Page 10 of Seducing the Sorcerer
In a way, Fenn sympathised. His knees felt right shaky. But Morgrim didn’t seem about to strike him down with a bolt of lightning just yet. And if Fenn was flung in a dungeon for a few nights, well, it wouldn’t be pleasant, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Who knew what would happen to the horse, but he himself would at least be fed and watered. Probably. Regular prisons had to feed you these days, though it was quite possible that Morgrim was a law unto himself.
“Well. I know it’s an ugly great thing to have littering up your courtyard,” Fenn said, wiping a raindrop off the end of his nose. “And I’m right sorry to have bothered you, and I hope you’ll be a gentleman and forgive the nuisance. I’ll be off now, eh? I won’t trouble you again. I promise.”
“All in good time.”
Morgrim came down the stairs in a ripple of black silk. He moved like a snake and in spite of himself Fenn was impressed. The man’s grace was mesmerising. It was hard to look away. And not just because Morgrim was so bloody terrifying.
“I have questions for you, Fenn Todd.”
Fenn was hardly in a position to refuse. “Aye, sir. Ask away.”
Morgrim began circling him and the horse, examining them from all directions, seemingly impervious to the rain. Fenn stood still, eyes front, determined not to show his discomfort, glancing at Morgrim only when he thought the sorcerer wouldn’t notice. But the horse’s charcoal pupil rolled around like a marble in a bowl, following the sorcerer’s every move.
What would the horse do if Fenn was thrown in a dungeon? It might already be losing whatever magic had brought him here. But if not, it might wander away. Or wait outside like a dog. Or perhaps the sorcerer would keep it—though it was impossible to imagine a man like Morgrim wanting such a gormless creature.
Fenn wasn’t at all sure what he wanted for himself. Part of him wanted to keep the horse—after all, it could fly. Well, maybe it could fly again. But he’d be relieved to see the back of it too. He hardly wanted it bobbing about in front of him, making walking down the road a bloody obstacle course. He’d rather be dead than endure that humiliation the rest of his life.
Although it seemed unfair that the sorcerer might take the horse and give Fenn nothing in exchange. Because even if it turned back into a pile of old sacking, it would still be Fenn’s pile of old sacking. Anyway, it would be best to be as civil as he knew how.
But Morgrim’s next question was clearly not for him.
“Jasper, where did you get that ridiculous sword?”
Fenn glanced around to see the young blond lad’s eyes widen in alarm at being addressed. The tip of his sword drooped. His hair now hung limp around his face. They were all of them getting wet through.
“The old chest in the gatehouse attic, sir,” Jasper said.
“I see. You realise, Jasper, that weapon is in fact an umbrella, cunningly fashioned by one of my predecessors to resemble a sword.”
Was that a note of relief in the sorcerer’s voice? Surely not. What could Morgrim have to fear from the sword of his own page boy? Also, the correct address for a court sorcerer was, apparently, “sir”.
“I didn’t know that, sir,” Jasper said, humbly.
“No.” It was nearly a sigh. “There are many things you don’t know, Jasper.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“But you do know that weapons are forbidden beyond the gatehouse. Do you not?”
“Yes, sir. But—the screaming—I thought we were under attack.”
“The intruder alarm is working as you so astutely point out. But do you suppose, if we were under attack, that I would require the assistance of a boy wielding an umbrella?”
Bit of a low blow. It looked near as damn it to a sword. And you’d think Morgrim would be glad to know his man would run to his defence.
But there was a—well, Fenn would hardly call it an atmosphere—but there was something odd in the way Morgrim looked at Jasper that Fenn couldn’t put his finger on. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant; it was more that Morgrim’s expression of weary school-masterly disdain didn’t quite match his body language. Watching the sorcerer, Fenn was put in mind of a very fine horse that has been stabled for too long. It was as if desperation to move, to act, to do something was pulsing from every fibre of the sorcerer’s being—and yet he was forever holding himself in check.
“Er, no, sir. Sorry, sir. Of course, you wouldn’t need any help, sir,” Jasper was saying in a cowed voice. The lad shifted his bare feet. They were very wet and looked as if they might be getting cold.
“Very good.” Morgrim now sounded almost bored. “And Jasper?”
“Sir?”
“You may notice there is a small button on the base of the hilt of the umbrella. Now, what do you suppose that does?”
Jasper held the umbrella higher so he could peer at the button. “It...opens the umbrella, sir?”
“It does. But—” Morgrim raised a long finger. The nail seemed to be painted black. Or was it dried blood? “I strongly recommend you do not press it.”
