Shadow Mage
Sarah McCarthy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 Sarah McCarthy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by James T. Egan, www.bookflydesign.com
Contents
Also by Sarah McCarthy
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Acknowledgments
More
Also by Sarah McCarthy
Shadows of Magic
The Eidolons of Myrefall
Death of the Immortal King
1
Sarai
The horse could not have cared less where they were. It stared blankly into the rainy darkness, its head hanging as Sarai threw the reins over its soaked neck. High above, a hundred feet straight up the wall of the stronghold, the fiery, half-moon beacon burned. Its shifting colors illuminated the heavy clouds above it.
“Stay,” she said to the horse. It didn’t move. Its hooves were planted in mud, and the rain thundered down around them, soaking its mane and dripping off its tail and eyelashes into the dark puddles below. Sarai had to admire the animal’s unflinching disinterest.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said aloud, although it would probably be less. Again, it didn’t even blink, just stared dully ahead.
Sarai shivered, wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her elbows, and squinted up into the rain again. She was short for her age, which she guessed was somewhere around sixteen. The people who ran the orphanage where she’d spent the first several years of her life hadn’t been sure. Her long, straight black hair was tied tightly in a low bun.
She was scrawny and angular, with rough, dry patches of skin on her knees and elbows, and dark black circles under dark brown eyes. Her face was full of shadows, her cheekbones sharp, with dark sunken spaces below them. She wore a black and grey tunic, too big and belted tightly around her waist, and tight but flexible trousers. A small brass key hung on a delicate chain around her neck. A second necklace, with small grey stones hanging from, it lay across it. The only expensive items she wore were her shoes, made of soft, horribly expensive leather. She could walk across hundred-year-old floorboards covered in an inch of gravel and not make a sound.
The closest window was fifty feet up, but it took her barely a minute to scale the smooth cliff-face.
Too slow. She imagined Jeremy’s voice in her head. You haven’t been practicing in rain, have you? She frowned and pushed the window open, scooting inside. You try practicing soaking wet. I’m fast enough.
Immediately the atmosphere shifted. The rain became an outside sound as she closed the window, the droplets pattering against it, the wind howling around the eaves. The room was silent, heavy, dark, with looming shapes that she knew were shelves. The library.
Silently, blending so well with the darkness that she was almost a shadow herself, Sarai crept past the empty tables with their empty chairs, the only sign of her presence the damp boot prints she left behind.
The halls were lit with flames encased in glass, their sconces bracketed to the wall. She slipped down one hall, up a staircase, down a longer hall, and down a final short flight of steps before stopping in front of a thick oak door. She laid a hand on it, her fingernails bitten to the quick, and leaned forward, pressing her ear against the smooth wood. Holding her breath, she listened for close to a minute. Nothing. She tried the door handle. Locked.
Well, he’s not a complete idiot. From the black leather pouch at her side, she pulled a slim tool, which she inserted into the lock. Half a second later, it clicked open. That fast enough for you, Jeremy?
The Jeremy in her mind didn’t answer.
A huge, four-poster bed dominated the room, and the rain pattered down onto a balcony outside. The doors to this balcony were open. Someone didn’t do their research, Jeremy.
You found them just fine, didn’t you? came the imagined retort.
The only light in the room came from a lantern left burning on the table outside.
Guess that’s what you do when you don’t have to pay for lamp oil.
A soft snore came from one of the two lumps under the bedcovers. Sarai approached silently, drawing the dagger from the sheath at her side as she did so.
Time to get this over with so we can get paid. She didn’t relish the long ride back to Westwend, but she wasn’t going to stick around here any longer than she had to. There was something about this place that unsettled her.
The man lay on his side, his black hair sticking up at odd angles. He was curled into a ball, his knees tucked into his chest, the covers pulled up to his neck. He took up about a quarter of the bed. Behind him, a woman lay sprawled on her back, the covers half on, half off, her arms and legs wide. She was naked, and as Sarai watched, she gave a great snort and rolled onto her side, yanking most of the covers with her. The man, luckily, because Sarai had no desire to see him naked, was wearing a nightshirt. He frowned in his sleep, and his arm went out, feeling for the blanket, which he yanked back.
Better do this before he wakes up.
She readjusted her grip on the dagger, moving closer and leaning over him, looking for the right angle, when suddenly his eyes shot open. Even in the darkness, they were a bright, startling blue. Or rather, one was. The other was missing. He blinked up at her, as if unsure whether he was dreaming, then his mouth opened in a wide ‘o’ shape.
If she gave him even a second to use his magic, she’d be dead. She lunged forward, slipping the blade into his stomach and up. He grunted, flames flickering across his fingers as he grabbed at her skinny arm, still gripping the dagger. She yanked it up and ou
t, pulling away, out of the reach of his arms.
He gasped and fell back, both hands going to the wound in his stomach. Flames licked out, burning at the gash, but Sarai had done her work. The flames died out; the bloodstain spread through his nightshirt. Next to him, the white-haired woman rolled onto her back and muttered something unintelligible. Sarai froze.
The woman mumbled a few more things, and a gust of wind lifted the covers. A smile crossed her lips, but she didn’t wake.
I’m sorry. You’re going to have a terrible morning.
Sarai leaned down, putting her ear just above the man’s open mouth. Nothing. She always double-checked, especially when they had seen her face. But she knew she didn’t need to worry. He was dead; she could feel it. She wiped the blade on his nightshirt, sheathed it, and turned to the balcony doors.
Whatever it was that made her stop, it made no sound. It was something dark, an undercurrent in the atmosphere of the room, a ripple of power.
Sarai shivered; her eyebrows knitted together as she turned back to the body of the man, but he hadn’t moved. His face was ashen, with that slack look they always had. His hands were clasped around the wound, his shirt stained and bloody and slightly charred.
Once more she turned to the balcony, wanting nothing more than to be away from this strange place, but the ripple came again, stronger this time, and behind her the man gasped.
Sarai spun around, her skin going cold and clammy. As she watched, the blood began to move, pulling itself, droplet by droplet, out of the nightshirt and out of the bed sheets, the little droplets moving like rain trickling down a window, speeding up as they coalesced, pouring themselves back into his body through the hole she had made.
Color rose in his thin cheeks, and his eye flickered open.
Her heart thundering in her chest, Sarai whipped her blade back out and moved towards him, but she approached uncertainly this time. The dark-haired man stared down at his stomach, poked at it with one finger, then his face fell. He sighed, then looked up at her.
Sarai shook her head. I must have imagined it. He’s only a fire mage. Fire doesn’t do—whatever that was. Jeremy is going to kill me if I mess this up.
She leapt forward, and to her surprise he made no move to stop her, only looked slightly thoughtful as she slit his throat.
Again, she watched the blood and life drain out of him. Again, she checked that he was dead, and again, just as she was about to leave, the blood returned itself to him and he opened his eyes.
They stared at each other in the darkness, Sarai’s hand sweaty on the handle of her dagger. This can’t be happening.
He raised a hand and light flared in one of the wall sconces. He glanced at the sleeping woman next to him, chewed the inside of his cheek, ran a hand through his obsidian black hair, and looked at her again with that single eye so blue it was like a chip of ice.
“Don’t worry, it’s not your fault.”
Sarai considered nicking herself with her blade, just to see if she was awake. Jeremy, if you’ve slipped me hallucinogens again for a laugh, I’ll kill you.
The man reached over and tucked the covers more securely about the woman, then looked at Sarai again.
“Who sent you?”
She didn’t answer. Maybe it’s just blades that don’t work. There’s still poison. Or I could throw him off the balcony.
“My name is Finn.” He held out a hand.
She eyed him suspiciously.
He dropped his hand.
“Do you have any poison? You could try that.”
Sarai fingered one of the stones on her necklace.
He picked up a cup from a table next to the bed and held it out to her.
Eyes narrowed, she approached, opened the stone and deftly poured in a few drops of poison. He swigged it down.
“How long does it—” His face went white and a tremor ran through him. He grasped his stomach, gave a small groan, and the cup fell from his hands, clattering to the floor. He fell to his knees, convulsing, and then was still.
The woman shrieked, more of a wild war cry than anything, and a gust of wind whipped through the room. Sarai dropped silently to the ground, crouching behind the end of the bed, her dagger in her hand, but then the woman rolled over again and gave a great snore.
What a bed companion. How did you ever get any sleep?
She waited, barely breathing, watching his face for several minutes. Did it work? Clear liquid began dribbling out of his nostrils. Nope. He awoke and sat back up.
He sighed again. “Well, that didn’t work. But look, hey, this is perfect timing. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of things to try, right?”
Sarai stared at him; her eyebrows lifted. What is wrong with you?
Finn glanced back at the bed.
“I’d really rather have a few weeks to put some things in order first. But you’ll need some time to figure out a list of things we can try, right?”
“You… you realize I’m here to kill you, right?”
“I got that, yes. And look, you really would have managed it, I’m sure, if I’d been anyone else. Like I said, no fault there. You seem very competent.”
This is a new one. Unless… “Did you hire me?” Suicide by assassin wasn’t that uncommon.
“No. Although now that you’re here I wish I’d thought of it.”
She scratched her head, trying to process this, and shivered, still soaking wet.
“Oh, sorry, you must be freezing.” Before Sarai could protest, flames were licking up and down her painlessly, clouds of steam billowing off her body. In seconds, she was warm and dry.
He glanced at the sleeping woman. “Did Isabelle send you?”
“They don’t tell me who makes the order.” Her voice was scratchy and odd sounding.
He shrugged. “I thought maybe she’d come around...” He looked at her hopefully for a moment, then shook his head. “Unlikely.”
The rain continued thundering down outside. Am I insane? Have I finally cracked? Sarai fingered the blade in her hands, pressing the point into her palm. A drop of blood welled up through the stinging cut. Not asleep, anyway.
Finn was watching her thoughtfully, his blue eye sharp. “I have a proposal for you.”
“I don’t take bribes.”
“Hear me out. I’m not asking you not to kill me. The opposite, really.”
She lifted an eyebrow and picked at the dry skin on her elbow.
“You may have noticed I seem to have a hard time dying.”
“I did notice that, yes.”
“I made a bargain with a demon nearly ten years ago now, using something called an Oath Stone. He gets my body in a month’s time. I haven’t been able to think of a way out. I’m still working on it, but if I can’t, and it seems very likely that I can’t, I need to…make my body into something he can’t use.”
She stared hard at his face, taking in every detail, looking for any sign that he was lying, and finding none.
“I don’t know anything about magic.”
“I do, though, and you know about death, but, more importantly—” He glanced at the sleeping woman. “You won’t mind killing me. No one around here wants to. I’ve asked.”
You’re insane. Jeremy, why didn’t you warn me he was insane? You’re probably having a huge laugh about it right now, aren’t you? Are all mages like this?
Finn went on, gesturing to the woman. “Isabelle is dead set against it. Thinks we’ll still figure something out. When I saw you, I thought maybe she had come around. I’m… I’m not giving up, but… I just want to be prepared.”
“Right…”
He stood up, scratching his head and pacing the room, his nightshirt fluttering around his bare, hairy legs.
“We’ll try the basics. Like, cut me up and take the body parts far away from each other, that kind of thing.”
Well, I won’t say you’re not a helpful target.
“Only thing is, like I said, I need a few weeks. I have a few mor
e things to wrap up, but then I’ll be ready.”
“I don’t usually let my targets schedule appointments.”
“No, no of course not. I understand.” Finn scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. “I mean… you could try again now if you want; I’d rather you wait, and I think we’ll need the planning time anyway, right? Unless you have any better ideas?”
“I’m creative.”
His hands went wide. “Look, I’m all for you trying again now, but you’ve already stabbed, poisoned, and garroted me—wait, is that the right term?”
“No that’s when you—”
“Oh, right, right, no that’s with a wire or something, right?”
“Right.”
He resumed his pacing. “OK, well, you can try that, too, if you want. All I’m saying here is—wait, have you ever magically assassinated anyone?”
“I’m not a mage.”
“But… anyone protected by magic?”
“Not that I know of.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. I should be miles from here by now. This is the worst assassination ever. With the most helpful victim ever. How is that even possible?
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