CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE #2
“Mr Darcy, Mrs Darcy,” his voice resonated through the room, “I trust my appearance does not unduly inconvenience your plans to proceed without the Office’s express sanction.”
Darcy bowed in polite deference. “My lord, your presence commands attention. As for acting without sanction, you must forgive my ignorance, but I am unaware that any recent course of action required a formal writ from the Office.”
The Lord Magister’s lips thinned. “We are well aware of the extensive travel arrangements you have been making. Arrangements for a journey north to Newcastle, I believe?”
“I have,” owned Darcy, “Perhaps my new wife has expressed a desire to see more of England. Newcastle, I am told, has a certain charm this time of year.”
She fought to suppress a smile. To suggest that their plans were a wedding trip to blighted Newcastle in the winter! Only Darcy could deliver such a preposterous notion with such unwavering gravity.
“Do not trifle with me, sir,” the Lord Magister warned, “Newcastle is not a destination for a leisurely tour. It is a catastrophe. The Blight there is rampant, its magical energies dangerously unstable, its ley lines almost entirely corrupted.”
“If Newcastle is as perilous as you describe, it is perplexing that the Arcane Office has not seen fit to issue any formal advisories or restrictions regarding travel to the region.”
“And to what purpose would such public pronouncements serve, Mr Darcy? The populace is ill-equipped to comprehend such matters. Their fear would be a greater contagion than the Blight itself. The hard truth, however unpalatable, is that Newcastle’s fate is largely sealed.”
“So it is true,” said Elizabeth, “You have abandoned the city.”
“What we have done, Mrs Darcy, is expended considerable resources and magical effort. For weeks we have battled the Blight there, attempted to cleanse the corrupted nodes, and reinforce the failing wards. Many have paid the ultimate price for their dedication. Good men and women, lost forever, to the insidious sickness that now festers in that city, a sickness that seems to feed on magic itself. We have been forced to withdraw to conserve what strength remains. It is a decision that brings no satisfaction, I assure you. Only a deeply regrettable sense of loss.”
The Lord Magister fixed Darcy with a challenging gaze. “Knowing this, Mr Darcy, knowing the virulence of the Blight in that accursed city, knowing the fate of those who have gone before you, are you still determined to enter a place of despair and certain death?”
“That city is home to thousands. I cannot stand aside when we may possess the possibility of offering aid,” said Darcy.
“And while you martyr yourselves in Newcastle,” the Lord Magister said, his voice cold as ice, “what of the rest of England? What of the hundreds of thousands who might benefit from your power, wisely applied, rather than rashly expended on a cause already deemed hopeless by those with greater oversight?”
“I suppose that will be your concern,” said Elizabeth, “as in that scenario, our responsibilities will have rather definitively and unfortunately concluded.”
“Your courage is commendable, but courage without understanding is merely recklessness. And recklessness, as you both have recently demonstrated at Buxton, often yields calamitous consequences. An entire village set aflame. A ley line destroyed. Has the cost of your last failure taught you nothing of prudence?”
Darcy drew a sharp breath. She felt the barb too, her hand instinctively wanting to reach for his in a gesture of support.
“Our failure at Buxton is a burden we bear daily, my lord. It has instilled in us a caution, a respect for the forces we engage, that perhaps was lacking before. We do not take our present course lightly,” Darcy said.
Elizabeth knew he spoke not just of the financial penalty, but of the horrifying images of the fire, the smoking ruins, the terror in the villagers’ eyes – images that still haunted their waking thoughts and disturbed their fitful sleep.
Lord Magister Theron’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sweeping from Darcy’s resolute face to Elizabeth’s equally determined one.
“Your determination does not negate the potential for disaster. Your power can unleash destruction as easily as it can bring healing. Yet I see that I am not to sway you from this precipitous course of action. Your decision to venture into Newcastle appears quite fixed.”
“It is,” said Darcy firmly.
“And if we do forbid it, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy seemed to choose his words carefully. “Then, my lord, the Office would have made its decree. And I,” he added, the weight of unspoken implications hanging in the air, “would find myself in a most untenable position.”
“I see.” Lord Magister Theron regarded them steadily, and then began to speak, his tone shifting into the precise, formal language of an official statement.
“Given the current, deplorable state of Newcastle, the extreme virulence of the Blight in that region, and the risk for catastrophic failure – a repeat of which, I must emphasise, the realm can ill afford – I must state my intent to issue a formal interdiction against this journey. The Concordance represents a unique and valuable asset in our war against the Blight. To risk its destruction, to risk your lives, would be an act of strategic negligence. This Office cannot permit it.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his pronouncement to settle. Elizabeth’s heart sank.
The Lord Magister continued, “Such an official edict, properly drafted, witnessed, and sealed, will likely take some days, perhaps even weeks, to reach Pemberley.”
He paused again, and for the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth seemed to twitch, a fleeting movement that could have been a trick of the shimmering water.
And then he winked. “Until such time as that formal, written prohibition is delivered into your hands, Mr Darcy, you remain, of course, a gentleman of your own considerable agency.
And before either of them could respond, his image abruptly dissolved.
Elizabeth blinked, her mind racing to process the layers of meaning in the Lord Magister’s pronouncement. Beside her, Darcy looked utterly dumbfounded.
“I think,” said Elizabeth, a growing understanding lighting her own eyes as she met Darcy’s stunned gaze, “that we had best depart for Newcastle with all considerable haste.”
As they emerged once more into the courtyard, a sight met Elizabeth’s eyes that made her pause in surprise.
Georgiana, no longer the trembling invalid, was mounted upon a spirited grey mare, handling the reins with startling skill and confidence.
Her earlier pallor was replaced by a becoming flush, her eyes, though still shadowed by illness, now sparkled with animation as she guided the mare through a series of graceful paces.
She was, Elizabeth realised with a start, an astonishingly accomplished horsewoman, her connection with the animal a display of intuitive harmony. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood nearby, observing his young cousin’s equestrian display with an expression of affectionate admiration.
Beside her, Darcy let out a sigh, a sound that spoke of resignation, old pain, and perhaps, Elizabeth dared to hope, a reluctant stirring of pride.
“That mare is Artemis,” he said, his voice low, his gaze fixed on his sister and the grey horse, “I gifted her to Georgiana for her twelfth birthday. She always possessed a remarkable affinity with her.”
He seemed to shake himself then, the brief reverie broken, and strode forward towards the carriage.
His voice, when he spoke, had regained its authoritative timbre, though perhaps lacking some of its earlier edge.
“It is past time we departed,” he announced to the assembled company.
Georgiana reined in the mare, and a groom stepped forward to take Artemis’s bridle.
“The hour grows late, and the journey to Newcastle is a considerable one. The carriage awaits.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked from Georgiana to Darcy, his eyebrows arching in a silent enquiry. He had clearly anticipated a resumption of the earlier, rather heated, debate regarding Georgiana’s inclusion in their party.
Darcy, however, merely offered his cousin a look that was a mixture of weariness and an impatient desire to avoid further conflict.
“After speaking with the Arcane Office, I find myself in no mood for further argument, from any quarter. We are going to Newcastle. All of us, it now appears, in my coach.” He cast a resigned glance towards Georgiana, then back to Fitzwilliam. “Let us proceed without further delay.”
A slow grin spread across Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face.
“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief.
Then, with a hearty chuckle, he declared, “I never thought I should live to say it, Darcy, but three cheers for the Arcane Office! It seems their particular brand of bureaucratic torment can, on occasion, yield surprisingly agreeable results.”
Darcy scowled, though Elizabeth thought she detected the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.
Soon, they were settled in Darcy’s comfortable coach with Darcy and Elizabeth on one seat, facing Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam on the other.
The atmosphere within the carriage was uneasy as the heavy wheels began to rumble.
Georgiana sat quietly, her hands clasped in her lap, her gaze drifting towards her brother with apprehension.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, for once, seemed content to observe rather than fill the silence.
As they passed through Pemberley’s gates, Elizabeth reached out, her hand finding Darcy’s beneath the rug that lay across their knees. She gave his hand a discreet squeeze, an expression of gratitude for his act of grace.
He did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the dwindling sight of Pemberley, but his fingers, strong and warm, closed over hers.