Sworn To Transfer

would not beg.

The Shadow Mage watched her walk toward him impassively.

“You’ve done something so horrible, child,” she said, her voice dipping in pain. “How could you destroy your home? Your community?”

“This was never my home.”

He turned away from her and began to count off how many villagers stood before him.

“Ninety-five,” he said.

Looking back at the older woman, he continued, “Do you remember how many lashes I got for stealing that bread? How many days I was locked in that dank hole in the ground while the butcher boys stood over the grate at the top and pissed down on me?”

The carpenter stepped forward, dragging his leg. “I remember, Timmoris.” If he hoped for leniency the Weather Mage knew he looked at the wrong person.

Before he could continue, the innkeeper inserted, “We were wrong for that. So harsh a punishment for a young boy, but we had to set an example. You understand? An example for all the boys left behind without parents or guardians during the war. We could not just let you run wild.”

“How many?”

With a nervous and miserable glance at the innkeeper, the carpenter spoke, “Ten lashes and twenty-four days in the hole for what you stole.”

“Yes, for one loaf of bread.”

“An example had to be set.”

“An example?” he said, laughing cruelly. “I was always the example for failure in this town. Never good enough to have a family take me in, never good enough for my brother, never good enough to go to war.”

And then he stopped laughing. “Thirty-four. It looks like thirty-four is all I need.”

“Fire Mage, come forward,” commanded the Shadow Mage. And another man who the Weather Mage hadn’t seen before appeared from the shadows as if transported there. With a sweep of his hand, the Shadow Man ordered his creatures to finish off those not needed.

The shadow creatures stepped forward and the people were culled until only twenty-four men and ten women and children still stood. The innkeeper had been the last to die—she did so with dignity. Silent to the end, with eyes that judged the Shadow Mage for his crimes even in death.

He turned to the Weather Mage with Fire Mage by his side “Now, my pets. It’s your turn. Let’s see what you can do.”

“No, no!” shouted the Weather Mage. “I’ll have no part in this.”

The Fire Mage stood silently as if all life and resistance had been drained from his body.

“You’ll do as I say,” shouted the Shadow Mage. Reaching out with his power, he swamped the Weather Mage’s mind in living darkness, taking over every ounce of his control and inserting his own will.

Cringing as he felt the torment of the villagers wash over him in their agony, the Weather Mage watched while locked within his own mind as he called forth thunder and lightning side by side with the fire-calling mage. There was nothing he could do to stop it. To stop the torture and the pain. So much torment that they were sure to pass to the afterlife with the pain locked in their soul.

No one deserves to die like this.

And when the Weather Mage finally gave up trying to resist and sought to retreat into his thoughts—to block out the sounds of screams throughout the air, the smell of burnt skin and the taste of charred flesh on his tongue—he found that he couldn’t. He was forced into his experiences just as much as he was locked into his mind.

No wonder the Fire Mage had looked like the living dead if this is what he had experienced day after day under the Shadow Mage’s control. It was enough to shatter a person’s soul.

Before the day had ended, ten bodies lay on the ground in an orderly fashion with piles of ash just behind them. And the Weather Mage lay sobbing on the ground at the acts he had committed.

“Very good, my pets,” said the Shadow Mage soothingly, “I have one more task for you though.”

“We must build a signal. A signal to all of Algardis that they will never forget. But it must be special and it must be timed for effect,” he said with a cruel smile while reaching down to tilt up the head of the crouched Weather Mage.

Marcus looked up into the face of his tormenter with fury bright in his eyes as he clenched an angry fist.

What could he possibly want now? I’ve already tortured for him.

“What I want is an ever-burning fire, an inferno that will not die,” he said softly.

“I can’t do that,” the Weather Man said honestly, turning to look over at the convalescent Fire Mage.

“Oh, I know,” the Shadow Mage said with glee, “but here is what you can do.”

When he finished his instructions, the Weather Mage closed his eyes.

Chapter 9

As they left the party and walked into the court gardens side-by-side, Ciardis couldn’t let the peace of the moment slip into her consciousness. Oh, she wanted to, how she wanted to, but all she could think of was the woman named Lily and what could have possibly forced her to give up a life as magnificent as the one Ciardis had now—death threats aside.

“Why would she leave?” Ciardis questioned with fierceness. “My mother had to be forced to. She had to be.”

The duchess chuckled. “My dear, your innocence—your love—of the Imperial courts is charming. The glamour, the politics, the history – it is all glamorous. You’re too young to see it, but the life here is a monstrous beast that will consume you. You think you have troubles now? They’ve only just begun.”

She paused and looked over at Ciardis. Brushing an errant curl back from the girl’s face, she gave her a smile that a mother would give her daughter. It was a sad smile, the kind of smile that said hope for the best, but expect the worst.

“Your mother had been planning to leave for years,” she said. “I should know—I was going to go with her.”

Ciardis stared at her, disbelieving. Recognizing her disbelief, the duchess said, “Let me tell you a story. A story of life in the courts under Emperor Cymus. The late emperor was a large man. Robust in his taste for life and his taste for women. His courts were magical for a young noblewoman. Parties every night until dawn, extravagant dinners for every occasion, and salons for just about everything you could think of.”

She sounded wistful. Ciardis couldn’t blame her; it sounded wonderful.

“Court then was very different than it is now. Emperor Cymus ruled with a lax hand; nobles did as they pleased, mages knew no restrictions, and the court treasury was like the emperor’s treasure chest. He would gift loyal friends with gold and jewels in the morning and hand them titles at night. It was because of this lax hand that Algardis is in so much debt now, and I think the reason for the current emperor’s tight-fisted rule. But that is not of concern right now.”

She cleared her throat and continued, “Your mother, Lily, was born into this world of extravagance. She was the last, at that time, of a long line of powerful Weathervanes with a talent that made others green with envy. Her beauty, her power, and her grace made her the first on the list for every invitation and soiree. When she officially debuted at the courts, she was requested and accepted a position as lady-in-waiting to the empress, the current emperor’s mother. I, at the time, was Mistress of the Robes for her household and in charge of all of the ladies- in-waiting. Your mother was a vivacious young woman. We became inseparable. Even with our fifteen-year age difference we understood each other in many ways.”

Looking off toward Swan Lake, she said, “And in many ways, we didn’t.” The salon was still in full swing and laughter rang out over the lake.