CHAPTER TEN
A carriage awaited Deckard, Vayden, and a shrouded Auden outside the Crimson Clover.
Fine silken flags hung by the driver’s perch, and the carriage’s body was shiny black wood.
A footman held the door for them before hopping on the back.
Then the carriage rumbled down the cobbled streets of Mouroc and deeper into its heart.
After passing through another gate and winding through the streets, they finally stopped before a grand townhome with a white stone facade, copper gutters, and well-maintained shrubbery.
Despite being squeezed in between numerous other houses, each building on the stretch was three times as wide as Deckard’s home back in Loclight.
“I take it being a Mage is a lucrative profession,” Deckard said, taking in the intricate architecture.
“It isn’t bad,” Auden said, keeping his voice low. His edges were fuzzy, confirming Deckard’s shroud, but his invisibility didn’t keep him from being heard. “But Lord Obel is the Duke of Flamesend Crest, making him a true nobleman and wealthy by birth rather than circumstance.”
Deckard nodded as the footman opened the door.
They stepped out, taking care to distract from Auden’s exit before heading up the staircase to the front door, where a butler waited.
The foyer’s elegant design reminded Deckard too much of Renaul’s palatial mansion for comfort.
Paintings in golden frames adorned the walls, and a large, marble staircase spiraled to the top of the four-story building.
The tan and black tiles echoed under their boots as the butler led them to a drawing room.
The butler offered them tea while they waited for their host, then left them alone in the grand space.
A massive window filled the back wall with heavy, black velvet draperies drawn back on each side.
Another wall bore mahogany bookcases full to bursting with leather volumes of all shapes and sizes.
A pianoforte rested along the far end, and an oversized granite fireplace heated the room with its crackling fire.
While Vayden readily sat on one of the luxurious couches and Auden waited to the side, Deckard marveled at the fifteen-foot ceilings.
An ornate mural spanned the room’s length, and an opulent chandelier hung from the center.
The painting on the vaulted ceiling depicted eight individuals in various poses, with variegated colors around them.
Deckard’s eyes looped around the painting, entranced by the personification of what he understood to be the resources of life.
First, a woman shockingly similar in appearance to Ilain stood wrapped in ruby-red flames that licked at the world around her.
Fire’s charred remains bled out toward the next image of a man who looked like pure gold, light reflecting off everything surrounding him.
Day radiated a yellow pulse that shone onto the surface of a lake before rippling into the deepest sapphire blue.
Another woman stood ankle-deep on the bank of the pool as streams of sparkling Water swirled around her.
Shadows met the edge of the lake, turning an ominous shade of amethyst. A man shrouded in darkness stared down at Deckard with a hooded countenance he recognized from the antechamber of Renaul’s family crypt.
Night’s darkness beamed with glimmering, metallic stars around him.
Deckard had to turn around to follow the shadows before they were whisked away by the soft gray streams of a gale, swathing another man in its tumultuous coils.
The Wind blew away as stark white bleached an interpretation of all four seasons, an ageless woman sitting on an ivory throne, her face expressionless.
Time bled into the roots of a tree, wrapping around the form of a man with the richest emerald green vines across his shoulders as a mantle.
The Terrae grew lush and full around the man before being swallowed up in a void of eternal black.
A woman hung suspended in the glittering nothingness of Space, palms up and face lifted to the darkness around her.
Deckard narrowed his gaze, studying the woman as a door opened at the back of the room.
He jerked his eyes away from the mural, turning to see their host’s arrival.
Dressed in a black and brown jacquard coat, Lord Obel held his head high and his shoulders back with a regal bearing.
Jet-black hair brushed his collar, silver streaks cutting into a beard of the same darkness.
With a steady stride, Lord Obel approached, eyeing Deckard with severe green eyes. Surprisingly, his face bore the weathering of age, light wrinkles etching his pale skin, unlike every other Mage he’d met thus far. However, he still looked barely beyond his prime, whatever his years.
Vayden rose as Lord Obel came to a stop in front of Deckard. “You’re sloppy with your magic, young man,” the nobleman said, his voice as dark as his hair.
It had been so long since anyone referred to Deckard as young that it took him a second to respond. The soldier in him took over, and he snapped to attention. “I do apologize, my lord,” he said, keeping his tone respectful. “But I don’t understand.”
Obel blinked as though bored. “My appropriate address is ‘Your Grace.’ I may be a Mage, but my title as a duke ranks above that,” he said flatly.
“And as to your magic, any Night Mage could see the shroud you’ve got up around Highlord Calder.
It’s thin, at best, but I’d go so far as to call it visible.
I can see the shadow around him attempting to mask his form. Who taught you?”
Deckard glanced at Auden, still standing shrouded beside his brother, before replying, “Highlord Calder.”
Obel scoffed. “That explains it,” he said, then waved a hand at Auden. “You can remove the shroud.”
Deckard did as commanded, allowing the shroud to fade with a mental release, and Auden’s figure sharpened.
Lord Obel ignored them both, moving for Vayden. “Welcome back, my boy,” he said, patting the man’s arm. “I still think they retired you too soon. You could be giving Blount more trouble yet.”
“I’m an old man like you now, Sirraus,” Vayden replied with a fond smile. “And I’ve found other work to suit me.”
“So I hear,” Obel said, then instructed them all to take a seat. He settled across from the Calder brothers on the second couch, so Deckard took one of the chairs nearer the hearth.
The duke surveyed Deckard thoughtfully. “Well, you’re Colonel Deckard?” he asked, his Waulden accent finer than any he’d yet heard. “I thought you were Ephrian.”
“So did I,” Deckard replied.
“Life is full of surprises, I suppose.” Obel rested his hands on his legs. “Fishere said you wanted to speak with me, Colonel, but as you’re leaving in the morning, I’m afraid I don’t know how much help I can be.”
Deckard kept his gaze slightly averted from the duke’s, uncertain how such high-ranking noblemen preferred to be treated. In Ephria, he’d only ever met magistrates and the occasional baron. A duke was a formidable ally indeed.
“Your Grace,” he began, but Obel interrupted.
“Look at me when you’re speaking, boy,” he said. “I’m not going to chop off your head for insubordination.”
Vayden chuckled as Deckard corrected his posture.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said, then started over.
“I’m not entirely certain what help you might offer either.
However, my magic is both inexpert and seemingly .
. . dangerous. I would appreciate any help you can give me, even if it’s just to control it better. ”
Obel huffed. “Fishere said you are a Night Mage, which strikes me as odd since you’re not very good at it. I can understand that Highlord Calder isn’t the best teacher for the craft, but if Night is your primary, why are you so damned pitiful at it?”
Deckard met Auden’s gaze. The Day Mage’s brows were drawn low in irritation and confusion, but he offered no assistance.
Angling toward the duke, Deckard worked to control his frown. “I’m not sure I understand, Your Grace.”
Expression impassive, Obel looked from Deckard to Auden, over to Vayden, and back. “Why do you believe you’re a Night Mage?” he asked.
Deckard took a deep breath before explaining. “A month ago, I discovered my magic when I held the Night Relic for the first time. From there, Auden and Ilain tested me, discovering that I’m an Existential Mage. Aside from that . . . the first time I unknowingly accessed magic, it was Night magic.”
“Unknowingly?” Obel prompted.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Deckard said. “Before I was aware of my power, I . . . accidentally summoned a ghost.”
The duke’s expression pinched. “You summoned a ghost accidentally?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Mm.” Obel sat back in his seat, his hand stroking his silvering beard. He didn’t speak, studying Deckard slowly. His eyes began at his face, then scanned down as though looking for traces of magic itself.
Finally, the duke let his hand fall away.
“Well, I don’t perceive death on you,” he announced.
“Usually, when the Deep is growing in a Night Mage, often spurred on by the summoning of a ghost or some other necromantic work, it hangs around them like a cloud. But you’re clear as Day.
When was the last time you summoned this ghost of yours? ”
Deckard spared a glance at the Calder brothers. Vayden watched with amused interest while Auden pursed his lips in agitation.
Sitting up straighter, Deckard cleared his throat. “Two days ago,” he answered.
Obel turned to Auden. “Have you seen this ghost?”
“I have,” Auden said tersely.
“Did he look natural?”
Auden frowned. “He was a ghost. That’s not natural.”
Obel raised his eyes toward the mural. “Radia’s light, you’re dull,” he muttered, then raised his voice as though speaking to a child. “What I mean, Highlord, is: Did the ghost resemble a living human rather than a deteriorating corpse?”