CHAPTER TEN #2
Vayden pressed his lips together as though suppressing a laugh while Auden ground his teeth. “Yes,” the Mage said. “He looked exactly like he did in the moments before he died.”
“Ah,” Obel said, something like excitement injecting itself into his tone. “Then you knew this fellow?”
“He was a member of our party.”
“Excellent.” Obel turned back to Deckard.
“I will admit your ability to summon a ghost unintentionally and make it visible to others is surprising. There’s strength in you, even if your technique is lacking.
Though I question if that might of yours has more to do with that thing around your neck rather than innate power. ”
Both Calder men shifted in their seats warily.
Deckard frowned, the Night Relic’s chain suddenly heavy. “How did you—?”
“I sensed it the second I walked into the room,” Obel said. “That’s another issue we’ll discuss in a moment. Are there any other reasons you believe you’re a Night Mage?”
Deckard faltered, turning to Auden for support.
Auden took over readily. “I’ve seen his magic, Your Grace,” he said decisively. “It’s colored by Night. What’s more, he shrouded the Night Relic, disguising it from Renaul’s hired men.”
Lord Obel tipped his head to the side curiously. “Is that so?” he said, then faced Deckard. “You disguised the Relic?”
“I did,” Deckard replied, then added, “Your Grace.”
“Interesting.”
As Obel didn’t expound on his statement, Deckard sat forward. “Your Grace, I would appreciate whatever training you could give me, even if it’s just for the afternoon,” he said. “But more specifically, I’d like you to teach me how to release the ghost.”
“I can do that,” Obel said with a singular nod. “But first, we need some answers.”
“Answers to what?” Deckard asked.
Obel smiled. “Let’s have a look at your magic, Colonel.”
Deckard’s brow pinched together. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I’m not sure how to . . . show it off.”
Lifting a palm, Obel summoned a dark amethyst shadow to hover over it. The small cloud twisted in a merry dance, gloomy and charming all at once. “You do it the way you do any magic,” he said, then closed his hand, snuffing the shadow. “By focus and thought.”
Drawing in a breath, Deckard adjusted in his seat.
He set his gaze on the beige and brown carpet beneath his feet, working to find his center.
Focus was rarely a problem for him. Deckard had managed to hold fast to his ideals and goals due to his unwavering dedication to them throughout his life.
Ever since he’d begun training with the Calders, he’d managed to tap into his magic more quickly than they’d expected.
And with his strong grip on the ability to focus, that magic always came roaring in with nearly unbridled force.
The Night Relic’s setting felt like ice against Deckard’s chest as the heat of his magic rippled through his veins.
His heartbeat rose, pulse quickening, and the room was tinged in darkness as the edges of his vision blackened.
He’d not yet harnessed his magic, but he could feel it roiling inside as though in anticipation.
Holding his hands in front of him, Deckard stared at his palms, willing the crystalline shadows to appear.
Black shards erupted around his hands, twisting and shimmering in the late morning light.
Comparing his magic to Obel’s, he wondered if it could rightly be called shadows.
The tiny, glass-like shards that coalesced together to form the larger mass looked very little like the cloud of Obel’s power.
A scoff came from Deckard’s left, and he released the magic, looking up to find Obel sneering at Auden. “You thought he was a Night Mage?” the duke asked.
Auden looked hesitant despite his evident offense at Obel’s tone. “I—yes,” he said. “Yes, his magic is shadows and darkness and—”
“What color are his shadows, Highlord Calder?” Obel interrupted.
Auden scratched his head as though trying to come to grips with an impossibility.
“They’re black,” he murmured, studying Deckard for a moment, then meeting Obel’s gaze again.
“They looked purple, but . . . I was always distracted, fighting in the Keeps, or it was dark, and I couldn’t see plainly. But . . . They’re black.”
Obel nodded knowingly. “And they’re not shadows,” he said. “They’re silhouettes—the outline of darkness against a bright world.”
Auden began muttering under his breath as Vayden watched with something like growing awe.
Deckard didn’t understand. “Pardon me,” he said, “but are you saying that I’m not a Night Mage?”
Obel met his stare. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
A wave of emotion hit Deckard, driving him to lean back in his seat. Amid confusion, elation, disbelief, wariness, and awe, one feeling rose to the surface: relief. After a month of worrying that he would be plunged into the Deep, his fears turned out to be unfounded.
Deckard let out a grateful laugh. “I’m not a Night Mage?” he asked again, desperate for confirmation.
“No,” Obel said.
“You’re sure?”
“You’re not a Night Mage, Jonn,” Auden said apologetically. “I misread your magic because—I saw what I expected to see. You were using Night Magic in Dunneshead, but . . . rarely again. It isn’t your primary.”
Deckard sat up, intrigued. “What kind of Mage am I, then?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Obel said, gesturing to the mural above them and the woman surrounded by the void of black.
Deckard gaped at her, the sight of the glittering oblivion hitting him with its resemblance to the shard of magic he’d summoned a moment before. Space. He was a Space Mage.
He was a Space Mage?
He knew so little about the resource that he hardly knew how to feel about the revelation.
“I will grant Highlord Calder the allowance that Night and Space are strikingly similar at times,” Obel said, drawing Deckard’s eyes back to him.
“Dark, cold, and mysterious. It’s easy to connect with Night when you meant to find Space.
But you’re no Night Mage, Colonel. Trust me, I’ve been one for nearly two centuries. ”
Deckard brushed a hand over his jaw, attempting to understand. “How is it I summoned Hewitt before I knew I was a Mage, then?” he asked.
“I take it Hewitt’s your ghost?” Obel asked but didn’t wait for confirmation. “There are a couple of possibilities, and being a Space Mage grants you some assistance in that matter. They are a rare breed for a reason.”
“They’re dangerous,” Auden said.
Deckard frowned. “You said that about Night Mages.”
Surprisingly, Auden smiled. “It’s a different kind of danger. Night is dangerous because it’s dark and can bring the Deep upon its wielder. Space is dangerous because it’s . . . vast.”
“By vast,” Obel said, “he means it’s limitless.”
The concept was impossible to fathom. “Meaning what?” Deckard asked. “That I have unlimited power and can’t deplete my energy?”
“Galatae’s Heavens, no,” Obel said with a chuckle.
“The resource is limitless. You are not. You very much have limits, as every Mage does, and I’d be careful about pushing them.
But,” he angled toward Deckard, “it does translate to the way you use your magic. You see, all Space Mages are predisposed to focus. How are your abilities to draw on your concentration, Colonel?”
“Excellent,” Deckard admitted. “I thought that was why my abilities with Night manifested so easily. I’ve always been able to focus intently on whatever I turn my thoughts to.”
“Ah, so exactly as I said, then. It’s a quality all Space Mages share.” Obel nodded. “It has to do with the ability to open their minds to the boundless nature of the resource. Because of this, they are generally more apt to connect with all the resources, not just their primary.”
“Which explains why you were so quick to pick up your magic,” Auden added.
“And why you were able to summon a ghost without intending to,” Obel concluded.
Vayden, lounging on the far side of the couch, began to laugh. “Oh, Fishere is going to lose his bloody mind,” he said.
“Why?” Deckard asked, growing uneasy with the news.
The question seemed to catch Vayden off guard.
He stared back blankly before finding his voice.
“Well,” he glanced at Auden, “like Sirraus said, your kind are quite rare. There are only two known Space Mages in the world—now three with you—and while the Alliance managed to pull Lord Grenwoode from retirement, he’s over two centuries old.
They don’t expect him to live more than a few more decades at the most.”
Deckard raised his chin in understanding. “And they need someone to carry the Relic,” he surmised.
Vayden shrugged as Auden watched Deckard carefully.
Deciding this was a fight for another time, Deckard turned back to Obel. “How do I release Hewitt?” he asked.
“First,” Obel said, “I need to know how you summoned him.”
A blend of irritation and anxiety tensed Deckard’s shoulders.
He wanted to go back to the hotel, get Evylin, and leave Mouroc before the Alliance could stop them.
Their situation was growing perilous. As a Bonded couple, he already knew the Alliance would desire their appointment as Relic bearers.
Now that he was named a Space Mage . . .
Outwardly, Deckard controlled his fearful impulse, knowing more was at stake than their personal desires. He took a steadying breath and replied, “I don’t know how I summoned him. He was just . . . there.”
Obel regarded him with an unexpected patience. “Walk me through when he first appeared to you.”
Running a hand over his mouth, Deckard thought back. He furrowed his brow, remembering the shovel in his hands, the frozen terrae that fought against him, the tears that blinded him, and the voice that rang in his mind: “Don’t take my choices from me.”
Deckard couldn’t help his sad smile. “It was at his grave,” he said. “I was digging after his death, thinking of him . . . thinking of how I still needed him, how Evylin needed him. And then . . . he was there.”
“You were digging his grave?” Obel asked.