She cracked the eggs over the pan, listening to the sizzle. “I’d like to stay here,” she said quietly.
Gabriel leaned against the river-rock hearth. “We would be safer if we kept on the road.”
She straightened, and her eyes flared for a moment. There was much of the self-entitled Princess left in her, though years outside of the palace had killed some of it. “What dangers are there out here?” she asked, doing her best to keep her voice stemmed. “What exists that you cannot fight?”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “It’s not me I worry about.” He brushed the crumbs of his biscuit into the fire. “People knew you were at Urima.”
“You have no proof,” she corrected. “Cordis could have disappeared for any reason. For all we know, he could be back in Urima waiting for us.”
Gabriel stared off into the flames, and for an instant they gave a little jump. “He isn’t.”
She did not wish to argue, so she gave a small nod of respect and left him to his fire.
“We can stay,” he replied after a while. She smiled broadly with twinkling eyes. “We’ve only a month or two before you need to return to Anatoly City anyway.”
“I’ve not forgotten,” she pulled the eggs from the pan and looked at him. “These were supposed to go on those biscuits you just ate.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. I’m too full,” he replied, putting a hand on his stomach as he made for the back door.
“My first declaration as Queen will have you publically flogged.”
“You’ll have to catch me first,” he called from outside before dunking his head in their rain barrel.
He knew his father was not waiting for them at Urima Manor. Cordis had set out on his yearly trip to Anatoly City in late spring, but a month later Gabriel received a note from Lady Mage Aisling saying Cordis never arrived and suspected foul play. She advised them to leave Urima and seek shelter elsewhere, so Gabriel gathered Robyn and supplies and left the next morning. No word had been heard from his father since.
They lived off the land since then, finding abandoned cottages and masquerading as cousins, brother and sister, or lovers wherever they went. They changed their appearance in every stay. This time, Gabriel wore his hair long, and she dyed hers brown. No one ever got the full story from them, so no one could trace their origins.
He pulled his head out to see Robyn standing beside him. He slicked his hair back. “Yes?”
“Will I be riding into town?”
“Sure, if you want,” he replied. “If you can find a horse,” and he dunked his head back under. She kicked him in the back of his thigh, and he splashed her but missed.
When Cordis went missing, Gabriel vowed to be Robyn’s sole protector, and while there were other things he could be doing, like studying at Castle Jaden, he would not have traded this life for another. He watched over her since she arrived at his manor and saw himself as her protector for quite a while, yet never put a name to it. There was a certain peace having no worries or pressures other than the heiress’ safety. It wasn’t like she couldn’t protect herself either. She was dangerously accurate with a bow.
He pulled his head out again and swung his hair back and forth until it was mildly dry.
“I drink out of that,” Robyn sighed as she walked passed, toting a few items for trade at the market.
“I’m flavoring it.”
Gathering clothes nice enough for an evening at the inn, which was the most excitement they got nowadays, Gabriel shoved them in her satchel along with a pair of cleaner boots. She emerged from her room rubbing brown dye into her hair, dressed in a long green dress divided for riding. He flicked a hand in her direction, latching onto the earthen foxroot dye with a green Earth pattern, and pulled it through her hair much like a comb. He preferred the natural color of her dark gold hair, but her safety was more important than his preferences.
For a moment he saw her gaze flick over him, lingering on his torso, but she averted her eyes quickly and she braided up her hair. He smiled inwardly. ‘Oh, did you finally notice me?’ he wondered. She affixed a full quiver and unstrung bow to the top of the pack before slinging it around her shoulders.
“Ready,” she smiled and fixed him with waiting eyes.
He gave a nod and laid the complicated patterns. Thin white threads pulled from the center of his chest, and he speedily crossed some while intertwining others and twisted a few to bind the whole pattern together. The cloth-pattern was simple and manipulated fibers in a fabric to break and refasten. The second pattern was far more complex and impossible for a low-Classed Mage.
He fueled the two patterns and reached his hands out to fall to them. Before he hit the ground, his entire body transformed to a massive tiger. It was painless though a little uncomfortable as his knees bent the wrong way, and a tail wrenched from him. But he spent so much time in the form that it seemed as normal as human skin. Not quite as tall as a horse but just as long, he liked the form, for it was imposing. He looked up at her as he sauntered out, the bright blue of his eyes the only part that remained the same. His shoulders came up to her chest, and she had long ago learned how to vault herself up on them and sit properly. She became so skilled at riding a large cat that she nearly forgot how to ride a horse.
Any educated person knew tigers were not indigenous to Anatoly, and he stood out as an anomaly. Years ago he manipulated the pattern to change the colorings. Research in the great Madison Library of Jaden showed him there were many kinds of tigers, from tawny to white to deep red. His favorite was the golden tiger. Its orange coloring muted, dark gold replaced the black stripes, and it had more ivory to its legs, belly, and chest. It was the largest of the tigers ever reported, but Gabriel’s transformation was larger than a stout pony. By changing the colorings, a man would think him to be a mountain cat indigenous to Anatoly unless he got close enough to see the faded stripes.
Gabriel stretched forward in one swift motion as only cats are capable. Robyn took the opportunity to sling a leg over his shoulders. He discovered the ancient body-manipulation pattern when he trained with the Mages in Jaden before his Classing. While he said there were a few other animal patterns, his favorite was the tiger, and he learned no other manipulation.
It was one of the many perks of a Spirit Mage.
Chapter 5
Mage Prince Nolen spurred his mount into a canter and sat up on Shibaler’s shoulders. The dapple gray destrier lathered at the mouth and under the saddle, but he would carry Nolen until he dropped if his master asked. The three day journey had taxed the steed to his limit, but Shibaler kept his pace though each step sent a jolt of pain up Nolen’s backside. The sun had almost set over the Gray Mountains, but they would arrive before it vanished completely. He told his mother he was heading to the sea in the east, but he was far from the ocean here in the foothills of the west.
Nolen did not think himself a bad person, just a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. Getting his way was something he excelled at; something his father taught him. For the better part of four years Nolen had been trying to take the throne from his mother. He knew he could rule better, but at each turn her vigilant lackey Aisling rebuffed him. She knew the law better than he. Only Queens ruled, and though their husbands were given the title King, it was simply a title. He could claim the throne only if there was no female heir. However, if he was able to force his mother off with a terrible display of power and fear, he could usurp her and change the laws. If it meant the throne, he would do whatever it took. So far it had taken him on the path to Castle Jaden.
Castle Jaden sat above him in the cleft of two mountains, honed from the dark gray rock and half-built into it. She was constructed nearly 3,500 years ago, back in the Second Age. She had every modern amenity one could think of from self-replenishing oil lanterns to plumbing.
Jaden was a self-sufficient city set behind an unbreachable wall, home to thousands of Mages. Should the castle ever be besieged, she had everything she needed to survive indefini
tely.
For several hundred miles east laid their farm lands tended by Earth Mages and farmers, making Jaden a separate kingdom. She bought her freedom from Anatoly Ages ago and was ruled by the Head Mage alongside his Secondhand to make a rich cultured kingdom. Jaden had everything from her own vineyard to a small reservoir and was known for her rich soil and lack of poverty.
Nolen gathered Shibaler’s head and eased his eager canter. The destrier recognized the area and was ready to be done.
Castle Jaden’s true aesthetic was her safety. Thousands of wards were set into the stone to keep it from crumbling with age or attack. Anti-burn patterns laced through the wood, and a few Air patterns kept the wind from blowing too hard in the mountain crags. Any arrow shot above her walls bounced off an unseen barrier, but anything thrown from the walls would not be hindered. The massive redwood gates were wide enough to let six carriages pass through, and taller than five stories. The only way to open them was with Air and Earth Mages. Every General knew attacking her would be fruitless.
Nolen often had guards accompanying him, but this time he wanted to be alone; that, and his digestion had been rather unpredictable of late. The gates loomed over him, flanked by two lit towers, and patrolled by Earth and Air Mages. He slowed Shibaler to a walk as he approached and fell within the rings of light
“Ho!” a distant voice called. “Be ye Mage or man?”
Nolen flicked his hand, drawing gray strings from his chest to form a small stilling-pattern that calmed the air around him. Any Mage could see another’s patterns, so it was easy to distinguish a Mage. Nolen heard the herald call for the gate to be opened, and with a great groan one side buckled outward enough for him to enter.
He kept the hood of his black Mage cloak up as he entered and headed Shibaler towards the livery. Each Mage cloak was bequeathed on the day they received their title and Class. Stylized Elemental emblems embroidered the right breast of the cloak, from the forked red hooks of Fire to the white pointed star of Spirit. His bore a double spiral twisting away from itself representing Air.
Mages in their own black cloaks milled about the courtyard, some heading to hop houses for a pint and a little dancing while others sauntered their way home from their shops.
Nolen delivered his steed to a boy too young to be given a Class and handed him a silver square to wash and feed the Shibaler. The air this high in the mountains was dry and chilly, and a faint wind was blowing up from the foothills. Nolen tucked further back into his cowl. He hated the cold, and it constantly plagued his thin skin.
His rooms were in the east wing, often called the Lodge, but most well known as the Head Mage’s Tower. It was more of a large cylindrical construction than a tower, with dozens of lit windows and a large balcony where the Head Mage addressed his people. It held hundreds of people in past Ages and bore the best rooms reserved for those closest to the Head Mage, mainly his Council and any other respected names.
The oak double door opened silently, and he slipped inside. The large roaring hearth in the foyer instantly greeted him with warmth. In a style popular Ages past, crimson carpets, exposed oak, and hanging lanterns decorated the interior giving it a rustic feel and thus dubbed the Lodge.
A few Mages conversed in the couches before the fire. They paid him no mind as he climbed the stairs to his floor, feeling the smooth banister under his gloves. Nolen had been given his father’s old rooms after Mage Tabor was exiled for selling Anatolian secrets to the Shalabane. The rooms were worthy of a king with a lovely sitting room, an expansive entertaining room, and a lavish bed chamber.
The hour was still too early for his business, so he refreshed himself from the trip in a hot bath and allowed himself a nap. When he awoke, the castle was quieting down. He sat there for some time, staring at the space between his boots and wondered if he was making the right decisions. His conscious kept reminding him he had duties greater than himself, and this was the only way to fulfill them.
‘What makes a villain?’ he thought. ‘It is a man who does what he knows is wrong for the betterment of others, or is a man born with malicious intent? A hero does what he knows is right for the benefit of others, so truly there is little difference in the two.’ He scrubbed a hand down his face and looked out the black window. ‘Can I call myself hero doing what I know will aid myself but could harm others? Do I have a choice?’
Everyone knew his mother was unfit to rule, and with his cousin Princess Robyn lost to the years, there was no fit heir to take the throne from Queen Miranda. Nolen had to for the betterment of Anatoly.
He gave himself another few hours to debate with his conscious until he was certain it was passed midnight, and he slipped out of his rooms.
The place he sought was well protected and feared. The codices and scrolls he found in Kilkiny Palace were not helpful in locating it, and he would not dare search the Madison Library in Jaden, so he pieced together stories he remembered as a child and scraps of parchment to form a conclusion. He headed towards Westerly Motte, once a singular structure that bridged with the other buildings as the castle grew. Now it appeared as a massive hall laced with catacombs and dark passages. It was the most unused building—besides the vacant bed chambers in the northern halls—which gave Nolen reason to deduce he was on the right path.
He laid a muffle-pattern around his boots as he wound his way through the dim passageways that would take him to the older building. At this hour most lights had turned down, and even the lanterns in the hallways burned dimly, never fully going out. The Lodge connected to Westerly Motte through one dark passageway built underground. It smelled of the same wet essence caves bore, reaffirming Nolen’s heading. Anyone who frequented the passage would have it cleaned, but the unsmoothed steps told enough.
There was nothing in the codices and scrolls that detailed how well the room was guarded or if by Mage or ward. It simply stated that it was guarded, so he came prepared for both. The muffle-pattern kept the echo of his boots from bouncing around the halls, and as he strained his ears he heard only his rhythmic breathing. He was convinced it was so loud it would wake the Head Mage.
Something tapped up ahead, echoing twice down the halls, and Nolen stopped, his heart catching in his throat. He drew gray strings of Air from his chest and slowly wove them into a pattern to sense if air constantly pushed and pulled from a breath. He moved the invisible pattern carefully, hearing his heart beat in his chest as he waited for the alarm to sound his arrival. A dozen yards away, he felt the pattern shiver, and he blinked rapidly as he swallowed back his nerves. He was a Prince of Anatoly and would not let this overpower his self-control.
As much as he could tell, two souls breathed nearby, one steady and the other shallow. Nolen trained enough in his Element to know what the breath of a sleeping person felt like. At least one slumbered.
Under the cover of the muffle-pattern, he inched along the wall and held his breath. Surely, surely any moment the man would hear or feel his energy and sound the alarm. The closer Nolen stepped, the louder every step and breath seemed, but the man did not move. The Prince laid a rod pattern of Air into his hand while keeping the other free to lay any last-minute attack. He was not a strong Mage by old standards, and holding a third pattern would put him at his limit. At this stage it was win or be exposed, and he was not about to lose. Nolen never lost at anything.
“Mallin, wake up,” a man with a husky voice whispered. Nolen stopped and calmed his racing heart. “I heard something. Can you feel movement nearby?”
A Spirit Mage. Nolen firmed his resolve. Since Spirit Mages could feel the energy of people around them, it was nearly impossible to sneak up on one. It was now or never.
The breathing souls were tucked into a hall shaped in a “T”. Releasing his breath, Nolen spun to face them. He surveyed the scene in a half-second, spying two men: one standing against a wall, and the other seated not far away. Both dressed in black to blend with the stone. ‘Fire Mage,’ Nolen thought as he brought the rod of Air up a
nd snapped the Mage’s head back. His teeth clicked as he hit the wall hard, crumpling to the ground with half a red pattern formed in his hands.
The other man, the sleeping Spirit Mage, flung a web of loose threads at Nolen’s chest as he scrambled to his feet. Spirit patterns were notoriously difficult to escape, and Nolen bent back at an awkward angle narrowly avoiding the glittering white pattern. Regaining his balance, he brought the rod down on the man’s head as he released another Spirit pattern. It struck Nolen in the leg, but by the time it made contact, the Spirit Mage was down. The pattern burned into Nolen’s leg, singeing cross-hatched lines. His trousers flaked away at the thigh, and he slapped them to stop the smolder before realizing that was not the best way to handle a burn wound. He barked out a cry, but suddenly snapped his lips shut. There could still be Mages down here waiting for an attack.
The Spirit Mage had seen his face. With a pinch of reluctance, Nolen knew he had to kill the men to save his skin. ‘There is no going back.’ Grizzly business, but Nolen would see them dead before him.
His hand came away from his thigh with lines of blood, but he had no way of healing himself and so pressed forward. Lifting the naked candle, he searched for the door he needed. There was no mistaking it now; he was most assuredly in the right place.
He found the door at the end of the dark, forgotten hall. It was made of a sturdy metal and indeed locked, but Nolen felt the keyhole with his Air Element and found it was a simple lock. With enough pressure, he pushed the lock loose, and it screeched opened. Adrenaline raced as he threw out a muffle-pattern, hoping to catch the sound waves before they reached the end of the hall.
It was well known that the Head Mage and his Council wore rings connected to different parts of the castle, so if a ward was tripped, they would know. However, Nolen carried a rare treasure to ensure his success. In the hem of his trousers, pressed against his skin was a medallion he had gone to great lengths to procure. After countless rumors and more than one false lead, he found it in a collection of ancient relics owned by the Duke of Iosburg.
The Castrofax (Book 1) Page 5
