Thing didn’t understand why their kits were more feline than raptor. The next generation was even less bird-like. Then there was the teleporting Furball. Thoughts like these led back to his parents, but Thing couldn’t remember them. When he tried, there was just a younger version of Nulthir.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“You didn’t answer my question. I need to know what situation we’re flying into.” Damn. Crispin had a point.
Thing dodged the arm of a sword-toting statue. He’d let his circular flight path take him too close to the wall enclosing the stairwell and its decorations. This was taking too long. Thing pulled his wings in and dropped straight down the shaft, adjusting course here and there to avoid those pesky steps.
If someone saw them, so be it. No humans could catch him. If they tried, they’d just run smack into the prison’s gates or its Guards. But Thing doubted anyone would look up. Below, passersby were few and far between at this hour since most of them were at their jobs doing whatever humans did to earn a living. Ahead, their exit loomed. It was a pale rectangle in the gloom.
“We’re going back to the prison, aren’t we?” Crispin must have recognized it from the night before.
“Yes, we have unfinished business there.”
“It’s those shards, right? Did Nulthir tell you how to dispose of them without it affecting us?”
“No.” Thing sent his magical senses ranging ahead of him, feeling for trouble beyond the exit and found none. Good, because he shot through the doorway moments later and flapped hard for the ceiling high above.
“He didn’t? Then why are we heading back there?”
“For answers. You'll see.” Well, Thing would see. He didn’t need light, but his son might.
“I hate when you’re this terse.”
No more speaking aloud. Mind-speech only from here on out, Thing chided him. We don’t know who’s listening.
Good point. Will you at least tell me what answers we’re searching for? Crispin pushed hard, but he was still several man-lengths behind, and he was falling farther behind with every wingbeat.
I can’t tell you what I don’t know. And that ate at Thing. With his friend down, there was no one they could turn to for magical help.
You must pull through, Friend Nulthir. You can’t slip into the dark. We need you. Thing sent those thoughts into the wind blowing through the vents cut in the ceiling as he flew as swiftly and silently as only a creature who was part owl could.
Chapter Five
Amal stared after her mate for a long moment before shaking her head. He could be so guarded at times. What are you up to, heart of my heart, and why are you keeping it from me? She considered sending that thought out to him. But Thing had left in a terrible hurry, so his errand was probably urgent. Her questions could keep until he returned. Nulthir needed her now.
“Amal? Are you there?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I’m always here for you.” She extended her hand.
His hand engulfed hers. “Why can’t I see you? There’s a dark veil over everything. It's choking me.” He gasped for breath.
That was troubling. Amal squeezed his thumb. “I don’t know. Likely it has something to do with what’s happening to you.”
“But you see the darkness?" Nulthir pointed at the door her mate and son had just left through.
Shadows lay thicker there than elsewhere in the room, but she doubted that's what he meant. Amal patted his hand. "It's in your mind. Fight it."
"How? I don’t want to darken. Down that path lies death, madness, and blood. Dark magic is the enemy of all that lives. I don’t want to become your worst nightmare.”
But he might not have a choice. His mother had experimented on her children and with each one refined the process a little more, which was why they were all a little nuts. Amal had thought he’d escaped that fate when they’d left Avenia. All that drama wasn’t supposed to follow him. He should be safe in this underground city.
Amal wished she could push her strength into him. “Then don’t let it take you.”
Sure, that was easy to say but hard to carry out when that darkness was already inside him thanks to that glass object and the markings on his skin that his own mother had put there. That foul creature's plan was working through him even now, and it set Amal's teeth on edge.
She stared at the runes inked on his shoulder through a rent in the fabric she'd made when she’d tended the wound there. Had the runes multiplied?
Amal peeled back more of the blue wool, tearing his tunic further. There were more than she remembered seeing there a few hours ago. “How many tattoos do you have?”
“Dunno, I never counted them. I’ve had some since I was small.” Nulthir winced as some of the markings moved.
They were multiplying. No doubt that was his mother’s doing. There must not have been enough skin to write the entire spell that would transform him into what? What had his mother wanted to create? Amal reviewed the psychic conversation Thing had sent her, but it wasn’t much help. What was a 'dark star?'
“What was your endgame?” Amal mused aloud. “What were you trying to do?”
“Get more power. That’s what she wants now, but she wasn't always like that. I think it was the death of my brother that triggered it.”
Amal didn’t think so, but she kept that thought to herself. It couldn’t be easy finding out your family was evil. “I think it went deeper than that. She made you into a vessel for something.”
“For dark magic. That’s what she wanted, a dark mage. Dark mages aren’t born. They’re made. But she’s not making me into one. Hell no. I’d rather die.” Nulthir tried to sit up and flopped back down on the mattress, the breath driven out of him.
There’d be no dying on her watch. Amal moved closer until they were eye-to-eye. “You’re not a mage, so the likelihood of you turning into a dark mage is pretty slim.”
“Maybe you’re right. Mages make magic. They can store lots of it, and I can’t. I can just hold it for a bit and channel it into runes.” Nulthir closed his eyes, not willingly because he struggled to open them again. The conversation was tiring him, and he was darkening to her mage sight. Not good, especially not in a channel.
He needed more light to drive out the dark, but where could she get that? One person sprang instantly to mind—the mage boy who’d helped them many moons ago. That boy had so much magic and light within him; he glowed. But Amal had no idea where in Shayari that boy was now.
“Stay with me.” Amal laid her small hand on his brow. It was ice cold, not good in humans.
“Where’s Thing?”
“Off on some mysterious errand. You know him. When he gets an idea in his feathered head, there's no stopping him.” Amal rolled her eyes, but Nulthir knew what she meant. After all, he'd grown up with her mate.
“What happened to your wing?” Nulthir squinted at it.
“This wing?” Amal glanced at it too. It was still numb and hanging limply from her shoulder.
Nulthir touched her wing with shaking fingers. “It’s so cold.”
Her flight feathers had already blackened, and that blackness was creeping up her shoulder, darkening her feathers as it went. Amal wished that was all it was doing, but she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Her bum wing drank in the soft light falling on her.
It was a cold spot not just in her infrared vision, but to her mage sight as well, and that coldness was spreading. The rune on her breast wasn't keeping it at bay anymore. What would that darkness do when it reached her heart? Her mind? The base of her power?
Amal squawked in surprise as Nulthir rolled off the bed. She hopped to its edge and glanced down at him sprawled on the floor in obvious pain. How the hell were they going to put him back to bed now that the enchanted blanket had been reduced to balls of bespelled yarn?
“Are you alright?” Thistle landed next to Nulthir, and he shook his head.
“Why did you do that?” Amal hopped down be
side him.
“I know how to fix your wing.” Nulthir tried to push up to a sit and failed. His shaking arms slipped out from under him, and he crashed back down on his side. Only hours before, he’d been strong and capable. How could dark magic take away his vitality so quickly?
“Lie still. You must conserve your strength.” Amal placed a hand on his chest.
“After I fix your wing, I will.” Nulthir pounded his fist into the floor.
His hair was cropped short to comply with regulations, but it was still strange seeing him with such short locks. Stubble shadowed his strong jaw. His eyes were ringed by tiny sigils. They popped up under his eyes, along his jawline and probably in other areas too. The sigils flashed blue before going dark again, and he winced. That couldn’t be good.
“What is it?” Nulthir looked at her.
Her hawkish face wasn’t hard to read, even with all her feathers standing on end. But Amal pressed her beak closed and shook her head. He had enough to worry about without adding those new marks to the pile.
“What’s wrong with your wing?” Thistle elbowed Amal in the ribs.
“Nothing. It’s just numb from the fight.” Amal roused her feathers. Nosy kit.
“It’s cold too.”
“It can wait.” Amal pushed her adopted daughter’s hand and her concern away.
“No, it can’t.”
Amal shot Nulthir a look. “You don’t get a vote. Get well then you can fix it.”
Thistle’s raptorial eyes lit up at the suggestion. “If he can fix your wing, then he might be able to stop the process the dark magic kicked off inside him.”
Amal blinked a few times as she rolled that idea around in her mind. "Can you fix it?” she asked Nulthir.
His eyes rolled back in his head as the blackness bled from his eyes and ran down his face in inky rivulets. All the shadows in the room lunged at him.
“No!” Amal wouldn’t lose her mate’s dearest friend, not like this. She pushed off with her feet and tail and sprang into the air. But only one wing worked, so she spun in a circle; her bum wing slicing through the converging shadows. “Take that, you fiends!”
The lumir crystals in the room shattered, extinguishing their glow as more shadows converged on Nulthir. Amal couldn’t hit them all. There were just too many. Maybe she didn’t have to. A square of sunlight painted the floor in golden tones, and that glorious light was only five feet away. Thistle saw it too.
“Help me!” Amal landed, hard, and skidded until her tail wrapped around a chair leg and stopped her.
Chapter Six
Iraine came to and groaned when pain tried to sledgehammer her back into unconsciousness. For a moment, she lay there on the cold ground, gripping her head until her fingers brushed something soft—a feather. Scrabbling sounds startled her then she remembered the glass shards and the intruder who’d hit her.
He must still be there. If she could get away, she could get help. But first, she needed that feather. Iraine lowered her hand until she could grasp it. Okay, feather, check. Now for an escape, then she’d have to come up with a plausible story for why she needed a contingent of Guards to accompany her back to this rock pile.
Footfalls startled Iraine, then a foot landed too close to her head for comfort. She dropped the feather and reached for his ankle. His other foot landed on her stomach, driving the breath out of her. But her hand closed around a surprisingly slim ankle, and she squeezed. Gotcha. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away, like a thief in the dark,” whispered her attacker in a sexless rasp.
He kicked Iraine in the shoulder as she rolled and yanked the ankle in her hand, sweeping her attacker’s leg out from under him. Her attacker went down with a startled yelp.
Iraine rolled on top of him as something cold brushed her hand. Not again. Iraine threw herself to the side and landed hard on a pile of rocks. They rolled away, and Iraine slipped and slid as she tried to get her hands and knees under her again. Her head still rang from the blow she’d taken earlier, but she was still combat effective if she kept the fight on the ground where her dizziness wasn’t a hindrance.
But the darkness was. Hellfires, Iraine only had a vague sense of where her attacker was now. “Why’d you come here?” Maybe her attacker would reply and give his location away.
“To take back what’s mine.” A dark laugh echoed, giving Iraine no hint of her attacker's location. Damn.
“What is that glass? Surely, you can tell me. It’s not like I can tell anyone. Magical artifacts are illegal. So is knowledge about them.” Iraine pushed up into a crouch and listened hard. Something wasn't right.
Soft footfalls raced away into the darkness. Oh, hell no, her attacker wasn’t getting away that easily, not when he was her only avenue for answers. She'd solve this case no matter the cost.
Iraine pushed to a stand and froze when her head spun. Dizziness forced her to grab onto the first thing that came to hand—a wall. It had plenty of nooks and crannies to hang on to until she steadied. But that momentary pause gave her attacker more time to get away.
Come on, girl, you’re stronger than this. Go get those answers before they get away. Just don’t touch any glass. You don’t want to black out again. She needed light to see them.
Iraine reached under her tunic and pulled out three crosses on a leather thong. They glowed a soft white as she ran them over the rocks. Damn. There went her only clue. She grabbed hold of a nearby stalagmite.
That was one hard hit to the head, but she saw only one of everything. Well, except for the rocks, they were legion. So, she wasn't concussed. Iraine turned in a slow circle around the stalagmite she clung to, searching for those shards, but they were gone. Every single one of them.
Why didn’t they drain her attacker? What was so special about him? One word leaped to mind—magic. It explained everything, but it wasn’t a satisfactory answer. Every legend Iraine had ever heard had hinted that magic functioned on rules, and she knew someone who just might know them. After all, he had magical creatures for friends, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch.
Iraine put those questions aside and picked up the black feather. It was cold like that glass and much colder than the stone floor. She tucked the blackened feather into her pocket, but there was already one in there. How strange. She didn't remember picking up that first one.
Iraine shrugged off that curiosity and strode through the darkness to the transept with her head held high, and her shoulders squared. She had something for a diviner to anchor a finding spell to. Now, she just needed to convince a witch to help her.
One thing at a time, Iraine reminded herself as she made her slow way out. The clock was ticking. She had less than an hour now but how much less? Surely, she hadn’t been unconscious for long. Iraine put that worry out of mind as the wall to her right vanished.
Chapter Seven
This way, Thing sent right before he turned into the transept.
Right, the tunnel collapsed the other way. Crispin followed, his mind buzzing with thoughts about those they’d left behind.
Stop worrying. Your mother will make everything right. Thing was convinced of that. His steel-spined sweetie was a wonder to behold. When she put her mind to something, it got done no matter what it was. She would find a way to anchor Nulthir against the darkness threatening to wash him away until they returned from their errand with some much-needed answers.
How can you be so sure about that? Crispin asked.
Because I know your mother. Never doubt her. Thing slowed as he sensed people moving below them. Why were they heading away from this part of the prison? What were they up to?
Nulthir would want to know. Thing pulled his wings in and dropped twenty feet before extending them again. Twenty feet below him, the Guards kept doing whatever they were doing. Thing debated about getting closer. His vision was excellent especially in the half-dark, but humans had strange ways. He might need a more detailed picture to pass onto Nulthir than he could
get from up here.
Dad? What are you doing? Crispin slowed.
Keep flying. I need to find out what they're doing. Thing glided closer to the humans on silent wings.
What am I supposed to do when this tunnel ends? Crispin turned a wide circle above Thing, keeping his father in sight.
That was a good question. Wait for me. I won’t be long. Thing circled the seven Guardswomen. They moved like fighters with their heads on a swivel. Their eyes scanned the shadows ahead. These were war women. Who or what were they guarding?
Not those magical shards. There were no cold spots in his infrared vision or his mage sight, but the robed man in the middle of the Guardswomen had some magic. It was partially veiled somehow from his mage sight. A vague glow seeped through, but it was too warm to be those shards.
Thing made another slow pass over them. Had these Guardswomen disturbed the seeing stone he'd left in the rubble not far from here? They had no reason to unless they'd gone looking for those crystal shards. Thing made a third pass. This time, he concentrated on the man they escorted.
He wore the yellow robes of the flesh menders, like the man he'd seen in the cell with the prisoner last night.
What are they carrying? Crispin asked from above. His son hadn't followed orders. The kit had perched on an outcropping to watch.
Thing ground his beak in frustration. I told you to keep flying.
Someone must watch your back, Crispin sent then thought, ornery old owl.
No thoughts were truly private when Thing was around, but Crispin didn't need to know that. I can watch my own back, Thing shot back.
But his son had asked a good question. Thing scanned the Guardswomen's minds as he circled them. If they felt the wind of his passage, they gave no sign. But they were fully kitted out in the Guards' uniform of blue wool tunic and trousers plus leather gauntlets, vambraces, and greaves. They even had cuirasses.
When Thing pierced their minds, all the usual chatter humans indulged in inside their thick skulls washed over him. He picked through it, searching for answers.
Wayward Magic Page 59
