“My sisters have sent me here for one reason and one reason alone,” she proclaimed. “We have received grievances against your empire.”
“Grievances?”
“
“Ambassador, I—
“Our grievance is not about peace. It is about the dead—the living dead. Souls trapped in this life while their bodies have gone to the next.”
She raised her wings and lifted her forelegs in the air. “I will rest in the guest quarters for my kind in your capitol city, Prince Heir. I will stay as long as needed to ensure this is addressed. But be warned: Our patience is limited.”
Without any warning she lifted off and flew into the skies. She was heading east toward Sandrin.
Ciardis was sure she wasn’t the only person left behind wondering what the hell had just happened. As she stared at Sebastian and he looked back at her, her confusion mirrored in his eyes, she got the feeling that life in the courts had just gotten a lot more interesting.
As the ship returned to port Sebastian pulled her aside. It was but a moment—to whisper a message in her ear. And then he left her standing still.
Chapter 4
As the ship docked back in the bay, the Weather Mage said proper goodbyes to his Imperial retinue and walked down the gangplank. Seeing that all of the carriages available at the dock were reserved for the Prince Heir, he decided to walk towards the wharf and see if he could find a tuk-tuk. Wiping his brow of the perspiration that had accumulated there, he lugged his heavy bag in one hand, breathing a sigh of relief that it was over.
Marcus hadn’t been feeling well all week and today was no exception. As he walked farther up the dock, a sharp pain in his head nearly drove him to his knees and he cried out.
None of the sailors surrounding him paid the least bit of attention. Most made sure they were looking in the opposite direction. A group of men off to the side coiling ropes near a docked ship began mumbling amongst themselves. These sailors were careful not to speak loudly enough for the stumbling mage to overhear them though.
“Just another drunk mage on the docks with one too many shots of whiskey in his belly”, said one.
“When they get drunk like that leave them be,” another replied, “The magic folk are nothing but trouble. Drunk ones are worse.”
One sailor with an oiled and pointed black beard grinned and bared a mouth full of rotten teeth as he brandished a long, curved blade, “This will show em what’s what.”
The first sailor to speak turned and spit over his shoulder – wishing away the foolish words of the man before him, “You couldn’t rob them because they’d set you on fire with their minds, but if you tried to help, they’d stiff you the minute they were well, their noses up in the air. Who needs that kind of grief?”
Their muttering continued as the Weather Mage staggered up the dock. He only paused once – a momentary lapse as another wave of pain hit him.
As he crouched in pain, the Weather Mage took deep breaths and looked around for a quiet place. He needed to take his medication and he didn’t want any onlookers interfering. Standing up, he raced toward the open doors of a large storage house. None of the workers were going near it as dusk fell, and it looked as if it had been recently emptied, straw everywhere and some smashed crates near the entrance.
As he hobbled into the building, the pain was getting worse—much worse than it had ever been before. He fell against a wall and slid down onto the dirty floor. Ignoring the state of his robes, he desperately fiddled with the clasps on his baggage. It was one of those confounded mechanical ones that kept thieves from getting into his prized possessions, but at the moment with his pain-clouded mind, it was only prolonging his misery. Finally getting the combination lock to unsnap using the symbols he’d set, the bag popped open with a distinct
Wasting no time, he dug into the depths until he found the vial he was looking for. Pulling it up out of the bag, he held it to his lips. In the darkness of the huge storage building, he couldn’t see the dark liquid that moved around inside the vial, but he knew it was there. As he pulled out the stopper, he reflected on how he’d gotten to where he was.
Months ago, after a debilitating headache had left him incapacitated for the fifth time in a week, he’d gone to the imperial healers for a sixth time. He was losing far too many shifts to stay in the emperor’s service much longer. The healers had muttered and chanted and probed, but finally had to explain that they couldn’t find any source for the headaches. He’d nearly cried when they’d pushed seeds of poppy into his hands again. The seeds weren’t working. They just made him drowsy.
Seeing the state he was in, the healer he’d come to see on his sixth visit - an old friend from the school for mages, had looked around and then leaned over to whisper, “This isn’t sanctioned, but I’ve heard stories.”
He’d hesitated.
The Weather Mage had grabbed the lapels of the healer’s coat and dragged him closer with bloodshot eyes. “What? A cure? For this malady?”
“Calm down, man,” the healer had said soothingly while unlatching the Weather Mage’s fingers from his coat. “Yes, in the markets. Healers, natural ones that get their training from the clans.”
“Hedge witches?” the Weather Mage had said, shrinking back in distaste.
“You may have no other choice.”
Taking the man’s written directions in trembling hands, the Weather Mage had gone to see the hedge witch in the local market. Down side streets and behind an alley, he finally found the rundown shack the man was supposed to be in. When he had entered, he was met by a foul smell and a shrouded figure in black. Stammering his apologies, he’d stumbled back and prepared to leave.
The voice had called him back, saying, “You have an illness—a throbbing, striking pain that leaves you half mad.”
Raising his hand, the hedge witch held out a vial of indeterminate substance. “I have the answer.”
“How? How did you know?” stammered the mage while eyeing the vial. It was filled with a black liquid that shone with a metallic gleam even in the darkness of these quarters.
The Weather Mage couldn’t see the hedge witch, but he could hear the smile in his voice as he’d said, “Call it a gift.”
The Weather Mage was usually a cautious man, but every passing day the headaches grew worse. Soon he feared he wouldn’t be able to perform his duties at all, not to mention the fact that he was slowly losing his mind from all of the pain.
“How much?”
“Fifty shillings for three. After three you will need no more.”
Frazzled, tired and desperate for a cure the Weather Mage was willing to try anything. Especially for such a small price. The Weather Mage had held out the paltry amount and snapped, “Here. Take it.”
Rushing out of the shack, he’d pretended that he didn’t see the shadows moving or smell the overwhelming stench of the dead. Anything to end the cursed headaches.
He hurried out so fast that he stepped around the body of the true hedge witch, bloated and lying under a discarded burlap sack. Behind him the charlatan smiled in the dark and vanished without a trace, his task completed.
Back in the storage house, the Weather Mage prepared to drink the last of his treatment vials that he had acquired. Over the last few days the headaches had lessened until they were almost gone. Sometimes he’d gotten sharp pangs that distracted him or hit him by surprise, but nothing compared to the monstrous headaches that had left him an invalid in his bed for days when they’d struck before. Preparing to drink the disgusting substance, he held his nostrils pinched closed and tilted back his head.
