by Kady Cross
Ben and Buck started up the track again, the protective ring of magic Mistral had activated moving with them. It was a strong working, and one he kept charged at all times. Easy enough, since his element was everywhere. Life itself. Or the potential.
The product of a Dark mage mating with a captured seraph, Mistral was unlike any other creature in the world. Half neomage, his other half captured seraph, he was a creature of neither Light nor Darkness, but of the space between. He clung to that knowledge. Neither side had claimed him, nor would anyone else. He might be a slave, but he’d never be one of them.
He drew his power from the air, from the fertility of the ground, from water, even stone. When he drew down hard, he not only killed everything around him, he sterilized it forever. He made a habit of sipping his way through the world, stealing nibbles of life here and there where the taking did little harm.
Mistral smiled. He could suck evil dry just as fast as anything else, whether the evil came from the Most High, the Darkness trapped underground, or the daywalker that hunted him now. Which was why his dragon master had him watched and made him return at the end of every season to remind him who he served. And to breed with whatever creatures his master splayed in front of him.
So far Mistral had proved sterile, for which he was eternally grateful. Not that he gave thanks to the Most High, or the Most Low, for that matter.
They’d not gone much farther up the rutted road — perhaps a mile—when Ebet emerged from the shadow of a tree. He moved into the center of the road to face Mistral, his movements flickering fast. The daywalker was inhumanly beautiful, with black hair that hung to his waist and a lithe, muscular body. They were all of a kind—black hair, slender, piercing eyes, and Michelangelo faces. And evil.
"“You are late for your lessoning,"” Ebet said, his voice sweet as a clarinet. "“The master grows anxious."”
"“The roads washed out south of the delta. I was trapped on the wrong side."” The floods and delay were not news. Nor did they make the delay forgivable.
Ebet dipped his chin, a slow, vicious smile curving his mouth. "“I am to remind you to hurry."” He lifted his hand and held it out. Dangling from his fingers was a collar.
Mistral blanched despite himself.
Ebet saw and his smiled widened into a dimpled grin, revealing his too-long canine teeth. The only outward mark of what he was, aside from the red flickering in the depths of his eyes. "“I asked the master to let me bring it to you myself. And to make sure you put it on. Come now. It’s time."”
Mistral’s hands clenched tight on the lead ropes. Refusal to put it on would invite worse punishment.
Uncurling his fingers from the ropes, Mistral let them go. A word anchored them to the dirt. The mules might bolt with what happened next. They were safer here. From Ebet and from himself. The protective ward should last until the punishment was done. He hoped.
Mistral went back to the driver’s seat. There he removed his cloak and hat. His shirt was next. He removed his belt pouch and knives next, and finally his boots and socks. His master’s punishments tended to wreck good clothing. He’d only just broken in these boots. He didn’t remove the wide silver cuffs that circled his wrists. They anchored the spells hiding his true nature. Nor did he remove the collection of amulets he wore on the chain belt around his waist.
He turned and walked out of the protective circle. The bright light of morning sent lashes of agony over his exposed skin as he approached Ebet.
"“Kneel,"” the daywalker ordered. Eagerness danced in his eyes.
It took all Mistral had to lower himself.
The collar was made of hide, though of no animal that walked above ground. Copper threads picked out words that Mistral did not understand. The buckle was gold etched with arcane symbols. The daywalker put the collar around Mistral’s neck, drawing it tight enough to make breathing a struggle.
Ebet grinned. His pale fingers lingered a moment on the collar and he spoke a string of nonsense. Words of power taught to him by the master, Mistral knew. Words now only spoken among the Most High’s minions and the Fallen. Ebet likely had no idea what they meant.
That was his last coherent thought.
The master knew the art of pain—how to make it unbearable while tethering his victim to consciousness, how to loop time so that the torture spanned a year or ten while only a moment passed in this plane.
No words could describe Mistral’s suffering. He was slowly torn apart and put back together. Again and again. His skin was peeled away and his muscles were unstrung from his bones. His wings were broken into matchsticks and then uprooted from his back. Massive black talons skewered him. He should have died, but he did not. Nor did he cry out or beg, though he knew the master wished for it. Eventually the agony would give him no choice, but he’d keep his screams bottled up for as long as he could.
All the while he heard the guttural scrape of his master’s voice inside his head. You are mine. Never forget, puny worm. It’s almost time for you to become what you were born to be—a sword in my hand to fell the Most High and all his minions, to take back the world above and bend it to my rule. These chains will not hold me much longer. The dragon’s voice resounded through Mistral’s skull, echoing and crashing until he thought he might shatter.
He woke flat on the ground, his body drenched in sweat. The lash of the light seemed almost sweet after his master’s torment. Mistral rolled onto his back, ignoring the rocks beneath him. The glamour hiding his wings was more than a mere illusion—it made them invisible to others, certainly, but it also made them insubstantial so that he could wear clothing and sit in a chair. Right now he wanted nothing more than to remove the spell and shake out his feathers. He wanted to fling himself into the sky and feel the powerful sweep as he rose on the winds. It was always like that after his master came for him. He dreaded that one day the dragon would rip them away forever. He didn’t know if he could survive it.
Ebet stood over Mistral, nudging him hard in the ribs with his foot. "“Was it good, golden boy?"” he asked, voice thick with spite.
Mistral sat up. "“It was tolerable,"” he said, his smile doing nothing to hide the rage roiling in his gut.
The daywalker’s beautiful face twisted. "“Why you?"” he spat. "“I would have taken your gifts and been eternally grateful. But you shit on them and the master who gave them to you."”
Mistral laughed, a hash sound. ““Gifts? They are shackles, as you know well all too well.”” He touched the collar around his neck.
Ebet sneered. ““You need them. The Light has too much power over you. Your seraph blood makes you weak.”
Fury roared in Mistral. He clenched handfuls of dust, his throat working. “Neither Dark nor Light will ever make me bow,” he declared. “I’m no filthy cur to be trained and used. Not like you, who grovels in ecstasy at the dragon’s feet.”
Ebet’s hand flicked out in a blur, gripping Mistral’s throat. Pointed nails pierced deep into Mistral’s flesh. Five runnels of blood ran down his neck and bare chest. "“One day the master will decide that you aren’t worth the bother anymore. When that day comes, I will be there to help him destroy you."” He gave Mistral a hard shake, then flung him down onto the road again.
Mistral’s gray eyes flattened, hatred spiraling through him. "“I don’t think so."”
He grasped Ebet’s foot in a vise-grip and drew hard on the creation energy around him. Power struck him like an avalanche. He gasped. In an instant he was drunk, swollen with power and craving more. He dragged harder, a druggie searching for a better high. Energy electrified his body. His blood pounded and pulsed with unconstrained rapture. What couldn’t he do? The whole world was his for the taking, and neither the dragon nor the Most High could stop him.
The bray of the mules broke through his fog of euphoria and thrust a spike of ice through his chest. Recoiling, he made himself release the flow of power. He panted, his ribs bellowing. His body buzzed with stolen creation energy even
as disgust rolled through him. He’d given into the greed and arrogance of his blood heritage. If he wanted to kill Ebet, he should have done so with a knife. Drawing deep of creation energy— For a moment he thought he’d vomit.
Mistral clenched his jaw. What was done was done. He swallowed, forcing down the bile and shaking shook away his gray vision. He twisted to look at the mules. Relief crashed through him. The protection circle had kept them safe.
He drew a breath and looked at Ebet’s leg, still clutched in his hand. It was white-gray now, as was the rest of the daywalker. Dead lips pulled back in a snarl and his eyes stared wide. The ground beneath them both was powdery and white. The trees on either side of the road had blanched as well, the leaves stiff, the branches spreading above the road like finger bones. No bird would nest in them, no insect would burrow into their trunks, no flame would eat the wood.
The damage wasn’t so bad. Only about a twenty foot radius of sterility.
Buck snorted and pawed the ground. Mistral took the hint and clambered to his feet. He hoisted Ebet over his shoulder and strode into the trees. He deposited the daywalker’s body in a nearby ravine. Hopefully by the time someone found the body, Mistral would be long gone and they’d not connect it to him.
He found himself growing strangely dizzy as he returned to the road. By the time he reached his caravan, his heart raced and cramps forked through his chest. The wounds on his neck continued to bleed. He fumbled at the collar to remove it, tossing it on the floorboards. Flipping up the padded driver’s bench he fished out an old shirt and tied it around his neck to stanch the bleeding.
By the time he’d drawn his clothing back on, cold sweat turned his skin clammy and his hands trembled with palsy. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted of metal. What was wrong with him? But the answer came to him on the heels of the question. Ebet had poisoned him. Nothing else made sense. He touched his fingers to the wounds on his neck.
Mistral snarled and activated his Healing amulet. It was minor, meant for bone healing or small cuts. The one thing he couldn’t make for himself was a decent Healing amulet. He’d hoped to buy a good one on this journey, but hadn’t found any at the markets. He needed to get to Tarrytown before he passed out. He doubted their doctor could help him, but at least the mules would be safe.
2.
Tarrytown nestled in a flat-bottomed basin in the green coastal foothills, only a few steep forested miles from where Mistral had killed Ebet. The journey should have taken a quarter of a day. As it was, more than half had passed by the time the caravan crested the valley’s rim.
Sheep and cashmere goats pocked the green swath of the valley floor, mixed with a few horses and cows. The economy relied on yarns and weaving. The stone and brick buildings of the town sat square in the center, giving residents a long view of approaching visitors. Cottages and barns dotted the rest of the valley.
Mistral drove down the long road, his caravan rumbling over the wood bridge. A river ran swiftly below. He hunched on the driver’s bench, the reins looped around his wrists, his body drooping drunkenly. His feet were anvils, his fingers sausages.
He was hardly aware when the mules pulled to a stop outside Harvey’s general store across the road from the mill. Boots thumped on the wooden sidewalk.
"“Who is it?"” a man asked.
"“Looks like that tinker’s caravan. Woods, right? Mistral Woods?"” a woman answered.
Mistral thought her recognized her voice. Older, certainly, with a fierce note of no-nonsense determination. He fought to open his eyes, but they were crusted and far too heavy. Weight rocked the caravan as someone stepped up on the foot ladder.
"“What’s the matter with him? No, don’t touch him! He’s sick. What if he’s got the plague?"”
"“If he has, then it’s already too late for us,"” the woman said acerbically. Hands tugged at the make-shift bandage around Mistral’s throat. "“Anyway, he’s probably not sick. Looks like he’s been attacked. Help me get him down and call the doc."”
"“Doc’s gone out to the Loomis place,"” the first man said, closer now.
"“Take him back out to the edge of the valley,"” another man said. "“Don’t want his kind of trouble here."”
"“What kind of trouble would that be?"” the woman asked. "“Afraid he’ll bleed on you? If we don’t help him, he’s sure to die."” A cool hand pressed against Mistral’s forehead. "“He’s on fire."”
"“See there? He’s sick with more than just a wound,"” the first man said.
"“Now you’ve gone and done it, Nara,"” the second man said. "“You could be infected. You both have to be quarantined ’til the doc gives the okay."”
"“Feathers and locusts,"” Nara swore. "“Charles Flanders, your soul is shriveled as a raisin. You’d better go to kirk right now and pray for more charity."”
"“Ain’t about charity and you know it, Nara,"” came Flanders’ reply. "“The man might be carrying plague and if he is, then it’s either from the Darkness or he’s crossed a seraph. Either way, Tarrytown don’t need him waltzing it into our houses and bringing down the High Host’s anger on us."”
He pronounced Tarrytown as Tarton.
"“So you’d let him die?"”
"“If it be the Most High’s plan."”
"“Well, I sure as feathers don’t plan to die,"” Nara said. "“And I’m not going to let him either. The good book has something to say about letting others suffer and I mean to obey. Anyway, what if the Most High sent him to us for help and we don’t bother? What if helping him is the plan?"”
Mistral’s muzzy mind struggled to keep up with the back and forth. He remembered Nara March now. She was in her fifties, lean and muscular, abrupt, sharp as nails. She always got the better side of a bargain.
"“Best take him to your place, then,"” Charles Flanders said. "“Mind that you don’t show yourself again in town until the doc clears you. And Nara, if you and yours do die, have the decency to keep your bodies in the house so it’s easier to burn out the disease."”
Others chuckled and murmured agreement. Nara muttered under her breath epithets that would have caused the kirk elders to burn her at the stake.
"“All right, then,"” she said, dropping back down to the ground. "“Let’s go."”
Mistral heard her click to the mules. The caravan jolted as they started off.
Mistral did not remember arriving at Nara’s croft or anything after. Nightmares plagued him. The loathsome face of his dragon master. An enormous eye. Wormy tentacles tipped in razor mouths. A dripping, lipless maw.
The dream dragon raked Mistral with putrefied claws. The beast’s ulcerated tongue licked Mistral’s neck where the punishment collar had wrapped it. Acid ate deep into his flesh, bubbling and dissolving.
When he thought he must break, must lose himself in the pain and foul Darkness, the dragon spoke, the entire world rumbling with his anger. If you will not come to me, I will come to you.
At the end, he heard an explosive noise like a bomb. Like the world cracked in half. It send a shuddering chill through Mistral'’s gut, loosening his bowels.
The dragon had been working magic in secret and snapped his shackles.
Hell was on its way.
3.
Mistral woke and bounded to his feet, moving at mage speed. He spun around, gaze sweeping his surroundings. A bed, a small window, a dresser, a plank door, a fireplace. Woven rag rugs scattered across the floor. Light edged the curtains. He drew in scents and sounds. Nara and three other humans. Two human heartbeats sounded in the house, and a dozen smaller ones. Dogs or cats, rats or mice. He pushed his senses farther, feeling the hum and spark of life, sorting the bugs and grass and birds out and picking up two humans, sheep, hogs, horses, Buck and Ben, along with an assortment of smaller beasts.
His muscles contracted as he caught a faint hint of . . . something. Had Darkness arrived already? As he stood there, the ground shook, rattling the windows, the pictures on the walls, and the
lamps and candlesticks set around the room.
His heart thundered. Flee!
He made it to the door, hand on the handle, before reason rejected instinct. He could run. He could maybe even escape for a while. Buck and Ben couldn’t. Neither could Nara, who’d taken him in and nursed him. He owed. Out in the far west fringes, you didn’t take charity lightly. What was given was usually hard given. Too hard, if it meant he left her and her family to the bloodlust of the dragon and his Darkness. And the mules . . . they trusted him, depended on him. He’d never let them down yet.
If he were a true kylen or a true creature of Darkness, he wouldn’t care. But he did, and he clung to that, because it meant he hadn’t yet fallen to the blandishments of either side. Not that what they offered promised anything but pain and endless horror.
Mistral released the door and turned away. If he fled, he’d lose all he cared about. He’d lose what honor he could claim and open his soul to the evil of the Dark and the Light. He would become the monster they both wanted him to be. He’d be damned if he’d let that happen.
His mouth twisted. Damned indeed. But if he was going to Hell, or whatever the afterlife had in store, he wasn’t going there alone.
Mistral had been stripped to his underwear and he stank. His hair was stiff with dried sweat. A bandage circled his wounds. He pulled it down and checked the damage with his fingertips. The gouges from Ebet’s nails had scabbed over. His muscles ached and his legs felt watery, but the poison seemed to have passed from his system.
His clothing sat, clean and folded, on top of the dresser. His chain amulet belt lay on top. He examined them, touching each. They remained charged, except for the Healing amulet. He’d exhausted it before ever reaching Tarrytown.
Mistral dressed, clipping on the belt and tying down his knife sheaths. His hat, coat, and boots were nowhere to be seen. Scowling, he headed for the door.