He remembered not being so sensitive. It had been cold that bothered him then. He was slender, always had been. A spring breeze used to cut like a blade. Now the cold was natural. The warmth was not – but Aeron could pretend it was.
It was why he liked to watch the sunrise.
He let his eyes slip close, savoring the heat, feeling his death approaching.
He’s here.
A shadow fell over him.
Aeron’s eyes snapped open.
A skeletal figure in ragged green hung in the sunlight. The skull, trailing strands of yellow hair, was intimately close. Scattered bits of flesh and sinew still clung to bone. Her lower half was submerged in the tiles as though she’d risen through the rooftop. No doubt she had.
Where? Aeron asked.
Below. A bony hand pointed. Only a few others in the street.
Good. We’ll surround him, like always.
I know, Aeron.
Aeron smiled as he stood. Sorry, Star.
His morning star. She rose, slowly. The remains of her dress and hair floated in the wind of the half-world. Her skeletal feet still dipped into the tiles, so Aeron remained an inch taller. She did that for him. Maybe it was a way to cling to the life they’d lost.
Aeron stepped over to the rooftop’s edge. They were in the heart of the city. Magewrought buildings, like the one he stood on, towered everywhere. Istara drifted after him. Together, they looked down at the street hundreds of feet below.
Aeron saw only dots from this height. The moving one?
The bleeding one.
Aeron looked at her sideways. Shades gathered for lifeblood spilled. His teachers hadn’t been entirely wrong. From what?
The skull turned, sunlight pouring into empty sockets. He was attacked by thieves.
You watched?
I waited for you.
Aeron nodded. She was stronger than other shades, but blood could still affect her.
The southwest end?
Yes. Star – He turned to face her. What was there to say? Be careful.
She floated there a moment longer, not speaking. Then she flickered, making that eerie ripping noise, and vanished.
Aeron breathed in the musty smell of old bones. He never mentioned that, knowing how she’d react. Did she hate him for it? For all of it? He’d never dared to ask.
He breathed out, slowly, and stepped off the edge of the rooftop.
The street rushed up with exhilarating speed. Wind whistled in his ears, battered his face and hands, pressed his clothes to his skin. Once, doing this had terrified him.
Aeron called up the half-world. His fall slowed, the golden sunlight fading against a white mist that darkened buildings but revealed vague figures floating all around. Some followed as he drifted down. Aeron had time to watch them coming, familiar as old friends. Perhaps a few really were.
He snapped back to the living world and dropped the last ten feet, hitting the paved street in a crouch. The few people in this street at dawn gasped, pulled back, the usual reactions. Aeron straightened facing his quarry, who stared, one hand pressed to his bloodstained shirt.
Aeron smiled as the man recognized him. He gave a cry and ran back the way he’d come. Aeron called back the mists.
The passersby – and his quarry – faded to near-invisibility. Their movements slowed, the man running through water. Aeron ran too. Time moved slower in the half-world. He could have walked, but for the shades. They followed faster now. They smelled blood.
Right behind the running silhouette, Aeron burst back to the sunlight – and the man threw himself sideways.
Aeron frowned, watching the man race down a dark alley. He shouldn’t have felt Aeron coming. Unless…
He reached out. The sunburst halves on the back of his hand flared white as he twisted the mists through the veil. They touched the man and unraveled into nothing.
Aeron grunted and ran on. Of course he had Vowsteel. Who didn’t these days? There was shouting up ahead. Istara, no doubt.
His quarry turned a corner, and Aeron entered the mists again, sprinting down the brightened alley. The shades didn’t drift to him now. They flew. Shades weren’t predators, but running prey excited them nonetheless. Aeron turned the same corner, spotted the right silhouette not far up the sloping street. The only silhouette. This street was deserted.
After leaving now, he couldn’t afford to enter the half-world again so soon. The shades would be waiting for him.
No other choice, then. Still running, Aeron pulled a glass dagger from his belt and threw it.
The shades swirled down around him with whispered screams, just as Aeron banished the mists.
Time moved faster in the living world.
The thrown blade blurred forwards, just missing the man’s thigh. He flinched as it shattered in the street before him, and ran faster.
Aeron swore and kept going. But he was tired now. His legs were stiff with weariness. The man’s lead was growing.
Until he pulled up short before Istara, floating in the street a head above him.
With a frantic glance at Aeron, the man pulled out a Vowsteel dagger, the golden runes on the blade gleaming in the shadows. He straightened with visible effort, brandishing the weapon. “You can’t touch me, shade!”
Her skull tilted to one side, an expression Aeron remembered well.
The man shouted and charged her.
Her arm snapped down and seized his throat with bony fingers, squeezing until he dropped the dagger.
The skull turned as Aeron staggered up, breathing hard. Your aim needs work.
I was trying to graze him, he grumbled. He could feel her amusement. We need answers, remember?
Of course.
“I-I won’t –” Their quarry was choking, scrabbling at her grip.
Aeron considered him. He glanced to Istara. She let the man collapse in the street, where he struggled to his knees. He was quite pale now. Fear, exertion, blood loss?
Aeron grabbed the man’s hair, picked up the dagger and laid it against his freshly bruised throat.
“Hello, Janis,” Aeron murmured. “Remember me?” He leaned down, smiled. “Remember her?”
Janis stared at him, then at Istara. His eyes bulged.
“Blood of the mother, you brought her back?”
Aeron didn’t answer, straightening. The shouts he’d been hearing were growing closer, as were the running boots. A lot of them. Guardsmen in red tabards streamed from the alleys and side-streets.
“Blood of the mother indeed,” Aeron said under his breath as their little reunion was surrounded.
“Release him, Halflight!”
“Banish that shade!”
“Don’t even think about the half-world!”
That last made him snort. How could you not think about it? Still keeping Janis’s throat cold, Aeron glanced around at the ring of spears leveled at them. Vowsteel, of course; a golden rune on every head. The ruler of this city-state kept his guards well-armed. But their number and timing was suspicious.
Were they expecting us? He asked Istara.
Another mage, maybe?
Hmm. Rulers – the smarter ones, at least – often kept advisors from the guilds. Just his luck there’d be another Halflight around to sense him. He should have been more careful.
Aeron cleared his throat. “This man is a murderer! He was witnessed killing –”
How many?
If Star still had eyes, she’d be rolling them. Two.
“Two innocents! Somewhere that way, follow the blood. I’ve done you a service by catching him.”
“What?” Janis squeaked. “They attacked me!”
“The witness says otherwise.”
“You bastard!”
“How dare you! I was born after the marriage.”
“Enough!” A guard in a more elaborate tunic snapped. “You think this a game, mage? The guilds serve our laws in Ringall! You attacked him, and summoning shades is forbidden. I could kill you right here.”
“Yet you haven’t, Captain."
“Lieutenant.” The man glowered at him. “Halflight Cerus has requested you be turned over to your own.”
“Wonderful.” You were right, Star.
Aren’t I always?
“As long as you cooperate,” the lieutenant added. “I said I could kill you, mage. Release the hostage. Banish the shade. And maybe you’ll come out of this alive.”
With a show of reluctance, Aeron dropped the dagger and stepped back. Janis stood, rubbing his throat and glaring at Aeron. He made to pick up the dagger, then hastily raised both hands as a spear was thrust at him. Aeron shook his head. Idiot.
“Bring him along, find out why the mage wanted him. Not now,” the lieutenant grated, as Janis began to speak. “Try not to let him bleed out on the way.” The man pointed to Istara, still floating a head above them all. “The shade, Halflight.”
The guards had to point their spears up at her. They flinched as she turned to the lieutenant, who dropped his hand a little too quickly. Everyone knew shades could hold grudges. Aeron looked to her. All right, Star?
I’m here if you need me.
I know.
Aeron held up a hand with its black sunburst halves for all to see. They flared white as he touched the half-world. Istara turned translucent, than disappeared completely.
One of the guards spat. “Faders.”
Aeron smirked at the epithet. “Shall we go, gentlemen?”
“Bind their hands,” the lieutenant snapped. “Both of them.”
Aeron smiled at Janis, who glared back as their hands were locked into Vowsteel manacles. Janis too, though his hands were unmarked. The guards were taking no chances. Aeron’s bonds tingled. For now, he was cut off from the half-world.
They were prodded down the street. One of the guards took the dagger. Vowsteel was expensive. He wondered how Janis had gotten it. Stolen, probably.
That went well, Istara whispered to him.
Didn’t it?
They were led through the sunlit city streets into the Ariant Palace, seat of the king, guarded by the heaviest defenses in the city. It was a fortress in itself, but Aeron had seen larger fortresses.
Casually, he looked around as they passed through corridors furnished with intricate tapestries, colorful tiles underfoot and faded banners overhead. He watched as Janis was taken down a different hallway.
“Don’t get any ideas, Halflight,” a guard muttered.
“I’m getting some right now.” Aeron raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to know what I’ll do to you after I escape?”
You won’t even remember his face, Istara murmured.
How did you know?
The guard stiffened just a little. “You’re not going anywhere, mage.”
“I admire dead men with optimism.”
Another guard snorted. “Shades, Bar, the guild’ll cage him like any other. Don’t let him get to you.”
A third shook his head. “There’s something odd about this one. The way he moves, maybe.”
Aeron suppressed a smirk. “We could dance, guardsman. With blades. You’d see how I move then.”
“You want a blade right now, you little –”
“Shut up, all of you!” The lieutenant snapped.
They’d reached an ornate pair of doors as wide as the corridor. The lieutenant knocked, and a panel slid open for him to murmur through. Aeron stood straighter, adjusted his coat, ran a hand through his hair. Some magi thought they could impress while looking like beggars. Aeron wasn’t one of them. The guards eyed him as the doors were pulled open from within.
The throne room was underwhelming, in all honesty. Once he’d have been impressed. But the Council of Dawn sat in chambers vast enough for a shout at one end to be a murmur at the other. This was closer to a councilor’s bedroom.
Aeron’s escort spread out around him, blocking the doors and watching him like the threat he was. They were, he admitted, well-trained.
The bearded man on the throne leaned forward, the banner of the Ebon Hawk on red at his back. “This is your renegade, Cerus?”
“I believe so, Majesty,” said another, thin and greying, one of several who stood beside the dais. “He is older now, but –”
“I am Aeron Cale, Majesty.” Aeron sketched a bow. “It is true that the guild has branded me a renegade.”
“You will cooperate, then?” Cerus looked satisfied.
“Not at all. I simply believe in civilities.” Aeron turned to the advisor. “Have we met?”
“I was one of your teachers,” the man hissed.
“Your lessons made no impression, then.”
While the older mage sputtered, Aeron and the king studied one another. He knew nothing about King Gared besides his name, but the fact he had at least one mage advisor was a good sign.
Yet only one. None of the others standing around were Marked that he could see. Curious. From all the runed weaponry, he’d at least expected one of the Avowed.
The king sat back. “Why did you just attack a man in broad daylight, Aeron Cale?”
“I wished to speak with him, Majesty. Janis was the one who ran.”
“You know each other, then.”
“He knows me.”
Cerus finally got his wind back. “Trust nothing he says, Majesty. Aeron Cale is wanted for five murders in four cities. This would have been the sixth.”
“I did not kill them.” Aeron glared at the mage. “Someone wants to stop me finding leads. Who else but the true murderer?”
“You are the murderer, Cale.” The older Halflight grimaced. “You seek only a twisted revenge.”
“Justice!”
The king looked curious. “What does he mean, Cerus?”
The other mage made an exasperated noise. “Almost two years ago the entire Lukayne family, a minor noble house to the north, died in a fire. A tragedy, to be sure. Cale here was well-acquainted with the third daughter.” Cerus cleared his throat. “They were betrothed, I understand.”
Aeron’s insides writhed, remembering. Istara remained silent.
“Afterwards – we only learned later on, of course – he started delving into darker paths. The darkest, really. He was trying to bring the dead back to life.
“It was learned he’d begun summoning shades. The girl’s grave was found desecrated before he fled. We still don’t know what he did with the body. He sent messages to the guild, spouted the same nonsense in various encounters. That the family was murdered, and now he hunts their killers. It was lucky we finally tracked him here. Majesty, the man is mad.”
Maintaining his composure with difficulty, Aeron spoke on the advisor’s heels. “Majesty, they were murdered. The fire was meant to destroy the evidence.”
Cerus shook his head. “You wished to see him, Majesty, and you have. Allow me to take him away. It is a waste, truly. Aeron Cale was once among our most promising students, but now –”
“Enough.”
The entire room flinched. Aeron glanced over his shoulder as Istara became visible once more, floating above them all.
“I am Istara Lukayne.”
He couldn’t help a twinge of sadness. Speaking aloud wasn’t natural for her, not anymore. Her voice was hollow, distorted. But it was still her voice. Almost, he could pretend she still lived.
“My family was murdered. We were butchered in our own home. If my love had not brought me back, no one would have ever known. Yet still you refuse to believe.”
Most were transfixed. Cerus had the presence of mind to cast him a suspicious glance. Aeron lifted his fettered hands, showing the black sunbursts – he wasn’t doing anything.
“I don’t know who did it. I don’t know why. But I will find them and make them suffer.”
Amid gasps and cries, she swooped down to hover before the old Halflight. To his credit, he took but a single step back.
“You were half right, advisor. Aeron wants justice. But I want revenge.”
In the silence that followed, Istara floated backwards until she was beside Aeron. The guards were especially pale. No doubt they’d be blamed. He felt a little guilty at that. They couldn’t have known she could turn invisible.
“This is an abomination,” the advisor whispered. “An insult to her memory.”
“But do you concede –” Aeron bit off the word. “That she was murdered?”
“Shades can be manipulated,” Cerus snapped. “This – this thing you’ve made of her simply mirrors your madness. It proves nothing.”
In the corner of his eye, Aeron saw Istara flexing bony fingers as though thinking of strangling the man. He didn’t blame her.
Easy, Star. We had to try.
It was the only reason he’d put up with this for so long. If they could convince even a minor king, or at least another Halflight…
This was a waste of time, Istara hissed.
With a deep breath, the old mage turned to the king. “Majesty, I apologize that you should see this monstrosity. It should never have been created.”
I know, Aeron thought to himself. He’d thought he could cheat death itself. When he saw what he’d done to her instead…
Though he missed the king’s response, Aeron saw the advisor turn and advance on Istara.
Aeron smirked. “Try it.”
Cerus glared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Try to banish her.”
The older mage made no reply. Cerus raised a liver-spotted hand that bore its own split sunburst. The halves flared white. Aeron watched him twisting the mist-light around Istara, trying to force her to the other side – only they three could see it. He felt a strange mix of amusement and melancholy.
Cerus’s brow wrinkled. He raised his other hand.
Minutes passed. King Gared shifted on the throne, his courtiers whispering to each another. Even the guards encircling Aeron and Star began frowning. Istara ignored them all, her eyeless gaze fixed on the mage below her. He was sweating.
“Are you done yet?” Her voice was mocking.
The advisor lowered his hands at last, the glow fading. He was panting.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aeron to hear. “Those bones can’t bind her here. Souls need a living link…”
“Indeed,” Aeron murmured.
The old man pointed a shaking finger at him. “What have you done here, boy?”
“What I set out to do, advisor.”
Aeron felt Istara move to float at his back, close enough for an embrace. The king leaned forward, frowning. The courtiers looked horrified, the guards perturbed. Had any seen what she’d done to Janis? Either way, Cerus had proved Istara was more than a shade. And Aeron supposed he was more than a mage.
Normally, the touch of a shade was death – but not for him. Not anymore.
Not yet.
Ready, love? Istara whispered.
Ready, Star.
Aeron gave a bitter smile. “I brought the dead back to life.”
He saw skeletal hands rising at his sides.
Cerus’s expression tightened in understanding. “Stop the sh-!”
Istara thrust both hands into Aeron’s. His blood turned to ice water; it would feel like fire to her. Aeron gritted his teeth. Istara screamed. Through the pain, he was aware of people flinching away from them. The runes on his manacles turned black as Istara pulled with unnatural strength.
The Vowsteel shattered.
Istara jerked free of him and vanished.
Still catching his breath, flexing warmth back into his fingers, Aeron spread his hands. His sunbursts glowed white. Cerus had his hands up, but his own flickered after burning his strength on Istara. King Gared shouted for the guards to attack.
Aeron smiled around the room. The king was on his feet, the courtiers falling over themselves in terror, the ring of Vowsteel spears converging on him.
He called on the half-world and dropped through the floor.
