Fiddler Fair (anthology)

fault—and I’ll help you, if you let me.”

The children froze—then stumbled to their feet and surrounded her, clinging to her sweat-sodden robes, and crying as if their hearts had been broken, then miraculously remended.

“—so Bolger decided that he had had enough of the Mage Guild dictating what mages could and could not do. He waited until the Lyosten wizard had tagged the year’s crop of mage-Talented younglings, then had the old man poisoned.”

The speaker was the dwarf—who Lyran now knew was one of the local earth-witches, a cheerful man called Kasten Ythres. They were enjoying the hospitality of his home while the Mage Guild dealt with the former Citymaster and the clutch of half-trained children he’d suborned.

Martis was lying back against Lyran’s chest, wearily at ease within the protective circle of his arms. They were both sitting on the floor, in one corner by the fireplace in the earth-witch’s common room; there were no furnishings here, just piles of flat pillows. Martis had found it odd, but it had reminded Lyran strongly of home.

It was an oddly charming house, like its owner: brown and warm and sunny; utterly unpretentious. Kasten had insisted that they relax and put off their mage-hireling act. “It’s my damned house,” he’d said, “And you’re my guests. To the nether hells with so-called propriety!”

“How on earth did he think he was going to get them trained?” Martis asked.

Kasten snorted. “He thought he could do it out of books—and if that didn’t work, he’d get one of us half- mages to do it for him. Fool.”

“He sowed the dragon’s teeth,” Martis replied ­acidly, “he shouldn’t have been surprised to get ­dragons.”

“Lady—dragon’s teeth?” Lyran said plaintively, still at a loss to understand.

Martis chuckled, and settled a little more comfortably against Lyran’s shoulder. “I was puzzled for a moment, too, until I remembered that the storm that met us had been witched—and that the power that created it was out of control. Magic power has some odd effects on the mind, love—if you aren’t being watched over and guided properly, it can possess you. That’s why the tales about demonic possession; you get a Talented youngling or one who blooms late, who comes to power with no training—they go mad. Worst of all, they know they’re going mad. It’s bad—and you only hope you can save them before any real damage is done.”

“Aye,” Kasten agreed. “I suspect that’s where the dragon’s teeth tale comes from too—which is why I told your man there to remind you of it. The analogy being that the younglings are the teeth, the trained mage is the dragon. What I’d like to know is what’s to do about this? You can’t take the younglings to the Academe—and I surely couldn’t handle them!”

“No, they’re too powerful,” Martis agreed. “They need someone around to train them and keep them drained, until they’ve gotten control over their powers instead of having the powers control them. We have a possible solution, though. The Guild has given me a proposition, but I haven’t had a chance to discuss it with Lyran yet.” She craned her head around to look at him. “How would you like to be a father for the next half-year or so?”

“Me?” he replied, too startled to refer to himself in third person.

She nodded. “The Council wants them to have training, but feels that they would be best handled in a stable, home-like setting. But their blood-parents are frightened witless of them. But you—you stood up to them, you aren’t afraid of them—and you’re kind, love. You have a wonderful warm heart. And you know how I feel about youngsters. The Council feels that we would be the best parental surrogates they’re ever likely to find. If you’re willing, that is.”

Lyran could only nod speechlessly.

“And they said,” Martis continued with great ­satisfaction in her voice, “that if you’d agree, they’d give you anything you wanted.”

“Anything?”

“They didn’t put any kind of limitation on it. They’re worried; these are very Talented children. All five of the Councilors are convinced you and I are their only possible salvation.”

Lyran tightened his arms around her. “Would they—would they give this one rank to equal a Masterclass mage?”

“Undoubtedly. You certainly qualify for Sword­master—only Ben could better you, and he’s a full Weaponsmaster. If you weren’t an outlander, you’d have that rank already.”

“Would they then allow this one to wed as he pleased?”

He felt Martis tense, and knew without asking why she had done so. She feared losing him so much—and feared that this was just exactly what was about to happen. But they were interrupted before he could say anything. “That and more!” said a voice from the door. It was the Chief Councilor, Dabrel, purple robes straining over his stomach. “Sword­master Lyran, do you wish to be the young fool that I think you do?”

“If by that, the Mastermage asks if this one would wed the Master Sorceress Martis, then the Mastermage is undoubtedly correct,” Lyran replied demurely, a smile straining at the corners of his mouth as he heard Martis gasp.

“Take her with our blessings, Swordmaster,” the portly mage chuckled. “Maybe you’ll be able to mellow that tongue of hers with your sweet ­temper!”

“Don’t I get any say in this?” Martis spluttered.

“Assuredly.” Lyran let her go, and putting both hands on her shoulders, turned so that she could face him. “Martis, thena, lady of my heart and Balance of my soul, would you deign to share your life with me?”

She looked deeply and soberly into his eyes. “Do you mean that?” she whispered. “Do you really mean that?”

He nodded, slowly.