“Darcy! Elizabeth! My God, what happened?” he exclaimed. He rushed forward, one hand instinctively reaching out to steady Darcy, who swayed as he alighted from the carriage.
“We caused a fire near the ley line at Buxton,” said Darcy hoarsely.
“A fire?” the colonel repeated, his gaze sweeping over them, “Was anyone hurt?”
“We managed to evacuate all the village inhabitants. No lives were lost, thank God. But the homes are all gone. Destroyed.”
“Hell and damnation,” the colonel cursed softly.
Darcy closed his eyes wearily.
Mrs Reynolds, alerted by the commotion, now hurried towards them, her kind face paling with alarm as she took in their ravaged appearance. “Mr Darcy! Mrs Darcy! Oh, dear Lord, what has befallen you?”
“We are unharmed, Mrs Reynolds,” Darcy said, his voice still rough, but somehow he managed a reassuring nod. “Just exhausted. And in need of baths. And perhaps,” he added, with a ghost of his usual dry irony, “a very great deal of restorative brandy.”
But before any restorative measures could be taken, Brooks appeared in the doorway, his face even more sombre than usual.
“Sir, we have received an urgent summons from the Arcane Office. Lord Magister Theron awaits you in the communications room.”
Elizabeth’s stomach plummeted. Darcy’s face seemed to whiten further, his jaw tightening as if bracing against an anticipated blow. “Very well, Brooks. Inform the Lord Magister that I will attend him immediately.”
Without a word, without conscious thought, Elizabeth fell into step beside him, her own weariness momentarily forgotten in a surge of shared, unwelcome destiny.
“There is no need,” Darcy said, his voice flat with fatigue, “I will answer for what has happened.”
But Elizabeth shook her head. “I will face the Arcane Office with you.”
He stiffened at her words. In his sudden rigidity, Elizabeth realised that her offer of quiet support, coming now, served only to sharpen the memory of her cruel rejection. This painful contradiction was one he seemingly had no reply to. He simply continued to move forward, his silence that of a man too wounded to refuse, and too defeated to argue. He could not fight the Blight, the Arcane Office, and her, all at once.
The communications room, with its shimmering silver basin, felt even colder than before. Lord Magister Theron’s image coalesced upon the surface of the water, his face exuding an aura of icy authority.
“Mr Darcy. Mrs Darcy,” his voice resonated from the basin in cutting tones, “You can be in no doubt as to why you have been summoned to answer before this Office. We have been informed of the catastrophe at Buxton. We have heard of an uncontrolled, wantonly destructive magical power unleashed, of an entire village devastated. Explain yourselves.”
Darcy stepped forward, moving with a deliberation that spoke less of pride and more of carefully managed pain. Yetwhen he spoke, his voice, though scratchy with smoke and fatigue, held a core of resolve.
“I do not dispute the report, my lord. In our attempt to cleanse the ley line at Buxton, my assessment of the volatile energies was in error, and my control proved insufficient to the task. This failing directly precipitated the disastrous outcome. I hold myself responsible.”
Lord Magister Theron’s image radiated an even colder displeasure. “You alone, Mr Darcy?” he said suspiciously, “Do you truly expect us to believe that Mrs Darcy played no part in this lamentable debacle?”
Before Darcy could reiterate his sole culpability, Elizabeth stepped forward, her chin lifted with determination beneath the streaks of soot. “The fault is entirely mine. The destructive power originated from my magic, not his.”
Darcy’s head turned sharply towards her. Before the Lord Magister could respond, he spoke quickly, his voice tight with a renewed urgency, “While her magical input is a vital component of the Concordance, her magic acted as I directed it. The ultimate accountability rests with me.”
The Lord Magister’s eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting between the two of them. “So, we have Mr Darcy claiming sole responsibility due to a failure of judgement and direction, and Mrs Darcy claiming sole responsibility due to a failure of magical discipline. A most comprehensive acceptance of blame.”
Guilt churned in her stomach. The Lord Magister’s summary was an injustice. Darcy had claimed responsibility out of honour, but she knew the truth. The destruction had been fuelled by her. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the Lord Magister spoke first:
“I have heard enough. I cannot understate the atrocity. An entire community has been displaced. Trust in our mages hasbeen shattered, and the fabric of magical stability in that region has been grievously, perhaps irreparably wounded.
“This Office now finds itself in a most invidious position. This act of gross negligence and magical irresponsibility warrants the full measure of justice: stripping your magic, imprisonment, or perhaps even transportation. Yet to enact such a sentence would be greatly detrimental to the war. The Concordance is a weapon we can ill afford to lose.”
“However,” he continued, his voice dropping again to that steely tone that made Elizabeth’s blood run cold, “the law is the law. The authority of this Office cannot permit such a grievous transgression to pass. We cannot allow the perception that any are above the statutes that govern us all. It would set a dangerous precedent.”
The Lord Magister paused, allowing the terrifying implications of his words to settle in the room.
Darcy’s face, already pale beneath the ash, seemed to take on a greyish tinge.
“You will be summoned, in due course, before the full Arcane Court to receive their final judgement,” Lord Magister Theron declared then, each word falling with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “Given the extenuating circumstances, I shall recommend a pecuniary penalty to the Court. A fine, Mr Darcy, of sixty thousand pounds, to be levied against the estates of Pemberley.”
