Blood & Shadows

Twenty-Eight

Geraent finds what used to be a mage's quarters. It's deep inside the castle, far away from the devastation of that old bloody battle. Inside, the stone still holds its polish. Above us the ceiling is a glimmering mosaic of painted glass depicting the night sky with all the stars with the constellations labeled in careful white script.

In the middle of the ceiling sits a massive, charged scrying stone that still holds its power after all these years. The main chamber is a circle, and along the walls are dark wood bookcases full of old tomes. Under the white hunk of crystal, is a small, raised platform, no more than two steps high.

Above sit the heavens, and on the floor set in stone and bronze is a depiction of Harran's trials—the hells.

Armies gather and people are tortured in all manner of ways as fires rage all around and shadows swirl ominously.

On the raised platform is a depiction of Azaratha without her slave collar. Her hair is pale, and in long waves, and her dress is little more than a black drape of cloth; in one hand, she clasps a dagger, and the other a sphere of shadows.

My mother used to wear a small pendant with a relief of it done in miniature. She worshipped Azaratha the way most worship Elioth. I don't hold to any gods, but part of me feels nostalgic for the sound of my mother praying in the darkened chapel as I stand before the sprawling mosaic.

"This bodes well," Geraent snorts as he drops his bags by the door. His eyes sweep over the scene before he lets out a hmph and starts setting up his tent. I roll my shoulders and slowly reach out my hand; with it comes my power. The hearth in the corner flares to life and shadows swirl thick around the room. Shadow knights with deadly halberds stand watch outside the door summoned by my will. With the scrying eye so near, I hardly feel drained by my power at all.

"We might be lucky. Whatever sort of mage lived here might have an herb store," I offer as I head toward the small door in the corn painted with more of the stars from the ceiling.

"Somehow, given all this, I doubt it was a hedge witch who slept in the bed, but you're more than welcome to look." Vrythien shrugs as Faeriel and Geraent set up their little tent close to the fire. Vrythien walks along the bookshelves, pulling out a book every now and then. He reads the title and pushes it back with a single finger.

I head over to the door, and the moment I touch it, something latches on to my power, an old spell. The sensation of something slimy being stuck to my arm makes me cringe as I slowly peel the pieces away with my magic. It's what happens to an old ward. It's sat at least a decade without the mage who cast it to maintain it.

With the spell removed I open the door, revealing a small chamber, still without windows. It does, however, have a corpse in the corner.

As I approach the body, it's clear it's been there at least a decade. They're possibly the owner of the spell. It's not unheard of for magicians to squat in abandoned castles as they build up renown.

My father used to ignore them until they became a nuisance enough to warrant becoming a totem. He didn't kill the mage in the corner he never would have left the body behind.

Keeping my cloak wrapped around me, I lean forward and inspect what remains--which isn't much. What catches my eye is the state of the corpse's throat. It's been eaten away, and the worst part of it is I can't tell if it happened before or after they died. What could have done this to them? Was it a vampire? If it is, how could they have passed the ward?