Highwater and Glass

The Passage of Crows, Chapter 5 - Eloise

Eloise felt a hand against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open. Her head was resting in Sir Laurie's lap. Relief was alive on his handsome face.

"Good, you're awake," he said.

It was a peculiar thing to hear him say. She hadn't remembered falling asleep. She remembered the bodies in the snow with Oran. Then, nothing, not even blackness, no dreams. Only waking up, where? In a cave, or a dungeon... a jail cell. She lurched up a little too quickly.

"Easy," said Sir Laurie.

It was good advice. She was disoriented and dizzy. The bodies of Oran, Horus, Navinia, and Garrick were stirring around her. They were sharing a large iron cell in a dark cave, illuminated by the distant flicker of torchlight. Water was dripping from melting snow finding its way through the cracks. A hooded figure in a black robe sat in a chair several places away; their jailer, Eloise gathered. But why so far away? She felt for her weapons. Naturally, they had been confiscated. A wave of grief washed over her. Oran made her those axes. She needed them back.

"How did we get here?" she asked aloud.

"Apparently Magister Goodfellow knows his way around a sleep incantation," said Horus.

"Not Goodfellow," Oran corrected. "The real magister is long dead. The one we met has been masquerading with the intent, it would appear, of bringing us here."

Navinia got to her feet defiantly. She placed her hands on the bars and peered off into the dark cavern.

"How long do we play their game?" she whispered. "They can't honestly expect the Archmage to be held in by iron bars."

Eloise looked to Oran. Navinia raised a fair point. Neither Oran nor Horus required physical tools to break through a locked door. But the mages were sharing expressions that did not inspire confidence.

"There's something here," said Oran. "It's a force I've never felt before. I cannot hear whispers of the Arcaén. I can't bring my voice to speak the words. I'm powerless."

Navinia spun around and crouched to his level.

"What is it? A counterspell? Poison?"

"No," said Oran. "If it were either of those things, I'd still sense some magic. I don't know what this force is."

"It's a tricky bitch, isn't it?" said a voice from the shadows. Stepping into the first pool of torchlight, Eloise could see it was Magister Goodfellow, or at least the one who wore his face.

"The force in question is but an indistinguishable stone from far west. It's quite small and quite powerful, a curious little thing we've come to call grey shard. It renders all magic inert within its proximity. Thus, as I draw closer to you," he left one pool of light and entered the next, "my immaculate glamour fades."

The charm that altered the man's appearance was gone. In Goodfellow's place strode much younger man with dark hair and black eyes. A red sigil was painted on his forehead; a trait that identified him immediately as an elite citizen of Wyvern Rock. He stopped walking and stood paces away from the bars of the cell.

"It's an odd feeling," he said to Oran and Horus, "to have heard the whispers for so long and to find your mind perfectly silent. It's almost peaceful, but also lonely. And don't bother searching for the grey shard. It's buried deep in the rock behind you. We use the cell normally to test our students of the craft. But I'm pleased to find it a suitable prison for Iron Fen's finest."

"Who are you? What do you want from us?" asked Oran, standing to face him.

"You may call me Malthus. I'm the leader of my little band of crows; magic sensitive cast-offs from Iron Fen and Ravenshade. Your kingdoms really do a terrible job of cultivating your young mages. Iron Fen has its Archmage, sure, but in Ravenshade they go widely ignored. I am grateful to have been born in a kingdom where my gifts are celebrated."