Checking on the state of the Shadow Realm had become an obsession of hers over the past few months. If too much time passed without conducting a revival, sleep would not come. She had to know the Shadow Realm hadn’t been corrupted.
Her assistant, Vesla, had also been trained in this art, gray to her and black to others. Nyset ordered that if she died, Vesla would continue with the revivals and train her appointed second. The Silver Tower must keep watch upon the realms, even those hidden behind the veil of the land of the living.
She drowned her willful subjects in a bucket of water, just big enough to engulf a human head. Claw’s strong hand did the dark work while she would wait and wait, watching legs kick and arms flail. Even the most willing participants seemed unable to keep their bodies from fighting when thrust into an environment lacking air. She kept her notebook and stub of charcoal at the ready. Once the participant’s nervous system stopped revolting against the iron hand crushing the life from the body, she would count to fifteen.
Claw would then drag the limp body up. When the body chose life and the heart thumped and lungs heaved, she would listen. The participant’s mouth would work in a frantic stream, spilling out the images seen in the world beyond. She would smile, scratching notes about the luminous and bountiful Shadow Realm. Sometimes, the body would choose death and no amount of Phoenix healing would help it. A sacrifice of the few for the protection of the many, she rationalized.
The knowledge of these experiments was closely guarded. Only those in a simple laboratory room where the experiment was held knew of them. One young apprentice boy had told his friends, forcing her hand. She had sent Isa to silence him by taking his tongue. They knew the price for speaking of it would be high; had even signed a contract specifically stating their tongues, maybe more, would be taken if they violated it. She would protect the Shadow Realm and keep it a place where man would go to rest. Walter’s legacy would not die.
The rebuilding of the Silver Tower was well underway, though there was still considerable work to be done on the spires. It was starting to have some semblance of its former majesty. The gardens were finely manicured, merchants once again hocked their wares in the courtyard, and people streamed in and out of the Tower without fear. It had taken a few months to remove all the bodies, scrub all the blood and patch up all the marred stone. New decorations were procured, the Tower’s village rebuilt from the help of the realm, and the ancient bridge repaired. It was starting to look like a place where newcomers would view it with awe-struck eyes as she once had.
Her proudest addition to the gardens was a marble statue carved into the likeness of Walter, set in the center behind the gurgling fountain. He stood watch over the gardens, a replica of the Chains of the North held in his outstretched arm, the other with a stony sword of fire. The marble was gray with swirls of pink and reflected the sun from his eyes in the late afternoon. She had given him his eye back, wanting to remember how he looked before he had been disfigured. He loomed about the heroes of the past lining the perimeter of the gardens, those who’d made noble sacrifices thousands of years ago. She had commissioned an inscribed tablet below his knees that would tell the story of cleansing the Shadow Realm and slaying Asebor to future generations. It was an abbreviated version, but it was something. The full account could be read in a book she was working on, The Chronicles of Walter Glade.
Nyset had set off for some long needed rest. She’d purchased a modest house with the Tower’s deep coffers on the coast of Eagle’s Edge. The realm was indebted to the Tower and they knew it. Donations still came in droves. Most surprising of all, the most generous donations from Midgaard.
It was a perfect spot, the place she’d always imagined she and Walter would have lived out their days together. The place where she thought they would’ve raised children. She would make herself available for other men eventually, but that time was not yet ripe.
She sat on the edge of the bed in her smallclothes, peering at the pinched scars running up and down her arms. One arm was lit in a shaft of light coming in through parted shutters, curtains twitching open from the warm sea breeze. One scar looked like a puckered arrowhead, one long and white going from wrist to elbow, another the skin was bunched and twisted up from a burn. She liked them. They served as potent reminders of the time when Death Spawn freely roamed the lands. A thick white scar cut down from the top of her ear where it had once been severed, then knitted together with her own Phoenix healing. She reached for the back of her neck, fingers pressing into the figure-eight scar.
“Still there,” she breathed. It was a constant reminder of what the Shadow Realm once was, what it could become if it were not protected.
They had never found the Shadow princess, or heard any inkling of her whereabouts. It was a seed in the back of her mind, making her restless. Where had she gone? What was she doing? All she could do now was prepare and make sure future generations were prepared, for war would come again. She pushed the thoughts of the Shadow princess away. She was here to rest, to let her mind decompress, to let go.
The house was a long and simple rectangle with one big room. It had a few windows, a bed with a cotton stuffed mattress, a tall cabinet that served as pantry and dresser, and a small clay stove for cooking. It was a home stripped down to the bare essentials and perfect for some time away from the Tower where pomp and majesty reigned.
Here, she could let her guard down, be alone with her thoughts without Vesla urging her on to visit the nurse, her next meeting with so-and-so Duke, that Earl, and this wizard’s requisition for a new laboratory. She stretched her long arms up and yawned, her back and hips sore from riding from sunrise to sunset yesterday to get here.
A tingling pitter-patter of movement swept up from her womb and into her stomach. She smiled at her bulging belly and placed both hands around it, feeling a nudge against a fingertip. She couldn’t get used to how stretched and tight the skin felt around her sides.
“I see you too are awake, beautiful,” she said. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” She frowned down at her swollen bare feet.
Was her baby kicking enough? Perhaps too much? She thought it might have had four legs to account for its enthused kicking. Her child, Walter’s child, would be her last connection to him. She hoped it would look like him, hoped his memory would carry on in its features.
She had let her hair grow. It now fell over her swollen chest in a tangled mess. She twisted the golden strands up into a bun, a few stray locks curling around her ears and neck. Muscles in her back flexed as she worked out a knot in her shoulder. She moaned at the warm air coursing over her back through the window. It was a pleasing change from the cool air of the east.
She groaned as she reached down at the uneven floorboards and snatched up her robe, brown and unadorned, unlike the bright red, blue, and green gilded robes she wore at the Tower. Here, she wanted to blend in, wanted to look more like a thief than an Arch Wizard. She slipped on the robe, pushed her arms through and tugged it down over her belly, the cheap wool scratchy against her skin.
She pushed through the front door and the pleasant sounds of crashing waves reached her ears. The sun was burning bright over the ocean, making the amber sand of the beach glow. She squinted at the water and watched a white gull swirl between thermals, calling out. Her bare toes were cool against the sand where the roofline kept the sand in shadow.
She started for the shore and took a great breath of the salted air. A gust sent tendrils of hair tickling her neck. The shoreline was about a hundred feet away, the sand loose and shifting, already burning hot. Her waddle annoyed her, made it hard to move quick if she needed to, though there were always portals. She reached the shoreline where the waves crashed against the sand and bathed her feet in refreshing water.
She looked out over the ocean where the razor-thin band of water met the sky. Shreds of clouds tore across the blue in a sharp angle as if they had emerged from the sea and were drawn to the sun. There wasn’t a boat in sight. The Scaled
Peak, a volcano, stood from the water in a great cone, almost reaching the clouds, puffing out a line of curling black smoke. She thought she might have been able to catch the scent of its sulfurous payload.
She started walking north, watched a group of ten or so crabs skitter into the water as she drew near. She walked and walked for about an hour, snickering at her baby’s occasional kick, welcoming its company. The sun was warm against her back and the Abyssal Sea cooled her toes, now wilted from too much time spent wet. A line of sweat had soaked through her robes down the middle of her back. Seashells passed underfoot in shades of fire, some flat and ribbed, others conical and spiraling. A violet starfish bigger than her and with at least twenty arms had washed up on the sand some time ago, now a dried out husk. A spattering of violet was something that still gave her pause. It reminded her of Asebor’s hellish eyes.
She passed other houses like hers, about a quarter mile apart, but all seemed unoccupied. The houses stood before a wall of beach grass about six feet tall, shifting and swaying in the breeze. She spotted the occasional sinuous footpath that wound through the wall of grass, eventually leading to narrow roads. She had yet to see another soul, so she peeled her robe off and started walking in her smallclothes. The sea air was relaxing and even the baby seemed to wriggle a bit less.
She thought of what she would do to expand her office, where Claw should search next for Grozul, and which spell to teach the Dragon apprentices next. She thought lashes of fire might be good, perhaps a bit too advanced for her current class. The hard packed sand marched beneath her feet as she fell into her mind.
A whistle cut the air. The sort of whistle a man gives admiringly to a woman. She snapped from her mind, her eyes flicking up to see a bearded man sitting on a chair outside his door. He waved at her and she saw a grin behind his beard.
She felt her cheeks burning, remembering her robe bunched in her hand. She unfurled it and slipped it over her head, hot against her skin now. She waved back, smiled, and started walking towards him. She winced as her foot fell into a shallow hole, ankle turning with a spike of heat and pain. “Damn it,” she hissed.
“Watch out! The sands can be treacherous this time of year.” The man projected a laugh. “A most deadly landscape for ankles unsupported by boots!” He stood up, pushed his hips out, and sauntered over to her, a bottle of spirits swinging from one hand. He approached her with a drunken stagger. He chuckled after almost going head first into the ground, catching himself with a dexterous leg.
She embraced the Dragon, just enough to burn a man to ashes. One could never be too cautious, Walter always said.
“A lovely day! Look at that glorious sky, would you?” the man called. He was barefoot, navy pants rolled up above his knees, his ragged shirt soiled and unbuttoned, showed a hairy round belly bigger than hers. A gemmed sword sat unsheathed against his hip, hanging from a loop of leather. She was amazed the fellow hadn’t managed to slice himself open. An overgrown beard shrouded his face, showing only his keen eyes, sizing her up.
“It’s beautiful.” Nyset gestured back, though never took her eyes off him, and smiled. They drew close now, about ten paces apart. “I see you know how to enjoy it.”
“Indeed, I do, my lady. Would you care to join me? Not for drink of course, seeing you’re with child. I’m sure I can procure another chair from a neighbor…” He peered around, seeming unsure of where exactly his nearest neighbor was at the moment. “Or maybe we can warm each other’s beds for the evening or afternoon? Whichever it is.”
She recognized him then. Recognized those appraising dark eyes. It was Scab, the mercenary who’d betrayed Walter and taken a bribe from a member of the Wretched. She jutted her chin and stared into his face, waiting for him to recognize her. His eyes came back to hers and narrowed. He flinched, his mouth parting for an instant before deftly recovering. His eyes were wrinkled and lips cracked with sunburn.
Scab knew who she was, no doubt. Her first reaction was to seize him and put him in bindings, drag him out to the Tower for a swift trial and proper punishment. She wanted to see how he would react to her.
“I-I don’t see any other chairs now,” he said and took a sip from his bottle. He offered it to her.
“No, baby. Remember? And I like to keep my wits about me. Never know who you may run into out here, eh?”
“Ah, yes, life can be fortuitous…” he trailed off, looking past her and out at the ocean.
“What’s your name?”
“My name?” Scab’s eyes shifted back to hers, regaining focus.
“Yes, your name. You must have one. Don’t you?” Nyset shielded her eyes from the sun glinting from Scab’s bottle with one hand, the other planted on her hip.
“Of course, Edsel’s my name, wanderer of the sands,” he said with a nervy chuckle.
“Edsel,” she scoffed. “I won’t give you my name because you already know it. Did you ever doubt that I would find you?”
Scab’s throat worked with a swallow. “No, not I, Mistress.” Scab gave a broad smile, showing his teeth black with rot. “And yet, here we are. I am defenseless and you wield the fire of the Dragon.” He spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. “What will you do with me?”
“I only hold the Dragon now because it reminds me of where I’ve been, not because I intend to end you. Though, maybe I should. An Arch Wizard stands for peace, but we are no strangers to war if it must come to that.”
“Hah! Indeed, you are a fearsome woman. Walter was a lucky man, had to count his blessings for winning your affections, I always told him. That his child?” he pointed at her belly.
“Our child,” she corrected with a nod. Nyset cocked her head. “Did you? Before or after you abandoned him to Alena?” It felt like it had been years since she’d last seen Walter. It felt like that life was a dream, a different world. Now she had awoken and life marched on.
Scab took a long swig from his bottle, emptying its contents down his throat. “We all make mistakes, Mistress. I live out my days here, knowing full well there are few years left in this old body. The few people I’ve met here don’t like me for some reason.”
“That is surprising.” Nyset frowned. A soft breeze sent her robes curling over her sticky arms and back, and she felt sand tickling at her ankles. The baby shifted and sent butterflies over her skin.
“What will you do with me, Mistress?” Scab said, his voice almost pleading.
“I suppose I should bring you back to the Tower for a trial.”
“A trial?” Scab sucked his teeth.
“But I’m going to let you go.” Nyset nodded as if approving of her decision.
“You-you are?” Scab winced as if struck. “Or maybe you don’t want to kill me looking you in the eye, is that it? But no, that isn’t you.” Scab scratched at his mangy beard.
“I am, and you’re right, everyone makes mistakes. So long as you stay out of trouble, I’ll leave you in peace.”
“The band has long been disbanded, no worries there, Mistress. And your assassins? Will I taste their blades in my sleep perhaps?”
“No, my assassins will leave you in peace too. Though I can’t let you walk away unharmed. I cannot say whether or not you will survive your wounds.”
He belched. “You can’t? What wounds? I’m not wounded…” Scab’s amber bottle slipped from his fingers, hitting the sand with a clunk, realization dawning. “But why?”
“Because you owe me a debt and debts must be paid. A mercenary should know that better than any other.” A disc of fire burst to light and whooshed past Scab. Blood sprang from his arm, severed at the elbow. The other half flopped to the ground, ringed fingers glistening with gems and blood. Blood on the sand shone for a second before being swallowed.
“You fucking bitch!” Scab fell to his knees, clutching his spurting arm. His rheumy eyes accosted her. “Without my help… you and your friends, Walter, and all would’ve died!” he yelled between pained gasps. “Without my help, there still’d be Death Spa
wn everywhere! Without—” He cut off as yellow vomit spilled from his mouth, heaving and choking on his pain.
Nyset jutted her chin and her eyes widened with the Dragon’s fury. “History will forever remember you as the betrayer of Walter the Shadow slayer. It will be immortalized in every tome. You will always be remembered as a scoundrel until the end of days.”
She raised a glowing hand. A spear of white fire tore from her palm, hissed through Scab’s eye and out the back of his skull. Scab let out a surprised squawk. His legs jerked and kicked up sand, his jaundiced hand pressing over his scorched eye. He hit the ground with a thud and blood oozed from the back of his skull. Air rattled from his lips.
“As I said, I’m not sure if you will recover from your wounds.”
Scab’s remaining eye violently twitched.
With that, she turned around, started off down the shoreline.
Scab lay there dying and even might’ve once croaked for her help, but no help would come. Nyset walked away and felt like a great weight had been lifted from her back. Some said revenge only left you hollow. Forgiveness, even for ones enemies, was a Tower virtue she had to embody, but not today. If Walter had fallen before he’d killed Asebor and the Shadow god…” She shivered. That was a world she didn’t want to imagine. A world that might have been if Scab’s gambit succeeded.
She had this world now. The sky was a glittering dome. A few gulls lazily squawked at each other and coasted on the salt-tanged air. Small waves formed and re-formed in ripples and shimmers.
It was a beautiful time to be alive.
To be continued in Ascending Shadows - Book 6 of The Age of Dawn.
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A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5) Page 54