comfortable and harmonious. 'It will be as if this last moonturn never happened. She'll be your own happy grateful child once more. Peace beneath your own roof, loan, what more could any man ask for, eh?' loan smiled, letting out a long sigh of relief. 'Ah, that's that, then. Go and fetch the girl, Yana.'
Yanalia Tasoaire still looked doubtful, but not quite uncertain enough to be willing to argue with her husband in front of the Arch-Mage of Armethalieh. She bobbed a hasty curtsy and left the room.
'She'll be a while,' Iaon said, with the air of one who has had long experience with wives and daughters. Whatever he was like normally with his wife, he had drunk deeply of the spine-strengthener supplied by Lycaelon, and was acting accordingly. He stepped to the sideboard. 'Care for a stiffener while you wait?'
'Ah… no. My Art prevents, you will understand.'
While it was partly true—no Adept of the Art Magickal partook of senses-clouding substances lightly, least of all when about to perform magic—it would have been a simple matter for Lycaelon to change the contents of the cup until it was no more potent than spring water. Refusing to drink with his host was all part of a certain mystique the Mages wove about themselves, a dance of etiquette designed to set them apart from the average citizens whom they governed. The people of the Golden City must never be allowed to forget that their servant-Masters were woven of finer cloth than they themselves were.
'But do go ahead,' Lycaelon said generously. 'I imagine this has all been quite a strain for you and your good lady.' loan laughed raggedly. 'Like a wondertale come to life—and not one of Perulan's, where you know all will end well!' He poured himself a full cup and drank, and Lycaelon smelled the rich scent of good brandy.
'I must admit, I was never convinced that Darcy was ever going to control this—'
'Inconvenient fever,' Lycaelon supplied smoothly.
'Cursed inconvenient. It just kept getting worse, not better. But my wife—' He coughed. 'You know how women are. They get harebrained notions and nothing will shake them loose of it.'
Lycaelon judged it time to change the subject. 'Tell me, loan, this Darcilla of yours, what are her interests? Will she be following you into the business?'
'Nay, not she—that's for her older sister; Mora's been mad for the counting-house ever since she could hold a string of tally-beads. No, for Darcilla it's always been the music.' The man looked bemused. 'Even before she could walk or talk, it was the music.'
Ah. Lycaelon felt a small spark of satisfaction. So the girl had some small spark of talent for music, did she? All to the good. It would make what he was about to do that much easier; music required some of the same abilities and talents as the Art Magickal, so redirecting the girl's interests wouldn't be as painful or difficult as it could have been.
'Conservatory isn't cheap,' loan went on, 'but what's money for if not to spend, says I?'
'Indeed,' Lycaelon agreed smoothly. And you will have every opportunity to spend a great deal of your money on this daughter of yours. I shall see to that.
The door opened again and Yanalia entered with her daughter. Though barely out of childhood, Darcilla Tasoaire was already taller than her mother, with something of her father's dark good looks. She was clean, though slatternly dressed; a worn pink house-tunic, several sizes too big for her, dragged, unbelted, on the floor, and her long dark hair hung lank and uncombed down her back. Darcilla's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes flashed dangerously; she and her mother had obviously been fighting over how she should appear before this important guest, and the lightnings of uncontrolled Mage-potential crackled around her like the warnings of a storm to Lycaelon's finely attuned senses.
For a moment he felt a flash of pity for the young victim. Who knew what would happen if things were allowed to go on as they were? Powers such as the girl now possessed didn't simply go away, and no mere female could possibly learn to control such subtle and powerful energies. She could only be led down the paths of madness and chaos, dragging the Light knew how many innocents in her wake. Curse her parents for letting this go on as long as they had out of foolish pride and misplaced pity! It only proved once again how unfit ordinary folk were to involve themselves in any dealings with High Magick.
And females. Most especially females.
'Now I must ask you to leave us alone together for a short time,' Lycaelon said, rising to his feet.
He saw Yanalia brace herself to argue, but loan was already moving toward her, detaching his wife from his daughter and moving her briskly through the open door. The door shut behind them, and the Arch-Mage was alone with Darcilla Tasoaire.
'You would do well to heed me,' Lycaelon said in a slow, deep resonant voice quite unlike the one he had used with her parents. The words themselves were unimportant; he actually had no interest in speaking with the girl. Speaking was only a way of catching her attention, to key the prepared cantrip that would place her into a trance so that he could do the work that must be done.
He saw the girl's lashes flutter as she fell quickly into trance—those with the Gift were far more susceptible to it than those with no talent whatsoever, oddly enough—and he moved to catch her before she fell. Under his guidance, she walked over to the enormous gilded chair and seated herself docilely in it.
