The Dark Passenger (Book 1)
T HE D ARK P ASSENGER
By Joshua Thomas
T HE D ARK P ASSENGER Copyright © 2013 Joshua Thomas All rights reserved. CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: THE NIGHT-MAHR As the woman ran, the mahr felt her anxiety, her desire to move faster. Stairs of uneven height lined her path, and each step was a trap, threatening
what she worried would be a fatal fall. Even though she heard nothing but the slapping of her bare feet, she knew others were near, coming for her. She took solace in the mahr, drawing on its strength while letting it absorb her fear. With the mahr, she was calm.
The darkness may have made the path more difficult, but she was glad for it. Her pursuers couldn’t see either. Each step was quick and confident; she had given herself to the mahr and was following its intuition.
The staircase was narrow, steep and had no railing, and the rock was wet and warm to her touch. She could only guess what the cavern looked like around her, but she stopped herself when she began imagining how far she would fall if she tripped or missed a step. Instead, she focused on counting stairs. From the mahr she knew that it would be only a few more steps before she turned up another stairway that crisscrossed its way up the cliff.
By the time she reached the last stair, she was out of breath and covered in sweat. Her stamina wasn’t what she remembered it to be, and the pain in her stomach was growing worse. Feeling along the edge of the wall, she found the crack that she knew to be there. It was the edge of what the mahr had seen when it was alone, before she had called for it. Until that moment, she had focused only on getting to this crack in the wall, but she was unsure of what she would find once she stepped through.
As her pace slowed, she felt forward with one hand and anchored herself to the side of the cave with the other. The mahr helped her take slow, controlled breaths, which helped her focus her other senses. The air smelled damp, and the ground beneath her bare feet was covered in a downy coat of moss. Her in one direction. She had no sense of time in the darkness, but she knew she had been walking a while when her hand hit a different kind of rock. These rocks were cut and jagged, like they had been placed there. She also felt a change beneath her feet. The moss suddenly ended, and she was walking on cobblestone. The wall started to turn slightly to the right, and she turned with it.
When her shin hit rock, she found that the wall had stopped turning, and that she had come upon another staircase. She was heading straight again, up stairs. How close her pursuers were now, she couldn’t guess, but she feared the worst and stumbled quickly up the stairs, feeling wildly above and in front of her with her outstretched hands. She counted one hundred forty- seven steps before she found wood above her. A trapdoor. The hinges protested loudly as she opened it, and the sound of the falling door echoed in the large chamber. Her heart quickened when she realized she could see. Much had changed since the last time light had reached her eyes.
Moonlight shone through a huge, broken window at the far end of the hall, as well as through a gaping hole in the ceiling. She stood there stunned, but only for a moment. As she approached the window, she saw a trail outside leading away from the building. Closer now, she saw the dull outline of a door in a shaded antechamber. Going left, she ran to the door and pushed. It was twice as tall as she was and its hinges were covered with rust. She leaned into it with all her strength until it gave and lurched open.
She was outside now, and it was a new world. Everything was a soft blue in the moonlight. There were moss-covered boulders all around her, and she saw the statues of a man, a woman, and a box. Having suddenly realized where she was, the woman fell to her knees and wept. Looking behind her, she stared at the remains of the Black Keep, the broken building that had once been her home.
Feeling a pang in her stomach, she forced herself up. She had more than just herself to consider, and this knowledge gave her new life. Ahead, far in the distance, she saw a man’s silhouette.
“Stop!” a man commanded. “Surrender now. You have nowhere to run.” She didn’t stop, but she dreaded the man’s words. As she ran she whispered a word she knew well, and a blue-white bolt escaped her outstretched hand. Its power was less than she had expected.
“Your magic will not work here, witch,” said the man, the last word a
“Witch? I’m no witch,” she said, momentarily taken aback. She raised her arms and, through the mahr, pooled energy into her hands like opposite ends of a pole. When she brought them together, another bolt leapt towards the man, stronger this time, but it didn’t explode as it should have. Instead, it reached the man and disappeared. The woman cursed and muttered, “The hallow tree’s amber was rare in my time and only given to a great warrior. What else has changed?”
But she kept running and didn’t slow down; she felt with her entire being that there was no time. Again she said the word, louder now, directing its energy to the cliff above. Rocks tumbled down the cliff and sideswiped the man, who only had time to let out one brief shrill scream.
Over the ledge she saw the village below and was horrified to see it so close to the Black Keep. It wasn’t until she passed the rubble and crushed man that she saw the pass leading up the cliff. She had a choice to make now. The desire to be free and out in the open would lead her up the pass, but that’s what they would expect. What their intent had been in settling the bottom of the crater, she could only guess, but she knew instinctively that whatever she found down there would be better than what she’d find above. That only left the option of approaching the village below head on.
The pass weaved back and forth but was easy to see. After running for what felt like an eternity, she found herself surrounded by a small outcropping of trees at the bottom of the crater. Leaving the trail, she ran through them directly, thankful for the little light that made its way through their branches. Holding her engorged belly, she ran past boulders and around fallen trunks, feeling awakened by the clean, crisp air hitting her face. Between the trees, she caught sight of flickering orange lights from the village itself. They were close enough that she could smell their smoke. The pain in her stomach was growing, and she knew what would happen soon. Although she was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, she kept reminding herself that she had to keep moving.
There was no wall between her and the village, but the houses were stacked on each other, leaving her no breaks to the other side. Following the perimeter, she ran past locked doors and blackened windows until she hit a small alley—a vein into the village.
From her first step into the village, the mahr’s energy within her dampened. She worried its power might be gone, but she was afraid to test continued on. Seeing no one, she stumbled through the empty paths with only the slightest hint of a plan, but while it formed, she meant to lose herself and maybe her pursuers for a short while. The pain in her stomach continued to grow, and her steps became more labored. Turning down one road after another, she lost track of where she was. And then, in a moment of pure joy, the woman sensed what she was looking for. She allowed herself to fall at the house’s doorstep and grab her stomach.
Having given everything in her escape, she was relieved to no longer have to hold it in. Her stomach kicked beneath the weight of her hands, and she knew that it was time for her baby to come. Clenching her eyes shut, she gasped for the air she would need to push, but held her hands over her mouth when she heard herself scream.
Luckily, it was a quick delivery. Not allowing herself time to hold her son, the woman wrapped him in her shawl and whispered a word that turned it into the warmest of blankets. Also wrapped in the blanket was a book that she had carried out of the cave and down the pass.
With her baby born, she held him in one arm as she let herself in the stranger’s house. Walking silently to the room where she sensed another baby, she knelt down and gave her boy one kiss on the forehead. She then picked up the other baby, whispered a few horrible words, and put her own baby in its place. Knowing the book and blanket would be conspicuous, she hesitated a moment, but there was no time to do anything else. In the gray moonlight, the small pile of ash that had once been another woman’s baby looked like liquid at her feet.
Leaving the house as quickly as she had entered, she closed the door behind her and crossed the street. Looking back a minute later she saw the outline of three figures heading towards her. Running now, she glanced behind her and saw that they were running too. Weak and covered in cold sweat, she ran with energy she didn’t even know she had, energy that came only from the hope of luring her pursuers away from her baby. Taking a quick turn, she ran down a narrow street, and houses with little orange lanterns flew past her. Once again she was letting the mahr guide her, knowing that it had long ago sensed where she needed to go.
An explosion of sound suddenly filled the air. It sounded like a horn, and its cry carried across the village, stirring people from their sleep. Still running, she didn’t look back, but she could hear the steps slowly gaining illuminate small windows. A minute later she found herself out of the narrow streets and in the middle of the large village square. There in the middle she saw what she and the mahr needed. It was a tree, bigger than any she had passed running down the pass, and it marked the heart of the village. She ran to it and stopped, and when she turned around she saw that her three pursuers had stopped with her.
One man slowly approached and the other two moved off to her side, keeping their distance while cutting off any escape around the tree. Other people were also beginning to fill the square: men, women, and children, all of them holding weapons. The villagers moved cautiously, like they knew that she had already killed one of their own. Some people, including the original three following her, had swords at their sides, but they kept them sheathed. Most of the people, though, held a wooden staff in one hand and a spear in the other. The small bloodstones at each spear’s end glistened in the moonlight. Holding the spears above their heads, they watched the woman intently, ready to strike.
And then, for reasons she barely understood, she started laughing. “You think the gift we gave you will protect you? How much time must have passed! In my time one of my kind would never be allowed so close to the hallow tree.”
She backed towards the tree while the villagers looked on dumbly, as though too scared to make any sudden movements. “It doesn’t matter how long you have had to stockpile your weapons,” she continued. “Yes, I see the bloodstones set atop your every spear. You are a race of fools, and I shudder to think the damage you’ve done.”
At last her hand landed on the tree. Muttering a word, the bark began to glow black and ash rained down from above. The villagers were charging her now, yelling, but she was no longer inhibited by the tree and was already casting a greater spell. Feeling her skin scaling, her limbs stretching, and her teeth growing, she let out a scream, only it was a monster’s voice, not hers. When the men grew near, green fire erupted from her mouth. Some splashed on the ground, sending a sulfurous smoke into the air, but most hit its mark: the many villagers before her. But even with the tree dead, the bloodstones, fruit of human sacrifices to the tree she had just destroyed, still retained their power and absorbed her fire.
Charging forward, the woman snapped at a row of men, all the while trying with a man so hard that he flew back into the first, the second, and even the third villager behind him. Using her massive hind legs, she leapt to her side and crushed many other villagers beneath her. But then she screamed. There were too many around her, and they were releasing spear after spear, each of which sent a wave of intense heat through her skin. The spears were poison, made from the very tree she had just destroyed.
Releasing the mahr, a mere puff of smoke outside her body, she returned to her normal size and found herself lying on the ground, panting. Blood pooled at her side, bubbling around the spears. The mahr hovered before her, unsure.
“Go,” she croaked, gasping for air. “Take care of my baby.” As the mahr fled, the woman cried out once last time before she died.
CHAPTER 2: FIVE CANDLE-MADE MAIDENS Five hags hobbled into the village of Chardwick. “Keep your heads down,” Gretchen told her four sisters. She was the oldest, but even with her deep
wrinkles, thinning hair and severe stoop, she was by far the least ugly of the five.
In a small, wispy voice, one of the triplets asked, “What if we’re recognized?” “Don’t be foolish. Look at us,” another triplet retorted. The last triplet agreed. “Indeed, the years have not been kind, sisters.” “Silence, all of you,” Gretchen hissed. The first triplet, who was about to ask another question, closed her mouth and choked back her words. The hags walked in a straight line, each taking care to appease her individual ailments. Leaning on a wooden staff, Gretchen set a slow pace, but her sisters didn’t mind.
Behind Gretchen was Mina, a waif whose cloudy eyes and nearsightedness kept her close behind her older sister, and behind Mina, in no particular order, were the triplets. In their youth, people could tell the triplets apart by the colors of their hair—Pyre’s was red, Meryl’s an unnerving blue, and Mistral’s the whitest of blondes. As hags, gray had claimed even that, and all that differentiated them now were their dresses, which were reminiscent of the colors of their hair. But their dresses were hidden under long black cloaks at the moment, as the hags were doing their best not to draw attention to themselves.
The cobblestone road stopped in the village square, and the hags found themselves walking through black dirt. Gretchen stopped, turned to her sisters, and said, “This is the place.” knees cracked and her hand trembled as she reached out, grabbed a pinch of black dirt, and put it to her tongue. After spending a moment smacking it around her gummy lips, she spit it out, and then scooped a new pile of dirt into her hand, which she lifted to the air and watched trickle back to the ground.
“Yes,” Mina said in a small voice. “There was great sorrow here.” “Speak up, sister. You forget that you’re speaking to old women,” crowed one of the triplets.
Gretchen shot her sister a hard look; the triplets should know better than to tease Mina. Then, in her most encouraging voice, she said, “Tell us what you see, Mina.”
Mina’s milky eyes stared forward, past her sisters and beyond the worn buildings around them. A tear rolled down her face and splashed in the black dirt. “There was a recent death here, a warrior slain.” Another triplet sighed, tired after their days of travel. “Yes, we know this. We all heard the Calling.”
“Hush,” Gretchen said, and then, leaning precariously over her staff, she patted Mina’s arm. “Go on, Mina.” Mina’s distant expression hadn’t changed, and it was doubtful she was much aware of her sisters’ bickering. “The battle consumed great power, but in the end it was a quick death—a warrior’s death.”
The sisters moved in closer, perhaps better to hear, or perhaps out of anxiety, sensing that Mina’s words were growing in import. “Was there—” a triplet began before Gretchen silenced her with a quick jab of her staff. Mina said, “The warrior fought bravely, but there were too many, oh so many.” Straining to hear, the sisters were almost audibly holding their breaths. “The warrior was not alone,” Mina continued. “She had a mahr.” The triplets gasped. “A mahr,” one triplet whispered to herself. “After so long,” another triplet added. “But we’re too late! A chance to regain our youth, our power, lost,” cried the third. Gretchen pounded her staff to the ground and the earth shook. “Silence,” she repeated as the triplets struggled to maintain their balance. “Not another
The triplets hushed. “But the mahr was not lost,” Mina cooed. Smiling wickedly, she turned to
Gretchen. “The creature lives, dismissed from the Host’s service by her dying breath.” Gretchen tightened her brittle fingers around her staff. “But… How? No
mahr can survive alone. Surely the villagers didn’t let a Host escape.”
Mina squinted blindly at her sisters. “That I don’t know,” she replied. “I can only see that no mahr was vanquished on these grounds.” Giddy speculation filled the air, with each sister fighting to be heard. It was
Mina’s quiet voice that silenced them. “I sense a trail, but it grows weak. The creature is feeble, little more than a puff of smoke.” “The mahr is near?” a triplet asked. “Hurry,” said Gretchen. “Lead the way, Mina.” As the hags fell back into line, all but Mina saw the villagers’ eyes upon them. Several women leaned out their windows; the more discreet hung laundry or attended to their shriveled little plants. A small girl holding a ball watched from the street, and two boys stood next to her with their hands at their sides. No one watching the hags moved.
Under her breath a triplet said, “We are discovered.” “No,” Gretchen replied evenly. “They fear we are spies from Newick, nothing more. Perhaps a little distraction?” One triplet nodded, understanding Gretchen’s cue. Suddenly the sky darkened, the temperature dropped, and a flash of lightning streamed across the village. Thunder echoed down the cliffs, followed almost immediately by a deluge. The children scattered and the women pulled away from their windows, closing their shutters behind them.
“I hate the rain,” grumbled a triplet to no one in particular. Her sisters ignored her. “Good work,” Gretchen said to the other triplet. The color had drained from the triplet’s haggard old face, leaving it as gray as the rain. To Mina,
Gretchen added, “Continue on, sister.” The sisters left the village square, one after the other. The rain was clearing away the smell of dirt and manure from the roads, as well as from the sisters’ own clothes and feet. The roads were small and narrow, but Mina led them with aged confidence. The hags hadn’t walked far when they stopped in front of a dreary little building.
The hags took a moment to take in their surroundings. Like all other roads in Chardwick, the homes here were several stories tall and piled side by side. HE ITTER ART Above them hung a tattered old sign with flaking red paint: T B H , it read.
“Shall we?” Gretchen asked. Never ones to turn down the opportunity for a drink, the five hags shuffled inside. Though the sun had not yet set, half a dozen men crowded the dank pub, soaking in the smoke and alcohol.
A fat barkeep stood behind the bar cleaning a mug. An old stag’s head was mounted on the wall above him, its antlers little more than nubs. The lines on the barkeep’s face would suggest that he was a jovial sort, but there was no hint of it as he appraised the hags. Uneasily, he said, “Good afternoon, ladies. What can I do ya for?”
The hags walked in and took their time taking off their cloaks and arranging themselves at a small square table, indifferent to the fourteen eyes watching their every move. From a plain pigskin purse, Gretchen pulled out a silver coin and slammed it down on the table with a surprising amount of strength.
“Five bitter malts,” she said. She and her sisters sat stiffly in their chairs, water dripping from their clothes and hair, while they waited for the fat barkeep to bring their drinks. Steam began to rise from the dress of the triplet in the red, but a look from Gretchen warned her not to draw more attention to them. When the barkeep came and laid the frothy mugs in front of them, he grabbed the foreign coin and eyed it suspiciously.
“What’s this?” he mumbled. But he was closer to the hags now; he could see their blackened nails and smell their decaying skin, and thought it best not to linger.
As soon as the five hags had their mugs in their hands and warmth in their bellies, they leaned forward to whisper to each other conspiratorially. The men at the bar began muttering to each other uncomfortably, which helped drown out the hags’ own voices.
“What do we do now?” asked one triplet. “We need to find the mahr, obviously,” said another. “But how do we do that?” asked the first. Color was only just returning to the last triplet’s blue face. “A real live mahr,” she said, still shaken.
“Obviously,” snorted a triplet. Gretchen said, “But where could it be? Who took the Host’s place?” The sisters looked at each other uncomfortably while they tried to drink away their concerns.
With a burp, a triplet said, “Magic is scarce these days. A mahr is a cause for celebration, even if it is only the chance of finding it. We could be young another thousand years.”
“Yes,” Gretchen said. “But we must proceed carefully.” “Indeed,” said a triplet. “The Host must be powerful to go unnoticed in a village like Chardwick.” “No,” said Gretchen, shaking her head. “I dare say you’re wrong. Mina sensed the mahr to be feeble, little more than a puff of smoke. And it is unlikely a Host could survive above ground these long years.” “I would have sensed a Host,” Mina agreed. Her voice shook.
Gretchen grabbed her hand reassuringly. “No doubt you would have, Mina. No sisters, I suspect the Host is so weak that it goes unnoticed.” Gretchen smiled a small, mischievous smile.
“Why so smug, sister? What good does a weak Host do us?” asked a triplet. “A mahr broken by the death of its old Host, its new Host weak—have the years left you so senile that you don’t see what this means?” The triplet’s cheeks flushed red with anger. “Have you grown so senile that you don’t remember the last mahr? Its weak, pitiful spirit hasn’t sustained us long.”
Another triplet’s eyes grew big with understanding. “You think of the key,” she said. Gretchen nodded. “Of course I do. At last we may have the chance to claim what’s ours.” One of the triplets gasped and another clapped her hands. Gretchen’s fiendish smile returned. But the last triplet only snorted. “The key again?
Look at us, we’re old women. We have wasted lifetimes seeking the key to the Host’s Tomb.” “No,” Gretchen said. “We have wasted lifetimes seeking another key. We have always known the mahr to be the true key.” The triplet shook her head, her long gray hair a tangled mess against her red dress. “But no mahr would ever serve us, no matter how weak.”
The triplet’s eyes narrowed. “You suggest we let the mahr live free? And what if the villagers were to find it?” “We must proceed carefully,” Gretchen acknowledged. “Never fear, the
mahr will be ours. But first we must find this new Host. And if the
opportunity is there…” “The Host’s Tomb—ours,” a triplet mused in the quietest of whispers.
“Not yet, sisters,” Gretchen said. She took the last gulp from her mug, slapped another silver coin on the table, and ordered another round. A drunk bearded man sat at the bar talking into his glass. “Look at ’em old hags drinkin’,” he said loudly. “Don’ they know they should be buying us drinks? Drinkin’ ’emselves sure innit gonna make ’em look no better.”
There was a modest chuckle from another man at the bar. The triplets simmered, but Gretchen turned to the barkeep and smiled her snaggletoothed smile.
“Would you also be so kind as to bring me that candle with our drinks?” she asked, gesturing at one of the small candles at the end of the bar. Smiles spread across the hags’ haggard faces.
An excited triplet said, “Are you planning what I think you’re planning? After so long?”
“Yes, sisters,” Gretchen said to the table. “I agree that today is a cause for celebration. And look at us; it’s time.” She reached under her cloak and into her deepest pocket. From its depths she pulled out a small black candle—all that remained of the last mahr to be taken alive—and placed it on the table.
“Besides, I think these are just the men to help us. Wouldn’t you all agree?” “Oh yes,” her sisters chimed. Moments later, the barkeep waddled over with a tray stacked with five more sticky mugs and the small candle. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the coin and left their table, disturbed by the sight of five giddy hags.
Gretchen took a draft from her mug and watched her sisters do the same. Only after the barkeep’s interest had returned to the other patrons did Gretchen slowly lift the barkeep’s candle to the wick of her own stubby black one.
“Do it, do it!” said a triplet, bouncing slightly in her seat. The black candle crackled and the long unused wick sizzled and sparked a leaned forward and breathed in the black smoke. The bar was dark and already covered in a thick haze, but still, to the sisters’ trained and expectant eyes, the black smoke left the candle in long, tentacle-like wisps, traveling from man to man before returning.
The men, no longer taking an interest in the workings of five tattered old hags, remained unawares. But afterwards it was said that seven men of Chardwick appeared to have aged twenty years that day.
* * *
In a cold and distant land, Mina addressed her four sisters. Her hands were bloody and clutching the entrails of a fellow wanderer. “The mahr stirs,” she said. Fifteen years had passed since they had stolen youth from the men at the pub, but they were still beautiful, as though time were loath to take back their ill-gotten gains.
“Be careful, sister,” a triplet told Mina, her silky blue hair soaking in the sun. “The candle’s magic was strong, but foretell too much and you will drain your youth.” “Hush, leave Mina be,” Gretchen said.
The four sisters crowded closer around Mina and the young man’s body. Mina’s patchwork of gold and black hair stood on end, crackling slightly whenever gold touched black. But her cloudy eyes saw only the death before her.
Adeptly, she moved her hands through the youth’s body, divining further clues. Her fingernails cut flesh, and she moved up through the stomach and on to the lungs. Wiggling her fingers around the spongy tissue, she said, “Much has happened over these last few months. The mahr is still smoke lost in the wind, but it is gaining its voice.”
Her four sisters waited expectantly. A minute later, Mina’s fingers found the young man’s heart. “But at once the mahr is both contented and lost and confused. It is ready for us.” Then, without hesitation, her hands left the young man’s body and moved on to his face to pluck out his eyes. Fingering the trailing nerve, she stared forward and considered the story it told.
“Go on sister, what do you see?” a triplet urged, but her question was pointless. Mina would not speak again until she had learned all she must. Finally, after many breathless moments, Mina said, “Very shortly, the
mahr and its Host will find themselves more lost than ever, without home in
Chardwick.” Gretchen rose, which stirred a cloud of dust around the body. “We have prepared for this day, sisters. The child is old enough to fulfill his destiny.” “After all this time…” said a triplet. “…these years of sacrifice…” said another. “…the Host’s Tomb…” said the first. “Yes, but first we must send news to Chardwick,” said Gretchen. “Our spies must be ready.” “Of course, I will prepare the hearth,” said a triplet. Gretchen nodded, and then to another triplet said, “Sister, dispose of this.” She turned and began leading the way down the path.
The triplet in red, falling into line behind her sisters, snapped her fingers. Behind her the young man’s body burst into flames.
CHAPTER 3: THE DIRTY SACRIFICE Deep, guttural moans came from Edwin Medgard’s pillowcase. He knew it
was Eigil, but he was surprised a cat could make such noise. He tried not to shake the pillowcase too much, but it was hard to keep steady in the snow, especially since Edwin was short for fifteen and the pillowcase was almost the length of his body.
“It’s all right,” he lied. Of course the cat couldn’t understand him, but trying to soothe her almost made him feel better. Almost. “Be sstrong,” the spirit whispered in his ear. “Get away from me,” Edwin said, swatting the spirit away. The creature hovered in front of his face, just out of reach. It was nothing, only a little ball of smoke, insignificant really; but for nothing it sure managed to get him into a lot of trouble.
Edwin would have been the first to admit that he didn’t know what it was, were he prone to discussing such things. When he was little he had thought the creature was a ghost, but unlike the ghosts from his foster dad’s stories, it had no shape and wasn’t white. He called it a phantom for a while, but the name didn’t stick, and he finally settled on calling it his spirit. And then it began to teach him about magic….
“You musst do this,” the creature hissed with its ethereal voice. “Haven’t you done enough? Why can’t you leave me alone?” “Remember Dana,” the creature said.
Edwin wanted to cry with frustration. Dana Medgard was his foster parents’ newborn son. The spirit had promised to hurt Dana if Edwin didn’t do as it said, and he knew it would. The spirit didn’t make idle threats.
Edwin kept walking. The ledge was wide here; to his right was a wall of crater and the village of Chardwick below.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that he had already lost sight of the lantern he’d left flickering outside his foster parents’ inn. The wind picked up, biting the exposed skin around his eyes. It would be a while yet before daybreak; with a bit of luck his foster parents would still be sleeping when he returned home. You have to keep going, he told himself. Yesterday he had conjured and done more than ever, but not without cost. Every spell has a
cost. That had been one of his first lessons. His arm ached just thinking about
it.He glanced back again nervously. Dana’s crying kept the Medgards up all hours, and Edwin could only hope they didn’t notice him missing. The snow grew slightly deeper and his legs began to ache, but he was glad for it. The effort kept his mind from wandering, and he didn’t much like where it went these days. He hated magic.
The ledge narrowed as he got farther from the inn, forcing him to walk ever closer to the cliff’s edge. Around him, the air was heavy with the smell of soot, which rose from nearly every chimney below in Chardwick. Over the ledge, smoke blanketed the village with a hazy film, and lanterns dotted their way across the maze of roads and alleys darting out from the village square, giving the smoke a warm, soft glow.
“You musst walk fasster,” the spirit said. Edwin gritted his teeth. “That’s easy for you to say. You just float,” he retorted, but he quickened his step. Nothing would make him happier than never seeing the creature again.
But it wasn’t long before his pace again began to slow. Sweat clung to his skin beneath layers of clothes. Yesterday had left him beyond tired, and he would need all his wits about him to perform the spell. Finally, after walking as far as he could, he had to stop and catch his breath.
The creature nudged Edwin’s back with its essence, trying to push him forward. “You mussn’t sstop. Keep going,” it said. Edwin again tried to swat it away, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had learned long ago that the spirit always got its way. He couldn’t fight smoke. It could fit through any hole, no matter how small, and it was too smart for him to trap. He had never wanted to cast that first spell, but the spirit was persuasive. First it had threatened him, but even worse was when it began to threaten the Medgards, and more than once it had almost exposed itself. Edwin took the the blame again when it tipped over a lantern and burned down the shed. Next time it could be the inn, maybe with Dana inside. The spirit would never stop.
“Hurry,” the spirit repeated. Over the southeastern ridge the sky was turning purple, but it would be a while yet before the light found its way over the cliffs and down to Edwin, and longer still before it reached Chardwick. But even at night Edwin’s path forward was clear. Moonlight cascaded down between the trees, forming bright patches near the barren elms. His footprints left a clear trail behind him, but that couldn’t be helped.
A small flickering light over the ledge at the base of the pass caught Edwin’s eye. Someone must have begun the steep climb up the cliffs. It was doubtful that a merchant would be climbing the pass from Chardwick up to the village of Newick so early. It must be a new guard heading up to the crumbling Black Keep, the only other structure on the ledge besides the Medgards’ inn.
“Hurry,” said the creature yet again. Edwin looked at the pillowcase. Every spell has a cost. Though he didn’t feel rested, he urged himself on. He recognized the tree ahead and knew where he was. The tree ahead was unique in that most of its trunk hung over the ledge, clinging to the cliff by its massive roots. Its branches were wide enough that in the summer he could climb far out from the cliff and spend the whole day staring down at the village. But that was before magic had turned his arm gray, shriveled, and useless.
“Here iss far enough,” the creature hissed, its essence fighting against the cold wind. Standing by the tree, Edwin looked down at its heavy snow-covered branches, at its thick roots anchored to the ledge, and wondered if he was making the right decision. But then he reminded himself that the spirit would hurt Dana. If only he could tell the Medgards, but there was nothing they could do. The spirit would only hurt them too.
Looking over the ledge, the village seemed small from so high, and he wondered what would happen if he jumped—whether that would save anyone or help anything. The spirit was a vengeful creature. Edwin shuddered and shook away the thought.
After placing the pillowcase with Eigil on the ground, he pulled the glove back of her neck. The Medgards kept her around for mousing, but to Edwin she was more of a pet.
“I’m sorry,” he said, more to himself. She was too agitated to hold close, at least with only one good hand, and he couldn’t risk her getting away. He told himself there was no other way.
His teeth were chattering, but not from cold. He was frustrated and angry, and he felt a sob coming. But he couldn’t, not here in front of the spirit. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and then, reluctantly, said the words of joining. Edwin and the spirit had always shared a strange and unnatural connection. As the spirit rushed into his body and they joined— became one, as the creature called it—he became filled with the creature’s determination. He could sense that it felt none of his guilt. He felt enough for the both of them, but he again reminded himself of Dana.
Still, no matter what he told himself, his arm ached, and part of him knew he was doing this for himself. The spirit had said the blackness would keep crawling up his arm, poisoning his body until he began to feel nauseated and a fever came, leaving him barely be able to move until, finally, the poison spread too far and he would die. Such was the cost of too much magic. Every spell has a cost.
Gripping the cat tighter, Edwin spat out the necessary words. There was a bright light, and the cat died instantly in his hand. As it turned to dust, he felt life returning to his dead arm. Lifting it, he bent it at the elbow and was relieved to feel no pain.
Yet at the same time, he realized it hadn’t been enough. Most of his arm felt healed, but there was still something wrong with his hand. Taking his other glove off, he saw that most of his hand was still shriveled and gray.
“No…” he moaned, feeling more wretched than he had ever felt in his entire life. Hearing a gasp, he looked up, away from his outstretched arm. He couldn’t believe that he had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed anyone behind him. Anne Medgard was staring at him, and their eyes met. Her eyes and mouth were wide with disbelief.
CHAPTER 4: A BOY RETURNED It was a clear day, but a small dark cloud hung over The Hawthorne Orphanage—so small, in fact, that it seemed to go unnoticed. This in itself
was normal enough; most clouds tend not to garner too much attention if they aren’t causing some sort of commotion. But had anyone bothered to notice this little cloud, one might have also noticed that it was behaving rather strangely. Instead of languishing in the sky, which is what any self-respecting cloud lucky enough to be out on such a nice day would be doing, it was floating near the top of The Hawthorne Orphanage, circling the building slowly. After watching the cloud circle the building once, then twice, then a third time, one might have been inclined to wonder if it was even a cloud at all.
But no one noticed this cloud, as it was far less interesting than what was happening inside of Hawthorne at that moment. Word had spread quickly of the Medgards’ climb down the cliff, their much talked about boy in tow. Five people had found themselves on the other side of Hawthorne’s closed doors, and, well, they were an unfortunate lot indeed.
One person inside was the Headmistress of The Hawthorne Orphanage, Headmistress Vanora. Headmistress Vanora had assumed the misleading title of “headmistress” years ago, but she managed Hawthorne alone, the head of no other mistress. Hawthorne consisted of just one large building near the base of the cliff, and it was a point of pride that it was hers alone. The building was plain, an old distillery, but like the Headmistress, it was stoutly built. It had two stories, her on the bottom, children on the top, and its old gray bricks were worn enough to give it the appearance of melting snow.
Hawthorne made no pretense of being a happy place, and the dreariness stretched to the back of the building where the base of the one staircase stood. Hawthorne could house up to fifteen children, which was a lot for a village the size of Chardwick, but even full, it was a clean and orderly place, a place where the serious business of childcare was taken, well, seriously. Besides the occasional door, the walls were bare, all except for a small plaque next to the room at the end of the hall. It read “Office of Headmistress Edna Vanora,” and below it was a lone iron chair.
Edwin sat sulkily in this chair wrapped in a blanket and holding his bag to his chest, looking tired and uncomfortable. He had wrapped his body in his black blanket and covered his hands with gloves, but Hawthorne was too clean, too sterile; ever since he hurt his hand, cleanliness had a way of making him feel light-headed.
With his ear pressed against the wall to the Headmistress’s office, he listened to the Medgards and the Headmistress talking. “Yes, of course we’re sure,” said Willem Medgard. Both of the Medgards were smartly dressed in their best clothes, and Edwin could hear Willem shifting uncomfortably in his chair. But it wasn’t only their clothes that made the Medgards uncomfortable. They were honest, simple people, and they weren’t used to having to explain themselves.
“But this is all very unorthodox, you understand,” the Headmistress demurred. “It’s not often we have a child returned after so long. I see here that Edwin turned fifteen over the summer? Very unorthodox indeed…”
“We’ve already explained this,” said Willem Medgard. “Edwin isn’t like other children. You know what most boys are like at his age. When I was fifteen all I cared about was girls and training with the Fury.”
“I remember you were quite the force with a bow and arrow,” Headmistress Vanora said. “I’m not sure Chardwick has seen as good a bowman since you moved up to the ledge. But Edwin—”
“Edwin hasn’t shown an interest in any of that,” Willem interrupted. “He needs special care that we can’t give him.” Edwin felt himself blushing fiercely. He wasn’t used to such attention, even if it was on the other side of a door. “Please have compassion,” Anne Medgard said, her voice shaking slightly. “We’ve done the best we could by Edwin, but we have to think of the rest of our family.”
“Yes… yes, indeed.” Headmistress Vanora paused. “But so many years is
“It has been a long time,” Willem agreed. “But Anne and I have done our duty by Chardwick. We asked no questions and took the boy in when the Lucent’s ward brought him to the inn. We’ve done all that was expected of us, but no more. Surely there is someone else.”
Edwin sat up straight, wondering who this “Lucent’s ward” was. The Medgards had always been very secretive about where he had come from. “These are dark times, the worst that I’ve seen in my forty years at
Hawthorne,” Headmistress Vanora said slowly. “I would never question Lucent Weston’s wisdom, but he wanted the boy out of Chardwick, and your inn on the ledge is the best we could hope for. Is there something you’re not telling me?” Edwin gulped. No one had ever told him he was wanted out of Chardwick.
“Nothing. The boy isn’t a troublemaker,” said Willem, choosing his words carefully. “It’s… complicated.” “We just had two more children brought here last month, you understand, and Hawthorne has never been so full.” “Yes, we heard about what happened to the Morriseys in the mine,”
Willem said. “We could almost feel everyone’s fear as we walked through Chardwick today.”
“So you can understand why this is most unfortunate timing,” Headmistress Vanora said. His voice strained, Willem said, “Yes, Anne and I have heard rumors that even those who are taking on new apprentices can’t afford to open their homes, but Edwin…” He stopped, and Edwin could tell he didn’t know what to say next.