“Come with me, Ciardis Weathervane,” she said. “It’s time someone told you the truth.”
With a backwards glance as she followed the duchess, Ciardis caught sight of Prince Sebastian as he was preparing to leave. She’d have to catch him up on the events pertaining to the Duke of Cinnis another day.
Chapter 8
Miles away on the road to the home of the kith, the Weather Mage was riding at a breakneck pace on a stallion built for long distances. Beside him, astride a horse of similar merit, rode the person the Weather Mage internally referred to as “the Shadow Mage.” Externally whenever he addressed the mage, he called him “Master.” He did it reluctantly. But he had learned swiftly in the few days they’d been together that the man would tolerate nothing less than absolute subservience.
The Weather Mage was a man of pride as most mages were. The Shadow Mage had entrapped his mind with his magic and could control his actions with just a surge of his magic. It was humiliating and frustrating - rankling his pride like a dog with too many fleas. He constantly itched to throw off the yoke that hobbled him and had finally sought to revolt against the Shadow Mage one night. It had not gone well. As punishment the Shadow Mage had his dark, ink-like creatures carve into the skin of the Weather Mage’s back with claws made of shadows. They left his flesh torn and in bloody ruins, causing rivulets of blood to run down and his poor back to feel like it was on fire. After that he’d never talked back—not aloud. He couldn’t help his thoughts, and he suspected the Shadow Mage could hear them. But he never responded to them.
They rode at a hard pace toward the only destination that this road led directly to: the Forest of Ameles. With a shudder the Weather Mage thought of what lay there: inhuman creatures with the powers of mages, creatures that could talk and were sentient. It made him ill to think about it. He had no hope of escaping once there. The creatures would eat him alive if he left the Shadow Mage’s side; after all, every mage knew the number one rule when entering the Forest of Ameles. Safety in numbers.
Sighing, he bit his lip and hoped he could escape before the shadows inside of him erupted again. They were always there. A dark presence that invaded his magic and his mind. Occasionally the Shadow Mage would call upon the shadows to overtake his mind. Once he’d even ordered him asleep when he’d been preparing a spell. He had begged the man not to. When he slept, he was surrounded by the darkness of the shadows in his dreams. He did his best to stay awake at all times now, which was why his eyes still looked bloodshot and his appearance unkempt. Aside from the ungodly hours the Shadow Mage kept, the Weather Mage was afraid—he was afraid to fall asleep, fearing his dreams and fearing what he’d wake up to.
When they were twenty miles from the forest, the Shadow Mage pulled their horses to a stop at a fork in the road. The straight path would get them to the forest in less than a day. The branch off the road led somewhere else. Practically trembling with exhaustion, the Weather Mage lifted his head, pushing back dank hair from his forehead to read the sign on the road ahead. Carved into wood with an arrow pointing east were the words, “Borden Village – ten miles.”
The Shadow Mage threw back the hood that shrouded his face from view. He turned to the Weather Mage with cold glee in his eyes. “It’s time to go home, Marcus.” Those whispered words sent dread down the Weather Mage’s spine.
The Weather Mage licked his dried and cracked lips while apprehension filled him.
“To the Ameles Forest?” he choked out from a parched throat. They’d been riding for hours, and before that the Shadow Mage had kept him locked in a cellar with little substanance.
The Shadow Mage looked to the forest with an odd smile on this face.
“Things have already been set in motion there. Tonight we go to Borden.”
*****
Hours later they reached the village of Borden and dusk had already fallen. The village looked like an ordinary one, with fewer than five hundred souls judging by the number of homes he could see. As children scampered under their horses and mothers shooed them home with admonishments, the Weather Mage felt like shouting, “Go! Run, save your families!” But he knew if he did anything of the sort, he would be worse off in the end. He wouldn’t have minded so much if the Shadow Mage killed him in retribution. But in the time spent with the silent, shrouded figure, he had realized that this wasn’t that type of man. A person who would make it a clean death. The Shadow Mage would torture the Weather Mage first and do it without a shred of regret.
And then the big butcher, his homespun apron of patches and canvas splotched with blood, spotted them. Heaving a big cleaver back to rest on his shoulder, he came out of his small, fly-covered shop.
“Well, I’ll be,” shouted the big butcher. “It’s you. Timmoris! You little scamp. Where ya been?”
Confused, the Weather Mage looked around. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the butcher was referring to the Shadow Mage in such a congenial manner. As he stared, the Weather Mage noted with apprehension that the shadows on the underside of the buildings, in the shade of trees, and even behind people were moving independently. But none of the villagers seem to notice. Or if they did, they were attributing it to the clouds moving swiftly overhead.
The Weather Mage got down from his horse with a brittle smile.
The butcher let out a robust laugh as he slapped the Shadow Mage on the shoulder, “I knew you’d be back. Couldn’t stray too far from home. Not like your brother, the adventurer. No, not you.”
The man was practically crowing. The Weather Mage realized, in disbelief, that he was mocking the Shadow Mage.
“It’s certainly a pleasure to be back,” said the Shadow Mage quietly.
The only sign that he was upset was the moving shadows that had yet to distance themselves too far from their normal habitats and his glittering eyes.
“Well,” said the butcher, perhaps realizing he’d gone too far, “your home is gone. We razed it to plant land for the cattlefeed.”
Or perhaps not. The Shadow Mage’s hand gripped into a tight fist that was noticeable to all passing. A woman stepped forward. “Now, now, Glendon. You know this was neither the time nor the place to say all that.”
“He was bound to find out, trying to find a place to lay his head,” protested the butcher.
She rolled her eyes and snapped her rag at him. “Off with you.”
Putting a motherly hand on Timmoris’s shoulder, she said, “Timmoris, you and your friend can sleep at my inn tonight. We can talk about the land in the morning.”
“Of course,” said the Shadow Mage in an even tone.
Soon enough, two boys ran up to take their horses and they were installed in a small room with two cots, a basin with hot water, and a large tray filled with soup and bread. The Weather Mage watched the Shadow Mage carefully as he paced around the room. He was waiting for the explosion of darkness and wrath. Eventually he took the offered food and washed up after it was clear that the Shadow Mage wouldn’t speak.
The Shadow Mage turned back to him from where he was contemplating the dirt on the floor with a distasteful expression. “You should see your face. The fear, the trepidation. It’s there like lines written into your skin.”
The Weather Mage said nothing. What was there to say?
“You know,” the Shadow Mage said, considering, “they’ve always treated me this way. Even when my brother was here—especially when my brother was here. As something to pity.”
Then he smiled in satisfaction. “Well, no more.”