The banquet hall was empty. Matthew swept a hand through his braided tangles, wincing as his fingertips made contact with the obsidian beads woven through each twist, and groaned. Of course it was empty; the moons had reached their peak long ago and were now making their slow descent as they prepared to bring forth the new day.
Minimal mage-lights cast a dim glow over the rows of vacant tables and chairs, the glass doors that led to the balconies were flung open to allow fresh air to circulate through the room, and the dull clatter of servants and maids cleaning various utensils echoed through the silence.
Despite the unwelcoming environment he made his way into the hall and fell loudly, deliberately, onto a seat, and relished the wood’s creak. The hour did not matter; he would be served. It wasn’t often he took advantage of his position as a Commander of the Obsidian Armies, but after the events of the past hour… by the Gods, he needed a respite.
He slammed his fist down on the table, just in case the servants hadn’t heard him when he first took his seat, then buried his face in his hands.
Nicolai had been livid —livid! His anger hotter than the black wastes that loomed beyond the southern deserts. If it weren’t for the High Magister’s repeated commendation it was likely he’d have breathed his last in that command chamber.
How could he have intuited so poorly? The girl had been a living witch. Surely the Council would have wanted to experiment on her, surely her blood was a hundred times more powerful than that of the peasant-mages he collected for them; but then, he was no Magister. It was as Nicolai had said. How dare he presume the wishes of his betters?
“Rough night, Commander?”
His hands fell from his face and he met the sympathetic eye of a kitchen maid. Forcing a grin at the pitcher and tankard she carried, clasped in both hands against her bosomy chest, he said, “Something like that. I work far too closely with the Magisters to not have a rough night.”
The woman saluted with a wink and filled the tankard with an exuberant flourish.
“Here you are, sir. Just give a yell,” she nodded at the table. “Or a thump if you need anything.”
“Anything, eh?”
His gaze travelled slowly along her curves before she giggled awkwardly and tossed the empty pitcher from hand to hand.
“Commander! You’ll find the whores on the mainland. More ale, too; that tankard’s got the last of it.”
Spinning around, she sashayed past the rows upon rows of empty tables and returned to the kitchen, though the way she walked, placing one foot delicately in front of the other so that her alluring hips swayed from side to side, suggested that she hadn’t been offended and hoped he was watching as she departed.
"Maybe later then?"
Another giggle echoed out from behind the kitchen doors, but was then silenced by a woman's irked yell.
No matter. Matthew wrapped his hands around the warm wood that held his beverage and drank deeply, indulging in the earthy taste. Was that a hint of apple? If so, this particular brew had been procured from a settlement close to the Syosse plainslands, close to where he, himself, had been ‘procured’ during a blood-run so many years ago.
There had been a joining and a communal feast was being prepared in celebration, but something had happened —a scuffle broke out; a man had been struck; a mage— and within moments the noon skies darkened, people fled, screaming, lightning jagged through the clouds and ghostly screams reverberated through his ears.
He stood as still as stone, too dimwitted to hide, unable to move as others shoved past him in terror… then the Commander and his beast landed, shaking the ground in their united fury, and were followed by a young mare-in-training. The Commander strode purposefully towards the fallen mage, ignoring him, the frozen child... until the curious mare wandered over to him.
He did not know it at the time but at the first touch of the mare’s head nuzzling against his, his future had been decided.
Matthew Verde, third son of a mere pig farmer, had been chosen by one of the tainted dread horses from the abominable Isles. His beautiful Ca’na… bonded forevermore, his destiny to become that which he had been taught to fear. He shook his head and took another gulp of ale.
The Commander who had collected him was no longer with them. He had displeased General Magister Nicolai. Matthew grimaced. It had been a close call this evening —too close.
Running an absent-minded fingertip across the tankard’s wooden grain, he grasped it tight and tottered to his feet before heading for one of the balconies. The semi-circle landing was perfectly angled against the crystal wall of the castle, rimmed by marble pillars that rose tall and connected to another balcony above, and a finely crafted balustrade sat nestled between each pillar, prohibiting people from falling to their deaths. Potted ferns lined the wall on either side of the glass doors, the masses of burgundy foliage proudly on display despite the dark hour, and the teardrop-shaped mage-lights placed behind each pot brightened further as he made his way to the railing and leant against it.
The twin moons were low upon the horizon and both the Isles and Fan’driel’s mainland would soon welcome the beauty of dawn. By Xandur’s eternal light, by His ever-lasting compassion… Matthew released a shuddering breath. Thank the Gods, all Three of them, that he was still alive to witness the arrival of this new day, that he was still alive to report to Nicolai for duty once more.
That thought was as daunting as it was inevitable. May he survive that encounter, also. The High Magister would not be present next time.
Raising the tankard to his lips, he drained the last of his ale and heaved the empty vessel to the grounds below. The Council was supposed to be pleased!
He turned to take his leave and ploughed into a warm body that had been standing behind him.
“By the Three —Nola! What are you doing, skulking behind me like a Harclyffe Cove pickpocket?”
Hazel eyes sparkled beneath a mop of fluffy blonde hair and he couldn’t help but grin as she playfully pushed him back against the balustrade.
“A Harclyffe Cove pickpocket? How dare you,” she sniffed. “Besides, I was hardly skulking. Merely standing here, waiting for you to pull your head out of whatever despair brought you to drinking the last drop of ale in the Isles.”
“There isn’t enough ale, let me tell you.”
“I know.”
Nola shoved past him and stared up into the stars as the moons dipped closer to the horizon. The arch of her back as she leant against the rail invited his arm to find its way around her waist and he sidled up beside her and nuzzled her neck.
“You can’t ploy me with your boyish charms,” she said, pushing him away. “And there’s plenty of ale on the mainland. Your enviable position allows you leave to visit whenever you like! Unlike the rest of us.”
“My dear, Archivist Nola, there are far too few mainland taverns willing to host a twice-cursed horseman of the Isles. Neither are there any women willing to… host a horseman of my calibre,” he shrugged. “I’m fine requisitioning what’s available here.”
“’Requisitioning,’” she snorted.
“I’m sorry, were you after a pint?”
“I was, in fact,” she said, spinning around and raising an eyebrow. “Only to find that some womanising horseman drank the last drop available ‘til the next tribute is collected. Obviously the maid was referring to you. You have piqued my curiosity: what in the lower planes are you doing here at this hour?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
A narrowing of her eyes was the only answer. Matthew winced and stumbled back to her side, this time placing his hands on the cool railing.
The pair had formed an unlikely friendship several seasons prior when he had found a mainland scribe desperate to migrate to the Isles; a plea as strange as it was uncommon. Nola had found the lass endearing as well as useful and since that day had kept in close contact with him. However, while he would refer to them as ‘friends’ it was likely that she’d prefer to refer to them as ‘associates.’ She was beautiful though, was happy to both tolerate and entertain his false advances, and often kept him apprised of castle gossip he’d otherwise not be privy to.
It was thanks to her that he had become aware of Caelin’s probable ascension before Victus had even passed, and it was likely that she’d soon know of the events in the command chamber whether or not he chose to disclose them.
“Nola,” he sighed, forcing a light-hearted tone. “Nicolai almost had me killed an hour ago.”
“What? But you’re his favourite.”
“The favourite is no longer a favourite when he dares bring a living witch before the Council,” he paused. “And that living witch has a Council member —a lover— shackled for treachery.”
Nola gazed at him thoughtfully, scrutinising his face as he spoke.
“A witch?” she asked doubtfully.
“Red hair and all.”
“Nicolai’s lover… Lena?”
“A corpse by next moonrise. If I understand Lord Caelin correctly.”
“He doesn’t quite think as we do, dear. ‘Treachery,’ you say? She’ll be kept in some semblance of living for at least a mooncycle. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Matthew groaned.
“I’d prefer not know that. Now I can never face Nicolai again! Knowing that he’s blaming me with those fiery eyes for the ongoing torture of his beloved.”
“Fiery eyes?” Nola waved a dismissive hand. “Be grateful they weren’t golden. You’ll be fine.”
He hoped so —he had been nothing but a loyal servant since the night of his acquisition. May Nicolai remember that and forgive this one incident of ill-consideration.
The tops of the moons at last fell beyond the horizon and shrouded their world in a thick black void, a void barely pierced by the mage-lights at their backs. The darkness of the descent only lasted a few minutes at most, and yet, if one wasn’t prepared for the event it could near last an eternity while waiting for the sun to peek over the same horizon and brighten what the moons had left behind. It was a peaceful moment in time —a time when the world stopped and nothing, not the Gods and certainly not the Magisters, could impose their will upon it. It was a pity that not as many people appreciated the great dark nothing as he did.
“A red-haired witch,” murmured Nola, breaking the serene silence. “That’s not insignificant. Tell me what happened; I’ll need to keep note of this.”
“Ever the Archivist,” Matthew smiled.
“There’ll be something official later, and if High Magister Caelin hasn’t killed her then it’s likely I’ll get the honour of meeting her for myself; still, I’d prefer to hear the reality of the situation as it stands now.”
“She’s of about twenty years but has a child-like demeanour… or rather, a meek air. Not witch-like at all, at least not as I imagined them. Unwashed. Grimy. Very underweight and uncared for. It appeared as though she had gotten into an altercation with someone, another woman,” he shuddered, recalling the corpse’s twisted head. “That woman did not die gracefully. She was scared, as they all are when Ca’na comes thundering down. Ca’na managed to remove her magic, or at least some of it, but it wasn’t entirely gone; she entered my mind but was too frightened to do anything.”
Nola nodded, a barely perceptible motion that Matthew felt rather than saw.
“And you didn’t think to kill her? That’s standard, you know. I’m surprised she made it to such an age!”
Matthew winced.
“Believe me, Nicolai’s reaction has indeed shown me the error of my judgement. I thought the Council would be pleased!”
“And how did Lena’s alleged treachery come into all this?”
Matthew rubbed his head and groaned. Why wasn’t there more ale on this cursed floating rock?
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s beyond my comprehension. High Magister Caelin was inspecting her, Lena interfered. I didn’t hear a single word but I guess the witch heard Lena’s thoughts. Her meekness disappeared. A power erupted around her. The air was as hot as the damned sun and I had to move away. She ripped Lena’s thoughts from her mind and spoke them aloud. Apparently she was trying to convince the other Lords to revolt against Caelin. He was delighted, of course.”
As though summoned by his irritation the sun’s glow at last peeked over the horizon, setting his view of the mainland aflame with its golden rays, and he breathed a relieved sigh. The dawn had broken, a new day had arrived, and he was blessed to be able to see it.
There was something liberating about witnessing dawn break but it was just as likely he would regret succumbing to this whim in a few hours from now. This upcoming day was going to be long and tiring, unless of course Nicolai ended it. Perhaps that would be a blessing.
“Intriguing,” Nola tapped a finger against her jaw. “This will be the first test of our new High Magister’s authority and power. An Arisse will at last confront the fabled witch who tried to destroy his bloodline! A true moment of historic value, and I’ll be ready to record it.”
“To be blunt, I don’t believe he cares,” Matthew offered a charming smile and took Nola’s hand. “I, however, lived long enough to see a new dawn before Nicolai demands my demise. Does my information come with benefits or should I go hassle that delightful maid?”
“Her name is Bethany.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow.
“The woman you propositioned earlier. I thought you might like her name, you know, something a little more personal than, ‘Hey, kitchen maid! I, the great Commander Verde, command thee to the bedding chamber.’”
Nola freed her hand and sent him a brilliant smile that brought a soft rosy hue to her cheeks, and Matthew caught his breath as her golden hair gleamed with the sun’s inner fire and set her eyes alight. For a brief moment the bosomy maid, Nicolai’s anger, and even the cursed witch were forgotten, but when he collected himself enough to speak Nola had gone.
Blinking away the grit forming in the corners of his eyes, he shook his head and wandered back into the hall, now stirring with warmth and life after the dull, unwelcoming emptiness prior, but instead of heading for the kitchens he joined the growing mass of castle denizens for the moonfall banquet… for perhaps the last banquet he would have the chance to enjoy before he become the latest Commander to acquaint himself with General Magister Nicolai’s dissatisfaction.
He swallowed. It was going to be a long day.
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Hello 😀
This is Chapter Five of The Aethya's End, Book One of the Forgotten Prophecy series. A book and series that is still a work-in-progress but one that I hope to finally get out there this year. (I say that every year; may this year be the one!)
It's been an active work-in-progress for over a decade and has been in mind, constantly evolving and changing shape, for double that.
To the non-native English speakers who may have tried to read this, I am sorry about my archaic voice and use of uncommon words. 😂
Next chapter coming as time allows. 😊 I am slowly getting them up to a printable/publishable standard. Well, to my standards anyway -- I am very much aware that my writing is not for today's mainstream. 😂 I love it though and will get this labour of love out of my system.
I really need to stop being a perfectionist and just get this out there instead of re-writing it twenty million times. Eurgh.
Until next time!
Thanks for stopping by!! 😊
Book cover rights are mine, graphic design courtesy of Frina Art