“Why?”
She stepped closer, so intent, and took hold of his arm. “Because Dorana is unprotected. Because our neighbours do not love us. Because something terrible is coming, Remmie… and only Morgan and I know.”
Remmie felt his eyes burn with grief.
Oh, Barl. Something terrible is here… and I think it’s you.
“So you can see why we need you, Remmie,” she said, unheeding. “The magework is so difficult. If there were three of us… if you and I could work together, the way we used to… I think then it would hold. Will you stay? You must stay. You must help us save Dorana.”
Chapter Thirty
Before he could stop himself, Remmie stumbled backwards. Shook his head. Swallowed the bile surging into his throat.
“I can’t.”
Barl’s eyes widened. “But you have to!”
A kind of sick fascination dragged his gaze back to the monstrosity at their feet. The poor little thing. How the calf must have suffered as it died. Suffered as she and Morgan Danfey changed it.
His fingers shaking, he pointed. “Barl, nobody has to do this. Nobody should do this. What is wrong with you? What you’ve done here is an abomination! It breaks the laws of common decency, let alone magework. What were you thinking? And how could you think I would want anything to do with it?”
Barl’s pale face had flushed with hectic colour. “Remmie Lindin, don’t you dare lecture me, you—you hypocrite. Yes, that’s a dead cow. Well, you eat cows, don’t you?”
“I eat them, yes. But I don’t torture them first!”
This time it was Barl who stepped back. “You think I like killing these creatures? I’m doing this because I have to, because Dorana needs me to. Because Morgan asked me to help him save us, and he can’t do it alone. It’s sad the calf died. And sad it won’t be the last one. But Remmie, I will kill a hundred calves, a thousand, to keep Dorana safe. If I don’t, if I stop now… then I’ll have done this for nothing!”
He stared at his sister, this stranger, his heart pounding against his ribs. In the poultry coop beside them he could hear the horrible, heavy thunking of the mageworked chickens’ feathers as the deformed creatures struggled to move beneath the unnatural weight.
“Barl… let’s go,” he said. “While Danfey’s away. However awful things are beyond this estate, they’re worse here. Please.” He held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
She knocked his hand aside. There were tears in her eyes. “You are mad! And you should never have come. How can you be so selfish, Remmie? What are your squeamish feelings compared to countless innocent lives?”
“If you care so much for countless innocent lives,” he retorted, his own eyes burning, “then why don’t you poke your nose off this privileged estate and see what is happening beyond its warding! Whole villages, swallowed by mage-mist. Crops ruined. Livestock rotting in ditches. Misery like you wouldn’t believe. People are terrified, you stupid, ignorant girl. Thanks to the mage-mist, they’re dying. If you want to use your magework to save Dorana, Barl, save it from that! Don’t use it for this!”
“But this is what’s going to save us, Remmie! Why are you arguing with me when we’re on the same side? You just said it yourself, Dorana is under attack, and I’m saying that what Morgan and I are doing, what we’re creating, will be our only hope!”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Overwhelmed with angry disgust, Remmie fastened his fingers to his sister’s arm and dropped to his knees beside the scaled calf, dragging her down with him. “Look at this thing you’ve created, Barl. Look at it. This is not hope. This is cruelty and despair. It’s wrong, you know it is, and while you might’ve convinced yourself to look the other way as you create these monsters, you will never convince me!” Panting, he flailed onto his feet. “Now I’m going back to Batava. Come with me or don’t. That’s up to you. But if you stay here, Barl? If you choose to keep doing this? Then I never knew you. And I never want to see you again.”
She shouted after him as he walked away. Shouted pleas, shouted threats, shouted ’til she was hoarse. He didn’t stop. He didn’t listen. He could hardly see for tears.
I’m sorry, Mama. I am. But there are some things I won’t do. Not even for you.
Because she was obliged to set an example, Venette ignored Orwin’s objections and made her way from their town house to the Hall of Knowledge on foot.
She’d not walked more than three streets’ distance before she was regretting her choice.
So deeply alarmed, so uncertain, were the people of Elvado now that they did not fear to accost her. But worse than their jostling, pointing, barging and weeping was the inescapable evidence of Dorana’s dreadful decline.
How did we come to this? Where did we go wrong?
She didn’t know. None of them knew. But as she stood in the middle of Asvoden Way, staring over the crowd at her neighbourhood’s buckled walls, its cracked windows, the boarded-up gaping holes where stained glass once glittered, the oddly melted roof tiles and uneven front paths, she accepted—for the first time—that unless the Council and the College performed a miracle, and quickly, this city would fall to ruin… and after it, all Dorana.
Shaken, she looked at the waiting mages around her. A scant handful she recognised. The rest were unknown. But they all knew her, because she was Lady Venette Martain, Councillor. Too important to bother… until today.
“I know what you want to hear,” she said to them, raising her voice. “And justice knows, I want to say it. But if I did, I’d be lying. All I can do is ask for your patience.”
“We’ve been patient!” an angry voice in the middle of the crowd retorted. “It’s not helping!”
A ripple of muttered agreement. Every face she looked at was unfriendly.
The angry voice wasn’t familiar. “Whoever you are, sir, do me the courtesy of showing your face.”
The unhappy crowd parted. A slender mage of middling height shifted through the space made for him and stood before her, belligerent. The right side of his face was puckered scarlet, the wound reaching past his hairline into his scalp. His hair had been shorn close, revealing one ruined ear.
“Mage-mist,” he said, sneering. “Caught me unawares. And I’m not the only one who’s been afflicted, Lady Martain.”
She swallowed. “I know. The Guild of Pothers keeps the Council apprised of such unfortunate incidents. I am sorry, Mage—”
“Garven.” The man’s right eye, its drooping lid bubbled, leaked a blood-tinged tear. “My daughter Tiva was with me. Not yet twelve. A pretty child, with a great touch of talent about her. She’s not expected to live.”
If she touched his arm in sympathy she thought he’d spit on her. “I’m sorry. I had a narrow escape myself, the other night. Terrible.”
“And that’s meant to lull us, is it? Make us believe you share our sufferings?”
The speaker this time was a woman, as unfriendly as Mage Garven. She wore plain, drab green linen. A servant’s garb. What was the woman doing causing trouble in the street? Surely she had shelves to dust or boots to clean?
“Lulling you is not my purpose,” she replied. “I merely point out that rank is no protection.”
“Your rank is meant to be our protection,” said Mage Garven. “You mages on the Council, aren’t you meant to have the answers? You lay down the law to us. Tell us what magics we can and can’t have. There’s a price for that, Lady Martain. Why aren’t you paying it? Why are we the ones paying for what you can’t do?”
Sparked tinder to dry grass, his demand whipped through the pressing crowd. Loud voices echoed him. The day darkened with rising fear.
“All you’ve done is ban the use of magic!” a second man complained. “You’ve made our lives even more of a misery and we’ve got nothing to show for it!”
Venette pointed at him. “For shame, Mage Tolomew. How many times have you drunk my wine at one of our parties? You know better than anyone that I don’t look to burden
you. And not all magic is banned, only such incantery that isn’t needful. Do you say a Brantish farmhand is more capable than a Doranen mage?”
Humiliated by her open scorn, Tolomew mumbled something then looked away. Not liking his swift capitulation or a harshly spoken truth, the crowd started muttering again.
Then another shout. “Mage-mist! Run!”
As the resentful crowd scattered like startled mice, Venette watched the drifting dazzle of raw, unrestrained magic. Afraid and furious, she stood her ground. Dared it to come nearer, to disfigure her. To kill her. The mage-mist drifted closer. Closer. So close she could feel its unbridled heat crisping her skin.
“Bas’fana!” she shouted, clapping her hands. “Bas’fana disnoi!”
In a shower of sparks it collapsed and vanished. Her breathing ragged, Venette pressed trembling fingers to her to lips. Held back the sobbing relief that did not become a ranked mage, let alone a councillor. Then she glared at the few mages still scuttling away. Ungrateful jiggets. For days she’d foregone comfort, Orwin’s company, her own bed, decently cooked meals, fresh clothes and a bath, just so she could remain at the College to work with Bellamie Ranowen toward finding the key to their saving.
What more do they want from me? Shall I slit a vein in my wrist and bleed for them? Take a knife and cut my own throat? Must I die for Dorana to prove I’m trying to save it?
Asvoden Way was deserted now. Taking advantage, she hurried to the towering Hall of Knowledge. At least it was still intact, its stained-glass windows unsmashed, its framework unbuckled. Every mage residing there worked night and day to keep it that way. The Hall was Dorana’s greatest symbol. If it should fall…
But it won’t. It can’t. Stop thinking like that.
Hurrying into the Council chamber, she hurried into another storm.
“Lord Varen! Is it possible you do not fully comprehend the extreme gravity of this alarming situation?”
Halted in the open doorway, unnoticed, Venette winced as Brice surged to his feet, both fists striking the Council table as though he wished it were someone’s face.
“No, Lady Brislyn, that is not possible!” He gestured at Sallis and Shari. “Are these the faces of mages who fail to comprehend our plight?”
Lady Dreen Brislyn, recently appointed head of the General Council, sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “It is well known to those of us who refuse to be browbeaten by certain elements of Doranen society that mages who achieve a place on this Council have raised dissembling to an art form. Why should I trust what your faces have to say? Indeed, why should I trust—”
“One moment,” Brice said curtly, and turned. “Lady Martain, you are late.”
Not appreciating his tone, Vanette took her customary seat. “I was delayed by a group of concerned citizens.”
“You were confronted? In broad daylight?” Sallis gaped. “Tell us you did not lower yourself to converse with a rabble!”
“Rabble?” Lady Brislyn demanded. “Don’t you mean a group of frightened fellow mages seeking leadership? That you would heap scorn upon them Lord Arkley, speaks volumes of your failures. You wonder why the rest of us have lost faith in this Council? Look in a mirror!”
“Mind your manners!” Sallis spat. “I won’t be lectured to in this Hall by a second-rate mage with less than half my years in her dish, whose family clings to its ranking by a fingernail!”
“Enough!” Brice shouted, his face burnished dark red. He sat again, heavily. “Conduct yourselves with dignity, all of you, or be expelled.”
Waiting for Sallis and Shari to stop their spluttering, Venette studied Dreen Brislyn from the corner of her eye. Young and lowly ranked she might be, but no mage became head of the oft-contentious General Council lacking political skill and a spine of steel forged as hard as a Vharne swordsman’s blade.
“My purpose here is twofold,” Lady Brislyn declared, before Brice could speak again. “Firstly I am come to determine what, in exact detail, this Council and the College of Mages is doing to undo the—”
“It’s not your place to question us,” Shari snapped. “The General Council devotes itself to such matters as are contained within its charter. Not contained within its charter is the right to—”
“Lady Frieden, our current circumstances give us the right!” Dreen Brislyn said, glaring. “Three days ago the General Council received formal declarations from the rulers of Brantone, Feen, Trindek, Manemli and Ranoush. In other words, the rulers of every sovereign nation that sits upon our borders. Doranen mage-mist has been seen in their lands, and as you can imagine, they are not amused.”
Stunned silence. Chilled, Venette looked at Brice, then Sallis and Shari.
“Is there proof?” Brice said at last, hoarse with dismay.
Lady Brislyn lifted a leather satchel onto the table, withdrew a sheaf of papers and handed them to him.
“They have provided various eyewitness accounts, from nine different locations. There are also reports of inexplicable warpings and disruptions of buildings. Buckled roads. Suddenly unsafe bridges. Livestock suffering ghastly hurts with no cause apparent.” Daring any of them to challenge her, she looked around the table. “In other words, they are suffering what we suffer.”
“Impossible,” said Sallis, as Brice quickly scanned the copied letters. “Our borders are warded. No magic escapes them.”
“Our borders are failing,” Dreen Brislyn said, her face fierce. “For centuries Dorana has lived in peace with its magickless neighbours because we have found a way to comfortably coexist. Because we have never been a threat. Well, my lords and ladies, we are a great threat now!”
Venette leaned forward, capturing Dreen Brislyn’s attention. “Do you mean to suggest that these insignificant nations might inflict violence upon us?”
“Suggest?” The woman laughed. “Lady Martain, I tell you outright, for that is what has been told to me. These princes and potentates, whose nations are far from insignificant, believe we are a danger to their sovereignty and safety. And being, for the most part, of warlike dispostion, some of them go so far as to accuse us of attacking them. So discarding old enmities, they have signed a treaty amongst themselves. Even now their various warriors gather along our mutual borders. They have told us, in no uncertain language, that we must control these rogue magics… or pay the price.”
This time it was Sallis who thumped the table. “Then they are fools! They should fear what we’ll do if they raise so much as a bread knife against us!”
“And what is that, Sallis?” Venette asked, with a rolling-eye glance at Brice. “Stamp our well-shod feet and wave our impotent fists in the air?”
Silencing Sallis with a look, Brice tossed the copied letters onto the table. “How has the General Council responded?”
“We have given them assurances that the matter is being dealt with,” said Lady Brislyn. “More than that we were not inclined to say before consulting with this Council, bearing in mind that your purview is limited to the business of magic within Dorana’s borders.”
“Obviously that purview must be expanded,” Shari said, her eyes narrowed. “Given these unprecedented circumstances, the Council of Mages must—”
“Must not use this calamity as an excuse to expand its authority. You wield enough power, Lady Frieden. Any attempt to wield more will not be viewed kindly by the General Council.”
Ivory pale with temper, Shari turned to Brice. “This cannot be tolerated, Lord Varen. We are none of us naughty schoolchildren to be treated to such scolds. The General Council is an undisciplined collection of lowly ranked mages and shopkeepers. For this woman to presume she—”
“Be quiet, Lady Frieden,” Brice said, sounding weary beyond bearing. “Be quiet all of you, that I might think.”
Alarmed, Venette watched Brice retreat to his favourite brooding place, the Council chamber’s balcony. It wasn’t safe out there. If mage-mist manifested itself or, justice forbid, should Dorana’s magical instability break through
the workings on the Hall, he might plunge to his death. But as she opened her mouth to call him back, a knock on the closed chamber door distracted her.
“Councillors, my apologies for the interruption,” the day’s duty mage murmured. “But there is an unranked mage here, most insistent that he be given leave to address you. He says his name is Rem—”
“Have you lost your wits?” Sallis demanded. “We are in emergency session! Get rid of the fool!”
The duty mage hesitated. “My lord, I—”
“Get rid of him, I said! Tell him to make an appointment to see one of the administrators. Go.” As the chamber door closed, Sallis grimaced. “And why that prim face, Venette? Have you not had your fill of rabblesome complaints today?”
“I have,” she said mildly, ignoring Dreen Brislyn’s disapproval. “Just as I’ve had my fill of bluster. Lady Brislyn is right, we must work together to overcome this crisis.”
Dreen Brislyn nodded her thanks, then linked her hands before her on the table. “Councillors, the General Council expects me to take the truth back to the Second district.” One by one she looked at them, her light green eyes wide and unblinking. “Can this crisis be overcome? You and the College’s best mages have been seeking a solution for weeks, yet you are no closer now than when you began. Meanwhile, Dorana unravels around us. How long before it unravels entirely and we are left to the mercy of nations who have long looked upon us with envy and suspicion, even as they benefited from our magework? We are vastly outnumbered and we have no warriors. For centuries our magic has been our shield. Bereft of that, what shall we do?”
“An excellent question, Lady Brislyn,” Brice said, rejoining them. “What do you suggest?”
Her lips thinned in a wary smile. “What do I suggest? Do you say my suggestion would carry any weight?”
Brice matched her thin smile with one of his own. “As much weight as I decide it deserves to bear.”
Taking a moment to fiddle with the ruby ring on her forefinger, Dreen Brislyn let her smile fade. “I do have a thought to share. Perhaps it has been thought of already, and already discarded, but…”