The Castrofax (7 page)

Nolen gathered Shibaler’s head and eased his
eager canter. The destrier recognized the area and was ready to be
done.

Castle Jaden’s true aesthetic was her safety.
Thousands of wards were set into the stone to keep it from
crumbling with age or attack. Anti-burn patterns laced through the
wood, and a few Air patterns kept the wind from blowing too hard in
the mountain crags. Any arrow shot above her walls bounced off an
unseen barrier, but anything thrown from the walls would not be
hindered. The massive redwood gates were wide enough to let six
carriages pass through, and taller than five stories. The only way
to open them was with Air and Earth Mages. Every General knew
attacking her would be fruitless.

Nolen often had guards accompanying him, but
this time he wanted to be alone; that, and his digestion had been
rather unpredictable of late. The gates loomed over him, flanked by
two lit towers, and patrolled by Earth and Air Mages. He slowed
Shibaler to a walk as he approached and fell within the rings of
light

“Ho!” a distant voice called. “Be ye Mage or
man?”

Nolen flicked his hand, drawing gray strings
from his chest to form a small stilling-pattern that calmed the air
around him. Any Mage could see another’s patterns, so it was easy
to distinguish a Mage. Nolen heard the herald call for the gate to
be opened, and with a great groan one side buckled outward enough
for him to enter.

He kept the hood of his black Mage cloak up
as he entered and headed Shibaler towards the livery. Each Mage
cloak was bequeathed on the day they received their title and
Class. Stylized Elemental emblems embroidered the right breast of
the cloak, from the forked red hooks of Fire to the white pointed
star of Spirit. His bore a double spiral twisting away from itself
representing Air.

Mages in their own black cloaks milled about
the courtyard, some heading to hop houses for a pint and a little
dancing while others sauntered their way home from their shops.

Nolen delivered his steed to a boy too young
to be given a Class and handed him a silver square to wash and feed
the Shibaler. The air this high in the mountains was dry and
chilly, and a faint wind was blowing up from the foothills. Nolen
tucked further back into his cowl. He hated the cold, and it
constantly plagued his thin skin.

His rooms were in the east wing, often called
the Lodge, but most well known as the Head Mage’s Tower. It was
more of a large cylindrical construction than a tower, with dozens
of lit windows and a large balcony where the Head Mage addressed
his people. It held hundreds of people in past Ages and bore the
best rooms reserved for those closest to the Head Mage, mainly his
Council and any other respected names.

The oak double door opened silently, and he
slipped inside. The large roaring hearth in the foyer instantly
greeted him with warmth. In a style popular Ages past, crimson
carpets, exposed oak, and hanging lanterns decorated the interior
giving it a rustic feel and thus dubbed the Lodge.

A few Mages conversed in the couches before
the fire. They paid him no mind as he climbed the stairs to his
floor, feeling the smooth banister under his gloves. Nolen had been
given his father’s old rooms after Mage Tabor was exiled for
selling Anatolian secrets to the Shalabane. The rooms were worthy
of a king with a lovely sitting room, an expansive entertaining
room, and a lavish bed chamber.

The hour was still too early for his
business, so he refreshed himself from the trip in a hot bath and
allowed himself a nap. When he awoke, the castle was quieting down.
He sat there for some time, staring at the space between his boots
and wondered if he was making the right decisions. His conscious
kept reminding him he had duties greater than himself, and this was
the only way to fulfill them.

‘
What makes a villain?’
he thought.
‘It is a man who does what he knows is wrong for the betterment
of others, or is a man born with malicious intent? A hero does what
he knows is right for the benefit of others, so truly there is
little difference in the two.’
He scrubbed a hand down his face
and looked out the black window.
‘Can I call myself hero doing
what I know will aid myself but could harm others? Do I have a
choice?’

Everyone knew his mother was unfit to rule,
and with his cousin Princess Robyn lost to the years, there was no
fit heir to take the throne from Queen Miranda. Nolen
had
to
for the betterment of Anatoly.

He gave himself another few hours to debate
with his conscious until he was certain it was passed midnight, and
he slipped out of his rooms.

The place he sought was well protected and
feared. The codices and scrolls he found in Kilkiny Palace were not
helpful in locating it, and he would not dare search the Madison
Library in Jaden, so he pieced together stories he remembered as a
child and scraps of parchment to form a conclusion. He headed
towards Westerly Motte, once a singular structure that bridged with
the other buildings as the castle grew. Now it appeared as a
massive hall laced with catacombs and dark passages. It was the
most unused building—besides the vacant bed chambers in the
northern halls—which gave Nolen reason to deduce he was on the
right path.

He laid a muffle-pattern around his boots as
he wound his way through the dim passageways that would take him to
the older building. At this hour most lights had turned down, and
even the lanterns in the hallways burned dimly, never fully going
out. The Lodge connected to Westerly Motte through one dark
passageway built underground. It smelled of the same wet essence
caves bore, reaffirming Nolen’s heading. Anyone who frequented the
passage would have it cleaned, but the unsmoothed steps told
enough.

There was nothing in the codices and scrolls
that detailed how well the room was guarded or if by Mage or ward.
It simply stated that it
was
guarded, so he came prepared
for both. The muffle-pattern kept the echo of his boots from
bouncing around the halls, and as he strained his ears he heard
only his rhythmic breathing. He was convinced it was so loud it
would wake the Head Mage.

Something tapped up ahead, echoing twice down
the halls, and Nolen stopped, his heart catching in his throat. He
drew gray strings of Air from his chest and slowly wove them into a
pattern to sense if air constantly pushed and pulled from a breath.
He moved the invisible pattern carefully, hearing his heart beat in
his chest as he waited for the alarm to sound his arrival. A dozen
yards away, he felt the pattern shiver, and he blinked rapidly as
he swallowed back his nerves. He was a Prince of Anatoly and would
not let
this
overpower his self-control.

As much as he could tell, two souls breathed
nearby, one steady and the other shallow. Nolen trained enough in
his Element to know what the breath of a sleeping person felt like.
At least one slumbered.

Under the cover of the muffle-pattern, he
inched along the wall and held his breath. Surely,
surely
any moment the man would hear or feel his energy and sound the
alarm. The closer Nolen stepped, the louder every step and breath
seemed, but the man did not move. The Prince laid a rod pattern of
Air into his hand while keeping the other free to lay any
last-minute attack. He was not a strong Mage by old standards, and
holding a third pattern would put him at his limit. At this stage
it was win or be exposed, and he was not about to lose. Nolen never
lost at anything.

“Mallin, wake up,” a man with a husky voice
whispered. Nolen stopped and calmed his racing heart. “I heard
something. Can you feel movement nearby?”

A Spirit Mage. Nolen firmed his resolve.
Since Spirit Mages could feel the energy of people around them, it
was nearly impossible to sneak up on one. It was now or never.

The breathing souls were tucked into a hall
shaped in a “T”. Releasing his breath, Nolen spun to face them. He
surveyed the scene in a half-second, spying two men: one standing
against a wall, and the other seated not far away. Both dressed in
black to blend with the stone.
‘Fire Mage,’
Nolen thought as
he brought the rod of Air up and snapped the Mage’s head back. His
teeth clicked as he hit the wall hard, crumpling to the ground with
half a red pattern formed in his hands.

The other man, the sleeping Spirit Mage,
flung a web of loose threads at Nolen’s chest as he scrambled to
his feet. Spirit patterns were notoriously difficult to escape, and
Nolen bent back at an awkward angle narrowly avoiding the
glittering white pattern. Regaining his balance, he brought the rod
down on the man’s head as he released another Spirit pattern. It
struck Nolen in the leg, but by the time it made contact, the
Spirit Mage was down. The pattern burned into Nolen’s leg, singeing
cross-hatched lines. His trousers flaked away at the thigh, and he
slapped them to stop the smolder before realizing that was not the
best way to handle a burn wound. He barked out a cry, but suddenly
snapped his lips shut. There could still be Mages down here waiting
for an attack.

The Spirit Mage had seen his face. With a
pinch of reluctance, Nolen knew he had to kill the men to save his
skin.
‘There is no going back.’
Grizzly business, but Nolen
would see them dead before
him
.

His hand came away from his thigh with lines
of blood, but he had no way of healing himself and so pressed
forward. Lifting the naked candle, he searched for the door he
needed. There was no mistaking it now; he was most assuredly in the
right place.

He found the door at the end of the dark,
forgotten hall. It was made of a sturdy metal and indeed locked,
but Nolen felt the keyhole with his Air Element and found it was a
simple lock. With enough pressure, he pushed the lock loose, and it
screeched opened. Adrenaline raced as he threw out a
muffle-pattern, hoping to catch the sound waves before they reached
the end of the hall.

It was well known that the Head Mage and his
Council wore rings connected to different parts of the castle, so
if a ward was tripped, they would know. However, Nolen carried a
rare treasure to ensure his success. In the hem of his trousers,
pressed against his skin was a medallion he had gone to great
lengths to procure. After countless rumors and more than one false
lead, he found it in a collection of ancient relics owned by the
Duke of Iosburg.

The medallion was little more than a round
coin with its center punched out and its edges ribbed. It felt as
old as it looked—a relic from the Second Age when the land used
different coinage. When the coin made skin contact, the bearer
could unravel patterns and dispel wards. Any prevention the Mages
of old took to keep this hall closed was for naught. It had taken
some time to prove the relic was the real Medallion of Unwind, as
its creator Arch Mage Pike Bronwen called it, but after Nolen
passed through the wards of Castle Jaden without alerting the
vigilant Council, he knew its authenticity. Nolen had even used it
a few times to pass through the wards protecting the coin vaults of
Kilkiny Palace.

‘
There is no going back,’
Nolen
reminded himself, a mantra he developed on his way here.
‘Perhaps I should think myself a bad person.’

The hall took several turns and flights of
stairs that wound him deeper into the rock. The air became colder.
He expected to find another soul in the catacombs, but no sound
reached him but for the occasional drip of water that puddled the
floors the further down he went. On his last turn he spotted his
destination. A deep cavern with a slender path led to a simple door
that was undoubtedly heavily warded on both sides. But as Nolen
approached, nothing terrible befell him. Putting a hand on the
ancient latch, he unlocked the four bolts set into each side and
pulled it open.

His candle gave a shutter as air sucked into
the room. For a moment he thought it would die and leave him
trapped in the belly of the mountain, but the light held. Catching
a stale breath, he stepped into the warded room.

He could see nothing, not even the edges of
the expanse, but to his true horror he felt the ever-pulsing flame
of his Element vanish.

He instinctively took a step back outside the
room and felt his Air Element rush back to him as if it never left.
Any good palace or castle had a similar room with incanted stones
that blocked the Elements. It was an excellent way to innerve and
distract a Mage.

He moved forward, listening to his bootsteps
slowly echo through what sounded like a tall room. All was silent
but for him, and he wondered if he had erred horribly, but then he
saw a pair of boots come into the circle of light. Raising the
candle, he revealed a man.

The man stood still with his eyes closed,
seemingly in a trance. Even his breast failed to rise and fall. His
skin was so pale it looked dead in the flickering light, and the
hollows of his eyes were dark. He was of average height, a good
five inches shorter than Nolen, with deeply-set eyes, a square jaw,
and a large straight nose. His brown hair banded back and fell to
his slender shoulders. He dressed in breeches and stockings,
wearing a coat with a hundred buttons up the side of the chest, and
a mountain of lace spilling from his throat and wrists. The
clothing was Age-old, and looked as though it may flake off if
touched.

Nolen heard stories of this man as far back
as he could remember. The man was a legend in the Mage world, and
even educated non-Mages whispered his story to their children.
Class Ten Mage Ryker Slade was reportedly as mad as he was
powerful, and stories of his power were enough to frighten even the
Head Mage. Nolen knew the stories well. Cunning and skilled with a
magnetic personality, he drew people to him; people he lured to
their deaths. It was told he killed his followers to fuel his
Excellyon that stored Mage energy. He was known for his sick
pleasures, and though the stories were exaggerated with every
tongue, they had to stem from some truths.