“It is time to choose,” Procel said loudly.
Wynn then wept, with sadness more deep than she had ever thought she could feel. The room was so vast and yet it choked her, the smell of death and fear lingered in her nostrils. Her skin tingled with dread. She looked at the travellers who had risked their lives by following her, who followed her on the notion that she was prophesised, the Foreseen. Where were her powers now? She couldn’t save them anymore than she could harm Procel. Her magic swarmed through her veins but she had no idea how to access it. It was like being strong enough to break down a door but not knowing how to lift your arms. It is one or all thought Wynn solemnly, and I cannot have the deaths of them all on my conscience.
Her mind raced through the options. She could not kill Braelyn, could not and would not. Braelyn was a sister to her in all but blood. She moved onto Griffin, standing so proudly. She could sense his fear, as keenly as the others, but saw he refused for it to be shown. Arabella locked eyes with Wynn, portraying she accepted it if Wynn chose her, Wynn sensed the unspoken friendship they shared, and knew she could not choose her either.
Procel turned his cloaked head to Wynn, “Now.”
Wynn could not help the tremors that wracked her frame and she held onto the ground to steady herself. Her brain would not work, would not think fast enough and Procel was raising his hand and indicating something. With almost comical slowness – to Wynn anyway – the shadow soldier holding his sword to Theodore’s neck sliced it cleanly across his throat. Theodore did not have time to fear for his life, it was over so quickly, he gurgled something illegible, his body convulsing as pints of blood poured from the wound and down his clothes. Wynn opened her mouth to scream but it died in her throat. Time seemed to slow, and with that slowness Wynn felt each and every one of the traveller’s grief and shock as they watched little Theodore’s lifeless body crumble to the ground, blood still gushing like a waterfall.
The musty air seemed to crush them and their hearts beat purely with necessity. Wynn felt that if her body did not do these things automatically she would have ceased to care if her heart beat any longer. The agony was far fresher than any she could remember, an actual wound to her heart, one that left her rocking back and forward catatonically.
The most sickening thing – and she knew that Arabella felt the same – was that Arabella had predicted death only a few days ago. The Death card was plain in Wynn’s memory, the skeletal figure gleaming white against the blackness of her mind. She had not known, not even considered that the cards held such power. Arabella clearly believed deeply in their truth as that was her culture, but Wynn guessed that even she had never seen a prediction come true so swiftly. Procel was the bringer of death, and had murdered their little ray of sunshine.
Procel cast his eyes upon Wynn, “Now will you chose?”
“Why do you need another?” Wynn spat, “you have a sacrifice. I refuse to obey you any longer.”
“Oh his body will go to the shadow army, and make them stronger, but we still require a sacrifice, chose quickly or another will perish.”
Wynn knew not to dawdle, and scanned the faces of the travellers once more, thinking ‘who can I bear to lose?’ the thought sickened her but she pushed any self loathing away. There would be time for that later. Finally her eyes rested upon Rueben. He was visibly shaking, fear gripping him, but inside Wynn could feel a smug confidence that she would not pick him to die. He still did not repent for betraying them to the army and it was this arrogance that forced Wynn then and there to make the decision.
“I chose Rueben,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands so she could not see the look of betrayal in Rueben’s eyes. She did not need to see it; she could feel it, his fear, and shock. The shadow army dragged him to the stone block and held him while Procel disappeared in a puff of black smoke and reappeared at the altar. He held a knife like the swords, made entirely of shadows. Rueben yelled in fear, and struggled like an animal, self control completely lost. The travellers watched in horror, still held by the remaining army, as Procel ripped Rueben’s thin shirt open and stabbed the knife between his ribs, ripping the knife downwards, opening Rueben’s chest. Blood splashed the altar and dribbled onto the floor, soaking into the stone.
Wynn screamed wordlessly and ran forward, lunging at Procel; she went through him and landed on the floor, a cold rippling sensation covering her as she passed through his shadowy frame. Rueben’s eyes glazed over and Wynn felt his life force pass on, it was so strong Wynn was sure she was the one that had died, she lay incapacitated on the floor for a long moment, before her brain forced her to get up. It was stronger than that she had felt from Theodore, she had not been prepared for his death and his life had passed on almost instantaneously, but Rueben knew his fate.
“MURDERER!” Wynn cried, her eyes wild. Even though she had chosen him, even though she knew he was not a kind and genuine person, not like the other travellers, she could not accept that she had seen both Theodore and him die before her eyes. Rueben was cold and had betrayed them, but he had not deserved to die. Procel turned to her, and with horror Wynn saw he held Rueben’s heart in this hand. Blood dribbled down the pure whiteness of his bone. His thin fingers grasped the heart like a beggar grasped his last piece of bread.
“You have saved your friends, and allowed us to live again,” he said to Wynn softly as though comforting her.
Procel lifted the heart to his hood and it disappearing into the darkness, Wynn could hear the sound of teeth chewing through muscle. He was eating Rueben’s heart. Wynn turned around and heaved. Procel then passed the half eaten heart to Bernael and Enepsigos. With a small shudder Procel’s cloak fell away and a young man with a mess of long brown hair stepped free of the garment. He was wearing the clothes of a nobleman, thick cotton breeches, a jerkin and thigh high black boots. Wynn waited automatically for his feelings and memories to flood into her, but she felt nothing but a dull coldness in her soul, Procel was not alive, and he was not dead, he was living on stolen life of those he killed. Bernael and Enepsigos too shed their cloaks and a man and a woman stepped free, wearing similar clothes to Procel. They too left a cold dullness in Wynn’s soul. The shadow army had let go of the travellers and were now standing patiently, waiting for instruction.
“You have given us life, and you are judged worthy to pass,” Procel announced. Wynn closed her eyes and yelled a wordless cry that someone, something could be so evil. Forgetting caution completely she flung her conscious into her pool of magic and sent it out to the shadow army, unsure what she actually intended to do, but focusing wholly on them so that her magic did not affect any of the remaining travellers. With a small puff they disappeared, the traveller’s weapons clanging to the floor in their absence. Procel’s eyes widened in shock.
“You will bring them both back!” Wynn shrieked.
“It cannot be done,” Enepsigos said sternly, the woman, her brown hair tied delicately on the top of her head, it was the first time she had spoken and her voice was cold and sharp.
“Bring them back, or I will kill you,” Wynn hissed. The judges laughed. Wynn took a deep breath and looked at Arabella. Her eyes narrowed and Wynn knew she was agreeing. Wynn waved her hand in the direction of the judges. At her unspoken command they stopped laughing and found they could not move, frozen to the ground. Wynn walked up to the judges and stopped inches from Procel’s face.
“I’m waiting,” she spat.
Procel laughed, “We are Shadows, and as shadows consume the light we too are just that. Carnivores, destroyers, scavengers. Our power does not extend to raising the dead. Only one of pure evil can walk in the underworld and grasp a soul from death,” Bernael snapped at Wynn.
Wynn thought of Aerona, and the creatures she had created. The Fallen, their souls ripped from death to be encased in their rotting body, a life of perpetual torture. Even if Wynn could bring Rueben and Theodore back, they would not be the Rueben and Theodore she had known. They would be shells, not t
ruly alive, animated by magic and that would be no life at all.
“Have you always resided here?” Wynn asked, her voice sharp.
“Yes, though a powerful Mage came to us two centuries ago and forced us into slumber,” Bernael sighed.
Wynn looked around the torture chamber, her eyes finding the stains of blood on the walls. It was clear the judges had had many victims here, before the mountain had become barren. Victims who were tortured before finally being murdered, their hearts eaten so that the judges could live on, in wait for the next victim.
“The tunnel?” she hissed.
“A passage for our sacrifices, Kingly would offer a stream of men and women to use as we would. Such was the past freedom,” he said sadly.
“And who was it that woke you?” Wynn asked.
“The sorceress Aerona came to us, and gave us life, she warned us of your passing and that we must test you... and break you,” Procel answered.
Wynn shrieked in anger, unable to properly articulate for her rage was so complete. She balled her hands into fists and cursed Procel with every profanity and affliction she could think of. Procel and his jurors remained expressionless, their young, handsome features deceiving. Wynn continued to scream, mingled with fits of weeping, for so long that her voice became hoarse. Eventually she fell silent and turned to walk away, before quickly spinning on the ball of her foot, and punching Procel hard in the face. His eyes widened as blood slowly dripped from his nose and Wynn stepped back in shock, unable to comprehend that it was her fist that caused it. She had seen men in a brawl all too often, swinging their fists without thinking. She was stronger than she seemed. The dripping blood, which had turned into a stream, surprised Wynn but also comforted her; she had inflicted some sort of wound upon the hateful creature. Whether Procel was actually in pain was another thing; Wynn told herself he was.
Procel hissed and raised his hand in Arabella’s direction. The chair she was strapped to, the bars that bound her legs and the spikes that hovered inches from her hands sudden began to quiver. The bar began to crush her shins, and the spikes impaled her hands viciously. Arabella screamed through her gag, her eyes wild with pain. Wynn shrieked in anger, she had not bound Procel completely. She noted then the strange dagger that had been used to murder Rueben still gripped tightly in Procel’s hand. Using her magic she forced his hands to still. He growled in anger as he was made to stop torturing Arabella. Wynn sagged as Arabella’s pain ceased.
“What is that?” Wynn demanded of the dagger.
Procel twisted his face as the blood poured from his nose, over his lips and down chin. He grasped the dagger tighter, as though trying to angle it for use, “It is the Dagger of Night,” he replied reluctantly, spitting flecks of blood as he spoke, “created long ago, at the dawn of time and dawn of magic. How it was made is now a mystery, many have tried to duplicate it but none have the power. It is made from the shadows, from the darkness. Only one of true power can wield it, can possibly understand and control its power.”
In his hand the Dagger of Night swirled, as though accentuating his words with its strangeness. Wynn eyed it for a minute before snatching it from Procel and holding it before her gingerly. The judges all gasped as she continued to hold it without complaint and it was clear that they had expected something dramatic and painful to befall her. She grinned triumphantly at them, glad she had taken the one thing that gave them their power away. She opened her mouth to taunt them, but before she uttered a word her hand began to tingle. Wynn snapped her eyes to the dagger and saw the hand that gripped it was held fast against the hilt. She tried to prise it away but her skin was fused to the strange shadowy material.
Slowly, so slowly she was unsure whether it was merely a shadow, darkness crawled up each finger, one at a time, then up her hand and along her arm. Where the darkness spread it felt as though the skin underneath had frozen and was stuck to something cold and metallic. She had sometimes seen maids grasp steel utensils from outside during winter, and their skin stick to the surface, only releasing once warm water was run over the area. It was achingly painful and continued to creep up her body.
In the back of her mind she could feel the traveller’s horror as they watched the blackness slowly consume her. The cold dullness extinguished every happy memory she could think of. Her body went numb and she thought suddenly that it would be all too easy to give up and let the coldness consume her.
Procel laughed cruelly, “You cannot control it, you are not strong enough.”
Wynn felt the thickness of the darkness and knew it was overpowering her, choking her into submission. It was like nothing she had ever experienced, a depression, sadness, utter desolation that forced the air from her lungs and made tears fall down her cheeks in a stream. Every bad memory and experience was brought to mind and replayed over and over again. The darkness’ hold was vast and unyielding and Wynn knew she was dying, even through the hold she knew it. And it was that knowledge, the sense of her own death that was so strong that it jolted her into clarity. However pleasant the darkness had made death seem, she could not allow it, too much depended on her, her friends, the lands. Aerona must die. She reached deep into her pool of magic, ignoring once again all of the warnings she had been given by Arabella and called it to cover her and purge her of the darkness. Slowly, to Procel’s horror and the traveller’s relief the darkness began to recede, and was replaced by a faint golden glow. In her hand was the Dagger of Night, untouched and unchanged it seemed, by what had occurred.
“Who are you to wield such a weapon?” Procel questioned, his voice high.
“I am nothing,” Wynn replied, her voice flat and unfeeling.
Procel shook then with fear. He himself needed Bernael and Enepsigos’ power to control the dagger for one use, one sacrifice. Wynn held it before him like a toy, its power surging through her. He had misjudged and underestimated her; the frail girl with the sad eyes would now kill the living dead, and lay him to rest once and for all, after centuries of sacrifices.
“I cannot bring them back,” Procel reiterated, his eyes firmly on the dagger Wynn now wielded.
“Then you shall die,” Wynn said simply, and stabbed him in the chest. Black blood poured from the wound. Procel’s eyes rolled in his sockets and he crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, Wynn’s magic releasing him whilst he died. The youthful skin that had encased his skeletal frame began to wither, curling and rotting, falling off of his skull. His eyeballs crumbled to dust and left gaping holes in his skull. Bernael saw the death of his Master and opened his mouth to beg but she sliced his head off in one swift motion before he had time to speak. His body too underwent the horrific transformation of young man to decaying skeleton. Finally Wynn stuck the knife right between Enepsigos’ eyes and she let out a little gasp. Black blood gushed from the judge’s broken bodies; it seeped along the cracks of the floor as though crawling towards Wynn. Everything was over so quickly the travellers were unsure it had happened, Theodore and Rueben had been sacrificed, and Wynn had done the impossible and killed the dead.
Wynn then crumpled to the floor, too tired to cry. Her magic was not yet whole and the dagger was so powerful. She dropped the weapon beside her, watching its shadows swirl, dark and evil. Braelyn rushed forward and cradled Wynn in her arms. The travellers stood still, silent, each caught up in their own grief.
She had not been able to protect them. The Death tarot card once again flashed in her mind and she realised that although the sense of worthlessness that had been drummed into her since she was a child remained, she really had changed so much in such in the short space of time she had left the Manor. Before she was timid, broken, and distrustful. Now here she was, a Magus, trusting these travellers with her life. The death of one’s old self, she shouted to herself. That was true. Her old, worn, dying self had been replaced by one who had been reborn. Did she like that? Being reborn meant she was open to fresh pain, pain she had never experienced. Losing people she loved dearly, knowing she would nev
er see them again...
“They are dead,” Wynn whispered. Braelyn stroked her hair.
“You had no choice,” Braelyn said softly, rocking Wynn gently.
“I can’t go on,” Wynn said flatly, “I am no more than a murderer.”
All the faces of people she had killed flashed before her eyes, contorted into sad and pleading expressions by her imagination. How could she ever claim the title of the Foreseen when all she had ever achieved and ever would was the deaths of those around her? Why carry on? Why even get up from this cold stone floor?
Braelyn grabbed Wynn by the shoulders and forced her to face her, “If you give up now, then their death was in vain, do you want that?” Braelyn snapped.
Wynn lowered her eyes and knew Braelyn spoke the truth; she would not let Rueben and Theodore’s death stop her. The hate she felt for Procel and his jurors only helped intensify the hate she felt for Aerona.
“What do we do with their bodies?” Griffin said gruffly, tear marks streaking his face. In the distance Arabella had worked her gag off her mouth and was trying to use her impaled hands to heal herself. Wynn sent her magic to the contraption and forced the spikes up and the bar away and let Arabella heal herself. She had not the energy to continue using her magic in such a controlled and careful way. Arabella swallowed, her throat constricted with grief and pain and quickly healed her wounds before waving her hand over the corpses. They burst into flames and the travellers watched as the fire cremated them. Wynn could feel the mixed emotions of the travellers, sorrow at Rueben and Theodore’s death, and hate for Aerona, she allowed herself to feel only what the others felt, her own emotions too raw to even contemplate.
“What weapon did you wield?” Arabella asked stiffly, afraid her voice would betray her emotions to the others.
“The Dagger of Night,” Wynn whispered, watching the last of the flames die from Braelyn’s arms, the name made bile rise in her throat, a weapon that had taken countless lives at Procel’s whim.
Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) Page 22