Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  Nulthir filed that away for later and widened his eyes in a vain attempt to improve his night sight, but he needed some light to see. He didn’t have any, unless he wanted to pull out his dawn rune again. Nulthir considered doing just that as he walked back toward the cell-filled cave known as Blue Block. But if he brought out the dawn rune again, he'd be visible, and he didn't want to be.

  Until he had a better handle on the situation, Nulthir was stuck navigating the unrelieved darkness of the tunnel, but so was everyone else down here. It covered this section of the prison’s inner ring, hiding the source of those attenuated screams. Nulthir fingered the nightstick clipped to his utility belt but didn't draw it yet. It hung next to a collection of keys that jangled when he moved. Hmm, maybe he ought to do something about that, so he wasn't advertising his presence. Nulthir unhooked the keys from his belt and dropped them into his trouser pocket. Hopefully, his hip pocket would muffle their clicking.

  Furball shifted in his breast pocket and let out a frightened meep. That was three sounds he had made in the last few minutes. That was progress of a sort. Too bad Nulthir didn’t speak bird.

  “Shh.” Nulthir rubbed the top of Furball’s head since that was the only part of him within reach. The lovable little creature nuzzled his hand. “I love you too, you little fuzzball.”. He didn’t see or sense anything amiss, but he trusted the shivering ball of fur in his pocket.

  Furball could see quite well in the dark. If only the little guy could tell him what he saw. That would be a huge help since Nulthir had no idea what had caused those screams; why they were quieting; or what he was slowly creeping toward.

  Nulthir grasped his nightstick and glided forward, keeping the wall to his left. That still left three directions for an attack to come at him, though, only two were likely because the tunnel was only about four feet wide. That was wide enough. A power so cold it burned, struck Nulthir in the side, staggering him. Another bolt of that same killing cold slammed into him before he could recover his scattered wits. Icy magic burrowed under his skin, and his pulse hammered out a song of fear so loudly, it almost drowned out Furball’s frantic meeps. That killing cold sped through his body, dragging a black void behind it.

  Nulthir fought it as he dropped to his knees, but he couldn’t throw off the attack. It was like nothing he’d ever faced before. He couldn’t even think of a way to counter it. The power was so cold, and it was pulling something out of him. Just thinking was growing more and more difficult. But Nulthir tried to hold on. He couldn’t pass out. If he did, the magic he'd hidden since he'd sought refuge under this mountain would be revealed, and his life would be over before he’d even lived much of it. He had to fight it, but how?

  Furball shrieked, hopefully in fear, not pain, as another blast of magic so cold and dark it gave off no light at all struck Nulthir—this time in the back, and he fell forward, shielding Furball with his body. He caught himself before he hit the ground. “It’s okay, Furball. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

  Furball didn’t reply, not in words, but Nulthir heard something. Maybe the little guy was calling psychically for help. No, that couldn’t be right. Nulthir wouldn’t be able to hear such a call because he didn’t have the mind gift. But could Furball mind-call his family? More importantly, should Furball do that? Or would the scared kit just call his family into a trap?

  Nulthir opened his mouth to warn Furball, but the runes tattooed on his back heated up as they activated. They generated a field that cut some of the force pressing him down into the ground, and the sudden relief from the cold took his breath away. What had Mommy dearest inscribed back there—a transmutation spell maybe?

  That would make sense, given its placement. The dark magic’s pull on him lessened as other spells tattooed on his skin lit up under his uniform, but his defenses had kicked in too late. That strange cold magic had taken something from him, and the loss was knocking him out. Footsteps came again as he collapsed on his side, too weak to hold himself up anymore.

  Another cold blast hit him. The blood roared in his ears. What kind of magic was so dark and bitterly cold? That question pursued Nulthir as the darkness closed in on him, but his last thought was of Furball. The poor dear was terrified and exposed. Nulthir curled his rapidly numbing body around the frightened little creature who was chirping as if his little life depended on it, and it probably did.

  Hide, Furball. Nulthir tried to send that thought the way Furball’s grandsire, Thing, had taught him when he was a child chasing shimmering leaves under the boughs of the enchanted forest. But the blackness swept him under, and Nulthir was lost in its embrace.

  Chapter Two

  Help, screamed Furball, startling Amal out of an afternoon nap. She mantled her wings. Beside her, her mate, Thing, almost fell off the shelf he’d perched on as that shrill call for help repeated in their minds.

  Calm down, honey, and tell me what’s the matter, Amal sent to her terrified grandchild. Furball wasn’t hearing anything. He was too busy broadcasting a distress call so loudly, it drowned her out. But he was just a baby who hadn’t gotten the knack of listening while sending. Amal made a mental note to work on that after they saved him from whatever had startled the little kit.

  “Did you get anything?” Thing flapped his wings hummingbird fast to turn his fall into a door-ward swoop without waiting for an answer. He knew she’d follow him, though. They were a team.

  “No, Furball’s too worked up to hear anything. Did you get anything?” Amal launched herself off the shelf where she’d been napping.

  Nulthir is in trouble, Thing said mind-to-mind.

  “You know that for certain?” Amal asked aloud in their language of whistles, chirps, and occasional peeps.

  Language was the music of the mind. Every language had its own tonal center and distinct harmonies that made up its unique key. Only Nulthir couldn’t wrap his mind around the atonality of theirs. That wasn’t his fault, though. He didn't possess the mind gift, and thus didn’t have the right equipment to tap into different mental frequencies. He was locked into only one headspace, the one for human speech.

  Amal wasn't troubled when she stretched out her thoughts to confirm Thing’s prognosis and didn’t bump into his mind. She often couldn’t make contact even when she and Nulthir occupied the same room. Amal doubted Thing had made contact either given the wild look in his owl eyes. He and Nulthir had a close bond, and the silence drove her poor mate crazy with worry.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Amal chirped when she couldn’t get through to her mate’s frantically reaching mind. Thing wouldn’t stop trying to reach Nulthir until he either made contact, or they bumped into him in the flesh.

  “We don’t know that.” Thing punched the symbol chalked on the wall adjacent to the door with his clawed hand.

  When it lit up a shimmering green, the door swung open, admitting them to the corridor beyond. They both shot up to the ceiling forty feet above, putting their aerodynamic bodies well out of sight of any of Nulthir’s human neighbors. They didn’t know he lived with a menagerie of magical bipeds with wings, and they must stay ignorant of that little detail until the laws changed. Behind her and Thing, Mixie and Yarn, Furball’s rather confused parents, shot out of the door followed by Crispin and Thistle.

  “Fair flying,” Dale said as he touched the rune to close the door before any more grandchildren ventured out.

  One grandchild in peril was enough for one night. Thankfully, the rest of the family had chosen to stay where it was safe. Crispin’s brother, Dale, would protect them, nor was he the only one to stay behind. The six of them should be enough to pull Nulthir out of whatever jam he’d gotten himself, unless it was magical, and it might be.

  Nulthir was clever enough to handle anything the mundane world could throw at him. Amal shelved her worries until she saw how matters stood. There was no use borrowing trouble when the world was so good at dishing it out.

  Since she couldn’t get a fix on Nulthir, Amal sent her thou
ghts winging out ahead of her in search of the still frantically mind-calling Furball. Where are you, my child?

  But Furball just screamed mentally for help again as loudly as he could. Amal already knew he was in trouble, just not the location of said trouble. Mount Eredren was a huge place with many levels rising to its peak and just as many delved under it. Furball could be anywhere in that vertical sprawl, but not Nulthir. He had a job.

  “He’s with Nulthir,” Thing said, reading her mind.

  “You’re certain?” Amal veered around a flying buttress that had been carved to look like a beaming angel as Furball mind-called again. This time, she caught a glimpse through Furball’s eyes of a figure sprawled on the ground. That must be Nulthir. What could have possibly happened to him? He was a strong young man and quite magical, in his own way.

  “You saw?”

  “Yes, where is Nulthir now? On his rounds?” Amal veered left to fly around a grinning gargoyle and pumped her wings to fly even higher, so she could hug the glowing mosaic that covered the ceiling. The makers of this place, an ancient and long-deceased race of stone mages, had strange notions about decor.

  Pedestrians sometimes looked up at the artwork, but birds were a common sight since the outer ring of every level above ground was an open arcade leading to a wrap-around balcony that encircled the mountain. All kinds of birds skipped the whole flying south for winter bit and nested on the flying buttresses that held the ceiling aloft. But none of them were birds of prey.

  “Yes, he's at work.” Beside her, Thing jinked to avoid a carved devil brandishing a pitchfork at the passersby far below. A nest made of grass and thread crowned the marble devil’s head, and two brown birds poked their heads out and squawked at Amal and her family.

  “Shut your beak. We’re leaving.” Amal put on a burst of speed to prove it. Really. Those birds acted like they owned this airspace. As if.

  “How did he get out?” Crispin asked as he flew even with his parents, but his glare was meant for Yarn, his sister’s mate, who was bringing up the rear. Yarn was supposed to be watching Furball when the little one had disappeared. Crispin had asked a valid question.

  One Amal wanted an answer to, and so did her mate. Thing’s curiosity was palpable and more than a little edged. Furball couldn’t fly yet. His wings were too small. Nor could he open the door or walk far on his stubby little legs. But that was the only way out. So, how had Furball left Nulthir’s flat?

  Yarn didn’t have an answer, nor had Amal expected him to. Yarn was a bit of a dreamer. His attention had probably wandered, and that's when Furball had somehow left.

  “Did anyone see him leave?” Amal asked, not expecting an answer.

  “No, I sent a message to Dale, and he says the same thing. No one saw Furball leave. No one even knew he was missing until he called for help.” Crispin dropped back to fly even with his very pregnant mate.

  Hopefully, he'd convince her to turn back. Thistle didn't need this kind of stress this close to her due date. But that was one decision Amal wouldn't get involved in. Instead, she concentrated on reaching Furball psychically and physically.

  Amal dodged flying buttresses carved to look like chubby cherubs and shot into a dark spiral staircase. None of those glowing crystals had been left to light this stairwell, but that was fine with her. The darkness would hide her family from prying eyes. There was only one problem with that. Her eyes weren’t as sensitive to light as Thing’s. Her mate had more great horned owl in him then she did, but her mage sight was better—it was almost as good as Nulthir’s—and this place was riddled with magic.

  They’d wrapped every square inch of the city they’d carved inside the cone of Mount Eredren in layer upon layer of spells for strength, stability, and a host of other things—some of which Amal couldn’t even parse as she spiraled down the stairwell at top speed. Since there were no obstacles here, she made great time hugging the central pillar the staircase wound around.

  When Amal reached the lowest level, she banked hard to the right through a portal that dumped her into a rough tunnel and arrowed straight for Furball’s frantic mental cries for help. Behind her, Thing struggled to keep up. He was the silent flyer, and she was the fast one, capable of speeds only a peregrine falcon could match due to her sleeker body and long, pointed wings and tail. She kept her arms and legs tucked in tight against her belly to further reduce the drag.

  Behind her struggling and fuming mate, flew Crispin and Thistle followed by the less aerodynamic Mixie and her mate, Yarn. The four of them flew in a v-formation as fast as they could, but they were soft from living here where food was bought rather than hunted. Unlike her and Thing, they hadn’t grown up in the wild, hunted for no other reason than they were magical, and that made them weak. They might not be up to the task at hand.

  Thing sent something, probably a request she slow down, but Amal ignored it. As if she’d ever give up her advantage. Speed was her friend. She’d never met a creature who could outfly her.

  We’re coming, Mixie broadcast in a vain attempt to calm her baby, but her mind-touch wasn’t enough. Furball needed a hug and to go back to Nulthir’s flat to play in safety with the other kits.

  Did you know he went out? Amal sent to her daughter.

  No, I thought he was napping, Mixie replied in frustration. Yarn had earned her ire.

  “I didn’t either.” Amal had spent a long night easing Thistle. Her son’s mate had a difficult pregnancy thus far, but Thistle was determined to help Furball despite that. They were all worried about Nulthir, too. Whatever trouble he was in, it had to be bad if he couldn’t handle it himself.

  Can we handle it? Amal wondered as the prison’s wrought iron doors loomed before them. They opened to admit a covered cart as she slowed to let the others catch up.

  Thing gave her a reproachful look for doubting their capabilities as he drew even with her. Naughty owl. He’d been reading her mind again, but he was right. They’d saved Nulthir from a demon last year. Of course, His Orneriness was forgetting they’d had help with that from two traveling knights and a mage-gifted boy who had plenty of raw power but no idea how to use it. Amal didn’t remind Thing about that. A little confidence could go a long way in a crisis.

  Together, they entered the prison and flew high to stay in the deep shadows cloaking the ceiling. Amal and her family might be magical creatures, but no part of them glowed. Magic was light after all. It wanted to be seen and admired. For some reason, the magic that had made her and her family hadn’t chosen to express itself in a visible way.

  At the next turning, Amal dropped back and let her mate take the lead since he'd been here before. Thing gave her an approving nod and veered left then right then left again taking a switchback path through the dim tunnels that connected the well-lit cell-lined caves. With each turn, Furball’s mental shouts grew louder and nearer.

  The ancient builders of this place, the Litherians, had liked their headroom, so the ceiling was high here too, at least forty feet or so, reducing the chance that anyone would notice them even if they did look up. But hugging it meant dodging a veritable forest of stalactites every few feet that ranged in size from a hand span to as tall and wide as a man. All that dodging slowed their progress to a crawl, but they kept going until they saw a faint light outlining a dark figure amid the mist crawling through the equally dark tunnel.

  Had a patch of darkness just moved away from Nulthir? Or was anxiety playing tricks on her eyes? Amal scanned the area, in case she had seen something, but nothing else moved. All the other lights in this area had gone out, and that gave Amal pause. Humans liked light. They were blind without it, but this cellblock and the tunnel connecting it to the next one was as dark as black magic except for that soft, mysterious glow around Nulthir. Wait, something doesn't feel right, she said to her family.

  What doesn’t feel right? Thing demanded, but he pulled out of his floor-ward dive. He might be an ornery owl, but he recognized reason when he heard it.

  If
I knew, I’d tell you. But you can't tell me this doesn't look just a little staged? Amal hovered over the scene, scanning it with all her senses, but she came up with nothing to explain the bad feeling in her gut.

  Mom's right. Look at the way Nulthir's fallen. I think he was hit from behind by something. Crispin pointed as he hovered beside them.

  I'm going down there. My baby needs me. Mixie dove for her frantic child.

  Wait, sis. It might be a trap. Crispin started to follow her then turned back to stay with his mate.

  Thistle had perched on a rock shelf three feet below the ceiling to rest her wings. She elbowed Yarn who'd landed beside her. You should help your mate save your son.

  Yarn gave her a look, then followed her mental prompt. He jumped off the edge and spread his wings. Yarn glided down in a series of wide looping spirals that should have drawn out anyone who was hiding in the shadows.

  When no one attacked him, Crispin followed, and so did Thing, but Amal beat them all in a heart-stopping dive that had Thing glaring at her when he landed.

  Show off, he said.

  Amal might have fluffed her feathers out and preened just a little. Then she was all business again. After all, she was the matriarch of their clan of owl-monkey-cats, and that came with certain responsibilities.

  Amal approached Nulthir carefully, every sense afire for trouble as she scanned the ground for clues that wouldn't have been visible from above. The only illumination close to hand was Nulthir’s pendant, the dawn rune, which was unhelpfully tucked inside his tunic to hide its soft bluish glow.

  He lay on his side curled protectively around the frightened Furball who was bouncing up and down in the space his body enclosed. Nulthir was a good man, and that just made saving him that much more important. Thank the Creator, he was still breathing. Nulthir was too young to die. He was only in his early twenties.

  While Amal worked to remove his pendant from under his clothes, Mixie climbed carefully up Nulthir’s back until she could reach down and scoop up her now cooing baby. Mixie only tore his tunic a little, exposing the runes tattooed on his back. They glowed a dark blue, which explained the dim glow around Nulthir. But that was the least of his problems.