Page 89 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“Wondering where you got it from,” Fenn added. Because if it had arrived at the farm two years ago, then Morgrim was right and it belonged to him.
“Always been here,” said the farmer, and Fenn let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Long as I can remember and I’m fifty-one this New Year past. We used to keep it up on the rafters in the old barn, along with some bits of harness and lumber and suchlike. My Da always kept odd things in there; things what wouldn’t burn or that might come in handy. And his Da before him. But don’t know where it came from afore that.”
“Maybe the castle,” said Fenn. He explained about worple horses, how they’d once turned spits.
“There is a big hall in the castle,” volunteered the farmer’s wife. “With a grand big fireplace. I used to be in service there.”
“Then that’ll be it, likely. Thanks, missus. But are you telling me the horse was kept up there on the rafters all the time? It never moved? Never walked? Never followed nobody around or nothing until I came?”
“Ah, well.” The farmer leaned back with the air of a raconteur beginning a lengthy story. “That’s not quite right. Everything changed a couple of years back, see?”
Fenn froze. A couple of years back. So, it did have Morgrim’s magic inside it. But why hadn’t it flown home along with Morgrim back then? Why had it hung around here for two years?
“Aye, it was two years ago, I’d say,” the farmer said. “And that there sacking horse came down off the rafters. Thought it had fallen, we did, because we found it in a heap on the floor. So, we put it back up. But next time we went in, blow me down if it hadn’t fallen off again. Then it started moving about. Thought it was the youngsters playing pranks at first. But they swore not and they were scared of the thing. And it was right uncanny. Great lump of sackcloth turning up on the muck heap or in the yard or by the back door or whatever. Didn’t move like a horse though, I don’t think. Never saw it anyhow and there’d be marks in the dust like it had dragged itself there.
“Didn’t move all the time, mind. Just now and then. Sometimes we left it where it was for months. But if it put itself somewhere inconvenient, we’d haul it out the way. But it was a right nuisance. Unsettling, see? So eventually we got the fixer to come from town to take a look. Right clever lass, jigs ploughs mostly, but does lanterns too. And ovens. Proper reliable. Anyway, she said to burn the thing. So, we tried that, but it didn’t work. I went to town to ask her to come again, only by the time I got back you’d already left with it.”
Fenn looked at the farmer’s lined face, hope bursting in his chest. So, Squab’s magic wasn’t down to Morgrim. Maybe Morgrim’s magic had started something, but part—and perhaps the biggest part too—belonged to Fenn. Didn’t that mean he had a right to keep it?
“So, it didn’t behave like a horse when you had it?” Fenn asked. “Not ever?”
“It whinnied, sometimes,” said the farmer’s wife. “In the night.”
“That it did,” agreed the farmer. “I’d forgotten about that. Right mournful, wasn’t it, love? Like a horse what’s lost a friend. But apart from that, no, can’t say it was anything but a creepy big bundle of sacking what turned up in strange places. Magic though, ain’t it?”
Fenn nodded, but the hope that had warmed him was draining away as fast as it had come. Because even if Squab’s magic was mostly his, somehow the knowledge didn’t change things as much as he’d thought it would.
Because Morgrim still had no magic. The country was still under threat of war.
And how could Fenn ride away from all that? How could he leave Morgrim powerless and desperate? How could he leave villages to burn and people like the farmer and his family to suffer, just because he wanted a flying horse?
He was going to have to give it up.
Give up magic. Give up flying and acting the hero and saving handsome sorcerers from river hexes.
Go back to being ordinary.
Gods, it hurt to contemplate.
And he was sure if he gave Squab to Morgrim, that Morgrim would behave as well as he could. Because he was, underneath it all, a decent bloke. But he’d spent his whole life in the service of his country, and if rescuing it from war meant draining a sacking horse of magic, then he’d do it. Because what was a flying horse compared to the alternative?
What was Fenn’s broken heart?
The farmer’s wife cleared her throat, and Fenn looked up, aware he’d been sitting in pensive silence while they all watched him.
“You’ll be wanting a bed for the night, Mr. Todd?” she asked.
Fenn hesitated.
He should fly back to the tower straight away, tell Morgrim what he’d learned and give him the horse.
But he was so tired. Couldn’t he have just one more night? He could sleep in the barn, Squab at his side, pretend he was still in the stables at the tower, ignorant of all of this trouble, falling asleep thinking about Morgrim and how tomorrow they’d ride together and dine together and how there wasn’t anywhere on earth he’d rather be. And maybe Squab was tired too, though it never showed any sign. No, one night couldn’t hurt. He’d fly back to Morgrim first thing in the morning, hand Squab over and take whatever pain was coming as gracefully as he could.
“Aye, that’d be grand, thanks. But I’ll sleep in the barn. With the horse.”
She opened her mouth to argue and he added, firmly, “I prefer it, see?”
They lent him a mattress, bedding and a lantern, and gave him a bundle of rags that he’d asked for in case Squab was still hungry.
