Shadow Mage

by Sarah McCarthy

  With a panicked gasp he broke the surface of the water, paddling frantically. His feet found the rocky bottom, the current was so strong that he could barely keep his feet under him. Slowly, absolutely drenched and freezing, he made his way to the edge of the river and pulled himself out onto the bank, where he lay gasping for several seconds.

  He’d been washed about thirty feet downstream, and when he looked up, he could just make out the tent through the trees.

  I should really come back later.

  He pushed himself up off the ground, hopped to his feet, and made a beeline straight through the bushes for the tent. About ten feet away he paused, attempting to sneak up quietly.

  A heavy, nasal sigh issued from the tent. Four ice towers blossomed out of the ground, lifting the tent into the air, to reveal a very grumpy woman standing with her arms crossed.

  “You’re just lucky I don’t feel like murder this early in the morning,” she said, tapping one finger on her upper arm. “Now tell me what you want and go away.”

  Illiam grinned. “Well, you see… today is my birthday.”

  She raised her eyebrows and seemed to be contemplating revising her stance on early morning violence.

  “No, no, sorry, I mean, it’s my sixteenth birthday.”

  She dropped her arms. “Oh. You’re a mage?”

  He nodded excitedly.

  “Oh, well, sorry to hear that.”

  Sorry?

  “Your parents kick you out?”

  He frowned. “What? No. They don’t even know.”

  “Couldn’t tell them?” she asked, her expression softening further.

  “Oh, um, I suppose I… I hadn’t thought about it.”

  She looked at him, perplexed. “Well, I can’t be much help. I mean, you have my sympathy, but I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no getting rid of it, I’ve tried.”

  “Get rid of it? I don’t want to get rid of it!”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Well… great.” She turned, bent down, and began rummaging around in a pack by her feet. “I’m not sure I understand what you want from me, then.”

  Illiam began pacing back and forth. “Just, anything you can tell me. How does it work? How do I know what type I am?”

  She stopped her rummaging and looked up at him. “You don’t know what type you are?”

  He shook his head excitedly. “No, I told you, it’s my birthday today. I haven’t even done any magic yet.”

  “Umm… if you haven’t… done any magic…” she said, looking up at him. “How do you know you’re a mage?”

  He frowned. “I can feel it. Like… like I have some special destiny. Like… there’s something really important about who I am…”

  She dropped the pack and crossed her arms again. “That’s not how it works.”

  “But…”

  “If you were a mage, you would know.”

  “I do know!”

  “I mean really. You’d be lighting something on fire or freezing things or accidentally destroying half a town or something. Being a mage isn’t about having some feeling that you’re special.”

  Illiam’s heart sank, and he felt himself blushing, but it didn’t change anything. He knew he was a mage. He could feel it. Something was different from the night before.

  “No…” he said uncertainly. “I’m… I’m sure… Please, can you just… help me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Try something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Fire, earth, thread, water, wind, nature? You pick. Grow something. Pull rocks out of the ground. Light me on fire.”

  Disturbingly, she looked like she wouldn’t have minded much. Illiam focused on each of these in turn. Nothing.

  She watched him evenly, her face deadpan. “There. You’re not a mage. Congratulations. Go back to your life.”

  “No, I am, I know I am!” He cringed at the frantic edge to his voice.

  She took a step towards him. “Look, kid, you’re not. You’re just not. I don’t know if you’re playing for sympathy, or you just want to feel special, but this isn’t something to be envious of.”

  Illiam shook his head; his fists clenched and unclenched. “I’m not. I’m not any of those things. I just… please, I really need your help.”

  She rolled her eyes again, then glanced up at the road. “Well… look, you know, maybe I’m just not the right person to ask. Maybe I just don’t know enough. There’s a mage school now, just opened in the last ten years or so. If you’re a mage, they’ll know.”

  His heart lifted. “How do I get there?”

  “Head north. When you get to the plains, you should be able to see the beacon at night. It’s a crescent moon.” She eyed him. “Or better yet, head to the Floating Citadel. I hear they’ve got the wind runners up and running. See if you can convince Eirin to send you.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you so much!” Illiam hopped and resisted the urge to hug her as little spiky icicles were sprouting like claws from her nails. Instead, he took off at a run back up the trail to the main road.

  His parents were just sitting down to breakfast when he burst through the front door of their tiny cottage.

  His father was on his feet with a bread knife in his hand before he realized it was Illiam.

  “Sweet Savior, Illiam,” he said, dropping the bread knife back to the table and clutching his chest. “What is wrong with you?”

  Illiam, his eyes shining, planted his hands on his hips. “Mom, Dad, I’m going to mage school.”

  His parents both stared at him, his mother’s coffee mug raised halfway to her lips.

  She set the mug back down.

  “Illiam, sweetheart.” She paused and exchanged a glance with Illiam’s father. “First of all, happy birthday.”

  “Thank you.” His smile widened.

  “Are you… some kind of mage, then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “I am.”

  His parents exchanged another glance.

  “And, what kind is that, son?”

  This again? What is with everyone? Can’t they tell? Can’t they see?

  “I don’t know. That’s why I need to go to school.”

  His father gave a heavy sigh, sat back down, and started in on his eggs again.

  His mother frowned but turned back to Illiam. “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful that you’re a mage. We… we really can’t lose you, though. We need your help here on the farm. Maybe you could learn on your own for a bit?”

  Illiam groaned. “Mom, haven’t you heard how dangerous mages are? I can’t stay here.”

  “Right, right, of course…” She picked at a loose thread on her napkin.

  His father set his fork down heavily, shot an angry look at his wife, and turned to Illiam.

  “You’re not going. You’re going to stay here, stop making asinine excuses, and do your work. You show one sign of magical ability, and we’ll send you right off. In the meantime, you’re staying.”

  Illiam froze, his eyes locked on his father’s. The certainty, deep within his gut, pulled at him. I know what I am. I know what I have to do.

  “No, father, I’m going.”

  Slowly, his father picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, set it back down, and stood. He was at least a foot taller than sixteen-year-old Illiam, with broad shoulders and heavy hands like bear paws.

  “We are not indulging your idiocy any longer, Illiam. You’re staying. End of discussion.”

  The fire was bigger than Illiam had anticipated. It consumed the house so fast, it didn’t even need the oil-soaked wood and kindling he’d stacked all around it. The dry thatch of the roof especially went up quickly and satisfyingly. The rest of the villagers ran around trying to put it out, but, because the fire had started in the middle of the night, and also because Illiam had waited until it was good and raging to wake them up, their efforts were too late.

  Later, after the funeral, the townspeople left him alone, to grieve at the graves of h
is parents. Illiam sank to his knees, shaking his head, tears running down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and tipped his head to the heavens. His heart ached, and he felt suddenly, deeply, alone in the world, terrified for what was coming. But this was how it always went. The hero’s parents died, and the hero, although deeply saddened, continued on.

  Don’t worry, mom, dad, Illiam thought. I won’t fail. I’m going to make you proud. He dried the tears from his cheeks and stood, pulling his pack onto his back and, with a heavy heart, started up the trail to begin his journey. Leaving his village for the first time in his life.

  8

  Sarai

  The next morning wasn’t quite as painful as the first had been. For one, she awoke to cloudy grey skies, and rain streaking across the windows. Secondly, no one was pounding on her door demanding she get up. She closed her eyes again, stretched, feeling the softness of the sheets against her skin, and considered just staying in bed, something that she had absolutely never considered before.

  You’re supposed to meet Agnes at breakfast.

  This is comfortable.

  You have to keep up your cover.

  Reluctantly, Sarai slipped out of bed, the stone floor icy beneath her bare feet, and pulled on her clothes from the day before. She picked up the mirror from her bedside table, considered checking in, seeing how Jeremy was. He’s probably still asleep. And not alone.

  She put the mirror back face down and began the long process of strapping on all her weapons and backup weapons.

  Outside her room, she followed the sounds of footsteps and chattering voices, up to the dining room. The noise grew louder and louder as she approached. The hall she followed was narrow and empty, but up ahead she could see a large, well-lit passage, with groups of talking, laughing people passing the entrance. Sarai paused a few paces back, her heart skittering slightly.

  I’ll eat something later. She turned to go back, then heard Jeremy’s voice in her head. You’re scared?

  Of course not.

  Then why the sudden change of plans?

  She rolled her eyes, turned back around, and took a deep breath. You are an assassin. You are a powerful, deadly, successful assassin, and if anybody bothers you, you can just kill them later. In the dark. Where no one can see you.

  She took a hesitant step forward. A group of laughing mages passed the entrance to where she stood, and one of them looked down and caught Sarai’s eye. Her head tilted to the side, a confused expression darting across her face. Sarai stepped closer to the wall, where the darkness was thickest, and hunched her shoulders, looking down.

  The girl’s eyes unfocused, slid over her. For a moment she looked dazed, like she was trying to remember something, but then her companion punched her lightly on the shoulder, and she turned away, laughing and punching her playfully back.

  Enough of this. I’m fine. I’m going. I can do this.

  Sarai squared her shoulders and stepped out into the crowd. For a second she stood there, motionless. Some guy bumped into her, cursed, then went around.

  Move. Keep pace.

  Head straight forward, Sarai started walking. There was a group right in front of her. She stayed far enough back so that they wouldn’t notice her. Just pretend you’re trailing them. That worked pretty well. No one cursed at her or bumped into her. She kept her eyes straight ahead, walking stiffly forward.

  She followed the crowd through a high archway into the dining room. And here the noise level rose yet again. Over a hundred people sitting at the long tables or standing in line for food at one side of the room. Sarai quickly scanned the space. No one watching from the shadows. No eyes locked on her.

  “Hey, don’t just stand there,” someone said, shoving her from behind. Her hand was on the hilt of her dagger before she’d thought about it, and she’d started to turn before she caught herself. She slipped to the side, out of the way, and the boy passed.

  You’re only here to kill one person. Now is not the time to draw attention to yourself.

  Everyone seemed to know what was going on, and what they were supposed to do, and to know everyone else. She stood off to one side for several seconds, looking for an empty place.

  I’ll just grab something and go. She moved for the tables at the side, looking for a roll or something else she could easily take with her.

  “Hey! Sarai!” A familiar, bright orange and blue body pushed through the crowd towards her.

  “Hi,” Sarai said when Agnes reached her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you at first,” Agnes said, linking her smooth arm through Sarai’s elbow. “I’ve been looking and looking, but I got distracted. Here, this way.” She guided her towards the side tables, elbowing people out of the way and grabbing Sarai a plate and thrusting it into her hands. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Oh—”

  “Do you like bacon?” She stabbed a few pieces with a fork and transferred them to Sarai’s plate. “Oatmeal?”

  “I—”

  “It’s super good, you have to try it. Fruit too?”

  “What ki—”

  Agnes piled some bright red and orange fruit onto Sarai’s plate before she could answer.

  “We have literally the best of everything here. Kel grows it.”

  The food on Sarai’s plate quickly became a precariously balanced mountain.

  “Tea or coffee?”

  “I—”

  “You know what? You gotta try both.” Agnes grabbed two mugs and poured steaming liquid into both of them. “Cream and sugar’s at the table.” She paused. “Ha. The table. Totally not intentional. That’s like, the worst pun ever here. People will literally punch you in the face if you make that pun. But, you’re new here, so I figure you’re not sick of it yet.”

  Sarai stared down bemusedly at her plate of food as Agnes led her through the crowd to the far end of a shorter table, near the edge of the hall.

  “Everyone, this is Sarai.”

  About fifteen smiling faces looked up at her.

  “Er, hi,” Sarai said, sliding into a seat next to Agnes and looking back down at her plate.

  “She’s new here, not doing magic yet,” Agnes went on. Sarai picked up one of the red pieces of fruit and bit into it, and instantly Agnes’ voice, still explaining who Sarai was and what she was doing there, faded into the background.

  It was like… the feeling of a new knife, perfectly weighted and fit to her hand, but it was also like nothing Sarai had ever experienced. The sweetness almost hurt, and a weird sense of calm and peace came over her. She took a sip of the coffee, hot and steaming and suddenly she felt like she could scale a hundred castle walls in a thunderstorm.

  The bacon was crispy, thin, hot, and perfectly salted. While chewing, she poured fresh cream into both her coffee and her tea, and stared back down at her plate, trying to decide what to eat next.

  Even the oatmeal was fancy, sprinkled with something sweet and spicy at the same time. She poured cream on that, too, and had a bite with it and some of the fruit. Then she just chewed, staring dreamily out into space.

  At some point, she glanced over and caught Agnes looking at her. “Right?” was all Agnes said.

  Sarai nodded and went back to eating. This assignment was getting better and better.

  After breakfast, Agnes deposited her at her first class, Introductory Shadow Management, which was the only mandatory class at the Table. All the new arrivals were taking it. She sat in the back, glared darkly at anyone who made eye contact, and was thankfully left alone.

  9

  Illiam

  There it was. The Floating Citadel. Illiam stood, his back straight, his cloak billowing out behind him in the wind, his fingers grasping his walking stick tightly. The cold wind stung his eyes, squeezing tears out of the corners, which scudded across his cheeks. The mountains around him were hulking silent sentinels, the peaks ringing the castle on its floating lump of rock. The twelve bridges, one for each of the twelve villages, extended out to their various mountain p
aths. The gates would be locked, and only the leaders of the villages had the keys. But Illiam knew that this was his destiny. This was part of the great path that he was on.

  His leg muscles burned and ached from the long climb, but he didn’t worry. He knew this was only the first of a great many challenges. Challenges that would leave him unrecognizable to himself, and to the people who had known him.

  He smiled grimly to himself. He had a destiny, and he was going to fulfill it. Now was the hardest time. The setting out part. The part where he would be the most lost. Until he found his mentor. The person who would show him the way. He knew where that would be. The King’s Table. Finn Vogt. The leader of the mages. The one who planned to reunite the country. There was someone with goals. With vision.

  The shadows stretched longer, the valleys fading from view in the dwindling light as Illiam began his descent, picking his way down a barren ridgeline, making for the main entrance.

  The rope bridge swayed as he crossed it. The wind magic was failing. The Citadel had sunk several feet in the last few years. That was why magic had to return. One of the many reasons.

  He set foot on the stone landing and crossed to the great green door. It was twice as tall as he was and wide enough for a wagon to have passed through it. The black iron hinges shone in the last light of the setting sun. The windows overhead flashed orange and gold. The edifice was crumbling. Here and there the stones had disintegrated. Lichen and moss and ivy covered every surface of the old castle. But it hadn’t lost any of its grandeur. He could still imagine how it had been all those hundreds of years ago, when it was first made by the mages of old. When the world had been new. When humans had been powerful. When the mages had run things.

  Now the citadel was a fading testament to the glory of what had once been, and to the power that remained. Illiam’s heart swelled in his chest. He knew that soon he would be adding to those great works. Whatever type of mage he was, he was going to make something twice as grand, something that lasted thousands of years. Something for new mages to marvel at long after he himself had died and been forgotten. He knew, deep down inside himself, there was something. Something special and powerful and important and it had to be done. And it was going to be done.