Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (56 page)

A hand snaked around the flap and a wizened old man with an unfortunately massive mole on his nose ducked into the tent. Modren stepped aside, momentarily stunned by this stranger’s boldness. He was about to demand who in Emaneska he was when the man ran his hands through his sparse white hair and turned it dark and bushy. ‘Can’t stand all that gossiping and staring. It’s incessant,’ the man muttered, in Tyrfing’s voice. The Arkmage wiped his armoured hands across his cheeks and chin, producing a beard and a familiar face. He stood straight and his bones straightened and clicked back into place one by one. Shapeshifting at its best. Tyrfing cleared his throat with a wince. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, hoarsely.

‘Odd.’

‘Marriage,’ snorted Tyrfing. ‘Some men choose war instead.’

Modren chuckled and ran a hand through his white-blonde hair. Despite the cool air, there was a hint of sweat on his brow. ‘Have the guards seen anything?’

‘You need to focus on your wedding, Modren, and nothing else,’ Tyrfing replied, pouring himself a glass of turquoise wine from a table nearby. He sniffed it, sipped it, and then gulped half of it down. ‘Not a sign. Not a hint. We’re seeing more trouble from the rioters than we are from her.’

‘Maybe she won’t come. Maybe we were wrong…’

‘I won’t consider that for a second. We stick to the plan,’ said the Arkmage. Tyrfing finished his glass. ‘I’m sorry, Modren, that this is your wedding day…’ he would have carried on, but he winced as another cough fought its way out.

Modren held up a hand. ‘I’m not. As much as I don’t like it, it’s better we have it now, than on a tomorrow that may not exist.’

Tyrfing nodded. There was sense in that, be it bitter. He held out a hand and Modren clasped it. They felt their keys pulse, and then Tyrfing stepped out into the sunshine. ‘She’s here, you know.’

‘I do,’ Modren said. In that moment, the skalds began to play their ljots and pipes, and an elegant tune filled the morning air. There was a murmuring sigh as the huge crowd got to their feet. Modren adjusted his armour one last time, and, as Tyrfing held the tent-flap aside for him, the Undermage stepped out onto the dew-touched grass and strode confidently towards the golden scales, all eyes upon him.

‘For the tenth time, Bringlin, take them aside and let the others pass,’ ordered Lieutenant Rossar, his forehead resting between finger and thumb, a sign of exasperation.

‘Sorry, Lieutenant. Please, miss, stand aside,’ Bringlin ordered the woman and her child.

‘What is the meaning of this, soldier? We shall be late to the wedding!’

‘It will only take a moment ma’am. It’s for your own safety.’

The mages were spread out like a safety net across the road, just shy of halfway to Manesmark. The sun beat down on their silver and bronze armour, brand new and branded by the forge-mark of the Arkmage himself. It was the kind of armour that straightened the back, lifted the chin, and puffed the chest. It didn’t need any spell for that.

Further up the hill, another hundred or so stood in two wings, either side of the road, ready to pounce. The Winter Regiment’s orders were simple:
Keep the preachers and rioters in the city, Stop and question any and all girls between the ages of eight and eighteen. And if you see Farden, stop him.

Bringlin began to run through the questions, trying not to smile and instead keep an air of toughness about him. The poor girl standing before him looked no less than terrified. She was a sliver above eight maybe, all golden curls and gawping blue eyes. The mother, on the other hand, was a fearsome-looking woman, perhaps half bear. The size of a small shed, she was huffing and puffing so much that her head looked set to blow. She had her hands set firmly on her ample hips and was in the process of boring a hole in Bringlin’s forehead with her narrowed eyes. Bringlin tried his level best to ignore her and stared at the girl. She shivered in her finest pink dress. Bringlin stared into her little blue eyes, letting his magick do its interrogating while he went through the routine questions. ‘What is your name, miss?’

‘Kinl, sir.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Krauslung?’ chirped the girl.

‘Where exactly?’

‘The big white house on Haverff Alley?’ Every answer was another question.

‘Who’s wedding are you going to?’

‘A maid’s?’

The woman huffed some more. A few of the other guests pointed and tittered as they passed by on the road, and she turned a shade of red. ‘Really, mage, these questions are pointless. We’re already very late. Whoever it is you’re looking for, it’s obvious my little Kinl isn’t her.’

Wary of the lieutenant’s eyes on his back, Bringlin withdrew his magick. He was satisfied; the little girl was about as magickal as a pebble. ‘Fine,’ he said, waving them back to the road. ‘Enjoy the wedding.’

‘Hmph,’ was all the large woman could say as she dragged her little girl up the hill. Bringlin crossed his arms and turned back to the crowds. He heard a faint whisper of music on the breeze.
So the ceremony had begun then
, thought the young mage, as he stared up at the powder-blue sky and the black smudge of the Spire against it. Bringlin sniffed the air and caught the scent of hot food, wine, farska, cakes, and ale. He sighed, stretching, and wondered if they would have a chance to sample any of it. It’s not every day there’s a wedding…

‘Look lively, lads. Bringlin, wake up! Another one for you,’ came the muttered order from a nearby sergeant, a gruff man with a scar across his lip like a makeshift moustache. Bringlin turned around and spotted another young girl amongst the line of passers-by. She had her hooded head down and was busy helping an old, frail woman navigate the pebbles lodged in the dusty road. Bringlin stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

‘Ladies, if I might have a moment of your precious time,’ he announced, making them halt in their tracks.

The old woman looked up first. She too wore a hood. She seemed to be nursing her arm, as though it had been recently broken. They didn’t look like beggars; their clothes were well-stitched, all silk and wool, reasonably fine for the crowd they travelled with.

‘What’s the problem, mage?’ asked the woman, with a yellow smile.

‘A few questions, if you don’t mind,’ Bringlin gestured to the side of the road. He could feel a few of the mages moving behind him. Cautionary procedure.

‘Questions?’ asked the girl. She lifted her head and Bringlin assessed her face. She was young indeed, but older than the last few. Fifteen maybe, and strikingly beautiful for her age. She had pitch-black hair that flowed like oil down her neck and chest. Her eyes were a swirled mix of blue-green that never seemed to settle on one hue. Bringlin found himself staring. ‘Surely that’s not necessary. We’re just going to the wedding,’ she said, quietly. The mages edged closer. She certainly fit the description.

‘Why don’t you just let us pass, hmm?’ added the woman by her side.

‘It will only take a moment, then you can be on your way,’ Bringlin shook his head. ‘We can’t be too careful.’ As he spoke, he let his magick begin to creep outwards, probing the girl and the old woman for any sign or hint of power. He opened his mouth to ask his first question, but instead he flinched, and gasped. His magick hit a brick wall. He couldn’t help but recoil from it, flinching as though he’d been slapped. He blinked at the girl, who stared straight back at him. He went to reach for his sword, but it felt as though his arm were made of ice.

‘Sh… she…!’ Bringlin choked, jabbing a finger at them. The other mages began to shout. Spells flickered. It was then that a familiar-looking man, utterly dishevelled and covered in what appeared to be a mixture of broken glass and vomit, barrelled through the line of people on the road, and flew straight into the girl and the old woman.

If a soldier had covered their eyes against the sun, and squinted as hard as humanly possible, he might have just been able to make out Heimdall, standing like a guardian over the city. He was a speck on the white canvas of the Arkathedral, framed against the powder-blue sky. Beside him stood a slightly larger speck; a speck with feathers, wind-ruffled wings, and a beak that glinted like iron in the sun. Ilios was leaning out over the railing, claws grating on the marble, the sort of sound that makes a spine shiver. He whistled questioningly.

‘Not a sign,’ he replied, surveying the lines of people drawn out over the Manesmark hill. ‘Not yet.’

Another whistle.

‘If she is here, her magick is shrouded from my sight.’ He closed his tawny eyes for a moment and pulled a face of concentration, of strain. A world of whispers flooded his ears, thoughts mumbled to an empty room. Asides and mutterings. An ocean of tongues.

Where is my brooch? I could have sworn I left it beside the box…

How dare she wear gold to a wedding! Estice should know better after last year.

If I get sat next to one of these screaming children, I’m going to have to plug my ears with that wig of yours.

Be my guest.

You don’t want any of that wedding slop they dole out. It’s watered down I tell you. That’s why I always bring my own mörd to these sorts of things.

She’s a maid, I hear, a simple maid.

Yes, but he’s the Undermage.

And a handsome one at that.

Dangerous, I hear.

They all are. Malvus was right.

And how much did he pay Gondty for you to say that, Helsin?

Enough.

The god winced as he delved too deep. He was almost deafened. He opened his eyes and took in the sky. There was a smattering of clouds swimming in the high atmosphere. Heimdall put his hands on the railing and took a slow breath. Weakness was starting to seep into him, like spilt oil into the cracks of a flagstone. He had been at this too long. ‘There are too many whispers in that crowd, not enough shouts.’

Heimdall turned to face the glittering sea. It was a blue blanket strewn with white jewels. A ring of fishing ships toiled on it. Heimdall let the sounds of the waves drown out the city for a moment.

And for a moment he almost missed it.

A shout.

It’s her! The girl is here!

Let her go, Bringlin!

Now, Samara!

Stay down, Lilith.

Heimdall swung his gaze north to the hill. Colours were popping and exploding from the grass, colours no human could ever see nor understand. They whirled and fountained from the dirt. The god narrowed his eyes at the hill and saw people fleeing, no,
flying
in all directions. Guards where lying on their backs with their armour ripped open. A thunderclap echoed over the city. Heimdall slapped his hand on the marble. He uttered one word to the gryphon, and one word only. ‘Go.’

And go the gryphon did. Ilios leapt from the railing before the word had even left the god’s lips. He swooped down, plummeting like a stone until his wings flared and he was skimming the rooftops with inches to spare. He flew north with the speed of a lightning bolt, leaving Heimdall to stare and watch as something hellish unveiled itself on the hill. As the twin bells began to ring, he couldn’t help but wonder what the strange, tight feeling was in his chest.