The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

Avendor recognized an evasion when he heard it. The sage was wise—a well of arcane knowledge that Avendor could not even begin to fathom—but he was only a fair liar. The signs were subtle. A slight shifting in his seat. Too much scratching at his unwhiskered chin.

  Avendor exchanged a meaningful glance with Sherl. Her frown indicated that she'd come to the same conclusion. He shook his head. The old man has no reason to trust us. Let’s establish a working relationship. If he’s still holding onto his secrets, we can dig them up later.

  “So what you’re suggesting,” said Avendor, “is that we investigate whether or not the smith, Fendor Tam, was Flameborn?”

  Tiberius nodded. “It’s a place to start. If we can establish some form of commonality—”

  He was interrupted by a firm rapping at the door. The sage groaned, moving to rise from his seat. Avendor was on his feet first, placing a restraining hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  Tiberius sighed gratefully, sinking back into his chair.

  Avendor left the parlour and made his way through the dark apartment toward the door. He opened it to find Colyn Lanarton waiting on the other side. The young guard bore a troubled expression.

  “Sir,” he said with another sharp salute. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I bring news from Abbot Fayle of the physickers. About that strange… thing we found in Ramsey's shop.” He made a sour face, and Avendor prepared himself for the worst. “They took a look at it, as you requested. A very thorough look, from what I understand. Apparently, it was a man. Or used to be. I know, it sounds impossible, but when they cut into it…” Colyn nearly choked on his own words. His face was turning a sickly colour of green. “They found the rest of him, buried in all that flesh. Organs, skeleton. All of it.”

  Avendor grimaced. “Was he dead?”

  “When we found it… or him? The Abbot suspects so. Suffocated by its own overgrown flesh.”

  “By the Nine, that’s gruesome. Could they identify him?”

  “No. But they suspect he was a client of Ramsey’s. Abbot Fayle said you could stop by any time to talk with him. What does that sort of thing, sir? Nearly turns my gut just thinking about it.”

  “I don’t know, Colyn, but I appreciate the report. Take the rest of the day off. You look a little green.”

  “Thank you, sir. There’s just one more thing.” He reached into the immaculate black and red jacket of his uniform and withdrew a single piece of folded parchment. It was carefully sealed with a small dab of scarlet wax and the seal of the Ember Guard. “From Sir Edimus.”

  “Already? This’ll be the names of the men he’s commandeering from the Second, I’m sure. Is something wrong?”

  Colyn’s expression had shifted from disgusted to anxious.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, as if that somehow revealed his thoughts.

  “Whatever for?”

  “My name is on that list.”

  “How would you…” It was only as Avendor examined the parchment again that he noticed the slight nick where the wax had been carefully cut away and later resealed. “You read it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I know I shouldn’t have. Curiosity got the best of me. I’ll submit to any punishment…”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  Colyn could answer only with a look of dumbfounded confusion. “Manage what, sir?”

  “Cut the seal like that? That was deftly done. I mightn’t have noticed if you hadn’t alerted me to it.”

  “I…” Colyn stammered, but words failed him, and his response died on his tongue. He cast his gaze to the floor, as though studying the single patch of dirt on his otherwise pristine black boots.

  “Never mind. We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “I don’t want to change companies.”

  Avendor offered the sincerest smile he could manage. “I appreciate that. I truly do.” Sherl was right. Here’s a good man. The kind of man I need more of. “If it were up to me, you'd stick with us, but if I know the captain, this is likely up for discussion. It's his right to pick the men he wants. Consider it an honour.”

  “Yes, sir.” Colyn was able to mask the disappointment from his face, but the undertones of his voice were as clear as the cathedral bells.

  “Listen, I’ll see what I can do. For now, go home and get some rest.”

  The young guard nodded and saluted again before taking his leave.

  Avendor closed the door and made his way back to the parlour, where he found Sherl and Tiberius still in the midst of conversation. The magister wore an expression very nearly as sour as Colyn’s had been.

  “Welcome back, Corporal,” said Tiberius, sipping at his chai. “Your associate seemed quite troubled.”

  “You heard?”

  The sage raised one finger to his ear. “I may be blind, but the Nine were merciful enough to bless my hearing. I’ve lost little of it with age.”

  “A useful skill,” said Avendor. And something to keep in mind.

  Half a smile touched Tiberius' lips. “Perhaps. The magister and I were just discussing some interesting positions on the nature of the Old Magic. Tell me, Corporal, what do you believe?”

  “That it belongs to the Aln and is no business of ours.”

  “Only a partial truth, I think. It may be more accurate to say that the Aln were once the guardians of the Old Magic. But though the Ancient Ones have not been seen in this world since before the Annihilation, the Old Magic remains. It’s rarely noticed by us, but it’s there.”

  “But we can’t use it,” said Sherl. “No human can.”

  “Not in the way that the Hearthborn use the Flame, or in the way that the magi employ their melding magics. There are talismans, however, that have endured through the long years since the disappearance of the Aln—talismans that can be wielded by humans. Most are little more than minor charms, or trinkets that grant small enchantments, but there are others of a more powerful nature. Surely you’ve heard the legend of Caliborn?”

  “The Devil’s Fang.” Sherl’s words dripped with scorn.

  “A misnomer, but perhaps not wholly inaccurate. The origins of the sword are shrouded in mystery. Many among the Karinth believe it to be a weapon of living stone, forged by the Graven One himself. And of course, many in the Sanctum claim it is a demonic blade of concentrated Miasma. Both views strike me as historically biased. I'm more inclined to believe that it's a talisman of the Old Magic. But, whatever its origins, what history does tell us is that when Talon Hinde wielded it during the Sansheen Invasion, it granted him the power to cut through the evocations of the Hearthborn.”

  Sherl grimaced. “It was an affront to the Nine. Destroyed by the Sanctum after Hinde was captured and executed.”

  The sage didn’t seem convinced, but he made no argument. “The point is that I believe we have a precedence of Old Magic directly affecting the evocations of the Hearthborn. What’s to say there is not something that could have a similar effect on the Soulblaze? Perhaps something hereto undiscovered?”

  Avendor grumbled. “It seems we’re left with more questions than answers.”

  “Such is the path to all knowledge,” said Tiberius. “Every puzzle is solved by sifting through the pieces—finding those that belong and discarding the rest.”

  “Well, we may have another piece.” Avendor recounted the information Colyn had delivered from the Abbott Fayle.

  “That thing was a person?” asked Sherl.

  “It used to be, anyhow.”

  “Interesting.” The old man scratched at his chin again. “Horrifying, of course, but interesting. There’s surely a connection. Does this person have a name?”

  “Not that we know.”

  “Well, perhaps—gahhhhh!”

  Tiberius’ words died on his lips, strangled by his sudden, shrill cry. The sage snapped to his feet with the speed of a man half his age. An instant later, he crumple
d, unconscious, into Avendor’s arms.

  The shock hit fast and hard, crashing over Tiberius with all the force of a mountain wave. One moment he had been conversing with Corporal Avendor and the magister; the next he found himself plunged into the depths of his own nightmare. Water surrounded him, churning and splashing as he beat his arms against the waves, desperate to stay afloat. Again and again, he was driven beneath the surface. Again and again, he forced himself upward, sucking down gulps of precious air. Every time he sank, he was pulled deeper and deeper until the surface eluded him entirely.

  Oh, Teacher. Not again. Not now.

  It’s not real, he told himself. It’s just a dream. His lungs were unconvinced. They burned as he held his breath—held and held, waiting for the hand to grasp at the fabric of his garments and haul him from the waters of the Kharnine, just as it had all those years ago. No! That was real once, but not now. This is just a dream.

  Finally, when he couldn't withstand the pressure any longer, his mouth opened. Water rushed in. Or something like water. It sloshed down his throat, spreading through his body in a gush of agony.

  He screamed a silent scream.

  Then all was still, and he felt suspended in a void of nothingness. A litany of emotions rushed through him. Shock. Fear. Anguish. Failure. Anger came last, strongest of all. Anger like a burning brand—hot and searing as it pressed through his being. He heard a voice, so distant it was barely perceptible; so close it was like a whisper tickling at his ear. The words it spoke were strange and indecipherable.

  Words of Old Magic.

  It was a magic that called to him, a magic he knew—and that knew him.

  Its power was immense. Like a vast furnace, burning with raw, arcane energy. It was more intense than anything he'd ever encountered. Greater than the Seal of Yaren or even magic of the agiestone… No! It is the agiestone. Jayslen! He’s using it!

  Tiberius couldn’t make sense of it. He’d studied the talisman over thirty years and even managed to establish a tenuous connection to its magic. Yet he’d never felt anything like this. The pulse was as unmistakable as a familiar spring breeze—only now it was more of a thundering gale that was calling his name.

  Tiberius, it seemed to cry. Wake up!

  Wake up? Wake up from what? He was nothing. Nothing at all. He was in the void. He was the void.

  “Tiberius! Damnit, man, breathe!”

  He awoke with a start, gasping and sputtering. Someone was holding him. Someone who smelled of iron and pine and chai. Tiberius thrashed, but the arms around him were as firm and strong as iron.

  “Ashes and embers,” said a voice, even and familiar but laced with fear. “Pull yourself together.”

  “He’s having a fit,” said another voice. A woman. Stern and serious.

  A name flashed through his mind, but it was gone before he could grasp it.

  “I think he’ll be fine,” said the first voice. “His breathing’s steadying already. Your Wisdom? It’s Avendor.”

  The corporal?

  “Can you hear me?”

  Tiberius raised one hand in acknowledgement. “What happened?” Fragments of conversation flittered around the edges of his memory. He remembered the name Ramsey. Darlan. Died of a burnout. Why?

  “You screamed and fell. I caught you, and you went still as a stone for a minute. I’d have thought you dead if it weren’t for your breathing.”

  “My thanks,” Tiberius wheezed. “You likely saved me a bruised head. Or a broken hip.”

  “Now let me ask the same question: what happened?”

  Tiberius hesitated, feigning a confusion deeper than he felt. He’d known the corporal for less than a day, and while the man seemed a reliable sort, there was still too little in the way of meaningful trust. It would be foolish to share too much, but he had to provide some sort of explanation. A half-truth, then.

  “My studies of the arcane arts have allowed me to develop a certain sensitivity. It seems that I was overwhelmed by an unexpected rush of magical power.”

  "Another burnout?"

  The Nine forbid. “I think not,” said the sage. But he feared it. Already, dread was gnawing at his gut like an ulcer. “I apologize, Corporal. I suddenly find myself quite fatigued.” That much was true. He felt as though he could sleep for a week. “Could we perhaps continue our conversation tomorrow?”

  “Just as well, I think. We’re not getting much of anywhere right now.”

  “Shall I send a carriage by to pick you up after noon tomorrow?” asked Sherl.

  Tiberius nodded. “At the Sanctum, if you please. I do have my regular studies to attend to.

  “As you wish.”

  Tiberius walked them to the door, despite the corporal’s protests, and bid them the blessing of the Nine. He listened to their footsteps retreat down the corridor before he threw the latch and returned to the parlour. He shuffled to one of his shelves and examined the rows of books. His fingers traced the embossed spines until he found the volume he was seeking. He carried it to his chair, where he found that the remainder of his chai had cooled. He drank it anyhow, savouring the comfort of its sweetness. When he’d drained the last drop, he set the cup aside and turned his attention to the book. After a quick examination of the detailed index, he thumbed to the passage he was looking for.

  It was a brief essay, authored by the historian, Ceptas. Tiberius had always admired the man's work, in spite of his blatant arrogance and love of archaic language. His understanding of arcane relationships was remarkable, and a number of his theories had greatly influenced Tiberius' own thinking. This particular essay focused on Caliborn, opening with a brief outline of the myths surrounding its creation before delving deeper into the recorded history of Talon Hinde's invasion into what had then been known merely as Relenia.

  Tiberius' fingers danced nimbly across the pages as he sought even the most obtuse reference to the nature of the sword's magic, but while the words registered in his mind, he found it impossible to focus. The impressions of his vision lingered too heavily, shadowing his every thought.

  The agiestone.

  Like Caliborn, it was a talisman of the Old Magic, though wholly different in its nature. Where Caliborn was said to tear evocations apart, the agiestone was capable of amplifying their effect. It had been passed down the line of House Rayderon for generations. The old King Lachlan had been carrying the stone when Tiberius had first come to Taralius, under the pretense of becoming a tutor to the King's sons. In reality, he'd come at the behest of the League, to watch over and study one of the talismans they'd never been able to secure.

  The Oaken King had rarely given the talisman much thought, relying far too much on the Seal of Yaren. That was his undoing. Tiberius shuddered at the memory of those tumultuous days. When Torshen had abdicated in favour of his younger brother, the agiestone was expected to pass to Merek. Instead, the newly crowned King had given the stone into the care of his elder brother, as a symbol of their unity. It had been a bold move, but an effective one. Torshen had carried the agiestone until his own untimely death. Then it had passed to Jayslen.

  Fortunately, the Rayderons had always remained ignorant of what the League suspected about the agiestone. Now, Tiberius feared that ignorance had come to an end. It was the only explanation he could think of for the sudden rush of power he’d felt. If Jayslen truly has discovered the inherent power of that damned stone…

  Tiberius set the book aside. I’m not getting anywhere with it, anyhow. He leaned back in his chair, shifting until he found the position that was the least offensive to his many aches and pains. Taking a deep breath, he counted down from ten, then back up again. Then he did the same for nine. Then eight. Seven. Six. Five…

  By the time he reached one, his mind was calm and tranquil, purged of rogue thoughts and distracting worry. He gradually built upon this meditative state, fortifying it like a citadel around his consciousness before slowly opening himself up and scrying for the signature of agiestone’s magic. It was a
n ancient technique that pre-dated the Everburning. He’d learned it long ago, from a mentor of the League who’d long since flown beyond the Morning Gate.

  In his scrying, Tiberius ignored both the countless traces of the Hearthborn that he felt within the city and the less frequent hints of Karinth melding magic. He even ignored the faint but troubling whisper of Miasma. Instead, he pushed his awareness beyond Taralius and the immediate vicinity. He reached past the city walls and across the Kharnine in every direction, seeking and listening for the familiar pulse of the agiestone. He could feel his connection to it, tickling at the fringes of his mind, but could sense no trace of the stone itself.

  He pressed further, but with every mile he added to his scrying, the strain of it seemed to redouble. Just a little further. Another mile. Another half-mile. He pushed and pushed until the walls of his focus began to crumble. It started slowly, like a single pebble coming loose from a wall. Within moments, it had all come tumbling down.

  He came back to himself in a rush. The first thing he noticed was the heat. A trickle of sweat tickled at his brow. A single drop reached his unseeing eye, stinging with its salt. His breathing was laboured. Not dangerously so, but enough that his lungs felt as though they were filled with scalding steam. Too much. I’ll be a wreck tomorrow, and with nothing to show for it.

  He’d found nothing. Not even a whisper of the agiestone within a hundred miles of Taralius. Which begs the question: how was I able to feel it before?

  He considered the problem carefully, coming to only a single likely conclusion—that the prince had been further away than Tiberius’ scrying could hope to reach. But that can only mean that the surge I did feel was greater than anything he’s ever managed before. More than I would have even thought possible from him. Blessed Mother, Jayslen, where are you?

  And what have you done?

  Heart and Stone

  It was a moment frozen in time. Tamara Rusk withered, sinking to her knees and gazing curiously at the knife in her breast. She blinked away the rainwater, as though not quite able to comprehend what she was seeing. Her hands came up, clutching weakly at the hilt. The torrent of the storm carried away much of the blood, causing it to collect around her knees in rosy pools. While her hair was twisted and knotted, it still seemed to fall like stands of gold around her shoulders. The image of it all branded itself in Caleb's mind, searing every terrible detail into his memory.