“We will have to make inquiries in the North,” stated Prince Heir Sebastian. “This should never have happened. His minder is stationed on the border and needs him to help with the war.”
Ciardis noted that she had began to feel ill over the past few minutes. Like her stomach was upset and she wanted to throw up. Maybe it was something she had eaten?
Sharp-eyed, Alexandra asked her, “Is something wrong, Ciardis?”
“No, nothing,” she murmured, not wanting to be distracted from the topic at hand.
“If you’re unwell you need to tell us,” said Maree Amber.
“I did tell you—” protested Ciardis hotly.
“Enough with these secrets,” snapped Meres. “The girl should know. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Turning to Ciardis, he said, “We mentioned that Weathervanes affect each other in different ways. One of those effects is inducing mild illness—like a stomach ailment—when one Weathervane feels the other conducting magic. If you feel ill it could be because your brother is nearby and is acting as an enhancer or conduit for someone else’s power.”
Alarm flashed across Alexandra’s face.
Ciardis nodded, not wanting to betray the brother she never knew, but knowing that anything he did was being controlled by an outside force. “My stomach is ill.”
Maree and Vana cursed and sent out their own magic feelers. They quickly sounded an alarm and soldiers started converging. But whatever they felt also felt them, because it triggered a magic trap.
Without warning they were all transported in the shadows. When they could orientate themselves again, Ciardis saw that they were in a sunny field not far away from the village of Borden. She looked to her friends and counted off who was there: Sebastian, Stephanie, Christian, Vana, Meres, ten of the Prince Heir’s guard, Alexandra, Maree, and, Ciardis noted with surprise, someone new—a man with pitch black hair and a tall, gangly body.
“Everyone all right?” called Prince Heir Sebastian. Everyone confirmed with various nods and affirmations.
“Where the hell are we?”
“I think I can answer that,” a male voice said. As they all turned to view the speaker whose voice had startled them, many pulled out the weapons that they had. But when they turned to the eastern fields where the voice had come from, there was no one there. As they began to spread out in a tense circle to locate the person, Vana Cloudbreaker held up a closed fist, edging forward into the planted stalks of the gently blowing fields of wheat. She was looking around with both of her sights—magical and mundane.
Ciardis saw something interesting rise up from Vana when she called upon her mage core; it was like an orb with a thunderstorm of purple in it. Misty purple clouds and streaks of purple lightning fought to free themselves from the bubble as it rose in the air. And then it burst, sending the lightning and mist scattered in different directions. When it headed farther east, it struck something curious—a bubble—and like the cling of a sweater after it has been rubbed on polished wood, the purple lightning and mist clung to the new object, spreading like water over its surface.
“Very good,” said the voice again as they dropped their complex shield. Its duty completed, Vana’s conjured sightstorm of lightning and mist that had clung to the bubble dissipated.
Several individuals stood facing Ciardis’s group. None of them looked particularly friendly. Prince Heir Sebastian’s guard stepped forward to face the threat.
Ciardis squinted in the bright sun and swore. Was that who she thought it was? What in all the gods’ names was the Weather Mage doing here?
The Shadow Mage in the lead smiled a cold smile at Prince Heir Sebastian and the small retinue that stood around him. He had an uncanny resemblance to the strange, stork-like man who stood to their side.
“And who are you?” asked Prince Heir Sebastian with ice in his tone.
“Milord Prince Heir,” said the Weather Mage from the man’s left with sweat dripping from his brow, “may I present Lord Kastien?”
“Lord Kastien of?” said Meres Kinsight in a dangerously soft tone. To strangers he might sound as if he were at just another dinner party, but Ciardis didn’t miss the tight grip he had on his dagger and the surge of power she felt coming from him.
“Borden,” said the addressed man simply.
At that moment everyone turned to look at the tall, gangly man standing by Alexandra, Meres with more suspicion than all of them.
“What is the meaning of this, Darius?” demanded Prince Heir Sebastian.
“I don’t know, Milord,” the man called Darius said with more aplomb than Ciardis would thought him capable of. “But I intend to find out.”
He strode forward, breaking ranks, ignoring the protests from Vana and Maree. As Ciardis watched him approach the man who could almost be his twin, she looked for her brother among the figures. He wasn’t there. Where was he? She didn’t want him at the Shadow Mage’s side but the alternative meant that he was probably back in the encampment of soldiers.
Why would the Shadow Mage only transport such a select few?
She took in the Weather Mage’s form. He looked worse than the day that she and Linda Firelancer had first met him. His form shook where he stood and sweat poured down his face.
Then he turned to look directly at her. Even with the distance between them she could see his eyes. They were black.
“Oh no, oh, for the ever-loving gods, no,” she said with her voice rising.
Julius turned aside partially, his body still primed for a battle in front of them, and muttered caustically, “What?”
“He’s shadow-touched, the Weather Mage is shadow-touched!” she said with a touch of hysteria.
“Are you sure?”
“How can you not see the black depths in his eyes?”
“Brother,” said Darius authoritatively, “what are you doing here? Why are you not at watch over the farm in Borden?”
The man in question sneered, “You. I’m here because of you. You never considered me worthy...”
Dread shifted down Ciardis’s spine. She’d heard that before.
“You went off to that school of mages and left me to rot in Borden,” said the man.
“Timmoris, don’t—” said Darius, holding up a placating hand.
“Don’t call me that!” shouted Timmoris. “How dare you call me that. Belittling me.” Spittle was flying from the incensed man’s face and Darius had finally halted, seeing that something was wrong, very wrong with his brother.
“Let’s talk about this,” Darius said firmly. Waving his hand to encompass the people behind Timmoris, he said, “You’ve certainly made some powerful friends.”
“Them?” said Timmoris with derision.
“The time for talking is over,” said Prince Heir Sebastian. “Incapacitate him. Now, Ashlord!”
Ciardis swore, not because she’d just learned that the tall, gangly man was the one and only Ashlord, a necromancer with dark powers, but because dark clouds were gathering on the horizon.
The necromancer paused and turned back to Prince Heir Sebastian with uncharacteristically pleading eyes. “Please, Milord. He’s all I have. Let me speak to him. I assure you, he means—”
“Watch out!” shouted Ciardis, pointing frantically at the sky.
Before the necromancer could finish his sentence, a bolt of lightning arced down from the gathering storm. It hit the Ashlord straight on and he slumped to the ground unconscious with grave wounds.
“I guess that’s where those burn marks on the bodies came from,” said Meres grimly.
Before Vana could lose an arrow into the Weather Mage, Ciardis shouted hoarsely, “Wait, it’s not him. It’s the Shadow Mage—he’s controlling them.”
“How?” asked Alexandra. “He’s not wearing a control bracelet.”