Page 36 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Morgrim got as far as, “Mr. Todd, I—” when Fenn caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The horse. He’d completely forgotten about it. He’d let the lead rope slip off his knee. The horse had crept to the fireside chairs. An antimacassar was vanishing into its mouth.
Fenn shot to his feet. “Hey!”
Morgrim leaped up too and whirled, knocking over his wine glass and reaching for his staff. Without thinking, Fenn put a hand on the sorcerer’s forearm, using the same gentle pressure he’d give to a frightened horse.
“Sorry. Ain’t nothing. Just the horse getting in where it shouldn’t.”
Morgrim’s forearm was trembling, but he gave a single, tight nod and said, evenly enough, “Of course. I do apologise.”
“It’s me should apologise, yelling at the dinner table and giving everyone conniptions. What would my mam say, eh?” He nodded towards the horse. “I’d best go and stop it.”
He strode to it, grabbed its halter and removed a forlorn piece of green lace from between its jaws. The rest was gone the way of the pink silk eiderdown and the old sacks.
“Ah, you bugger!” Fenn murmured to it.
He pushed the shred of lace into his pocket and pulled the horse back to the table. He sat and picked up his fork in his right hand. That wasn’t manners, but he needed his left to keep the lead rope firmly clamped. Morgrim had put down his staff, mopped up the spilled wine with his napkin and picked up his knife and fork, but his breathing had not quite returned to normal.
Morgrim’s reaction had seemed so extreme that Fenn couldn’t help scanning the room for danger. But while it was creepy as a midnight graveyard what with the ghouls and the shadows and the cobwebs swaying like ghosts in the rafters above, there didn’t seem anything amiss. But then Morgrim had seemed tense all day. Poor bloke was jumpy as a colt in botfly season.
“I’m right sorry,” Fenn said again. “It’s a terror for fabrics.”
“Does it eat them?” Morgrim managed.
“Happen it does,” Fenn mumbled.
He wasn’t sure why he was ashamed of the fact. Perhaps because it was so odd. So unlike what a real horse would eat.
“And it still follows you everywhere, clearly.” Morgrim’s voice was back to normal: silky, cultivated, pleasant.
“Aye, well. Working on that.”
“Have you tried flying again?”
“Not yet.”
“But perhaps if you allow it to fly, it might tire and then be more inclined to stay put.”
“That ain’t a bad idea. It’s just...what if it takes off with me again? I didn’t mean to come here, begging your pardon, though I’m right glad I did. But supposing I can get it to fly again, what if it flies off to Teleria or Heregovia or somewhere else foreign. And drops me in a courtyard where I can’t speak the language?”
“I’ve no easy answer for you, I’m afraid.” Morgrim’s tone was sympathetic. “Magic is risky. Especially new magic. One always risks something. One never quite knows what will happen. Until it is done.”
Fenn said, faintly, “And here I always thought magicians just clicked their fingers or whatever.”
“Unfortunately, not. There’s huge potential for error.”
“But crystal fixers—they don’t seem to make mistakes. I mean, they use magic but you don’t see velocipedes flying off with people, or crystal-powered carriages turning into pumpkins or whatnot.”
Morgrim tilted his head slightly; the hawk was back, his gaze sharp enough to cut. But his expression was—could it be that he was impressed? Fenn blinked.
“Your observation does you credit, Mr. Todd. In fact, you have struck right to the heart of the matter.” Morgrim smiled, in what looked like genuine admiration.
“Er. Aye?” Fenn pushed some food about on his plate, trying not to blush.
“Yes.” Morgrim said. “Because crystal fixers do use magic, yes. They capture it and make it serve their purpose.” He made a fist, then opened it quickly as if to demonstrate its emptiness. “But that’s all. There’s no other potential there. As you say, the velocipede will never fly, the carriage will never be anything other than a carriage. Their results are very useful. But they work by rote. They do the same things every time for the same results. To me, what they do is scarcely magic at all. Their work will never transcend itself. But then, they don’t want it to.
“You, Mr. Todd”—the sorcerer gave a graceful inclination of his head towards Fenn—“are dealing with wild magic. You’re in control of it, in a way. But if you don’t work in sympathy with it, it will fizzle and die in your hand. It has great power to help or to harm. But you won’t be sure which until you’ve done it. And then you’ll be a hero, or a villain, or a laughing stock. And I cannot tell you which will be your fate.”
“Gods.” Fenn sounded stunned even to himself. “Is it like that for you?” he managed.
