Page 87 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Morgrim said, through gritted teeth, “I apologise. That was uncalled for. But Fenn, don’t you see? You have to give me the horse.”
“And what would you do with him if I did? Eh?”
Morgrim was silent, eyes glinting.
“Eh?” Fenn said aggressively, uncrossing his arms and stepping forwards. “What would you do with him? Come on, out with it. Experiment on him? Cut him open? Hack him about? Eh?”
“I don’t know,” Morgrim grated. “And anyway. It’s a horse. Not even that. It’s some sackcloth and stuffing. And we’re talking about an invasion. War. People dying. Have you seen a burned-out village? Have you heard the children screaming? Because I have. We’re talking about our country becoming a vassal state. Taxes to Lutia. Tributes to fund their armies, to make them even stronger. Have you no conscience? I think you should give the horse up gladly if there’s a chance I could get the magic out of it.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Gladly, eh? And what if that don’t work? What then? Will you hack me open to try to get the magic out of me? Will you?”
“Don’t be ridic—”
But Fenn was no longer willing to listen. “Gods, you’ve done nothing but use me and lie to me and I—” Fenn almost choked on the words. It was all finally sinking in, everything Morgrim had said, everything he’d done, the fact that Morgrim didn’t give two coppers for Fenn, but simply wanted his magic back at any price. “All this time I been thinking what a prime bloke you are, how you sacrificed your life for the country, and...and you don’t really give a toss for me, do you? Not really. Because soon as there’s something of mine you want, you’re all out to get it. Gods, you and your schemes and your lies.”
Fenn heard his own words and remembered, briefly, how wary he’d felt when he’d first arrived at the tower. Of Morgrim the schemer, Morgrim the liar, Morgrim the ruthless, power-hungry bastard. Morgrim advanced, a stealthy step. He was naked and powerless and beautiful and terrible and Fenn couldn’t bear to be in the same room as him.
“Gods,” Fenn was quivering with something that felt like horror, but suddenly he was cold as well. “You are who people say.”
He backed away and into Squab’s solid shoulder. Fenn hadn’t seen the horse arrive, but of course it had come, through that hole in the wall. Because Fenn needed it.
Morgrim said softly, “Fenn, don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t. Which is why I ain’t staying. ‘Give him to me’ you say. Like it’s nothing. Well, it ain’t nothing. I know you been through a lot. Two years of hell. I know it. But do you know what I been through? You know how hard it’s been? You know how much I longed and longed for a horse? Don’t reckon you can even conceive of it. But this here is my horse. First I ever had. Earned him fair and square. And he’s mine. Mine. Aye, and his magic and all.”
Fenn flung himself over Squab’s back, clapped his heels to its sides and they were gone through the hole in the wall, Morgrim’s “wait!” ringing in his ears.
Chapter 17
Fenn gave the horse its head and it streaked away from the tower, away from the city, over the sunlit countryside. He must get away, put as much distance as he could between himself and Morgrim. Because how dare Morgrim make assumptions and demands. How dare he say that Fenn had as good as stolen his magic, when the horse was clearly not Morgrim’s.
And where did Morgrim get off saying Fenn was frittering the magic away? What about the idea that Fenn should go somewhere safe, learn to use it? Well, that was what he’d do. Find somewhere to stay. Give himself a week or two, really concentrate on Squab and the magic, and stop spending so much bloody time thinking about bloody Morgrim and how to get him into bed. Because look how well that had turned out. What a dolt Fenn had been, thinking a liaison like that could lead anywhere but disaster.
The afternoon countryside passed beneath them and the wind began to cool his face. He realised that even if Squab really did belong to him, even if the magic really was his, likely it wasn’t just Morgrim who’d want him to give it up. Because Aramella might be a decent young woman, but she was also a queen with a country to look after. And Fenn was nothing, really. Whereas Morgrim was Aramella’s friend, her confidant and advisor, her not-so-secret weapon; an experienced magician who’d saved the country before.
Fenn’s cheeks felt cold and he realised he was weeping. He didn’t want soldiers coming after him. He didn’t want Morgrim or Aramella thinking him a selfish traitor. He was innocent. He’d endured twenty years of misery before happening across this horse, and now he was expected to give it up again? To live without magic when he’d only just found it? It wasn’t his fault the world was a mess. In fact, he’d always tried to do the right thing, to be as charitable as he could. And Squab was his. He’d a perfect right to fly away and find somewhere quiet to live and not get involved in the troubles of sorcerers and queens.
Anyway, where was he going? Where was Squab taking him this time?
It was obvious: Rolling-Hill Farm.
Because Fenn wanted proof. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Morgrim’s story. He did. But there were important details that neither of them knew. Such as when exactly Squab had come to life. Had it been four weeks ago when a penniless vagrant had been cheated into accepting it? Or had it been two years ago, on a dark and unexpectedly rainy night, when the court sorcerer was lying passed out cold in a forest clearing a short walk from the farm?
Fenn wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, but more tears followed the first. Ridiculous. Situation was awful, but no point bawling. Wouldn’t help no one. But the tears wouldn’t stop and it came to him, after a while, that he wasn’t crying for Squab or the fear of having to give up magic.
He was crying for Morgrim. Because Fenn had been falling in love with him since the moment they’d met. Everything Morgrim had said he’d felt—the feeling of familiarity, of trust, of being able to say anything—Fenn had felt it too. But it hadn’t been real. It had just been some nasty mysterious magic trick.
And Fenn hadn’t known how lonely he’d been until he’d met Morgrim. But he had been lonely. Painfully, desperately, dismally lonely. So lonely that even now he was crying out for Morgrim, body and soul. But Fenn couldn’t see how they could ever be together again, because either he gave Squab to Morgrim and lost his own magic and watched Morgrim lose interest. Or, Fenn kept Squab and never saw Morgrim again, because Morgrim wouldn’t give up searching for his own magic until he was dead.
Squab flew on through the sunny afternoon and Fenn’s tears flew too, straight down, to land on parched fields and dried-up riverbeds, salty and useless, a cruel substitute for rain.
***
Rolling-Hill Farm was closed up for the evening when Fenn landed in the yard, but there was light in the farmhouse windows. Fenn dismounted and banged on the front door with his fist.
“Who’s there? What do you want?” called a suspicious voice. A man. Older. Likely the farmer himself.
“Fenn Todd’s my name. I’ve come from the capital, from the Unket Tower. Sorry to disturb you so late, but I need to talk to you.”
