Then it ceased.
In the blink of an eye, the power of the stone vanished, taking its second sight with him. Caleb lurched forward, more exhausted than he’d ever felt before. It was as though every drop of strength had been sapped from his body. He had just enough time to catch a few fragmented impressions. The rigger’s shattered body, strewn out on the cabin floor. The stream of ruby that dripped from Tanner’s nose. The tear in Den’s fine shirt. The smell of Palawen, drawing near. The intent gaze of Jayslen Rayderon, awake and watching. The prince offered a single nod before closing his eyes again. Approval?
Caleb would never know. Before he could form another thought, he crumpled into oblivion.
Choices
Tiberius was asleep when he felt the magic of the agiestone flare to life again. It was not so forceful as before. It did not threaten to overwhelm him or obliterate his mind. Somehow, that made it even more terrifying. It was still the agiestone. It had the same feel, the same magical scent, but there was something else there. Something strangely unfamiliar.
Tiberius threw back his heavy blankets and stumbled from his bed. His hands grasped for the support of his staff. For several seconds he stood in place, breathing and trembling and listening to the distant tremble of magic, trying to pinpoint its location.
All too soon, it was gone.
“Curses.” He knew the stone was somewhere in the east, far from Taralius. That was all he'd been able to ascertain through the brief contact. “Jayslen, you damned fool, what are you up to?”
He was desperate for an answer, but there was no sense wishing for that which could not be.
He considered returning to his bed, but his heart was beating far too quickly. It would take him some time to calm down, and he had no desire to lie sleepless in bed. He pulled on his night robe and made his way from his small sleeping chamber, through the parlour to the small pantry near the back of the apartment. He found a glass, poured himself a splash of rosewine and a few select herbs to calm his nerves. The foul mixture went down in a single swallow. Shuffling to the parlour, he found his favourite chair and sank into its familiar embrace.
The magic felt different. Why? When he’d first been introduced to the stone’s power and learned its signature, it had been wielded by Torshen Rayderon. The only time that signature had ever changed had been when the talisman was passed to Jayslen. Even then, the difference had been minor, like an old lyre in the hand of a new bard. The notes were the same, just plucked with a slightly different rhythm. This change was different and more extensive. It was as though the agiestone were singing an entirely different song.
What does it mean? Tiberius reached for his connection to the talisman and found it missing. Panic struck. He shook his head and tried again. Nothing. The persistent tickle was gone.
No. Blessed Nine, no.
He’d lost his connection to the stone only once before. After it had been passed to Jayslen, it had taken Tiberius the better part of a year to slowly and subtly re-establish that connection. If it had vanished again…
Someone else has the agiestone.
The implications were more than frightening. Who holds the stone now? Do they know what it is? Do they know how to use it? Is that what woke me?
The old sage shuddered. Suddenly, the fear of the Hearthborn burning out seemed a small concern. Even the thought of someone attempting to steal the sword from beneath Milos' Chapel paled in comparison to the possibility of an unknown party wielding the agiestone. If they learn to use it…
The Nine help us all.
Jayslen Rayderon died in the quiet hours just before dawn. He went quietly, almost peacefully, despite the ruin that was his body. Palawen was there when it happened, seated on a chair in the shattered cabin of Zephyr’s Song. She had positioned herself between the prince and a still-slumbering Caleb, so she heard when he took his final breath, deep and calm. Then he was gone, borne away by the Last Wind, beyond the Morning Gate and into the Afterlands. Palawen cared little for the games of queens and princes, but even she sensed the import of the moment. There was a palpable sense of loss, as though the world was a darker place for the prince’s passing.
And maybe it is. It wasn’t her place to judge the man who had called himself Shem. She’d hardly known him, but it seemed to her that he’d been fighting for something. Something he believed in. Something that was important, at least in his own mind. He’d struggled for it, and died for it. Was it worth it?
She wasn’t sure.
Seems I’m unsure about a lot of things. She glanced at Caleb, sleeping as soundly. He would be disappointed that he was not awake when Jayslen passed—of that much she was sure. For her part, Palawen was just grateful Caleb was alive. There had been too much death already.
Her mind flashed back to the moment he’d collapsed. Her heart had turned to ice, and her breath had caught like a stone in her throat. She'd been convinced he was dead. She didn't think she'd ever felt as relieved as when she reached his side and found him breathing strong and steady.
And why is that? It was the question that was bothering her. Why was she seated at his side, flying in a wind rider over the rocky wilderness of Barden? Every mile took her further and further from home, away from her father and everything she knew. Yes, she was a drifter. Wandering was a part of the life she’d carved out for herself, but she’d never ventured further north than the Eastweald—and there were still many miles to go before they reached the village of Timberford.
Palawen had never heard of the place. From what Tanner had told her, it was little more than a sleepy logging community, unremarkable in nearly every way except for the forests that surrounded it. Like the Eastweald and the Aspenrun, Jadenwood was one of the world’s great woods—an ancient forest with growth that still trembled with echoes of Old Magic. Why were they bound for such a place? It was home to Caleb’s sister, but Palawen found it difficult to believe that could be the entire reason.
The prince had been adamant about travelling there himself. Then, when it was clear he was dying, he’d lain the burden on Caleb. Palawen wanted to know why. It was more than a matter of reuniting a brother and sister. She knew enough of the hierocracy to realize that they seldom took any interest in the affairs of the common people. She couldn’t make herself believe that a prince could be much different—even a prince who masqueraded as a drifter.
There’s more to this. We just don’t know what it is. Palawen had a natural distrust of the unknown, now more than ever. The last mystery she'd chased had seen her trek hundreds of miles through dense forest, only to nearly die at the hands of a dark magic unlike anything she'd ever encountered. And, as unlikely as it seemed, Caleb had probably saved her life. She owed him something for that. It seemed an unfair trade to let him walk alone into a similar disaster. Tanner would be with him, but she worried about the mercenary, who had somehow managed to find Den's store of Jushyn fire rum and retreated to a dark corner of the vessel's hull to numb his wounds.
Then there was the matter of the stone.
She glanced at Caleb’s wrist. Somehow, over the course of the battle, the thing had fused itself into his flesh—a single globe framed by a pair of offshoots that snaked along both sides of his forearm like a pair of outstretched wings. Jayslen had worn the talisman as an bracelet, bound to him in its way, but also separate. For Caleb, the connection seemed more complete. More intimate and personal.
What does it mean? It’s a form of Old Magic, and no mere trinket or charm. That much had been clear the moment Jayslen summoned its power to burn away the demon’s body. Palawen knew little beyond that. She was familiar with Iria magics—especially the elemental magics like her own—but the Old Magic was a different matter altogether. It was strange and wild, a force that had never been tamed by any human or Iria. Only the Aln had ever shown mastery over it. But they vanished from the world centuries ago. I might not know much, but the little I do know is probably more than Caleb. Or Tanner. Or anyone they’re likely to find in this
logging village. Without me, he’s all alone. Like I was before Savan found us and adopted me as his own.
And just like that, she made her choice. Somehow, the agiestone had bound itself to Caleb. It was another mystery for which she had no answers. But she was determined to change that. Home and her father could wait, at least for a little while longer. For now, she would make the journey to Timberford.
With the matter settled, she reached out and took Caleb’s hand as he slept, giving it a gentle squeeze. Then she rose, leaving him to his slumber. She left the cabin in search of Tanner, to inform him of the prince’s passing.
The sun was setting as Caleb watched plumes of brownish smoke billow upward, forming a westward trail that dispersed over the wild and untamed valley. They were deep in the heart of Baden’s stony wilderness, miles from any known settlement. Zephyr’s Song was roosted a quarter-mile to the south, where its remaining crew were already working at repairing the ruined cabin. Caleb was tired, but otherwise unharmed. He’d wrapped a wide strip of leather around his right arm and was doing his best to ignore what was hidden there.
One thing at a time.
The smoke was rising from three flaming pyres, each marking the passing of another life. The first was the rigger, Wayl, whose misfortune it had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bitten by a bloodfly that carried the corruption of the Faceless, he had become its unwilling host. Caleb shuddered at the memory of the man’s snarling face and ebony eyes—and at the memory of his mangled and ruined body. May the Mother comfort his soul.
The second pyre was built for Tamara Rusk. True to his word, Den’s crew had prepared the body, anointing it with spiced oils and painting the last markings of the Nine down her arms. Now she was little more than a shadow among the flames, a wraith that haunted him with a thousand memories. Some were pleasant, others less so. All brought the raw reality of her absence to his mind. Through everything he’d experienced, his mother had been the one constant in his life. She’d been there through the loss of his father, the slow crippling of his leg and the melding with Azental. She’d comforted him when Anya had left to start her new life with Carvesh, and rejoiced with him when Arn Ail had offered him a job at the wind yards.
Now she was gone.
Reduced to ash and memory.
May the Guardian protect your spirit, Mother, he thought. Find Father in the Afterlands. I hope you can be happy together. He clenched his jaw in frustration as he wiped a single rogue tear from his cheek. I swore I wouldn’t cry.
The third pyre was larger than the others, burning brighter and hotter, as befitted the remains of Jayslen Rayderon. The Ember Prince, masquerading as a drifter. It sounded like something out of one of the grand romances. The reality was much grimmer. Caleb didn’t understand the full implications of the prince’s death, but he knew enough. There would be trouble. The Queen had birthed three children. The youngest son was in exile, sent across the Yeartide because the Flame had rejected him. The daughter was said to be a madwoman, locked away in a tower and rarely seen by anyone. As the eldest son, Jayslen had been heir by right of birth. He’d also been the only viable option.
And now he was dead.
Does anyone in Taralius know? He supposed it hardly mattered. When Jayslen failed to return, they would eventually be forced to assume his death, just as they’d done with Caleb’s father. He didn’t want to think about what would happen then.
He didn’t want to think at all. It was all too painful.
With a deep breath, he banished all thoughts of princes and heirs. He even pushed away thoughts of his mother, though that proved more difficult. To distract himself, he focused his attention on the rising smoke, watching as it shifted from greyish brown to sooty black. It twisted and churned, creating elaborate patterns that danced to hypnotic effect. Slowly, the patterns took on recognizable shapes, becoming as living images. He saw a woman wrestling a bear and a mountain of a man hefting a great spear. He saw an archer with arrows that would not miss and a farmer reaping with his mighty scythe. Amid these images, Caleb saw another begin to form, set apart from the others. It was the figure of a man, carrying a sword in one hand. His face was all hard planes and angles, framing familiar eyes that seemed fixed on Caleb.
Jayslen.
After a long moment, the figure in the smoke raised one hand and offered a solemn two-fingered salute over his heart. He turned and joined the others. They were all watching him now, opening their arms as though to welcome him as one of their own. Then they were gone, and Caleb found himself blinking as if the distant smoke had somehow reached down to sting his eyes. There was a warmth beneath the covering on his wrist. He refused to acknowledge it.
You can’t ignore it forever, Azental told him.
No, but now is not the time.
But—
Not now! His mood darkened, coloured by anger and frustration. He couldn’t understand why the magic had responded to him. All he’d wanted to do was stop the Faceless from killing anyone else. Now the agiestone was bound to him, violating his flesh, but he had no sense of what it was, or why the prince had entrusted it to him. To give to Carvesh. That’s not going to be easy now, not unless they cut it from my arm. Then I’d be twice the cripple, just like Kharl said.
“It’s getting dark.”
He turned to find Palawen standing beside him.
She placed one hand on his shoulder. “You should get some rest. You still look exhausted, and Den says he’ll need your help to get the rider into the air tomorrow.”
Caleb’s mind was still a storm of troubled thoughts, but her presence offered some small relief. He nodded as she led him back toward Zephyr’s Song.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to come,” he said. “At least as far as Timberford.”
She smiled, so calm and self-assured. “We’ll get you there safely.”
And then what? The life he had known was gone. His mother, his home and his employment, all torn away in the course of a few short hours. What’s left for me? He knew the first step toward answering those questions lay in Timberford, with his sister and her husband. He would rest there, in the calm predictability of ranch life. For a time, he would have a much-needed peace.
The Last Sliver
The last sliver of a shadow trembled. It rested between two ragged boulders, raging with fury and agony and the terror of its own imminent end. Not so long ago it had been a being of power, a force that preyed upon the mortal ones, turning their flesh to its own purposes. Now it was broken, shattered by the very magic it had sought to secure. That magic, wielded by a crippled, mortal boy, had rent the shadow asunder. Its power was gone, reduced to nothing but an ineffectual fragment of itself. Weak and broken. There was nothing left for it but to wait as the last lingering vestiges of its power faded away. To wait for oblivion.
The very thought was galling.
This was so close.
Time passed. An old, greying squirrel came skittering by. A spark of hope flared in the sliver. It forced itself to remain as still as a predator lying in wait. When the creature drew close enough, the sliver of shadow reached out to grasp at the animal and consume its flesh. The squirrel paused, glancing around in confusion before bounding away, leaving the sliver of shadow behind, alone and unnoticed.
The sunset and the moon rose, tracing its arc among the stars. More animals passed by, but the sliver remained powerless to act. Soon, it was little more than a shadow of a shadow, a whisper of a memory, clinging to existence by the merest thread of power.
It was nearly gone by the time the larger shadow descended. It came on a cold wind, as dark and terrible as the sliver had once thought of itself. It was another form of darkness, but no less potent.
You have failed, said the darkness.
Yes.
Yet the human prince is dead. His flesh is turned to ash, blowing on the winds.
Then all was not in vain, said the sliver.
Perhaps not.
The stone is in the h
ands of a human boy.
We have seen him, replied the darkness. He is of no consequence. He will be dealt with when the time comes.
Do not underestimate him. It was the boy who used the stone’s power, reducing this to this present state. A most dangerous human.
The darkness sneered and split itself in two. Perhaps to a mere shape-stealer. To us, he’ll prove no problem when the time comes. For now, there are other matters to attend to.
The winds blew, lifting up the sliver of shadow. They twisted around, sending it tumbling through the air. Images were wrenched from the failing remnants of its memory, filling it with something akin to pain. At the same time, the dark winds began kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt. Gradually, the cloud pulled together, taking the vague shape of a man. It grew arms and legs, followed by hands and feet. The details of the face came next: hard eyes, a prominent nose. Hair sprouted into a thick beard. Finally, the last vestiges of dust formed into a covering of rich clothing.
When it was complete, the sliver rested in the hand of a man who resembled the dead prince in every way. A part of itself still lingered about its shoulders like a cloak cut from the night. The simulacrum smiled. It was a cruel, self-satisfied expression—the sort of expression the sliver had once enjoyed.
“Foolish little shadow,” said the false-prince. Even its voice was a perfect imitation. “You believed you were the first of us to break free. Such hubris. You are nothing. Another has been free for years, preparing the way for the Golden One. We go to join him. But as for you…” He looked down with cold, grey eyes. “Your time is spent.” The hand closed into a fist.
The last sliver of shadow trembled. And then it was no more.
The First of Shadows Page 14
