Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) (28 page)

The King stopped before the painting of his wife, as he did each day. He knew every brush stroke, every colour, every single different way the light hit the picture. The painter had been a fine one, and had captured his wife’s beauty perfectly, but it was missing something. There was no laughter in his wife’s eyes, she almost looked sad; no artist could capture such happiness. The King raised a finger and stroked his wife’s mouth, the dried paint rough on his skin. His wife’s lips had never been that coarse. He sighed after a few moments, and continued on, leaving the picture of his wife to hang sadly on the wall.

    
The sun shone through the open windows, letting a cool breeze dance around the corridor. The King walked steadily to where he always went at this time each day. To his study. He was the only one that entered its walls; he was not to be disturbed once he had set foot inside. This was his space, away from servants, away from the confines of royal life. The walls were lined with books. Forbidden books, books of magic, of Magus and Mages. The King was obsessed with magic. In the years after his wife had died and his baby kidnapped the King had turned to magic. If he found someone powerful enough he would be able to bring his wife back. He would have his soul mate again. Obtaining the books had taken years, as almost every record of magic had been destroyed by his father, but the King was patient and had sent his spies to find every single one that remained.

    
The study was vast, large stain glass windows lined the wall opposite the door. The remaining walls were filled with books. On the left in front of the bookcase sat a desk, covered with maps and open books. The King sighed and walked to the desk and sat down. The map was one of the lands; small dots lay next to towns with suspected Magus. The King had spent years tracking them down. Every single one had been a fake. The King slammed his fist down on the table in frustration, the papers flying across the floor. The King watched them float away silently, then lay his head on the desk and wept.

***

Byron’s head hung limply between his legs, he went to rub his face, forgetting once again that his arms were chained to the wall behind him, above his head, receiving instead more chaffing against his wrists. Vomit slopped across the floor, following the motion of the ship and the smell was overpowering. The room he was chained in was small, only ten feet across, and ten foot long. It originally was used as storage but the General had deemed it fit for Byron to be held. Byron had very quickly discovered his stomach was not fit for the sea, and a torrent of vomit ensued, for the past few days the crew had not bothered to feed him.

    
Now Byron’s hair hung lifelessly on his head. He had not washed for days, and his constant sea sickness had not helped his general hygiene. The shackles had caused thick red welts on his wrists; blood was shed with every movement, and had dried again, uncomfortably. His skin was much paler than usual and his usually muscular frame was becoming slender with malnutrition and fatigue; he was losing his willpower and the General knew it.

    
“Look up maggot,” a vindictive voice shouted at Byron. He had not even noticed the door being opened and a soldier walking in, “the General wants to see you,” the voice continued. Byron tried to lift his head, but could not summon the energy; whatever the General wanted him for did not scare him enough to force his body to raise his head.

    
“I said look,” the voice growled, unsheathing a sword. The smooth sound of a perfectly sharpened sword being extracted from a sheath echoed around the small room. Byron took a deep shaky breath and slowly lifted his head; his vision blurred as he looked at the figure towering above him. The man motioned behind him and the General marched in. The sight and smell of vomit made him gag and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth.

    
“You are disgusting,” he hissed through the material, standing perfectly still in the slop to avoid it splashing up his boots, “you cannot even control yourself.”

    
Byron hung his head, for it was too hard to keep it up any longer, he could not will himself despite the threat of a sword only feet away. The General mistook this for shame. He nodded in agreement.

    
“You
should
be ashamed,” he said, crouching carefully forward and grabbing Byron’s face so their eyes were locked, “You’re being put to work, brave little boy. You can surely cope?”

    
Byron did not answer, and the General did not press him for one, Byron knew voicing exactly what he was thinking would not help his situation and so remained silent. The General stood and motioned for Byron to be released. The man who had spoken before unlocked the shackles and hauled Byron to his feet as though he was nothing more than a child. Byron did not object.

    
“Give him fresh clothes; I don’t want to smell that around my ship... and a bath,” the General ordered the man, winking. Byron frowned but could not understand why the seemingly innocent words sounded so terrifying. The man nodded and dragged Byron out of the room and onto the deck. The moment Byron walked into the salty, cold air his stomach heaved and he threw up what was left of his stomach. The thirty strong crew yelled abuse as they saw him, stopping what they had been doing to crowd around and laugh as he half vomited over himself.

    
“Men!” The man cried, “Get a rope, this maggot is going for a bath.”

    
The men cheered throatily, morale heightened at the chance to humiliate the boy that had killed four of their men that night in Woodstone, including their Lieutenant-General Edward, and helped that Magus Wynn murder seven more. Byron’s head swam as the nausea rolled over his body, the weather was truly bitter. A wind had stirred and storm clouds crept around the ship. The sea slapped itself against the side of the ship violently, creating a constant din. As one man returned to the crowd with a rope Bryon suddenly realised what the General’s idea of a bath was; the man tied the rope around his ankles and before Byron had time to think, time to object, threw him over the rails into the unforgiving sea below.

    
The water was ice cold and it instantly sent Byron’s body into shock. If he had been strong he could have withstood it, Byron knew it vehemently, but his body was weak from seasickness and malnourishment, so instead he went limp and submitted completely to his torturer, the sea. The froth entered his nose and he choked against the salty water. He could not breathe, and as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of water he thought suddenly, I am going to die. The waves forced him into the side of the ship and he felt his ribs crack with every blow.

    
He remained submerged until his lungs burned and nose and throat were raw, until he felt himself falling into the darkness and succumbing to it gratefully, before he was pulled out of the water, feet first and back onto the deck. He lay, a watery mess on the deck, ignoring the jeers from the soldiers as they watched him cough out water and gulp at the air, tears of pain mixed with salt water on his face. Relief flooded through him, unspeakable, unutterable, completely overwhelming relief. He was alive, and until this moment he had never realised how much that fact pleased him. His body was completely numb in the cold and he did not want to move, he wanted to lie there forever, and believe forcefully that he was not on a ship heading for The Rune.

    
“Sir he’s broken his ribs,” a man shouted, the voice sounded muffled and distant to his waterlogged ears. Byron opened his eyes but could not see who had spoken or who was now kneeling before him lifting back his jerkin to show three ribs poking through his skin. He felt surprised through the relief, he had broken his ribs? He could feel nothing at all, but if he had looked down and seen the blood which coated his clothes and was now mixing with the water on the deck he would have thrown up again.

    
“Take him to the General,” another man yelled, his voice agitated, which again surprised Byron, they were worried? Byron was flung over a large muscular shoulder. The pain shot through his body then, finally registering and he gave in, everything going black.

    
Byron woke up some time later in the room he had been chained to previously, a cloth wrapped tightly around his chest. It was stained with blood and left little room to breathe. Only one arm was chained to the wall now so Byron tentatively checked his chest. It hurt more than any injury he had ever sustained and suddenly he was overwhelmingly tired. He closed his eyes and slept; the call of sleep far more appealing than the searing pain in his chest.

    
The General paced around his office.

    
“He can’t die,” he shouted to the man stood in front of him.

    
“He won’t,” the man answered, “he’s a strong lad, if he wasn’t a criminal I would have liked to invite him to join the army. He’s sustained countless beatings and now broken ribs and he is still fighting.”

    
The General grunted and motioned for the man to leave. He left silently. Throwing himself onto his seat the General checked his map and co-ordinates. They were three weeks away from The Rune, more or less depending on the weather. Stopping at the nearest island would improve morale he decided. It had been a short ride across Inlo to Terra, less than two weeks, with the aid of horses and unquestioning access across The Wall and yet more travelling lay ahead. He despised this travelling. Sighing, the General ran his hands over his short cropped hair. The army had been so much easier and more enjoyable seventeen summers ago. Rules were his to make and his to break, he had any woman, any delicacy he desired. Now he was delivering an insolent man, to a Mistress he had never seen.

    
“You doubt me?” A voice erupted in the room. The General jumped and his papers flew off of his desk, just as a figure of fire appeared before him. He gawped, the figure stood towering before him, made completely out of fire.

    
“I – I do not doubt you,” the General stammered, holding onto the desk to control his shaking hands.

    
“I know what you think,” the figure of fire purred. The shape was indistinguishable; it raised its arms as though to fly and the fire disappeared. A striking woman with skin as fair as ivory and hair the colour of the flames that had engulfed her, stood staring at him. The General gulped and blinked quickly to see if the woman disappeared. She did not, instead she sauntered up to the desk and lent on it, her hair brushing the General’s cheek. The General shuddered, he was not often speechless but this woman had such an aura of strength that he was instantly silenced.

    
“I know what you think,” the woman repeated, lifting her forefinger to stroke the General’s cheek. He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting with the woman’s. Such eyes, grey as steel and just as cold. He felt himself falling, falling into darkness, his mind wandered. Memories flashed before his eyes, every murder, every pleasure, every fear and desire flooded out of him and stood wavering before him. This woman did know what he thought, he could only see her eyes and he knew she was watching the memories just as he was. He could not explain how he knew, but it was undeniable. The word magic floated around his conscious.

    
“You – you know what I think!” The General gasped and the woman looked away, releasing the unnatural hold. She stood up, her cloak wafting in an invisible wind.

    
“You lied to me Ricedon...” the woman whispered, her voice dangerously low, “you do doubt me.”

    
Ricedon shook his head vigorously, nauseous from the woman’s cold stare, “No, no you are too powerful to be doubted, how – how could I? That would be an insult to you and I would never do such a thing.”

    
“You do not know who I am... do you?” The woman asked, crackling her knuckles menacingly. Ricedon’s heart thumped in his rib cage, he did not know her, he could not recall her face or voice. He shook his head slowly, knowing at once that it was a mistake.

    
“I am Aerona!” The woman shrieked indignantly, “the Mistress you have been following for over a decade, following blindly, unquestionably, pathetically. Tread carefully now my slave, I do not forget.”

    
Ricedon’s eyes widened as he thought back to That Night, and the subsequent events that followed, this was the woman that given him his power, given him his orders, who he himself had warned Oprend to obey. “Mistress,” he gushed, lowering his head in a bow, “forgive me for my insolence, it shall not happen again”

    
Aerona sighed and with a flick of her wrist Ricedon’s head was unnaturally forced into the desk. He groaned in pain, but could not stop his head from slamming into the hard oak with abnormal strength. Eventually Aerona relented and Ricedon’s head became still, Aerona could see the blood flow freely down Ricedon’s face. She smiled cruelly and with her forefinger raised his head, without touching him. His face was cut and broken, and his eyes were closed with pain.

    
“You will
not
doubt me,” Aerona hissed, slamming her palms onto the desk, “I am your Mistress and you will obey me,” and with a blaze of fire she disappeared as suddenly as she came.