The memory shattered, and breath exploded from Shamil’s mouth, feet dragging on the timbers for several yards before he found himself on his back, gasping for air. A hard, concentrated pain throbbed in the centre of his chest, reminiscent of the ache left by a punch but magnified tenfold.
“Stop!” Lyvia shouted. Shamil craned his neck to see her rush to stand between him and the black wing, arms raised in warning. From the way it ignored her, Shamil deduced the bird saw no more threat in Lyvia than it would in a mouse, instead shifting to stare at his prostrate form with the same depth of scrutiny.
Groaning, Shamil rolled onto his side, dragged air into his lungs, and pushed himself to his feet. “Quite an introduction,” he said through gritted teeth, stumbling towards the bird. “My name is Shamil L’Estalt.” He performed a stiff parody of Morgath’s bow, wincing and fighting the urge to cough up his breakfast. “Pleased to meet you.”
The black wing angled his head to peer at Shamil with one eye, blinked, then launched itself into the air, the beat of its sail-like wings sending them both to their knees. Silence reigned for several seconds until the clack of beaks and rustling of feathers told of a semblance of calm returning to the nest. The black wing had departed this place, and none of the other great wings were sorry for his parting.
“I think . . .” Shamil grunted after trying and failing to stand back up, “. . . he liked me.”
“So, you met Stielbek.”
Tihla squinted at the livid vertical bruise on Shamil’s bared chest, lips pursed in consideration as she poked a finger to the purple flesh, provoking a shudder of suppressed pain. “Little bit harder and he’d have shattered your sternum. Must’ve caught him in a good mood.”
“If you don’t mind,” Rignar said with polite but firm insistence, causing the second wing to move aside. “This won’t hurt,” the mage told Shamil, holding a stone close to his bruise. The stone was smooth and deep red in colour, its hue starting to shift as Rignar channelled its power, flecks of blue light flaring to life in its facets. “Carnelian always works best for bruises.”
Shamil’s pain faded with sufficient suddenness to bring a surprised gasp to his lips, the bruise quickly losing its dark lividity to subside into a pinkish brown. Lyvia had helped him navigate the first few ladders as they climbed down from the nest, their progress slow and painful until Ashinta, freshly returned from patrol, noticed their plight. Her bird, a fire wing with more gold than red to its crest, swooped down to pluck him from the scaffolding, carrying him the short distance to Rignar’s dwelling, where he was deposited at the door with unexpected gentleness.
Before flying off to her perch, the sentinel paused to look down at him, face hidden by her helm but the pity in her voice still audible as she said, “Don’t take the leap, boy. If the birds don’t take to you, there’s nothing you can do. Best climb down and seek your honour elsewhere.”
“I thought they were extinct,” Shamil said, forcing his gaze from the fast disappearing bruise. “The black wings.”
“Could be he’s the only one left,” Tihla replied. “No sentinel’s seen another for many a year. He turns up every time new fledglings climb the mountain, never chooses any, and flies off again. It’s been going on since long before I got here, and that was fifteen summers ago.”
“The black wings were known to nest far to the east,” Rignar said, brow furrowed in concentration as he continued to hold the stone to Shamil’s injury. “Appearing over the lands that became the Treaty Realms only rarely, and spreading terror when they did. Sharrow-Met formed an alliance with them with the aid of the Voice’s dark magics, though many legends would have it that they followed her out of love rather than enchanted enslavement.”
“Or love of slaughter,” Tihla said. “Stielbek’s a vicious swine. Damn near took my head off when I first ventured into the nest.”
“That should do it.” Rignar said. The red stone’s shimmer faded as the mage stood back from Shamil’s chest, the bruise’s colour now almost completely vanished, along with the pain.
“What about the others?” Tihla asked.
“We fed them.” He shrugged and pulled on his shirt. “They ate the meat happily enough. A blue falcon seemed to take a liking to Lyvia.”
“And you.” Tihla’s face took an a serious cast. “Did any take a liking to you?”
“Time was short before the black wing arrived.”
She gave a short nod. “Go back tomorrow. Spend more time in their company. I doubt Stielbek will show up again now he’s done his mischief for the year.”
She turned to Rignar with a forced smile. “The first wing would like news of your progress, Master Mage.” She pointedly shifted her gaze to the baskets full of crystals lining one wall of his chamber. Shamil was no expert in such things, but he knew enough to recognise most as quartz with an occasional yellow gleam that told of topaz.
“It’s coming,” Rignar replied, and Shamil detected an undercurrent of irritation beneath his affable tone. “Better quality stone would make it go faster.”
“This is what we have. It is a requirement of a sentinel’s lot to make the best of the meagre resources the Treaty Realms choose to provide.” Tihla’s false smile broadened a fraction before disappearing completely. “Please, work faster.” She moved to the doorway, glancing back at Shamil. “You don’t need to cook tonight. Get some rest, and be sure to return to the nest at first light.”
After she departed, Rignar raised a caustic eyebrow at Shamil but made no other comment, moving to one of the baskets to grasp a handful of stones. “Once,” he said with a wistful sigh, “I worked with only the highest-quality gems. Now”—his tone soured as he let the pale fragments of quartz fall back onto the pile—“I have these.”
“Don’t they work?” Shamil asked. “With your”—he waved a vague hand at Rignar, —“magical gifts.”
“Magical gifts, eh?” Rignar repeated, lips quirking in amusement. “Tell me, my young friend, what do you know of crystalmancy?”
“Next to nothing,” Shamil admitted, inclining his head as he rubbed a hand to his chest. “But I do appreciate it nonetheless.”
“I think”—Rignar paused to reach for his cloak—“it’s time you had a proper education in the subject. Besides”—he took a hammer and chisel from the row of tools above his workbench, placing them in a satchel, which he handed to Shamil—“there’s a small task you can help me with, if you don’t mind a little hard work.”
6. The Black Onyx
“Long have mages pondered the enigma at the heart of crystalmancy,” Rignar said in a tone that reminded Shamil of Lore Mistress Ishala, without doubt his favourite tutor at the Doctrinate by virtue of her enthusiasm for her subject. “Why should it be that such varied and potent energies arise from mere inanimate stone?”
Despite his interest in what the mage had to say, Shamil found himself continually distracted by the perilousness of their course, straining to listen whilst simultaneously inching his way along a ledge perhaps eight inches wide at its broadest point. “I don’t see any steps or handholds around,” he said, quelling a surge of panic when his foot dislodged a stone from the ledge, sending it tumbling into the misty void below. “The sentinels don’t come here often, I assume.”