Heart of Time (Ruined Heart Series Book 1)

by Skye MacKinnon

  No fear did he contain

  When he put spear in soldier’s brain

  And never he was coy.

  He was just a little boy

  No beard yet graced his chin

  When hangman took away his skin

  And found no longer joy.

  - The Tale of Leown, traditional folk song

  “It is not that we don’t like magic. That would be unwise. It is rather that we don’t like magicians roaming around the country, poisoning people’s minds, taking money for predicting fortunes that never come to pass, selling concoctions that will do more harm than good, and pretending to have powers they have not. Most magicians can’t even light a candle with their thoughts. What we want is to protect our people from those charlatans. Because if people know that only magicians authorised by King Gynt the Wise have real magic, they will not fall for the tricks and treacheries of pretenders. They will not spend their money on worthless potions, nor will they trust their advice. We only want to protect the people, that is all.”

  What King Gynt said made sense. Of course, there were charlatans everywhere. I had known one of them once. Some years ago, Old George had travelled with the Ghorres. At night, he went under the name of ‘Sallathar, the ebony wizard from Dulesia’ and sold salves to the inhabitants of whatever village we performed at. He prized himself as a true magician, who was not only blessed with healing powers but could also foresee the future. He even gave his customers the guarantee that if one of his concoctions didn’t have the effect intended, they could give them back for a refund. But of course, his wares came with specific instructions, such as having to wait until the next new moon to drink his most potent love potion or never mentioning the syrup that promised to increase fertility to another soul. By the time they noticed it didn’t work, we had long moved on.

  He took great pride in finding feasible excuses as to why customers could not use their newly bought drinks and salves immediately. Sometimes, when sitting around the campfire at night, we others would help him formulate extravagant recipes that he would write on the bottles. Ground unicorn hair, a piece of the heart of a drowned witch, oil from a nut that only grew in the most remote corners of the Lonely Forest. Yes, we had great fun coming up with these ingredients. In reality, most concoctions were nothing but river water mixed with mud, or fir needles, or if Old George was feeling generous, a spoonful of honey. Of course, most people we met in the villages couldn’t read, so they had to trust his word to what was in the bottles. But for those select few that had learned their letters, he managed to write the most beautiful labels. Old George had been a charlatan, but he hadn’t been evil, just greedy.

  Yet I could understand why the King would see such doings as a threat to ordinary people, whose superstition might cost them some of their hard-earned coins. It was his job to protect those of his subjects that were illiterate or did not know any better.

  “It follows that if we want to control the people who use magic, we need to offer them a good education, and an efficient training to discover their talents and skills. In return for this service, all we ask is that if the magically able has a talent that might be of use to us, that we can employ this talent for the good of all our subjects. That’s only fair for all the resources we invest in their training, don’t you think? This is exactly what we would like from you. Lassadar has started your initiation into the world of magic that he himself is at home at. People say that we despise magic, yet how do they explain our highest advisor being magically gifted? If we hated magic that much, Lassadar would not be welcome at our court, let alone be close to our royal ear. We think you already know the reason why we do not like to leave magicians free to practice their art as they wish.

  “Magic is a tool like any other, yet a hundredfold more dangerous. It can be used for good or bad, but while a cooking spoon can be used to stir a delicious broth, the evillest thing you can do with it might be to use it to hit the unruly apprentice. Not a lot of harm can be done with a spoon. Yet magic has many more facets to it, and therefore it has to be controlled more strictly. That is why we must put a restriction on it, like we do on other weapons. Take swords, for example. Our father was wise enough to see that while a sword in a guardsman’s hand might do a lot of good, yet if taken up by a madman, it can also do a lot of evil things. This is why smithies across the kingdom are only allowed to fabricate swords and other weapons if they have a special licence granted by ourselves alone. And even if they do possess such a licence, they are not allowed to sell their weapons to anyone but our guards and soldiers. Imagine all the lives that have been saved by that law.”

  And all those lost by people not able to defend themselves.

  Startled, I looked at the peryton that was still on Lassadar’s arms. It had been the longest and most coherent thought from him yet. Lassadar was also looking down at him, a pained expression on his face. Had he been able to hear the peryton’s comment? So far, he had not given any sort of sign that he was able to understand our thought communication.

  “Are we boring you?” The King’s booming voice interrupted my thoughts. Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes.

  “No, your majesty.”

  “So then, Eona, will you place your skills at our disposal?”

  I was lost for words. I had not expected this, at least not this early. I turned to Lassadar. He gave me an encouraging nod and smiled. I summoned up all my courage and addressed the king.

  “Yes, your majesty. Although I have only just started my lessons with Lord Lassadar, I don’t know if I will be of any use to you.”

  “I am well aware of that. Let that be at our consideration”, he rebuked me. Of course, I should not have said that. The King knew best.

  He clapped his hands, and one of the guards entered the room.

  “Send in the prisoner”, King Gynt commanded, and the man left to follow his orders. The king turned to the scroll he was still holding in his hand, his eyes skimming the words on it.

  “We have been sent a message from an outpost of our blue militia, telling us of a man that shows great signs of magic. When we invited him to come to the keep to improve his skills, he resisted and while trying to escape killed one of our most loyal soldiers. Of course, we have to punish him, yet he is still valuable to us. Therefore, we have concluded that we won’t cripple his mind, as would usually be our punishment of choice, only his body. Still, we don’t want him to turn completely against us and our cause, so we have come up with an idea. Lord Lassadar has told us of your skill to slow down time itself, a very peculiar thing to be able to do. Now, while we have the prisoner whipped, we would ask you to slow down his experience of time, so that he feels the pain of his punishment longer than he would usually do. Certainly, you will understand that while this might cause him extra pain, it won’t leave as many marks on his body. We will only sentence him to fifty, not to the usual hundred lashes, if you manage to make the pain last longer for him. Therefore, you can use your skill to do something good today, even if it’s just for a prisoner.”

  Before I could even think about the implications of the king’s order, the large door opened and two guards entered, a thin man between them. He was being dragged along, his legs too weak to support his starved body. Blond hair hung in thick strands over his face, hiding his eyes from me. His clothes were in tatters, no more than rags. The two guards stopped beside me and Lassadar, and bowed, then dropped the man on the cold stone floor. He didn’t move, yet his chest lifted and fell with each laboured breath. For a second, I heard Jon Reaving’s voice in my head, reciting all the herbs that would help this man, but this was not a case for a healer. It was a case for a torturer.

  Don’t do it, the peryton pleaded.

  I don’t intend to. Not long ago, I was in the same situation as him, being kept in the dungeons like an animal. Nothing the King says can change that. I won’t help him make this poor man suffer even more.

  Good.

  Another man entered the room, carrying a large wh
ip in his hand. Black leather encased his large shape; the upper half of his face was hidden behind a mask, highlighting fleshy lips over a badly shaved chin. Bowing deep to the king, he carried a footstool into the middle of the room and with little effort, lifted the prisoner’s upper part of the body onto it. With a practised movement, he tore away the rags from the man’s back, exposing his skin. Without the shirt, I could see how thin he was, his skin was stretched over his protruding ribs. How long had he been in the dungeons? Had he been there at the same time as myself? Back then, I had sometimes heard the muffled cries of other people, the quiet mutterings of prisoners gone mad, the hopeful cries for help of those new to their fate. It had been worse than the endless sound of dripping water that followed me even into my dreams. Worse than the days I went without food. It was not the sound of their cries, but the imagination of what was happening to them, and whether it could happen to me. I shivered with the thought of how hopeless I had been, how prepared to die by refusing to eat the sparse meals I was given. I had been as close to death as I had ever been before. I could still feel the coldness inside of me, the icy feeling of desolation and hopelessness, huddled up within myself. The fearful and lonely Eona that had been imprisoned still existed within the pampered, well-fed Eona that I was now. I thought she had gone away, leaving me with my books and new found self-confidence, but seeing this man lying on the floor, arms stretched out over the footstool, waiting to be tortured, was too much. The memories crashed into me, and for a moment, I was no longer in the king’s throne chamber, but back in my cold prison cell, shivering in the dark.

  Safe. You’re safe. Not in past. Come back.

  Softly, the peryton’s voice carried to me, giving me a lifeline that I grabbed. Slowly, I began to notice my surroundings once more, leaving the memories behind. Lassadar was staring at me, a strange look on his face. The King was talking to the torturer whose contented smile was almost too much to look at.

  “Are you well?”, Lassadar whispered. I nodded, feeling unable to speak. The only thing I wanted right now was to leave this hall and go back to my own room, to be alone with my thoughts. I felt raw, injured by the sudden wave of memories that had overwhelmed me in a way I had not seen coming. Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I pinched my upper arms in a desperate try to anchor myself in the present.

  “Eona, you may begin now”, the King ordered. “We will wait a few minutes for you to prepare, then we will order the flogging to be carried out.”

  What should I do now? I would not help the King torture this poor man, yet I could not outright refuse without drawing his wrath to myself.

  I nodded and closed my eyes, pretending to focus on slowing down time. Instead, I felt for the man’s consciousness. High walls towered up in front of me, impregnable, but beautiful. Their black stone shimmered slightly. I called out in my mind, trying to make him know that I was there. A tiny tendril of awareness came through the castle gate, carefully trying to sense my intentions.

  I’m not here to hurt you. They want me to stop time so that you will suffer increased pain, but I won’t do it. I will try the opposite, making time faster for you so that it will be over more swiftly. However, you will have to pretend that you’re in great pain, or we will both suffer for our disobedience. Do you think you can do that?

  I felt assent emanate from the walls.

  I drew back into my own body and focussed on my breathing, before accessing my power reserves deep within. The mirroring lake was as beautiful as always. I basked in the view of it before imagining a large clock. Instead of shackling its hands, as I would usually do, this time I willed them to go faster. They took up speed faster than I wanted them to, and suddenly a minute was as short as a second. Panicking, I stopped the clock once more, leaning against the flow of the hands with all my strength. I felt my energy leaving me, but once the hands had stopped their run around the clock face, I could breathe again. I opened my eyes. The torturer had not yet started the flogging, he was looking expectantly at the king, waiting for a sign. Lassadar was looking at me, his face an unreadable mask.

  “It didn’t work, I don’t think I can make time slower for anybody but myself.”

  “I think you haven’t tried hard enough,” Lassadar said gravely. “Try again.”

  I nodded obediently and closed my eyes once more. Before I could centre myself, I suddenly felt a sharp pinch on my right forearm.

  Ouch! the peryton complained. I opened my eyes, but there was no one touching me. I looked up at Lassadar, who was smiling slightly while holding the peryton in his strong grip. Two of his fingers were encompassing his right foreleg.

  Did he hurt you?

  Yes!

  “I’m sorry,” Lassadar then said, “I must have gripped the little thing a bit too tightly. He’s still so thin, there’s no flesh on his bones yet.” Indeed, Lassadar was right, the peryton was very fragile. Yet I hadn’t realised that our link went deep enough that I could feel his pain. I would need to think about this later.

  “Try again,” the King commanded, sounding slightly irritated.

  Once more, I reached out for the calm lake within me and began to divert some of the energy inside it. This time, I first extended my awareness until I felt the consciousness of the prisoner, then wrapped myself around it, until I encompassed him completely. Again, I imagined the large clock and its ever-moving hands. Keeping my hold on the prisoner, I began to increase the hand’s speed.

  But why was I doing something that did not comply with Lassadar’s wishes? Surely, I should do what he wanted, after all that he’d done for me. Surely, he knew what was best, he was much wiser than me. I began to slow the hands again, and more, and more, until they were creeping around the clock face, no faster than a grapevine snail. I felt a slight nudge of the peryton’s thoughts, but they came from far away and I pushed them out of the way. This was more important, this was something that I did for Lassadar and the King. It was right. I began to feel the time syrup surrounding me, a thick mixture of air and frozen time, warming me. Feeling how far the syrup extended, I noticed that the prisoner was also enveloped in it. We were in this together. Through the fog, I could hear voices talking, but my time stream was too slow for me to hear them. We waited for a long time, I had almost forgotten what for, when the flogging began. The sound of the whip cutting through the air was like a high-pitched humming that was stretched out in time. When the leather hit the prisoner’s skin for the first time, he did not make a sound, yet his consciousness, still in my mental grip, cried out in pain, so close, that I could feel it too, not as intense as he did, but enough to make me wish for it to stop. But there was no end to it, slash after slash went down on the poor man’s back, and with each stroke, I felt more of his pain. Soon, he was crying out, both in his mind and his body, and with each hit, it became more of a screech, one that went right down into my heart and filled me with despair. I lost count of the strokes, needing all my energy and resolve to keep the clock hands restrained.

  Suddenly, there was no more energy to draw from, I had depleted my reserves without even noticing. The shackles fell from the clock, and the link between the prisoner and me broke. The pain left, yet I remained curled up on the floor, unable to move as wave after wave of tiredness washed over me, drowning me, until I was drifting, not quite awake, not quite asleep. And still, there were the cries of pain that shook my heart, yet with each stroke, they were getting more and more quiet. Drifting, I found the link to the peryton, half-severed, but I could not remember how that might have happened. I had no energy to mend it, but I tried to reach him through it anyway. There was only silence. Then, a tiny voice, as bewildered as it was accusing.

  How could you do that?

  I woke up in my soft bed, having had a horrible nightmare that I could not remember. The autumn sun sent a few lonely rays of light into my room. I had slept all night, but I was not waking up refreshed. My body hurt, and my mind was foggy somehow, my thoughts scrambled and troublesome. Something had happe
ned, yet whether it had been a dream or reality, I could not say. Ever since I had helped Lassadar and King Gynt with the torture of the prisoner two weeks ago, I had slept poorly, either being unable to fall asleep in the first place or being haunted by nightmares that I could not remember. The lack of sleep made me short-tempered and irritated, and even though I knew that sometimes I was not behaving as I should, I didn’t care. For the last two weeks, I had been invited to Lassadar’s study once, sometimes even twice a day, and he had tried to teach me more control of my magic. Tried, because I had made little to no progress. I could not light a fire with my thoughts alone, trying to levitate items only made my head hurt, and even though I had hated to disappoint Jon, healing was something else that I had no talent for. He had taken me to the hospital wing and explained that some magicians were able to mend flesh and bones simply by laying their hands onto the injured area. I had tried, really, I had, but nothing had happened. I could feel the injury beneath my hands as a throbbing red pain, but I couldn’t heal it, only observe the pain the patient was feeling. When Jon had introduced me to a patient with severe burns stretching from his hip all the way down to his feet, I felt the burnt flesh as a heat simmering beneath his skin. I had laid my hands on it, imagining cool air coming to ease the heat, but suddenly, the flames beneath the injury had grown bigger, the heat had increased, out of control, until the man had cried out in pain. I had stepped back, shocked by what had happened. It had been an accident, in my rational mind I knew that, but still I accused myself of causing the poor man more pain than he already had to suffer. That had been the last time Jon had taken me to see his patients, and I was glad that he hadn’t. I was a liability; it was far too easy for me to cause other people pain. As punishment for myself, I refused to allow myself to spend some more time with Jon in his laboratory or herb garden, even though my heart yearned for his company. He was someone who didn’t expect anything from me, not like Lassadar, whose pressure and impatience were taking their toll on me. It was easy to talk to Jon, we always found something to talk about. There were no uncomfortable pauses in between topics with him, no ambiguous statements, no ill feelings between us. But I didn’t deserve his company. I was evil, I had killed a man, tortured another, and caused pain wherever I went.