The water was cold to her feet. Lakes in Fraumin were always cold no matter the season, but the chill soothed her still, reminding her of simpler days. Madwen took a deep breath, eyes closed, and released slowly. It was a learned response to stress that she’d found herself rehearsing even when calm. What’s wrong, she wondered. Something had once plucked at her mind, but for the life of her, she could not remember it. It was as if she had awoken from a nightmare; fear stoked her heart, yet the memories of what caused it had slipped away, and thus, so too did the fear.
Soft dripping water caught her ear. A small, wooden boat glided toward her, oars dipping quietly into the still water, then pulling back into a smooth, calm rhythm. A man of chestnut hair and a short ginger beard gently rowed, his cloth tunic loosely buttoned. There was a haze about him, like an idea that hadn’t fully formed. And yet, Madwen felt no alarm. She had been here before—seen this same man, felt this same chill, smelled this same air. There was no need to panic, no call for anxiety. She was safe.
Neither of them spoke; why speak when thoughts were enough? Such a connection took years, decades even, to fo—
“Madwen!” Worne’s gruff voice pulled at her, grounded like stone. His rough, calloused hand gripped her arm, his grasp cold and lifeless. She yanked free, appalled at first but then came to. The two stood on a gentle hill on the far side of the city, scattered trees casting long shadows over the yellow flowers at their feet. The golden light of the setting sun hued orange as the evening fog crept toward the city. Worne stared his nasty stare—yet something like concern, though twisted and warped by his bitterness, stirred deep behind his grey eyes.
“You deaf? Never seen you so jumpy,” said Worne. “You get some sleep like I said? You still look like shit.”
Still dazed, Madwen took another moment to recover. Yes, she thought, the ritual.
“I’ve caught some winks here and there. Tell me, what have you found?”
Worne eyed a man of early adulthood hauling a large vase toward the hill’s peak, water sloshing within. Hired by Madwen, no doubt. He waited for the man to pass.
“Kid’s a magic user,” said Worne, hushing his gruffness into a low growl.
“Magic? You’re sure?”
Worne dug his fingers into a small breast pocket sewn on the inside of his hard leather tunic. “See for yourself.” He tossed the small smooth ball found at the epicentre of Fiamór’s destruction. Madwen held it to the light in the same fashion Worne had upon its discovery.
“Village is a fucking mess,” Worne continued. “Pools of blood, sharp splatters on the walls like something big crushed ‘em. That ball used to be a doll.”
“Burden,” said Madwen. “An omen spell.” Her eyes flicked about, avoiding the marble weighing heavy in her fingers. “You said the man wasn’t the kind to kill a whole village; why not?”
“Bloke had been crying. Eyes all puffy. Look o’ regret about him. Not a killer. Not intentionally, that is.”
“Gods. He’s a dissonant.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Magic is contractual—consensual. You need to study it before acquiring it, so you know what you’re getting yourself into. He was either born with it or stumbled upon it during his adolescence. It’s exceptionally rare, especially in men.”
Worne shifted his weight. “Born with it, eh? That make him more powerful?”
“More dangerous, yes, but he’s magically weak. It’s formless power, like striking a target with the flat of your blade.”
Worne shifted again. In his youth, he had hated magic. It was the power that divided the High Cities from the low. He remembered the months of cracking, cutting, and hauling stone. So much effort only to create a single grain silo no more than thirty feet in height. All this while the High Crown sat atop a thin, whitesteel tower that dwarfed even mountains. Madwen was intentional with her magic, however, and during their short partnership, Worne had grown to see its many uses. Still, underneath the crow’s feet and cracking joints, Madwen held even more power than that demonstrated in the now-former village.
“This certainly complicates things,” said Madwen, thumbing at one of her silver bracelets.
The hired labourer approached the pair from atop the hill, exhaling sharply as he slowly descended. “Work’s all done, ma’am! Jug’s at the top o’ the hill, just the way you asked.”
“Lovely, darling!” Madwen accentuated her posh accent and forced the feminine charm she often lacked. “I’ll be right up in a moment, but you’ve earned yourself a proper payment for a proper job done.” She tossed a silver shilling from her coin purse, the man already smiling as he watched the sunlight flicker off the coin’s shining white finish.
“Come with me,” she said from the side of her mouth toward Worne. “We’ll need to adjust our plans.”
The sun had nearly fully set as the pair crested the hill. Faint rays of light lingered still, painting the undersides of distant clouds in a soft pink. Several markings scored the dirt where the labourman had rested the clay vase before finally placing it in a small circle carved into the earth. Worne spotted the six-sided Mark of the Omeness embedded into the vase’s matte glaze.
“I still need to find the omen that lurks here, the one causing the dissonance in this city. This should be my final experiment.”
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“The foreigner not your concern?”
“He is, but I’ll need you to retrieve him. I have to stay here.”
Worne huffed, Lord Daithi’s venomous offer still poisoned his mind. “This final experiment, we start killing when it’s done?”
“Do you have somewhere to be? Or are you simply dull?” Madwen’s sudden shift in tone brushed off Worne’s solid exterior, yet something weighed heavily upon him. “Do you have any idea what we’re dealing with? I’m sure being as big as you are, ‘big man,’ you think we can simply smash two skulls together and call it a day, but I’ve told you: this is serious. We may not survive. And I’m tired of trying to explain that to you.”
“Got a time limit, if you forgot.”
“You think I’m slipping, then?”
“Never said that. You been here half a decas though, haven’t found anything. Can’t even tell me what this is.”
Madwen could feel the pounding of rage at the barriers of her mind, cracking the stony foundation within her. Worne’s sour mood was seldom contagious, yet for some reason, at that moment, she could sense it infecting her. In a heartbeat, she retreated into her internal sanctuary.
A gentle breeze weaved through the tall grass nearby, leaving the two in their silence. The pressure pressing down on Worne lightened. He watched her with careful eyes as she relaxed her posture with a deep breath.
“Do you know why I look like shit? Why I’m so ‘jumpy?’” said Madwen. “Ever since my arrival, my mind has been met with nothing but oppression and exhaustion. Something’s toying with me; testing the barriers of my mind. In all honesty, I’m afraid it’s too much. What’s more, whatever resides here is disrupting my attempts to find it. You yourself saw the results of my experiments. Most omens are fickle, flighty, unintelligent things. They may have basic needs and motivations, such as to feed and procreate, but most cannot think for themselves. Many even cannot be considered sentient, like curses or spells. You and I, we’ve only ever dealt with these lower omens. There are, however, three categories of omens that show signs of intelligence and the capability for higher thought: relics, demons, and demigods.”
“Demigods?” the mere mention of the word made Worne’s teeth grind.
“Indeed. However, I don’t believe we’re dealing with a demigod. They’re often human in appearance, and their magic cannot interfere with my experiments. Not to mention, they’ve been nearly extinct since the High War. No, we’re dealing with either a demon or a relic. Demons being essentially shadows of The Ones Before, usually manifesting as creatures of strong emotional control and immense physical power, and relics being ancient spirits and possibly even some of The Ones Before that evaded the war. Both are often considered two sides of the same coin. When dealing with these creatures, however, we aren’t dealing with kinds of creatures, but rather, each is an individual with different behaviours and abilities.”
Madwen turned to feel the soft moonlight cresting over the forest canopy that surrounded most the city, the sun’s weakening twilight dwindling further.
“That what the water’s for?” Worne said, nodding his head toward the vase.
“Yes. Moonwater. The moon is still waxing, so it’ll take most the night to complete the ritual, and I’ll need to concentrate what remaining energy I have into it.”
“What then?” asked Worne. The paleness of the filling moon reached into the vase but could not yet touch the water within.
“The bloods you brought me, both have unique properties when mixed with omen magic. Darkblood consumes; lightblood emits. When lightblood fuses with moonwater, it creates a pure magical sound, completely opposed to magical dissonance. With that, casting it into the air, it will point me to any people manipulated by dissonant magic, like smoke toward a draft. Most importantly, I’ll finally see its form, if only just the figure of it.”
Madwen and Worne were merely silhouettes high above the city below. Lantern and candlelight glowed, ever-moving through the streets and windows. The sound and cadence of the city changed. Gone was the clanging of metalwork and the shouts of merchant sales; the bouts of laughter, lively music, and drunken singing filled their void instead.
“Lord’s not going to let me take the dark-skinned man.”
“He’d be a fool not to. A dissonant doesn’t have the trained emotional and magical discipline to channel their power. He’s killed an entire village already. Locking him in a cell won’t remove him of his magic. Besides, he can keep him there until we leave if he wants, but we must at least be able to speak with him within that time. Tell the foreigner who I am and that I’ll take him to the High Capital.”
“Think they’ll take in a murderer?”
“You think knights are virgins to spilling blood? Who have never raped a woman?”
“That’s battle, war. Dark skinned bloke’s killed innocents.”
“Ah yes, because if where you live has been sieged by a power-hungry lord, you’re not innocent, you’re a reward for your captor’s efforts. When’s the last time a soldier shed a tear for their victims?”
“Tears don’t make it justified. Still murder.”
“Yes, and if the High Crown will allow murderers and rapers into their armies, one more ‘murderer’ shouldn’t make a difference.”
Worne sighed sharply. Returning to the castle meant another battle of words with the low lord Daithi, a task Worne was ill-equipped for. If only Gildaun were under siege, he thought, humble lord would make a proper prize. Madwen may have had her trained mind to ease her nerves, but Worne was content with the thought of beating the lord within an inch of his life, or perhaps a few inches past it.
The night was growing colder, and the cool moisture in the air drew clouds with each breath.
“I’ll talk to the magic user,” said Worne. He started toward the city below.
“Worne,” called Madwen. He turned to her. She stood squeezing her arm, looking at the ground. “There’s something more I must tell you.”
Worne waited, but Madwen remained silent. “Go on then,” he said.
Madwen raised her eyes. “…I’ve been seeing things these last few days, things that weren’t there. Today I opened my eyes and I was somewhere else.”
Worne thought for a moment. “Think it’s the omen?”
“Partially. In truth, I haven’t slept since I arrived here. Maybe an hour every day or two. Worne, if something should happen—if I should hurt someone—”
“You won’t,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The two stood for a moment longer in the rapidly cooling air, then Worne turned once more and descended the hilltop toward the now-golden castle. With each step forward, his mind grew more focused, more resilient—a skill of which he’d mastered after decades of practice before battle. In his past, he often faced a single problem with a single solution. Now, Daithi was that problem. He’d discovered Worne’s secret, but in doing so, revealed his own.
Madwen watched Worne’s bulky figure disappear into the maze of streets below. A flicker of white light caught her eye as the moon’s glow poured past the lip of the vase. She took a deep breath, eyes closed, and released slowly. Pulling her wrists together and elbows to her sides, the silver bracelets dangling from her forearms sparkled and glowed. She could feel the vast reservoir of magic coursing through her veins like brilliant rivers of heavenly light. In long, rhythmic movements, she calmed the rivers into tranquil streams, allowing the light to flow into the air, then guiding it gently into the water.
The temptation to bask in the peace that surrounded her was nearly irresistible. After so many strenuous days, why shouldn’t she afford herself some respite? But the well of peace was not hers to drink from—to indulge would mean to lose control. And so, for the rest of the night, Madwen continued to resist the relentless pull, ignorant of the armoured figures waiting in the shadows, fixated on her every move.