6. Malachar
6
MALACHAR
I wake with a start, a nameless unease writhing in my gut like a nest of serpents. For a moment I lie still, staring up at the velvet canopy above my bed, trying to pinpoint the source of my disquiet. The castle is quiet, the predawn hush lying heavy over the ancient stones. No sound disturbs the stillness save the hiss and pop of the dying embers in the hearth.
And yet... something is amiss. Some subtlety in the air, a disturbance in the delicate web of power that permeates my domain. I reach out with my arcane senses, probing, seeking...
Kira.
Her presence, usually a bright flare of untapped potential at the edge of my awareness, is conspicuously absent. I sit up abruptly, my unease sharpening to a keen edge of alarm. Surely the girl would not be so foolish as to attempt an escape? I made it abundantly clear that such efforts would be futile, if not outright suicidal.
I close my eyes, focusing my will, and cast my consciousness out like a net, searching for that telltale glimmer of her magical signature. But there is... nothing. No trace of her within the castle walls. It's as if she has simply winked out of existence.
A growl of frustration rumbles in my throat as I rise from the bed, conjuring my robes with a thought. This is impossible. The very stones of the Nightfort are attuned to me, saturated with my power. Nothing moves within these walls without my knowledge.
And yet the chit has somehow slipped my net, evaded my all-seeing gaze. A feat that should be well beyond the capabilities of an untrained mortal barely past her majority.
I pace to the window, staring out over the courtyard below, my mind racing. If Kira has truly fled... A spike of some unfamiliar emotion lances through me at the thought. Not anger, though there is that too. No, this is something else, something I haven't felt in centuries.
Fear.
The lands beyond my walls are treacherous, rife with dangers both mystical and mundane. Ancient wards and traps left by the Blanchwood’s previous occupants. Territorial fae with a taste for mortal flesh. Beautiful and monstrous beasts that hunt the shadowed glades and mist-shrouded hollows. A thousand different ways for a na?ve, unprotected girl to meet a grisly end.
And Kira... for all her latent power, for all the potential I sense coiled within her, she is still so painfully vulnerable. A mewling kitten in a forest of wolves. The thought of her alone and defenseless in that haunted wood, the thought of losing her before I've even begun to shape her into the weapon she will become...
It's intolerable. A white-hot lance of possessive fury sears through my chest, startling in its intensity. When did this mortal chit become so valuable to me? When did her safety, her very existence, begin to matter beyond her usefulness as a tool, a vessel for my power?
I shake off the disturbing line of thought, marshaling my focus. Introspection can wait.
First, I must find the girl.
I storm down to my sanctum, the air crackling with the force of my agitation. With a gesture, I summon my scrying orb, the polished crystal sphere floating to hover over its platinum stand. Another flexing of my will and the mist within the orb begins to swirl, responding to my unspoken command.
"Show me Kira Noor," I intone, the words thrumming with power. "Reveal her to me, wherever she may be."
The mists churn faster, coalescing, shaping... only to abruptly scatter, reverting to formless haze. I hiss through my teeth, my grip tightening on the orb's stand. Some force is blocking my sight, occluding the girl from my mystical gaze. But what could possibly...?
Of course. The ancient wards woven into the fabric of the land itself, the primordial enchantments that predate even my own tenancy here. Spells designed to conceal, to misdirect, to lead the unwary astray. Spells that could easily baffle a simple scrying, especially if their caster was preoccupied and unfocused…
I curse under my breath, frustration boiling over. With a snarl of rage, I lash out, a burst of raw magic sending the orb flying from its stand to shatter against the far wall. It's a childish display, unworthy of my age and power, but I can't bring myself to care.
Every moment I waste in impotent fury is another moment Kira spends in mortal peril. I must find her, and quickly, before the denizens of the Faewild claim her as their prize.
I summon my staff to hand, the gnarled length of black oak thrumming with the echoes of a thousand dark rituals. I rarely need it these days, but for a work of this magnitude, I'll want every iota of power I can muster.
The front doors of the Blanchmire boom open at my approach, the great slabs of blood oak swinging wide on their ancient hinges. I descend the steps into the gray pre dawn light, my robes billowing behind me, my staff striking sparks from the flagstones with each stride.
At the foot of the stairs, I pause, reaching out once more with my augmented senses. I cast my awareness out over the miles of twisting trails and mist-wreathed hills, the dangerous vales and glades. For a long moment, there is nothing. Then, at the very edge of my perception, the merest flicker. A guttering candle flame in a vast, hungry darkness.
But it's enough.
I hone in on that dim beacon, pouring my will into the work.
Reality ripples around me as I weave the spell of translocation, bending space and time to my desire. The power builds, swells, reaches a crescendo...
And with a thunderclap of displaced air, I vanish from the steps of the Blanchwood. The last thing I see as the world dissolves into a maelstrom of light and shadow is the rising sun, staining the horizon the color of blood.
Hold on, Kira. I'm coming.
Miles away, in a shadowed hollow deep within the whispering wood, I rematerialize with a rush of dark wind. The glade I find myself in is rank with the loamy stench of decay, choked with grasping briars and withered, stunted trees.
A place of old magic, dark and hungry.