by Karen Miller
“I won’t tell you that, Danfey.”
Of course he would. But there was time. “You look a trifle ragged, Mage Lindin. Has life been unkind?”
Tears sprang to Remmie’s eyes. “Dorana is dead. It might be healing, but it’s still dead. Its mages are slaughtered. Elvado’s a deserted ruin. Worse. A graveyard. All of Dorana’s a graveyard. I’ve walked for days to get here, and hardly saw a living soul. And those I did find have gone half-mad from hunger, and fighting the blight, and each other. What you did, Danfey.” His harsh breathing harshened further. “With your cursed magework and ambition. What you did…”
“What your sister and I did,” he said, amiable, and laughed when Remmie flinched. “Speaking of Barl, how is my beloved? Do you know she weeps for me, in her restless dreams?”
“She weeps for ever knowing you,” said Remmie, sneering. “She never loved you, Danfey. That was a lie.”
“It was not a lie!” he shouted, rage surging again. And then he laughed, because he saw that was the truth. Though Remmie tried to hide it, Barl’s love was in her brother’s eyes.
He felt a rush of heat, seeing it. Was scalded by memories of this chamber, that bed, her heated flesh heating him. Desire. Longing. Regret. He doused them all with rage.
She bound me. She left me. That is not love.
“Where is she, Remmie? You must know she’s mine. You must know we belong together. Have you ever loved? If you had, you’d not stand between us. Please. Stand aside.”
“Please?” Remmie’s fingers were bloodless on the knife’s hilt. “And is that what those poor councillors and the mages of Elvado said before you beasted them? Please? You were a man, once, Morgan. You were human. But now? I don’t know what you are now.”
He laughed. “Magnificent.”
“If there is a trace left in you of the man my sister knew, for her sake, in her memory, let me—”
He snapped his fingers. “Be quiet.”
Silenced, caught between heartbeats, Remmie Lindin held his breath. Smiling, Morgan indulged in a luxurious cat-stretch, then stripped off his tired tunic and dressed himself as befit a lord. Silk brocade and supple leathers. Jewels in his ears. With his long hair brushed and neatly braided, he turned back to Barl’s brother. The dravas incant came easily, his fingers dancing through the sigils, its syllables tripping off his tongue. Once changed, Remmie would obey his every whim. Would remember enough to remember Barl… and swiftly take him to her.
Be patient, my love. It won’t be long now.
He released Remmie from his thrall so the dravas incant might take effect.
And then a shock. Remmie was fighting him. He was resisting the incant’s changes… and because he was, after all, Barl’s twin brother, monstrously, terribly, he was winning a reprieve.
Snarling now, not smiling, Morgan opened himself to the darkness that was Dorana. Felt its tainted power flood him. Pain flooded after it and he cried out, protesting. Cried out a second time as he imposed his implacable will. Panting, he straightened. Invoked the dravas incant again.
Barl’s brother screamed as his body began its remoulding. Eyes wide with the searing pain, the bones beneath his skin contorting, his pale, scarred skin thickening, teeth lengthening to pointed fangs, fingers curving into claws, breath by breath he changed.
“No!” howled Remmie Lindin, and plunged the knife he held into his own throat.
Linked by the dravas incant, Morgan felt the blade sink hilt-deep. Sank to his knees, screaming, as Remmie Lindin sank before him, the hot blood pumping with every beat of his dying heart. Rage thundered, fury shook him. To be bound, and escape the binding? To triumph over Brice Varen and Sallis Arkley and Shari Friedin, and then die?
At the hands of a treacherous whore’s brother? Never! Never! I am Morgan Danfey!
So he fought to live as Remmie Lindin slowly died. Sprawled on his chamber floor and watched the tide of blood flood towards him. Felt it soak him in its heat. Breathed in its salt sweet stench.
I will not die. I will not die. I am magnificent Morgan Danfey. I will not die.
Toiling over the creation of her weather incant’s final, most important piece, Barl felt a searing pain shaft through her. Crying out, she staggered then slumped to the floor of Gribley’s village hall.
Remmie. Remmie. Oh, no. Remmie. No.
Pain blazed in her throat, in her bones, in her blood. There was a filthy taint inside her, a grotesque twisting in her mind. A cruel, familiar presence, crowing even as it screamed.
Dimly she heard the hall’s door bang open. Heard panicked footsteps racing over the wooden floor.
“Barl? Barl! Justice have mercy, what’s wrong?”
Venette. Of course Venette. She couldn’t play a part in the weather map’s creation but still she insisted on remaining close by. Just in case.
She’ll never let me forget she was right.
“Barl!” Venette shouted, dropping beside her. “Is it Remmie? My dear, please tell me it’s not Remmie!”
Her throat hurt too much for speaking, but the truth must have shown in her eyes. Venette sobbed once, wildly, hands flying to her face.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. I should never have helped him!”
She wanted to scream, No, you shouldn’t, Venette! This is your fault!
But it wasn’t, and she knew that, and to say so would be cruel. After Dorana, after the things she’d done, she’d sworn she’d never be cruel again.
Remmie was dying. She could feel it. His life was ebbing fast. She could feel his tears. They were her tears. They were weeping together now.
I took you out of my diary, Rem. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.
And now it was too late. There’d be no time to put him back.
How far away was he? So far… and slipping further. They were twins. She could feel him. If she reached out with her mind… with her broken heart… would he feel her? Could she touch him? Was there enough time left to—
“My love, my love, your brother’s dead. I’m sorry. It wasn’t me. I promise. Poor Remmie killed himself.”
Morgan. Unbound.
Shuddering, she felt herself roll into a ball. Felt Morgan’s roaming lips on her, felt his hands caress her skin.
“Barl! Barl, for pity’s sake, what’s happening?”
She couldn’t answer Venette. Her skin was crawling, her mind whirling, she wanted to scream and sob and retch.
“My love, my beloved, I know where you are. Remmie told me. Such a little scamp. I was in his mind as he died. Beyond the mountains. A land called Lur. Full of simple, ignorant people. They will make such beautiful dravas. A thoughtful gift, my love.”
“No,” she moaned, writhing. “Remmie… Remmie… no…”
“Wait for me, my beloved bitch, my treacherous slut, my whore. For I know where you are, Barl, and you have no place left to run!”
With a horrified cry, Barl opened her eyes and sat up. Clutched at Venette, who was clutching hard at her.
“Morgan, it’s Morgan,” she gabbled, almost choking with fear. “He’s free, Venette. He’s coming. He knows where we are. Oh quick, there’s no time.”
The weather map. It wasn’t finished. She had to finish it, or the magic would fail. No tamed weather, no shielding wall, and Morgan loose among the Olken.
Remmie.
She pulled free of weeping Venette and staggered to her feet. “Get up. Get up! We have to hurry. I don’t know what power’s in him now. I don’t know what he can do.”
Tears slicked Venette’s blanched cheeks. The haughty councillor was gone. “Remmie’s dead? Barl, is he—”
“Yes, Remmie’s dead!” she said, and shook her. “Mourn him later, Venette, when I’m gone. But if you don’t help me now, we’ll all be dead. Understand?”
On a shuddering breath, Venette regained her self-control. “Yes.”
“Yes. Now run to my tent, and bring my big leather satchel to me. Hurry.”
As Venette ran, Barl flung herself b
ack to the weather map. So nearly done, so nearly, surely she had time…
The world blurred around her as she finished her crucial task, embedding the remaining incants in the model of Lur carved by loving Olken hands. The details could be finished later, after she was gone, but the magic couldn’t wait. It had to be finished now.
Lost in desperate magework, she was vaguely aware of Venette’s return, of Elder Chaffie and Maris Garrick and some others on the new Council, all come to the village hall to see… whatever they saw.
And then she was done, she was done. The incants ignited. The weather map came to life, humming with potential. Waiting for the wall.
She looked at Venette, sweat dripping down her face. “My satchel. Quickly. And send everyone else away.”
Of course Maris protested, but she couldn’t care about that. Upending the heavy leather satchel, she showed its scattered contents to Venette.
“My diary. You keep it. Read it, by all means, but never let it out of your sight. There’s an incant in here… I finished it early this morning.” She felt herself shiver. “Venette, it’s for an unmaking. The worst you’ll ever see. Don’t use it unless you have to. It’s for a last resort. Understand?”
Venette’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Yes, my dear. Yes.”
“This? Take it. This is a warding. My own personal seal. When the time is right build a library for the books and scrolls of magic you think should be kept secret, and ward it. It’s the only way to be sure.”
Nodding, Venette looked at the seal. “Of course.”
What else… what else…
“Here’s the orb with the weather magics,” she said, holding up the crystal sphere, “and all the notes on how to use it.” Pages and pages of them, littering the floor. “I know I’ve only explained it once, but once will have to be enough. And remember, taking the magics will be painful. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about that now.”
Seemingly bewildered, Venette was shaking her head. “Barl, my dear, take a breath. Slow down. Surely—”
“I can’t slow down!” she said, shaking. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s coming! Now quickly, quickly, help me fill the satchel.”
So Venette helped her shove the notes and the diary and the orb back in the leather satchel. And as she laced it tightly closed—
“Barl, my beloved… wear flowers in your hair…”
Her bones shuddered, her heart quailed, and she sank moaning to the floor.
Remmie… Remmie…
“Barl, please,” Venette begged her. “Please, you have to stop this, you have to—”
Somehow, from somewhere, she found the strength to stand. “I can’t. There’s no time. Venette, I have to go.”
“But the warding’s magework, Barl!” Venette protested. “The weather magic’s incants! The syllables and the sigils, this is a complicated working. Where are your notes? You can’t remember—”
“Yes, I can.” She tapped her temple, then her breast. “The magic’s inside me, Venette. It always was. Didn’t you know?” She held out her hands. Took hold of Venette’s wrists, and pulled her onto her feet. Kept holding, because these were the last hands she’d ever hold, this the last face she’d ever see.
And they belong to Venette Martain. Well, I suppose it could be worse. They could belong to Maris Garrick.
Venette’s hair was in disarray. Trying to smile, Barl smoothed it. “Stay here, my lady. You’ve done all you can. What’s left to do is up to me.”
“Oh, Barl…” Venette whispered, weeping. “Oh, my dear. You’ll not be forgotten, I swear it. Every mage born shall know what you’ve done. What you’ve sacrificed. What you’re owed. Yes, and every Olken too. We will not forget.”
Bemused, Barl shook her head. Had they hated each other once? She and Venette? It seemed a long time ago. Hate and love. Love and hate. What did that odd little Olken man say? What was his name? Jervale?
“Love can turn to hate quick as a wink. You know that.”
Well, if she didn’t know it before… she certainly did now.
“Goodbye, Venette,” she said, smiling. “And good luck.”
And before things became impossible, she turned and hurried from the hall, past Maris Garrick and Elder Chaffie and the other mages whose faces were too blurred for her to see, past Gribley’s surprised villagers… who’d become monsters if she failed.
Once she reached the edge of the village she broke into a run, and kept running, faster and faster, feeling Morgan’s hot, hungry breath on the back of her neck. Ran until the birdsong gloom of the Black Woods swallowed her completely. Until her mage-sense stirred and told her: Here, Barl. Here.
Panting, exhausted, with Morgan outrun for the moment, she dropped to the cool, damp, leaf-littered ground. Felt the mountains, towering above her. Felt the gentle song in Lur’s bones. Felt the magic, waiting inside her, desperate to burst free.
And then she felt a strange peace wash over her, like the brief touch of a gentle, loving hand.
“Yes, Remmie,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”
And drew her first blood-red sigil on the cool, waiting air.
Acknowledgements
Stephanie Smith, Glenda Larke, Mary GT Webber, Mark Timmony, Elaine and Peter Shipp, Ethan Ellenberg, Greg Bridges, Abigail Nathan, The Voyager Team.
Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Dedication
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Acknowledgements
Books by Karen Miller
Copyright
Books by
Karen Miller
KINGMAKER, KINGBREAKER
The Innocent Mage
The Awakened Mage
FISHERMAN’S CHILDREN
The Prodigal Mage
The Reluctant Mage
A Blight of Mages
THE GODSPEAKER TRILOGY
Empress
The Riven Kingdom
Hammer of God
Writing as K. E. Mills
ROGUE AGENT
The Accidental Sorcerer
Witches Incorporated
Wizard Squared
Wizard Undercover
COPYRIGHT
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978 0 7481 1942 4
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Karen Miller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
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own Book Group
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