. But he’d long ago learned to be nudged, so he mingled.

  The Olken who’d travelled so far to hear the pleas of Dorana’s mages had mostly met in Gribley as strangers… but were fast becoming friends. Some sleeping in makeshift tents, like the Doranen, others taking a bedroll on the floor of a Gribley villager’s modest cottage, they gathered at the alehouse and in the village square and outside the bakery to trade stories and spin endless wonderings about the strangers who’d asked to make Lur their new home.

  It was no hardship, Jervale thought, chatting with folk. Only reason he’d kept so much to himself was on account of his dreams and knowings. He’d worried someone would notice his unease and ask awkward questions.

  But now he had to, and wasn’t sor
ry for that. He found great pleasure in hobnobbing with folk from pockets of Lur he’d heard of, but never seen. The Olken lived scattered, separate lives. Funny how that struck him so hard now, after hearing the Doranen talk of Iringans and the Brantish and the warlike folk of Feen. Their lives were full of people, full of travel and differences and new sights and change. Not like the Olken, whose lives were tiny set next to theirs. If the Doranen stayed, they’d change that, most likely.

  And it might not be a bad thing. Could be Lur’s folk might not be suffering the drought so hard if they were in the habit of reaching out instead of pulling in.

  Well, that was what he thought. His fellow Olken weren’t so sure. What he learned in his mingling was that while sympathy for the Doranen remained, there was uncertainty too. Fear. Change came hard to the Olken, especially change that struck like lightning out of a clear sky.

  He ate his supper early, sitting comfortable with Bannet and Del, then turned in to his tent and chimed Merrin. The old man listened, grunting now and then, and said he’d talk things over with the hamlet. Weary, Jervale rolled into his blanket and plunged swiftly into sleep…

  … to wake startled at sunrise, visited by a dream that left him fuddled and more afraid than ever that he’d fail.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  She’s up to something,” said Remmie, morose. “I know she is. But she won’t tell me what and she won’t let me help. Venette, I’m telling you, this will all end in tears.”

  Venette eyed her sour porridge, swallowing nausea. If she never ate another bowl of Olken porridge in her life, she’d die happy. Not that she complained, of course. As the last surviving member of the Council of Mages, it was her duty to set an example. So set an example she did, always smiling as she graciously thanked the Olken for their generosity… and ate the dreadful porridge to the very last smear in the wooden bowl.

  “Venette! Are you listening?”

  She looked across the narrow, rough-hewn wooden table at the young man who’d become like a second son to her. The good son. The honourable son. The son who’d never hurt her. He was so decent. Everyone liked Remmie. Even Maris liked him, though her hatred of his sister continued undimmed.