The First of Shadows

by Deck Matthews

  “Hammerfall’s a strange place for an apothecary.”

  “Maybe not,” replied the magister, adjusting the tight braid draped over her shoulder. “He specialized in salves for burns and a form of incense that's supposed to cleanse the lungs. It seems to me the smiths and metal workers around here might pay good coin for that. They also say he studied with the physickers at Dawn's Ring when he was younger, but never took the vow.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Not that we know of. Perhaps he didn’t want his work directed by the Sanctum.”

  “Sensible.”

  “I’ll ignore that comment, sir.”

  Avendor stifled a smirk. Magisters were advisors and administrators, but they were also Devoted of the Sanctum. Some days, it was too easy to forget that. “And I’ll pretend to believe you. What do you think happened here, Sherl?”

  “Hard to say. At first glance, it looks like a struggle, but when you take a closer look—well, it doesn't look like he was harmed by anyone but himself.”

  Avendor nodded and knelt beside the body. There was no sign of injury; no lacerations or bruising. Instead, raw and reddish stripes fringed the man’s eyelids. His pupils were overly dilated, and all the veins beneath his pale skin had turned the colour of ash.

  “Looks like a burnout,” said Avendor.

  “I’d have to agree.”

  “And what do you make of that?” He pointed across the room, to where a strange mound of something like human flesh lay on the remains of a broken cot. It was oddly formless, covered in olive skin and coarse black hair. If there had been a navel, the entire mass would have looked much like a disembodied gut—except it was far too large to have ever been part of any human body.

  “Couldn’t say, but it’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Likewise,” lied Avendor. In truth, he had seen stranger things, in another life with another name.

  Crossing the room, he placed one hand on the mass. It was cool and waxy. The corporal drew the small dagger from his side and ran the edge along the surface. It split as easily as skin. Blood oozed up from the laceration like gleaming, scarlet oil. He heard Sherl retch.

  “That is absolutely vile,” she said.

  “Indeed,” muttered Avendor, glancing back toward Ramsey’s body. “So, we’ve got a burnout and this… thing. Think they’re related?”

  “It seems likely.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Hearthborn doing anything like this?”

  “No. Though I’m certainly no expert in all matters of the Flame.”

  “Nor am I.” Avendor was Emberborn himself and had been forced to sit through lectures from the Kadir Monks during his youth. They'd told him it was for his own good. He couldn't remember them discussing anything that would explain what faced them here, though he didn't suppose the monks would be keen to share every possible evocation. “We'll have to consider the possibility, I suppose.”

  Sherl frowned. “It smacks too much of a renegade.”

  Avendor considered the possibility. “It would be a bold choice to hide in Taralius, under the very nose of Sanctum—or a foolish one. Unfortunately, the world is full of the bold and the foolish.”

  The magister’s frown deepened. “I dislike the thought, but it’s not unreasonable. Whatever the cause, however, the simple fact is that Ramsey’s burned out and we have a body on our hands. And he’s not the first, sir.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Avendor, thinking back five days to when they had hauled Fendor Tam out of his forge. Two days later they’d found the galewright, Raleigh Kellington, in her room at The Shrieking Gale, surrounded by empty bottles of rosewine. Each body had looked much like Darlan Ramsey’s, with the same dilated eyes and ashen veins.

  “Coincidence?” he asked.

  Sherl’s eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t think so either.” He sighed, palming his forehead and pinching his temples. “I’m not sure I like the implications.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let's double the patrols, just to be certain.”

  “Not sure you have enough men for that.”

  “Talk to Corporal Reed. See if we can’t borrow a few bodies from Fourth.”

  “The captain won’t like it.”

  “The captain doesn't like anything—and me least of all. We'll do it first and deal with the fallout later.”

  “You might have to deal with it now, sir,” said a voice.

  Avendor turned to find Colyn Lanarton standing at the door. The young guardsman's normally handsome face had a sour look about it.

  “Captain Edimus is coming down the street, and he doesn't look happy.”

  “Does he ever?” muttered Avendor.

  Sherl smirked. Colyn shook his head. Moments later, Edimus Tennson stormed through the door with all of his usual bluster, nearly breaking it from its hinges. The black and scarlet cloak of the Ember Guard billowed about his feet. Dark eyes glared out from beneath a sharp brow, scanning the room. He looked over the scattered vials, broken glass and fleshy mass. Oddly, his gaze came to rest on the body of Darlan Ramsey last of all.

  “Hells,” he grunted. “I heard the rumours but hoped it wasn't true. What happened here, Corporal? Murder?”

  “It appears to be a burnout, sir.”

  The captain shook his head. “Impossible. Darlan Ramsey was one of the most careful men you’d ever meet. There’s no way he’d let himself burn out.”

  “Take a look for yourself.” Avendor gestured toward the body.

  The captain glowered, but took a step forward and knelt beside the dead man. His fingers traced the marbling of veins beneath the skin. He muttered quietly to himself and closed Ramsey's sightless eyes. Habit and instinct caused Avendor to listen, but the captain spoke too softly to hear.

  “Well, ashes and bloody embers,” he said aloud, standing and turning back to Avendor. “I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. You called the Monks?”

  “No, sir.”

  “See it done. They'll surely want to take possession of the body. I'll expect a full report, Corporal. I want all the details, in case those Sanctum dogs come hounding me.”

  Avendor felt Sherl tense, but the captain seemed oblivious to her indignation.

  “While you're at it, submit a full roster of the Second.”

  “Sir?” asked Avendor.

  “I’ll be commandeering a dozen of your number.”

  “But, sir. I was going to request additional forces to help secure Hammerfall. This is the third death in the past two weeks and—”

  “It's a burnout,” said the captain, his eyes narrowing into an all-too-familiar scowl. “You said so yourself.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  The captain turned to Sherl, acknowledging her for the first time. “Magister, you're Sanctum trained, so I can only assume you're that much wiser than Corporal Tarcoth here. Can a man be forced to burn out? By any external means?”

  “No.” Sherl’s frown was nearly deep enough to match the captain’s scowl.

  “Then it’s settled. Sad and unexpected as it is, Ramsey did himself in. End of story. We’ve got the Assembly starting in nine days, which means we’ll have heirocrats converging from all over the Realm and packing into the Upper City. We’re undermanned up there as it is. With all that blue blood, we need more men and they need to come from somewhere.”

  “What about the Fourth Company? We could—”

  “This isn’t a discussion!” thundered the captain. His cheeks flushed nearly to the colour of wine. “You get me that report and roster before the end of the day, Corporal, or there’ll be hellsfire.” Without another word, he turned on one heel, swept past Colyn and stormed out of the shop. The door echoed as it slammed shut.

  A stunned silence hung over the room. Avendor clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to speak. A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind. None were pleasant. Most were violent. All focused on Edimus Tenns
on. He pushed them away with a certain reservation. The captain of the Ember Guard was a thorn in Avendor's side, but it was a thorn he'd need to endure. It was part of the price he’d agreed to pay in exchange for his life.

  “That was uncalled for,” said Colyn. “To speak to you that way—”

  “Is entirely within his right,” said Avendor.

  Colyn frowned. “That doesn’t make it right. Sir Seamus would never have spoken to you that way. He’d never speak to anyone that way.”

  “That might be, but Sir Seamus is dead, may the Mother nurse his spirit, and the Queen raised Edimus to the rank of captain. She didn't consult us on the matter.” At least not all of us. “We may not like it, but that's the way of things.”

  “I just don’t understand why he seems to hate you so much.” The anguish in the younger man’s eyes was touching, if somewhat unwarranted, in Avendor’s view. “You’re a good man, Corporal.”

  Me? Not nearly as good as you think, boy.

  “Some men are just born with malice in their blood,” said Sherl.

  She met Avendor's gaze with a knowing glance that made him grateful magisters were trained in the arts of statecraft—including the secrets of diplomacy. He wasn't fool enough to believe that Sherl was in any way ignorant of his issues with Edimus. He suspected she felt much the same way. But she also understood that feelings had little to do with duty. The captain had given his orders. It was Avendor's duty to see them through.

  “We have work to do,” he said. “Colyn, spread the word to the rest of the company. Let them know that some of the men might be joining the First in the Upper City. And have everyone keep an eye out for anything unusual in Hammerfall.” He glanced at the body of Darlan Ramsey, then to the strange mass of flesh. “Also, see if you can’t get someone to look at that. Preferably a physicker. I want to know what it is and where the hells it came from.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young guard saluted briskly before taking his leave. He closed the door with a gentler hand than the captain had.

  “Good man,” said Sherl when he was gone. “He’ll go far, I think. He looks up to you.”

  “His mistake,” grumbled Avendor.

  “Perhaps.” The faintest hint of a smile touched the magister's lips. “Shall I get to work on that report?”

  Officers in the Ember Guard often came from a military background and were not always fully literate. It was one of the reasons they frequently enlisted magisters. It was also one of the several ways that Avendor felt so different from many of his peers. He could read and write well enough, but Sherl still always made it her duty to take many of the burdens of reporting from his shoulders.

  “I’ll handle it,” he said, “and you can put together the roster. We’ll get through it faster that way. Best keep the captain happy if we can.”

  “Might as well try to bottle the Last Wind, sir, but consider it done.”

  “Thank you, Sherl.” He paused. “For everything.”

  “Certainly, sir.” She turned to go but hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. “And for the record, sir, I do believe that young Lanarton is an excellent judge of character. In several respects.”

  Then she was gone, leaving Avendor alone in the apothecary’s shop. He glanced at Darlan Ramsey again, then surveyed the rest of the room. He sighed and shook his head in resignation. “What a flaming, bloody mess.”

  Evening vespers were growing increasingly difficult to endure. The years had chased away even what small comfort Tiberius Alaran had once found on the old, padded pews in the Hall of the Devoted. His aging bones seemed to feel every dried and twisted knot of the ancient wood. His legs were cramping, and his left heel had developed an irritating itch that he could not hope to scratch without removing his shoe—hardly seemly behaviour while the Primearch of the Sanctum was addressing the gathered Devoted.

  “And so,” Renlyn Cornthal preached, “as the Guardian protects us and the Mother nurtures us, so the Judge commands us to foster true justice in all that we do.”

  The Primearch's voice carried up to the vaulted ceiling and, in a trick of architectural acoustics, echoed down so that it seemed to descend from the heavens. Tiberius found it difficult to focus—and not just because of his itch. At sixty-two years of age, he'd heard this same message more times than he could count. It was a simple sermon, dedicated to the virtues of truth and justice, but entirely too predictable in its structure.

  Eventually, he gave up trying to follow along. It was one of the advantages he’d found in his blindness. Nobody expected him to be watching the Primearch, and few knew him well enough to gauge the subject of his attention at a mere glance. He sat and listened to the sounds around him. A tapping boot. A sickly cough. Murmuring whispers and hushed snickers, too quiet to reach the dais, but loud enough for Tiberius to catch the undertones of derision toward the young Primearch.

  Come to his mantle too young, he thought bitterly. Truth and justice? Admirable virtues in themselves, but all too uncommon here, where they should be found in abundance. Tiberius sighed to himself. Even now, seated in his usual place near the back of the hall and surrounded by monks and arbiters, magisters and allsisters, physickers and many of his fellow sages, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was but one amid a den of vipers.

  Such thoughts are unworthy of me. There were good men and women in the Sanctum. That he counted the Primearch himself among them was a miracle of the Nine. It only seems that the best of us go out into the world, while those of us who remain behind plot and scheme and struggle. Tiberius did not envy Renlyn Cornthal the thankless labour of holding it all together.

  “We must continue to be of one mind. One heart and one accord, under the guidance of the Nine.”

  Ah! The section on unity. All building to his final point now.

  “For it is only in our unity that we can be an instrument of truth, and only through our harmony that we can be a mirror for the divine. Let us beseech the Nine, my children.”

  Tiberius had to give the Primearch credit. Where the simplicity of his sermon left it feeling stale and contrite, the quality of his prayer was refreshing. It too was a simple thing, but earnest and heartfelt in a way that reminded Tiberius of why he’d cast his ballot in the face of tradition.

  That was a thought for another time. For now, he wanted nothing more than to return to his private apartments and savour a cup of hot chai. He remained in his seat until most of the others had filed from the hall. When the humdrum of the exodus had died down, he grasped his staff and pushed himself to his feet. His knees creaked, and his back was slow to respond, but he managed to force himself into a mostly upright position. He'd taken only a few steps when he felt a familiar presence at his elbow.

  Ferris Tanmark smelled of oiled fur and rich, spiced meat. It was a unique fragrance within the Sanctum, where residents were typically clad in garments of wool and cotton, and sustained themselves with simpler flavours. But then, Ferris was no Devoted. He was a Karinth magus, and they had a somewhat different outlook on life.

  “You southerners,” he intoned softly. “You spend so much time telling each other what to think, and far too little time doing the thinking. Even after more than a year among you, I find that I cannot accustom myself to it.”

  Tiberius grinned. “I know what you mean.”

  Officially, Ferris was an ambassador to the Sanctum, sent down from the magi and the Stone Seat in response to an invitation from the Primearch. Tensions had been high between the Sanctum and the Stone Seat for several decades. Cornthal sought to bridge the gap. In reality, however, Ferris was little more than a political prisoner. The Primearch made what time he could to confer with the magus. Otherwise, Ferris was generally shunned or coldly tolerated by most of the Devoted.

  Tiberius found it all petty and childish. He'd had the opportunity to meet and converse with several magi over the course of many years. Many were among the wisest and most knowledgeable men he had ever known—including his brethren at the Tower. He'd in
vited Ferris to sup with him one evening and been delighted to discover that they shared many of the same intellectual interests. Soon, they'd fallen into a comfortable working relationship that the sage liked to think made Ferris' time in the Sanctum somewhat bearable.

  “At any rate,” said the magus, “I’ve arranged for a carriage to take you back to your apartment. Allow me to escort you?”

  “I’ve been walking these halls since before your first melding, my friend. I think I can find my way.”

  Ferris chuckled. “No doubt, but surely you won’t deny me the pleasure of your company?”

  “By all means, then.” He allowed the magus to take him by the arm and lead him from the Hall of the Devoted, down a half-dozen steps and into the corridors of the Sanctum.

  The musty smell of old, oft-polished wood filled the air, accented by the fainter odours of vellum, ink and ceremonial incense. The tapping of Tiberius’ staff on the tiled floor was muted by tapestries that hung on many of the walls. It had been years since Tiberius had walked along the halls with his hands outstretched, allowing his fingers to glide over the soft linen fibres. He doubted that any of the hangings had been replaced. Change came slowly to the Sanctum.

  “How goes your research?” asked Ferris as they walked.

  “As frustrating as ever,” replied Tiberius. “It’s like clutching the shadow of the wind.”

  “Such is the nature of the Old Magic. It does not give up its secrets easily, I think.”

  “Too true.” Tiberius had spent most the past week cloistered up in his office, running his fingers along the carefully embossed pages of his books, feeling his way through texts that he hadn’t touched in years. He was seeking any mention of the Old Magic and its relation to the other forms of the arcania.

  Traditional wisdom held that there were six branches of the arcane arts. The Flame was the domain of the Relenian people. It was the Blessing of Mischa, the Great Rukthar, and the one true magic in the eyes of the Sanctum. The so-called heathen melding magics were practised by magi. There were also the mysterious power of the Midderlight, the magics of the Fey and the forbidden arts of Shadowcraft. The Old Magic was the sixth form. Ancient and unpredictable, it was also the only form that was rumoured to mix with the others.