Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing)

by Shannon M Yarnold

  ***

  Byron’s head hung limply between his legs, he went to rub his face, forgetting once again that his arms were chained to the wall behind him, above his head, receiving instead more chaffing against his wrists. Vomit slopped across the floor, following the motion of the ship and the smell was overpowering. The room he was chained in was small, only ten feet across, and ten foot long. It originally was used as storage but the General had deemed it fit for Byron to be held. Byron had very quickly discovered his stomach was not fit for the sea, and a torrent of vomit ensued, for the past few days the crew had not bothered to feed him.

  Now Byron’s hair hung lifelessly on his head. He had not washed for days, and his constant sea sickness had not helped his general hygiene. The shackles had caused thick red welts on his wrists; blood was shed with every movement, and had dried again, uncomfortably. His skin was much paler than usual and his usually muscular frame was becoming slender with malnutrition and fatigue; he was losing his willpower and the General knew it.

  “Look up maggot,” a vindictive voice shouted at Byron. He had not even noticed the door being opened and a soldier walking in, “the General wants to see you,” the voice continued. Byron tried to lift his head, but could not summon the energy; whatever the General wanted him for did not scare him enough to force his body to raise his head.

  “I said look,” the voice growled, unsheathing a sword. The smooth sound of a perfectly sharpened sword being extracted from a sheath echoed around the small room. Byron took a deep shaky breath and slowly lifted his head; his vision blurred as he looked at the figure towering above him. The man motioned behind him and the General marched in. The sight and smell of vomit made him gag and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth.

  “You are disgusting,” he hissed through the material, standing perfectly still in the slop to avoid it splashing up his boots, “you cannot even control yourself.”

  Byron hung his head, for it was too hard to keep it up any longer, he could not will himself despite the threat of a sword only feet away. The General mistook this for shame. He nodded in agreement.

  “You should be ashamed,” he said, crouching carefully forward and grabbing Byron’s face so their eyes were locked, “You’re being put to work, brave little boy. You can surely cope?”

  Byron did not answer, and the General did not press him for one, Byron knew voicing exactly what he was thinking would not help his situation and so remained silent. The General stood and motioned for Byron to be released. The man who had spoken before unlocked the shackles and hauled Byron to his feet as though he was nothing more than a child. Byron did not object.

  “Give him fresh clothes; I don’t want to smell that around my ship... and a bath,” the General ordered the man, winking. Byron frowned but could not understand why the seemingly innocent words sounded so terrifying. The man nodded and dragged Byron out of the room and onto the deck. The moment Byron walked into the salty, cold air his stomach heaved and he threw up what was left of his stomach. The thirty strong crew yelled abuse as they saw him, stopping what they had been doing to crowd around and laugh as he half vomited over himself.

  “Men!” The man cried, “Get a rope, this maggot is going for a bath.”

  The men cheered throatily, morale heightened at the chance to humiliate the boy that had killed four of their men that night in Woodstone, including their Lieutenant-General Edward, and helped that Magus Wynn murder seven more. Byron’s head swam as the nausea rolled over his body, the weather was truly bitter. A wind had stirred and storm clouds crept around the ship. The sea slapped itself against the side of the ship violently, creating a constant din. As one man returned to the crowd with a rope Bryon suddenly realised what the General’s idea of a bath was; the man tied the rope around his ankles and before Byron had time to think, time to object, threw him over the rails into the unforgiving sea below.

  The water was ice cold and it instantly sent Byron’s body into shock. If he had been strong he could have withstood it, Byron knew it vehemently, but his body was weak from seasickness and malnourishment, so instead he went limp and submitted completely to his torturer, the sea. The froth entered his nose and he choked against the salty water. He could not breathe, and as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of water he thought suddenly, I am going to die. The waves forced him into the side of the ship and he felt his ribs crack with every blow.

  He remained submerged until his lungs burned and nose and throat were raw, until he felt himself falling into the darkness and succumbing to it gratefully, before he was pulled out of the water, feet first and back onto the deck. He lay, a watery mess on the deck, ignoring the jeers from the soldiers as they watched him cough out water and gulp at the air, tears of pain mixed with salt water on his face. Relief flooded through him, unspeakable, unutterable, completely overwhelming relief. He was alive, and until this moment he had never realised how much that fact pleased him. His body was completely numb in the cold and he did not want to move, he wanted to lie there forever, and believe forcefully that he was not on a ship heading for The Rune.

  “Sir he’s broken his ribs,” a man shouted, the voice sounded muffled and distant to his waterlogged ears. Byron opened his eyes but could not see who had spoken or who was now kneeling before him lifting back his jerkin to show three ribs poking through his skin. He felt surprised through the relief, he had broken his ribs? He could feel nothing at all, but if he had looked down and seen the blood which coated his clothes and was now mixing with the water on the deck he would have thrown up again.

  “Take him to the General,” another man yelled, his voice agitated, which again surprised Byron, they were worried? Byron was flung over a large muscular shoulder. The pain shot through his body then, finally registering and he gave in, everything going black.

  Byron woke up some time later in the room he had been chained to previously, a cloth wrapped tightly around his chest. It was stained with blood and left little room to breathe. Only one arm was chained to the wall now so Byron tentatively checked his chest. It hurt more than any injury he had ever sustained and suddenly he was overwhelmingly tired. He closed his eyes and slept; the call of sleep far more appealing than the searing pain in his chest.

  The General paced around his office.

  “He can’t die,” he shouted to the man stood in front of him.

  “He won’t,” the man answered, “he’s a strong lad, if he wasn’t a criminal I would have liked to invite him to join the army. He’s sustained countless beatings and now broken ribs and he is still fighting.”

  The General grunted and motioned for the man to leave. He left silently. Throwing himself onto his seat the General checked his map and co-ordinates. They were three weeks away from The Rune, more or less depending on the weather. Stopping at the nearest island would improve morale he decided. It had been a short ride across Inlo to Terra, less than two weeks, with the aid of horses and unquestioning access across The Wall and yet more travelling lay ahead. He despised this travelling. Sighing, the General ran his hands over his short cropped hair. The army had been so much easier and more enjoyable seventeen summers ago. Rules were his to make and his to break, he had any woman, any delicacy he desired. Now he was delivering an insolent man, to a Mistress he had never seen.

  “You doubt me?” A voice erupted in the room. The General jumped and his papers flew off of his desk, just as a figure of fire appeared before him. He gawped, the figure stood towering before him, made completely out of fire.

  “I – I do not doubt you,” the General stammered, holding onto the desk to control his shaking hands.

  “I know what you think,” the figure of fire purred. The shape was indistinguishable; it raised its arms as though to fly and the fire disappeared. A striking woman with skin as fair as ivory and hair the colour of the flames that had engulfed her, stood staring at him. The General gulped and blinked quickly to see if the woman disappeared. She did not, instead she sauntere
d up to the desk and lent on it, her hair brushing the General’s cheek. The General shuddered, he was not often speechless but this woman had such an aura of strength that he was instantly silenced.

  “I know what you think,” the woman repeated, lifting her forefinger to stroke the General’s cheek. He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting with the woman’s. Such eyes, grey as steel and just as cold. He felt himself falling, falling into darkness, his mind wandered. Memories flashed before his eyes, every murder, every pleasure, every fear and desire flooded out of him and stood wavering before him. This woman did know what he thought, he could only see her eyes and he knew she was watching the memories just as he was. He could not explain how he knew, but it was undeniable. The word magic floated around his conscious.

  “You – you know what I think!” The General gasped and the woman looked away, releasing the unnatural hold. She stood up, her cloak wafting in an invisible wind.

  “You lied to me Ricedon...” the woman whispered, her voice dangerously low, “you do doubt me.”

  Ricedon shook his head vigorously, nauseous from the woman’s cold stare, “No, no you are too powerful to be doubted, how – how could I? That would be an insult to you and I would never do such a thing.”

  “You do not know who I am... do you?” The woman asked, crackling her knuckles menacingly. Ricedon’s heart thumped in his rib cage, he did not know her, he could not recall her face or voice. He shook his head slowly, knowing at once that it was a mistake.

  “I am Aerona!” The woman shrieked indignantly, “the Mistress you have been following for over a decade, following blindly, unquestionably, pathetically. Tread carefully now my slave, I do not forget.”

  Ricedon’s eyes widened as he thought back to That Night, and the subsequent events that followed, this was the woman that given him his power, given him his orders, who he himself had warned Oprend to obey. “Mistress,” he gushed, lowering his head in a bow, “forgive me for my insolence, it shall not happen again”

  Aerona sighed and with a flick of her wrist Ricedon’s head was unnaturally forced into the desk. He groaned in pain, but could not stop his head from slamming into the hard oak with abnormal strength. Eventually Aerona relented and Ricedon’s head became still, Aerona could see the blood flow freely down Ricedon’s face. She smiled cruelly and with her forefinger raised his head, without touching him. His face was cut and broken, and his eyes were closed with pain.

  “You will not doubt me,” Aerona hissed, slamming her palms onto the desk, “I am your Mistress and you will obey me,” and with a blaze of fire she disappeared as suddenly as she came.

  ***

  The travellers were still in various poses of stress, several hours later, when the mountain began to tremble. It was slow at first, a tremor that made the travellers take a step back and look around them in confusion; but in a matter of minutes the tremor was replaced by an ear splitting crack as a fracture appeared in the mountain wall. It started at the peak and ran all the way to the floor. The travellers stared at it, dumbstruck for a second, until the whole mountain began to quiver. They looked around them in panic as everything shook, as though their eyeballs themselves were trembling.

  The altar began to shake with the force of the mountain, Rueben’s blood dripping erratically off of it down onto the floor, his ashes flying into the air, lost forever. Wynn watched them dance into the air sadly, her brain engaged with Rueben’s memory, instead of the trembling rock that was threatening to crush them all. It was Arabella who grabbed Wynn’s arm and shook her, crying, “The mountain is coming down!”

  Wynn eyes widened as the altar cracked in half dramatically, as though to emphasise Arabella’s point, and the walls began to crumble around them. In a panic Wynn flung her arms out, palms facing outwards, lacing the action with magic and time suddenly slowed. She could not comprehend what she was doing and knew instantly that what she had done was far worse than using her magic, this time she had done it without thinking and it could have killed them all. The mountain began to crumble more slowly; debris missed them by inches as though its course had been changed. Wynn knew she was keeping the mountain in one piece for the moment, and that if she focused hard enough on it they might survive.

  The travellers spun to look at Wynn, they saw the debris of the mountain had slowed, but she did not see them. She could feel their fear and shock but with all her will was focusing as much as was possible on holding the mountain together. In the back of her mind she could hear Arabella scream at her, but nothing would distract her from this moment; she felt the strain in her arms as though she were literally holding the rock with her bare hands. Arabella was torn between stopping Wynn and holding the mountain herself, for it was no secret that Wynn’s magic was unpredictable but she realised that if she was holding the mountain she would not be able to find an escape. She felt Wynn’s arms begin to weaken, prompting her and spun to face the wall opposite, willing an exit to form. The wall began to writhe, stone shifting as though made from water. Slowly a small corridor emerged from the darkness, lit by the same dull grey glow.

  “GO!” Wynn cried when Arabella had finished casting her magic. Wynn’s body was now shaking violently with the strain and she feared that she would let go before the travellers were safe. As soon as she heard footsteps retreating from her Wynn released the magic and followed them into the corridor, just as the mountain crashed down behind them with an earth shattering smash.

  “What just happened?” Jareth asked Arabella, as soon as they knew they were safe. The travellers shook with adrenaline and fear and they all strove to control their shaking limbs by dusting the debris from their clothes. Arabella looked at the pile of rubble which cut them off from the torture chamber, her face expressionless, “Magic,” she replied simply.

  “Who’s magic?” Griffin questioned sternly, insistent on answers.

  “Aerona’s,” Wynn replied softly. She could taste the distinct after-effects of Aerona’s magic. It had its own signature known only to those with the gift. It tasted like metal, at the back of the throat. Arabella had been right; a corrupt soul corrupted the magic. The metallic taste was all the proof Wynn needed that Aerona was evil. Had Aerona forced the mountain to collapse or had the death of Procel created a chain reaction? Wynn glanced at Arabella, knowing she was listening but Arabella did not reply. She did not know.

  Wynn swallowed hard to rid herself of the bitter taste, it mattered not what had happened, only that they were safe. She inspected the corridor they had stumbled into. It was centuries old, crumbling in places but sturdy enough to provide them shelter whilst they figured out what to do. It reminded her of the tunnel they had walked and the labyrinth Procel had led her through. It seemed the mountain was riddled with such passages, and she realised that people had been ferried from all around the mountains, using the passages. She felt sick at the thought, how many had died here, been led to a painful end? Did they know what would happen as they walked these tunnels? Did those who knew cry or protest? It would not have worked. Wynn shivered, imagining the tunnels held memories of such things.

  “How did you create this passage?” Braelyn asked. Wynn’s attention was drawn back to Arabella; her eyes flickered over her face, noting the small cuts where debris had caught her.

  “I did not create it, it was here already, I sensed it when the shadow army brought us here, I merely moved the stone which blocked the entrance.”

  Wynn nodded, she had been too concerned with Procel and his jurors to contemplate escape, Arabella was far more adept and Wynn was sure she had scouted every possible means of escape the moment she was taken into the chamber. Wynn felt the guilt of Rueben and Theodore’s death press on her like a blanket, smothering her. She had failed them all. She felt like she was floundering in a sea of choices and expectations and her mind swirled painfully. Wynn had so much to think about, to ponder, that her thoughts became a noiseless blur. The events of the past two weeks danced before her eyes in flashes. Two weeks? Was that all? S
he felt as though she had been running all her life from one form of evil or another. The army still pursued them, the Fallen and Aerona. Would she be safe anywhere? More importantly would the travellers be safe? If they stayed with her she was sure they would not. She brought only death upon those she cared about.

  Wynn felt eyes upon her and looked up to see Arabella eyeing her blankly. It was true that all the travellers watched her, watched each other, but she felt Arabella’s gaze more keenly than the rest. It was a blank stare, in a blank face and Wynn wondered at it. Arabella’s sole thought was to get out of the mountains, and she was concentrating so wholly on it that Wynn could not decipher her emotions. Had she caught Wynn’s thoughts? Was she as afraid as Wynn and the travellers or angry that all their lives were in peril because of Wynn? Arabella was the one that had mentioned the Foreseeing, and Wynn could not be held responsible for the events after that conversation.

  Wynn sighed deeply, once again her thoughts had not provided an answer, and just upset her more. She put her hand on the hilt of her dagger to comfort her, a habit she had picked up from Arabella, but could only keep it there for a second as the hilt had become scalding hot. Wynn screamed and let go of the dagger to shakily inspect her palm; the skin had completely burnt away leaving a fresh bloody skin, an imprint of the hilt. The traveller’s eyes widened as they saw Wynn’s wound. Arabella took Wynn’s hand firmly and looked at it. Blisters had formed around the wound and blood was dribbling across her palm. Wynn tried to flex her fingers but found the muscles, tendons and nerves had been destroyed and she could not feel her hand other than the debilitating pain.