Page 98 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“From your own bed, eh? And you brought it to me, a stranger from the street? Well, that was right kind. And now it’s come back to you. Want a leg up?”
Jasper turned to gawp at Fenn instead. “You trust me? To fly off? To get my sister?”
Morgrim made a jerky movement, as if he’d been about to speak and forced himself to silence.
Fenn examined Jasper’s earnest, anxious face. “Aye, I trust you. Don’t let me down, eh? Good. Now, you know where to go? You know where she is?”
“I don’t know.” Jasper knitted his brow. “But I always thought, maybe Lirrian House. Because once she wrote about how she loved the thick plum jam with bits they gave her for breakfast, but she hates jam with bits. And we had that once at Lirrian House when we went there for a visit. She had to eat it to be polite and was nearly sick in the carriage on the way home.”
Fenn nodded, impressed. “Reckon you’re right. That’s a clue, that is. Must be right clever, this sister of yours.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Off you go there then. No, wait. Take a gun. That’s right. Shove it down the back of your trousers. What’s in the knapsack? Food? Better take that too. You might have to hide somewhere until they let her out. Good luck, lad.” Fenn gave him a heave so he could mount. “You know how to get him to fly? Put him at a jump. He’ll take it, see, but he won’t come—”
“Wait,” Morgrim said.
They both turned to him. And Fenn was aware that what felt right and inevitable and magic to him might have a completely different complexion to Morgrim, who had good reason not to trust Jasper.
“They moved her to Castle Platisan,” Morgrim said.
Jasper gave Morgrim a long look, but all he said was, “Platisan? In Terebor? Why would they do that?”
“She ran away from Lirrian House. You know the layout at Platisan? It’s fortified, with a moat, but has a huge garden in the middle. Likely they let her walk there. Or on the walls. You’ll do it easily. With the horse.”
Jasper nodded. His face worked, as if he was going to cry or speak, but all he said was, “Thank you.”
Then he was gone, up into the sky, until he and the horse were no bigger than a soap bubble, glistening pink, vanishing into the blue.
Chapter 20
Fenn turned away from the sky to find Morgrim watching him, eyes narrowed.
“What? You don’t think I did the wrong thing?” Fenn said.
Morgrim gave him the kind of smile that lovers sometimes share. “I think you’re on fire.”
It was true. A fluid frosty heat was suffusing Fenn’s veins. Of course he’d done the right thing. Somehow, he was sure Jasper would find his sister and get her away. And suddenly even war wasn’t inevitable, because he’d rescued Morgrim and the enemy was none the wiser. And Fenn had a feeling that their luck was about to turn, that things were looking up.
“Aye,” he said, “On fire. You’re right. That’s magic, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Feels wonderful. Like flying. Or fucking. Like I could take on the world.”
“I know. I can feel it coming off you.”
Morgrim sat down, rather suddenly, in a patch of the dappled sunlight that lay across the carpet of pine needles. He rubbed his wrists with his battered hands. His wrists were bruised, bloody in places. Much worse than Jasper’s wrists which had barely shown marks. But then Fenn had likely been more gentle and Morgrim must have struggled more. Now, Morgrim’s pose was defeated, though maybe it was exhaustion and relief that were slumping his shoulders and bowing his head.
All the same, Fenn sobered. Because there was no real reason to feel that things would work out. Weren’t they back where’d they’d started in every way that mattered? Morgrim still had no magic, the country was still in a state of drought and under threat. And, on top of all that, Fenn had no idea where he stood with Morgrim, who, after all, likely didn’t really fancy him at all, but was simply attracted to the magic.
Fenn glanced over his shoulder. The body of the traitorous guardsman lay there in a patch of shade. Perhaps he should be covered for decency’s sake, but Fenn had nothing to cover him with. Best to leave him. His friends would find him soon enough; a grisly mystery. They’d assume Morgrim had killed him.
Squab had finished the waistcoat and found a squashed and dusty black silk hat that had perhaps belonged to Jasper. She was licking it contemplatively, the way an ordinary horse might savour a block of salt.
Fenn turned back to Morgrim. All Fenn wanted to do was gather him in his arms and sit there for at least an hour, holding him, smelling him, marvelling at the fact he was alive. But holding him could lead to other things. And suddenly, Fenn’s legs felt none too steady.
“I’d give it to you, if I could,” Fenn said, sitting down himself, rather heavily. It was good ground for sitting, dry and redolent with pine needles. “The magic.”
