Page 102 of Seducing the Sorcerer
And all Fenn had to do was turn over and he’d have Morgrim in his arms. The anticipation of that moment was so sweet that Fenn delayed it, hovering in that space between sleep and waking, contentment and desire.
Plus, if Morgrim knew Fenn was awake, he might say something about getting up. They were due at the palace this morning. Yesterday afternoon had been about Aramella hugging Morgrim and weeping with relief and then hugging him some more. She’d hugged Fenn too, surprising him into freezing, though he’d managed to pat her back with one hand. And then it had been about eating and drinking and bathing and rest.
And sex—though without any talk or play-acting or power games. For some reason neither of them had felt they’d wanted that, so it had been ordinary, but fierce and tender for all that.
But this morning, the government tier leaders wanted to meet Fenn to talk strategy and diplomacy and the role of magic in the coming war. Fenn wasn’t sure he wanted to meet them, but Morgrim thought it was essential and so did Aramella.
Morgrim moved again, sending a whisper of cooler air down Fenn’s back. Then Morgrim went still, and a moment later said, “Fenn?”
“Mm?”
“You should wake up.”
“Mm. In a minute.”
“No. Now.” Morgrim shook him, not hard but sharply. “You need to see this.”
Fenn rolled on his back and opened his eyes.
The cavernous bedroom was jam-packed with worple horses.
There seemed at least a hundred. All colours, all types. A score or more were made of old sacking or tapestry material and there were several in black silk. There was a black linen one with a dark green lace mane, identical to the remaining antimacassar on the chair in the hall downstairs. One was made from Fenn’s old shirt—the one Jasper had taken away for washing that first morning—Fenn recognised a pattern of grey stains like dappling and a scorch mark that had been on one of the arms.
He recognised, too, a patched lilac petticoat from the second-hand clothes shop, and a cheerful rag of sprigged muslin—pink and green on white—from the farm, now both reborn as horses. There were several hairy knitted creatures in tough homespun that had probably started life as socks. And at the far side of the room he caught a flash of blood red that had been yesterday’s waistcoat lining.
Every single thing he’d fed his sackcloth horse had become another horse.
Another worple horse.
Because they were all just as peculiar-looking as their mother. There was not a beauty among them. Not, that is, if Fenn was judging based on the regular points of the horse. If he was judging them as worple horses, they were without peer: all ungainly and unlikely and unexpected and all with a glimmer of magic.
He glanced at Morgrim, who gaped back at him, eyes alight. Then Morgrim burst into laughter, so loud the nearest horses snorted and goggled at him like so many wall-eyed frogs.
Fenn was grinning, caught between astonishment and wonderment and consternation because there were just so many of them. But Morgrim was howling with laughter and it was so infectious Fenn wanted to laugh too. He tried to resist, perhaps because he wasn’t sure he held with horses in the bedroom. Or maybe it was more that giving in to laughter felt like giving in to hope: unwise, probably dangerous, undignified, silly. But Morgrim, usually so poised, was lying back on the pillows and weeping with laughter. And Fenn could tell he wasn’t laughing at the horses, nor at Fenn. But with delight.
For joy.
A great laugh exploded from Fenn and the nearest horses flung up their heads and tittupped away and managed to look so pert and yet so confused that Morgrim howled afresh and clutched his belly and said, “Oh Gods, no, no, it hurts!” But still he could not stop laughing. And neither could Fenn, who laughed until his sides ached and they were clutching each other and gasping and tears were streaming down their faces.
But eventually the most violent paroxysms passed. Fenn got to his feet, still chuckling and giddy with mirth, and pushed through the throng of horses to see if he could persuade a few of them to leave. He found a new door standing open in the side of the tower, where yesterday there had still been a hole made by the river hex.
He chivvied a black silk horse out of the opening into the cloud, then encouraged one of the hairy knitted beasts after it. The sprigged muslin horse plunged out after and the rest seemed to catch on that the herd was leaving and started leaping out of the door of their own accord. Fenn waited until they’d left—all but one—and shut the door behind them.
The sackcloth horse stood near the window closest to the bed and took a pensive bite of black silk curtain. Fenn went to pull her away, but Morgrim said, “Let her. Doesn’t she deserve it?”
“Horses in the bedroom,” Fenn said, shaking his head, still slightly appalled.
“Yes, but think what it means!”
“Blame big feed bill. Silk curtains, indeed!”
“No. Well, maybe. But no. It means a cavalry. A flying cavalry.”
“Oh.” Fenn thought about this and what it could mean. “Don’t want them getting hurt, though.”
“I know. But the Lutians are listening to Tullivo because they think we’re easy pickings. And a flying cavalry isn’t just a show of force; it’s a show of magic. Lots of magic.”
“So, no need for a fight, you mean?”
