Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

  “Aethyr crystals,” he whispered to Imri.

  A breath of cooler air stirred gold-spangled gauze curtains. Behind, a balcony opened onto the night, where a man was training a telescope on the stars.

  “My lord Arkhan?” said Imri respectfully.

  The astronomer left his stargazing and came into the room. He was plainly dressed in a linen robe draped over a loose tunic and trousers—an unconventional blend of Western and Eastern fashions.

  Imri knelt on the marble floor, bowing low until his forehead touched the tiles, and Rieuk copied him.

  “This is Rieuk Mordiern,” said Imri in the common tongue. “He was apprenticed to Kaspar Linnaius. He is now an Emissary.”

  “Rise, Emissary Mordiern.” Arkhan Sardion’s voice was smooth and even-toned.

  Rieuk slowly raised his head and sat back on his heels. He still felt dizzy. The Arkhan’s hawklike features swam in and out of focus. He saw eyes that burned surprisingly blue in a tawny face. Sardion was of middle years, sparely built, with dark hair faintly streaked with silver.

  “Are you prepared to pay the price?” The Arkhan stretched out his hand to touch Rieuk’s face, tipping his chin upward till Rieuk was dazzled by the blue blaze of his eyes. “Can you prove to us that you have earned your Emissary?”

  Rieuk nodded.

  “Even if it means killing your own countrymen?”

  There had been no talk of killing before.

  “We share a common enemy, Rieuk Mordiern: the Commanderie. Their Guerriers have invaded Enhirre and massacred my people.” Although Sardion’s voice was quiet, Rieuk sensed a fierce anger simmering within him. “They have taken control of the sacred treasures that the magi have watched over since before the time of Artamon. They have violated the sanctity of the hidden valley with the shedding of Enhirran blood.”

  “What do you want me to do, my lord?”

  “You’re a crystal mage. I want you to use your gift to track down the last remaining Angelstones and shatter them.”

  Rieuk blinked. Had he heard correctly? “But the Angelstones negate our powers.” This was too great a task to imagine, let alone accomplish. “I’ve felt their force, my lord; so has Imri.”

  “According to my intelligence, the Francians have already exhausted the angelic powers contained in three of the stones; two here at Ondhessar, and one at Karantec.”

  That single Angelstone at Karantec had left him so weak that he could hardly find the strength to stagger away.

  “Which leaves only four. A small price to pay, for a crystal mage, for becoming an Emissary.”

  Only four. The task was daunting. Rieuk could no longer sustain the Arkhan’s penetrating gaze; he hoped Sardion would not interpret it as a sign of weakness.

  “And when you’ve destroyed their Angelstones,” continued Sardion, “we will drive the Francians out of Ondhessar.”

  “You won’t be alone, Rieuk,” said Imri. Rieuk felt Imri’s hand on his shoulder, a firm, comforting pressure. Imri. His own hand rose to cover Imri’s in silent gratitude. “You’ll have Ormas to help you. And I’ll be at your side.”

  “Hold still,” ordered Imri as he snipped at Rieuk’s bandages. “How can I remove these dressings if you keep jerking about?”

  Rieuk gritted his teeth. “Are you sure I’m healed? It feels as if you’re skinning me alive.”

  “There’s a little dried blood stuck to the fabric.” Imri patiently continued to unwind the last, stained linen strips. “I’ll just wipe it clean…” The cloth was impregnated with the same clear, cold spirit the magi had used before the tattooing ceremony; the medicinal smell made Rieuk’s eyes water. Imri stepped back to examine his handiwork and slowly nodded his approval. “It’s a good transference. Take a look for yourself.” He held up an oval mirror in front of Rieuk.

  The image of the shadow hawk shimmered before Rieuk’s eyes, painstakingly inked in smoky blood into his skin, each mottled feather, each sharp talon perfectly reproduced.

  “It’s…beautiful,” said Rieuk. There seemed to be a knot in his throat, for his voice was faint and hoarse. Days had passed in which he had sensed Ormas drowsing within him, not yet ready to awake. He had even begun to worry that the transference had failed.

  “Get dressed.” Imri said, tossing Rieuk’s shirt to him. “It’s time to begin your training.”

  In the hour before twilight, as the light of the setting sun dyed the saffron stone of the twisted Towers of the Ghaouls to a reddened ochre, Imri led Rieuk to the top of the arid ridge above the hidden valley.

  “Your control of your Emissary is much improved,” he said. “So this evening, we’re going to try a little reconnaissance. At the head of the next valley lies the Fort of Ondhessar. I want you to send Ormas to spy out the land. Report to me everything that you see.”

  Rieuk closed his eyes, centering all his concentration on his Emissary. “Ormas, awake.”

  “Ready, master.” The hawk’s voice still sent a thrill of excitement through him.

  “Fly across the valley to the fort, Ormas.”

  Ormas darted from Rieuk’s breast and soared into the pale violet sky. Rieuk kept his own eyes closed, looking through Ormas’s as he sped across the darkening sands. Soon the imposing walls of a great fortress loomed on the horizon, silhouetted against the scarlet-streaked sky.

  “Go closer in, Ormas.”

  As Ormas used the last of the day’s warm air currents to glide soundlessly above the high walls of the citadel, Rieuk saw Commanderie sentries patrolling, muskets on their shoulders. Their standard, a golden crook on a black background, fluttered in the evening breeze alongside the rich royal blue of the Francian flag.

  “What can you see?” Imri asked suddenly, making Rieuk start.

  “There are at least ten sentries keeping watch on the ramparts. Guerriers are lighting lanterns at the top of each tower…”

  “How many towers?”

  “Eight…no, ten. Go farther in, Ormas.” Ormas flew lower still in the gathering dark, so close that Rieuk could see the sentries’ features, lit by the watch fires they were kindling against the chill of the desert night.

  “And how are the Francians armed?”

  “Cannon in each tower.”

  As Ormas circled lower, Rieuk saw one of the Guerriers glance up. He reached for his musket.

  “Get out fast!” Rieuk cried as the Guerrier primed his pan and aimed. Ormas darted up toward the first stars. Rieuk heard the crack and whistle of a fired musket ball that had passed too close.

  He felt Imri’s hand on his shoulder. “Mortal weapons cannot harm the shadow hawks.”

  Rieuk anxiously scanned the darkening horizon for a sight of his hawk returning. He had lost his connection with his Emissary. He began to panic. The sky was red as blood where the sun was setting far beyond the rim of the desert, and he could see no trace of Ormas.

  “Go, Tabris,” said Imri and loosed his shadow hawk into the dusk. Rieuk sensed the flicker of feathered wings on the edge of his mind’s seeing. He realized that he was looking through Ormas at Tabris flying fast toward him on powerful wings.

  “There you are,” he whispered, glad that he had not lost mastery of his hawk. Tabris flew close, closer still to Ormas, until the two hawks were darting around each other in a skillful, daring aerial dance.

  A distant roar, as if of a far-off wind, disturbed the silence.

  “What’s that?” Imri looked at Rieuk as the shadows of night flowed through the valley like a night tide. “A sandstorm?”

  CHAPTER 10

  “The wind mage has returned.” Lord Estael’s hawk, Almiras, perched on his master’s shoulder, regarding Rieuk and Imri with fierce, jasper eyes. “He has already infiltrated the Arkhan’s palace. He’s on the hunt for aethyr crystals.”

  “For the Vox,” whispered Rieuk.

  “He may be rash enough to come here. You must stop him at all costs.”

  Rieuk and Imri had kept vigil all night, their Emissaries circling ove
rhead. At dawn an old man emerged from one of the towers, peering up into the sky, shading his eyes as if the daylight were too bright. Rieuk caught a glint of ice as the man scanned the sky.

  “Don’t go too close, Ormas,” he warned. It must be Kaspar Linnaius, for those cold, silver-grey eyes could only belong to one of true mage blood. But the Magus had aged almost beyond recognition; his brown hair had thinned and faded to a whitish grey and he stood stooping, like an elderly scholar.

  Rieuk turned to Imri. “It’s him. It has to be.” Just the sight of his old master had sent a surge of hatred and fear through his whole body; his hands were shaking. “But he looks so old.”

  Imri put his hands on Rieuk’s shoulders, gazing into his eyes. “Don’t be deceived, Rieuk. His body may be weak—which will work to our advantage—but I sense no diminishing of his powers. This may be the most dangerous task I’ve ever had to undertake. Leave him to me. I don’t want you hurt.”

  “This is as much my responsibility as yours.” Rieuk gazed back staunchly. “Besides, we’re partners, aren’t we? I vowed to be at your side, no matter what dangers there were to be faced.”

  “Stop, Kaspar Linnaius.” Imri barred his way as he left the tower. “My master, Lord Estael, wants to talk with you.”

  “I have nothing to say to him, Imri Boldiszar.” Linnaius continued on his way.

  “Wait!” Rieuk cried.

  “Rieuk Mordiern?” Linnaius quavered. For a moment he seemed genuinely shaken. “Didn’t you die in the fire at the college? They found your body.”

  “They found some remains. They assumed it was me.”

  To Rieuk’s surprise, Linnaius suddenly began to laugh, a dry, mirthless sound. “So Lord Estael has loosed his hawks.” The Magus’s laughter sent a warning shiver through Rieuk’s body. Suddenly uncertain, he glanced at Imri for reassurance and saw that Imri had tensed as if ready to defend himself.

  “Ah. Now I see it, Rieuk,” said Linnaius with a disdainful little curl of the lip. “You’re in thrall to an Emissary.”

  “I’m with Imri because I choose to be.” It was taking all Rieuk’s self-control to keep his voice steady. He could sense that familiar chill and intimidating aura emanating from his old magister. And as if to confirm his fears, a sudden sinister breath of wind shivered through the desolate valley.

  “You’re his lover.” The cold eyes mocked him. “You fool.”

  “The Arkhan’s aethyr crystals,” said Imri. “Give them back and we’ll let you go free.”

  “I hardly think that you’re in a position to talk of making a trade.” Again that flicker of dry laughter in the Magus’s voice. “You failed to stop me last time.” Linnaius turned and began to walk away.

  “Tabris!” cried Imri. The smoke hawk issued from Imri’s breast and darted after the Magus. Rieuk noticed that Linnaius’s index finger had begun to move, almost imperceptibly, tracing a tiny spiral in the air. At the same time he sensed a change in the atmosphere, a sudden drop in pressure. “Imri, look out!” he shouted. A gust of wind ripped through the air and caught Tabris, flinging the hawk far up into the sky, out of control.

  Imri staggered as if he had been hit.

  “Go, Ormas.” Rieuk felt his Emissary emerge from his body and soar into flight. “Attack!” If only he could gain Imri valuable seconds to recover. Ormas’s consciousness became one with his own and he saw, through the hawk’s eyes, Kaspar Linnaius slowly turning as Ormas bore down upon him, saw for a brief moment of triumph the look of astonishment on the old man’s face.

  This time it was Linnaius who staggered and dropped to one knee as the smoke hawk’s shadow wings beat furiously in his face.

  How dare Linnaius attack Imri! Suddenly all Rieuk’s long-pent-up anger was flowing untrammeled into Ormas and the hawk began to claw wildly at Linnaius.

  “No, Rieuk.” He faintly caught Imri’s warning. “Call Ormas back.”

  Too late he saw the malicious glitter of ice-grey eyes. Then the full force of the wind hit Ormas and sent the hawk tumbling into the air. Rieuk was unprepared for the force of the gust. Dizzy, flailing, he lost his balance and sank to his knees as his mind went helplessly spiraling through the sky with Ormas.

  “Rieuk!” As if from far away he heard Imri’s horrified shout.

  “They didn’t tell you, did they, Rieuk Mordiern?” Linnaius was on his feet again. “When your Emissary is parted from you, you become vulnerable.” Another twist of his fingers, and Rieuk cried out as Ormas began to fall, one wing torn. “When your Emissary is hurt, you hurt too.” Shards of glass-sharp hail began to pelt down and as each icy pellet hit Ormas, so Rieuk felt his own skin scored and pierced until he collapsed, helpless.

  “Leave him be, Linnaius.” Imri’s voice was dark as thunder. Tabris attacked Linnaius again, darting through the hailstorm, making for the Magus’s moving hand.

  Dizzy and bleeding, Rieuk sensed the sudden change in the air. Something was snaking toward them, something powerful and invisible. “A wouivre!” he yelled. “He’s summoned a wouivre!”

  He flung himself at Linnaius, toppling the old Magus to the ground. But he was too late. A translucent air-dragon streaked through the sky as fast as lightning and attacked the smoke hawk.

  Imri gave a choking cry and fell. In the sky above him, smoky feathers scattered and tumbled down like flakes of black snow. The wouivre was tearing its prey to shreds—and with every attack, Imri’s body arched convulsively in agony.

  “Stop, Magister!” Rieuk begged, crawling toward Imri. “Call it off!”

  Splatters of crimson blotted the air. A hot rain of torn feather and black blood showered down as Rieuk stumbled toward Imri to shield him. Too late. All he could hear was Imri’s agonized cry, mingled with Tabris’s dying screams. All he could see was Imri flung spread-eagled on the ground, his chest and neck a mangled ruin of torn flesh and bone, his long black hair fanning out around him, his life fast-ebbing away as the sand beneath him turned dark…

  “Imri, no. No!” A sob of denial tore from Rieuk’s throat.

  “You’re…unharmed.” Imri’s eyes focused briefly on his, but the golden mage fire was dimming fast. Imri’s hand rose shakily as if trying to touch his face, to make a last connection.

  Rieuk gripped the bloodstained hand in his own. “Don’t leave me, Imri. Stay with me. Don’t leave me behind.”

  A swirling cloud of dust arose; Kaspar Linnaius’s sky craft was lifting off, flying away across the desert.

  Ormas was slowly, raggedly winging toward Rieuk through the swirling sand.

  “Wait!” Rieuk sent his mind into the darkness of oblivion, hurtling after Imri’s fast-receding figure into the Ways Beyond.

  “You must come back, Master. You must not follow him. It is not your time.” Ormas confronted him, his hawk eyes burning, bright and cruel in the chaotic darkness. “If you stay here, you’ll become a Lost Soul and then you can never be reunited.”

  Imri’s body lay, encased in a casket of aethyr crystal, illuminated by the light emanating from the Rift. The magi had washed the clotted blood from his torn body, had clothed him in clean robes, combed the black silk of his hair, and crossed his arms across his damaged breast.

  His face was no longer distorted with pain, but calm, yet distant, as if carved from the same white, translucent marble as the statue of Azilis.

  Lord Estael stood gazing down at the crystal casket. He did not even turn around as Rieuk approached.

  “Imri,” Rieuk whispered. “Oh, Imri…” His hands instinctively reached out and touched the crystal, as hard and chill as ice. “What have you done to his body, my lord?” He slid slowly to his knees. To be so close to Imri, yet never able to touch him again, was a torment beyond endurance. His fingertips, pressed against the ice-cold crystal, were fast becoming numb.

  “Why are you grieving?” asked Lord Estael distantly. “Imri was an Emissary; there’s still hope.”

  “What do you mean there’s still hope?” Rieuk’s throat ached with wee
ping. “Not necromancy?”

  “Foolish boy, why would I suggest such an abomination?” Cruel eyes bored into his. “Have you forgotten how much he meant to me? I will keep his body here in the Rift, entombed in aethyr crystal, until you have completed the Arkhan’s mission. In the Rift, the flesh will not decay.”

  Rieuk shuddered at the bluntness of Lord Estael’s words. “But Imri taught me that the longer the soul is out of the body, the harder it is to reunite the two.”

  “In the case of ordinary mortals, that is so. But his soul is linked with his Emissary’s; Tabris will shelter Imri’s soul.” Lord Estael took out a soul-glass, quite unlike the others Rieuk had seen. Within lay two distinct glimmering strands, intertwined in a spiral: one warm as amber, the other smokily black.

  “W—wouldn’t it be kinder to let him go?” As Rieuk knelt there, he heard himself speaking as if from a great way off. What am I saying? Why am I arguing against bringing him back, when I’m not even sure I can make it through the night without him at my side?

  “When did kindness come into this?” Lord Estael’s voice dinned in his ears, harsh as the beating of a brass gong. “You made a vow to the Arkhan. So you—Rieuk Mordiern—you must continue with the mission. If not, I have orders from the Arkham to destroy this glass.”

  Linnaius tottered from the sky craft and leaned against the mottled trunk of a silver birch, trying to get his breath. He was all but spent. Summoning the wouivre had used up too much of his spiritual energy. Even the clean, cold air of Tielen had not cleared his head.

  “Magus?” called a voice. “Are you all right?”

  Through the haze of exhaustion, Linnaius saw a figure hurrying toward him through the trees. “H—highness?” he managed, recognizing the fair hair and incisive gaze of Prince Eugene. “What are you doing all the way out here at Swanholm?”

  “I’m on leave from the academy. I rode over here to see you. And I saw rather more than I bargained for. I wasn’t imagining it, was I, Magus?” Eugene’s voice was husky with excitement. “You flew. In that little craft you’ve hidden back there.”