The Mage's Master Read online

  The Mage’s Master

  Finley Fenn

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading!

  Also by Finley Fenn

  Also by Finley Fenn

  The Mages Series

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Like every day that week, Fasta spent the morning holding back tears, and pretending everything was fine.

  “I’ll need those labourers you mentioned,” she told her client, a grey-haired man whose name had utterly vanished into the fog currently filling her brain. “As well as the exact coordinates of where you’d like the cottage moved.”

  The man nodded, speaking words that Fasta didn’t hear, and once he was finally gone she put her hands back to the cottage’s cool stone wall, and breathed. Felt her magic search and settle, feeding back a steady stream of images and information, this wall would need to be braced, the roof still had to come off, she really should investigate that corner…

  And truly, this should have been a fascinating, gratifying project. Fasta was almost finished her five-year program at Vakra’s prestigious Earth-Magic Academy, and despite the firmly stated disapproval of her father — the very wealthy, very haughty Earl of Dalreagh — she was finally accepting off-site commissions, doing the work she loved most. Period restoration and reconstruction, mostly, things like fixing up this beautiful little old stone cottage, and moving it off a river’s muddy flood plain, to where it could be properly used again.

  But instead of enjoying the job, or revelling in the relief that she’d finally bested her father on this, Fasta was thinking only of Elgin. Elgin, Lord Norberg, with his dark hair and lean body and beautiful eyes, his slim, clever hands that so easily shaped earth and stone. Hands that had also run so eagerly over Fasta’s skin, exploring and caressing, sparking pleasure unlike any she’d ever felt in her life.

  But last weekend, like so many weekends of late, Elgin had been busy. Again. With work, with friends, with a variety of crucial commitments he couldn’t possibly escape. Finding only enough time to briefly share Fasta’s bed, to hurl her full of that swarming pleasure, and then to leave again, amidst earnest apologies and practiced cool smiles.

  It had been almost astonishingly painful, after two whole years of believing they'd truly been friends, partners, and Fasta had finally had to face down the truth that it wasn’t going to change. That for Elgin, she had somehow become simply a convenient, pleasurable diversion. A willing warm body in his bed, if nothing more compelling was on offer. And that was all.

  Fasta pressed her hands harder against the cottage wall, felt the earth, the stone, the grounded solid strength of it. It would be fine. It had to be fine. She just had to keep going, pretend and nod and smile, until it was fine.

  “Lady Valgeirr?” came a tentative voice beside her, and Fasta blinked away the wetness lurking behind her eyes, and made herself look up. And there, standing beside her, was someone new. Someone she couldn’t recall seeing before, a big blond-haired bloke about her own age, wearing shabby, ill-fitting clothes, and assessing her with deep grey eyes.

  “I’m Henrik Hallen,” he said now, holding out a large, work-roughened hand. “Schmidt sent me. Said you needed help moving this thing?”

  He’d jerked his head toward the cottage as he spoke, and Fasta blinked again, and shook his outstretched hand. His fingers were strong and capable as they clasped hers, and the taste of magic on them — on him — was undeniable, surprisingly bright and heated and powerful.

  “Um, yes, thank you,” Fasta managed, drawing her hand away, feeling a strange, rising warmth in her cheeks. The guy was unquestionably good-looking, with his strong stubbled jaw and broad shoulders and tousled golden curls, but he also looked a bit wolfish, what with the dark shadows under his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks, and the way his ill-fitting clothes hung loosely off his large frame.

  “Well, should we get at it, then?” he said, and he’d already put his hands to the cottage wall, fingers spreading wide. And here was the taste of that magic, brief and succulent in the air around them, as his blond head tilted, his hand sliding up the wall, and back again. “Although, d’you think this wall will hold once we lift it? Or the roof? And that corner” — his head nodded toward it — “is a bit shite, isn’t it?”

  Fasta blinked at him again, and forced her thoughts to work, to pick up speed again. “Yes, I was planning to take off the roof first,” she said, putting a hand to the wall beside his, feeling her fingers twitch at that warm taste of his magic, now lingering on the stone. “And yes, that wall certainly isn’t going to hold, but” — she dropped her hand, fumbled in her trouser pocket for the paper she’d stashed there — “I’ve run a few calculations, and as long as we brace it like this, it should suffice long enough to get the cottage moved, at least.”

  She snapped the paper open, frowning down at her neat diagram, and the guy stepped closer, and looked at it over her shoulder. “Oh,” he said, with something close to surprise in his voice. “Yeah, that could work. Good thinking.”

  When Fasta looked up at his face he was glancing between her and the paper, and his big hand carefully came to grasp the paper’s other corner, tilting it up to the sunlight, giving him a better view. “How’d you figure it, though?” he asked, carefully. “What’s this?”

  He’d jabbed at Fasta’s quickly scrawled equations, all down the side of the sheet, and Fasta briefly explained, her face still strangely hot, how one could calculate the rigidities of each wall, along with the shear force likely to occur when they were lifted, minus the stabilizing force of the roof. While the guy’s blond eyebrows went up, higher and higher, and once she’d finished her little speech, she could see him swallow, his throat bobbing above the neck of his shabby tunic.

  “Well, aren’t you useful,” he said, finally, with a furtive, almost appreciative look at Fasta’s eyes. “Did you calculate out about that wonky corner, too?”

  Fasta’s face was still oddly warm, but she shook her head, made her stilted-feeling body walk around toward it. “It’s been bothering me,” she said, “but I can’t tell why. I mean, the stones are fine, the mortar is all still there, and it feels solid, right?”

  The guy was already kneeling beside said corner, putting both hands against it, while that taste of his magic again filtered through the air. “Yeah, not quite,” he said. “This stone’s going to crumble, the second you move it.”

  Fasta stared at him, and then went over, put her hands beside his. And with his magic there, lingering on one of the wall’s largest stones, suddenly she could feel the cracks in the stone, almost imperceptible, but most certainly there. “Well, then,” she heard herself say, stupidly. “Very good, Mr. Hallen.”

  It sounded like something one w
ould say to one’s student, or a child, and Fasta felt her face flush again — but thankfully he didn’t seem to take offense, and was instead glancing at the plain all around them, and then walking a short distance away. And as Fasta watched, he waved his hand, the taste of that magic unfurling through the air — and beneath him the ground rumbled, turned up mud and earth, and then — a stone. A large new stone, spinning in midair, and with another wave of the guy’s hand it was the exact shape and size of the cottage’s cracked one, its rough edges shearing off without even a sound.

  “That should work, right?” he asked, but Fasta’s voice had seemed to entirely fail her, and she gave a twitchy nod. Watching as he went back to the cottage, pulled out the broken stone with a single glance of his eyes, and slid the new one back in, where it fit perfectly.

  “Oh,” Fasta said again, numbly, earning a brief, perhaps amused glance from those grey eyes. Which then looked up at the roof, his hands back to that wall, and — Fasta gasped — the roof carefully lifted off the cottage in one perfect piece, hovering in midair before coming to rest gently on the ground beside her.

  “D’you wanna do your bracing next, then?” he said, his grey eyes still almost amused, or perhaps even satisfied. “And then we’ll move it?”

  Fasta had to find her breath, find her thoughts again. “Um, I can likely manage moving the roof myself,” she stammered, “but the rest is heavy enough that we’ll need at least a few more labourers, and a cart. Schmidt said he was addressing that?”

  But the guy’s eyes on Fasta were definitely amused now, and he gave a shake of his head. “Nah, no need,” he said. “We can handle it. That is” — he gave her a wink — “if you don't mind taking a few orders from a commoner, Lady Valgeirr?”

  It was a ridiculously audacious thing to say, from this equally audacious earth-mage — but two hours later, the cottage was nestled beautifully into its new home, perfectly intact, without a single stone out of place. And both Fasta and Mr. Henrik Hallen were covered in sweat and mud, breathing hard, their clothes filthy and stained and soaked — but he was grinning at Fasta, and she couldn’t seem to stop herself grinning back.

  “Look a' you, Lady Valgeirr,” he said to her, his voice warm, and that big hand came to grip brief at her shoulder. “Would never have thought such a pretty, proper noble like you would be willing to work so hard, or get herself so dirty.”

  Fasta made a face at him, but he only laughed, that hand clasping her shoulder swarming her full of his bright, warm magic. Feeling like relief, like peace almost like home, and Fasta felt herself inhale, deep, her body leaning just slightly into that touch.

  “Never woulda thought you’d be so willin’ to follow orders, either,” he murmured. “You like being told what to do, Lady Valgeirr?”

  Oh, gods. The gasp had escaped from Fasta’s mouth before she could stop it, the heat pooling hard in her groin, and across from her his grin had faded, slowly slipping into something just as hot and hungry as Fasta felt. And that big hand had slid down her shoulder, still spread wide and strong and almost familiar, somehow, and Fasta swallowed hard, leaned a little closer —

  But then he’d stumbled backwards, jolting and abrupt, almost like he’d been pushed. And his hand had come to his mouth, rubbing hard against it, and she could see his big bony shoulders rise, and fall. “Shit,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean that, I should —”

  He stopped there, those shoulders still heaving, and his eyes squeezed shut, almost like something hurt. “I — I’m actually on the hunt for work, Lady Valgeirr,” he said. “My ma’s been ill, and my brother and sisters gotta eat. I don’t suppose — I mean, I don’t wanna ask, but” — those eyes opened, fixed on hers, with something almost like misery in them — “if you — if you liked my work today, is there any chance you might be willing to recommend me, going forward? Or keep an eye out for me?”

  Oh. Something seemed to plunge deep in Fasta’s stomach, and she blinked, fought to reorient her thoughts around that. He was looking for work. She was someone with education, with influence and access, who could find him work. And that was all.

  But that was still something, better than nothing at all, and Fasta looked at his rangy form, his hollowed cheeks, the undeniable shame in his eyes. And he was brilliant, more brilliant than perhaps any earth-mage mason Fasta had yet met, whether within the Academy, or without. And his magic tasted like that, he’d made her smile more than she had in weeks, and — she felt her shoulders relaxing slightly — she hadn’t thought about Elgin or her father in hours, and that alone had been a true gift, a glorious, ridiculous relief.

  “Well, your work today has indeed been exemplary, Mr. Hallen,” she heard herself say. “In fact, now that you mention it, I actually do have another similar job lined up for tomorrow. And then another next week, if you might happen to be free?”

  It was almost like her own relief was reflected in those blinking grey eyes — and the smile that slowly spread across his face was so grateful, so stunning, Fasta could barely breathe.

  “You mean it?” he said, his voice choked. “Really, Lady Valgeirr? You really wanna keep working with me?”

  Fasta couldn’t help smiling back, her eyes oddly wet again, and she snapped up a loose rock from the earth beneath her feet, and gripped it tight. Everything would be fine. It had to be fine.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I think we make a good team, don’t you?”

  He was still smiling at her, perhaps a bit regretful now, but his answering nod was earnest, almost fervent. “Yeah,” he said. “We do.”

  1

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  Bang-bang-bang.

  “Fasta!” called a loud, familiar voice. “You awake?”

  She was now, and Fasta sat up in bed, rubbing at her scratchy eyes. It was late, had to be well after midnight, but she reached to light her candle anyway, and staggered up toward the door.

  “What?” she asked, as she undid the latches with a wave of her hand, and the burly, barrel-chested form of Henrik Hallen stalked inside. Like he didn’t need to be invited in, and maybe he didn’t, because Fasta took a deep breath, and shut the door behind him.

  “What?” she said again, watching where Henrik was now prowling around her bedroom, trailing his hands along the walls. “Is something wrong?”

  Henrik hesitated, frowning toward her bed, and Fasta twitched at the warm, delicious taste of his magic. Tightening that pesky loose bolt in her bedframe, and Fasta couldn’t help a brief murmured thanks, even as he started prowling again, hands to the walls, the chair, the desk.

  “Harry,” she said, using her own pet name for him, because she could, because it was a stupid self-indulgent thing that was only hers. “What?”

  She could smell the alcohol now, and even more so when Henrik finally spun round to face her, his usually jovial grey eyes dark and suspicious in the candlelight. “You’re alone,” he said, with something almost like accusation in his voice, and Fasta blinked at him, glanced around the room.

  “Well, yes,” she said. “Unless you count yourself, of course.”

  Henrik’s broad shoulders dropped a little, and there was a twitchy, uncertain smile on his mouth. “I heard you came upstairs alone with a guy. With Johan Falk.”

  Oh. So that hadn’t gone unnoticed, then, and Fasta felt herself grimace. “Just for a few minutes,” she replied. “Nothing serious.”

  If she’d thought that would help, she was wrong, because Henrik’s shoulders bunched up again, his mouth gone hard and grim. “Nothing serious?” he demanded. “What the fuck’s serious mean? Did he come back here?”

  “You know he didn’t,” Fasta replied, curtly, because that was clearly why Henrik had been tracing the walls, feeling if anyone else had been there. “It was nothing, Harry.”

  “It wasn’t nothing,” Henrik countered, “because if it had been, you wouldn’t have gone off with him! You don’t actually like him, do you?”

  The words
came out incredulous, almost angry, and Fasta frowned at Henrik, and crossed her arms over her chest. It was lucky for him that he was only like this when he was drunk, and that he was genuinely wonderful most of the time, and also — Fasta could admit — that he looked the way he did, with his tousled curls and stubbly square jaw, and a big, broad, powerful body that had probably almost doubled its weight since the first time they’d met.

  “No, I don’t like Johan,” she said, and because she was pathetic with this, she sighed, and said the rest of it. “I mean, I like that he’s smart, and he’s probably the most accomplished fire-mage here. But also, he’s a bit intense, and he never smiles. And he doesn’t smell very good.”

  Smell was crucial in such things, as Henrik well understood, because he’d once spent an entire drunken evening ranting at Fasta about how his latest hookup’s magic had made him feel like death warmed over. And he was looking clearly relieved now, running a hand through his blond curls, and giving Fasta a hint of his usual easy grin.

  “‘Course he doesn’t smell good,” he said. “Not an earth-mage, is he?”

  Fasta couldn’t help a swift smile back, because he was right, damn him — but then her smile seemed to fade, twisting away into something tight and bitter in the pit of her stomach. No, Johan wasn’t an earth-mage. Johan wasn’t Henrik. Nobody was.