Chasing Shadows

Chasing Shadows

Ioeth & Sylen

Set in Faline, just after Archon Miriam's rise to power, an evening in early autumn.

Ioeth

The raucous buzz of inebriated people, the clink of glasses from the bar across the room; a cloying smell of smoke and old alcohol, mixed with a hint of salt and sea. The sign outside the squat and slanted building had proclaimed it was called the Old Sailor’s Delight, but Ioeth couldn’t find anything particularly delightful about the place.

The tavern was small, somewhat shabby, and with a clientele of sailors, dock workers, and various locals, as well as more than a handful of merchants and traders passing through. The crowd was colourful enough that Ioeth didn’t feel particularly out of place, and they were likely not the only mage there, either, though nowadays people seemed more subtle about it, if they were able. Archon Miriam’s rise to power hadn’t gone unnoticed, here or anywhere else.

Still, they kept their skeletal arms hidden, carefully covered with a worn cloak. No need to draw that kind of attention to themselves, though their obsidian eyes and black-stained hands were hard to hide. With some luck, the dim lighting and the alcohol would take care of it ‒ few people here cared, if they had a mug of ale and a bowl of whatever the kitchen served that day.

With a cheap, watered-down drink in one hand, Ioeth had found an empty enough corner ‒ maybe because the table they had picked had a bent and rusty dagger embedded in it, likely left in a fit of rage over a lost card game or a bet. 

They had mainly come here to think and mull over their situation, and their small rented room had begun to feel cramped. Leaving the Order had been the first step, but what now?

Thoughts wandering, they idly watched the room, leaning on their elbows against the table. Their gaze kept straying to that dagger, but it was just out of reach… with a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching too closely, they reached out with their magic. A shadowy tendril sneaking across the rough planks, wrapping itself around the dagger ‒ and with a quick jerk, it clattered to the table, the shadow gone in the blink of an eye.

Ioeth reached out to pick it up; it wouldn’t be too hard to sharpen the blade and give it some polish, they thought, running a finger along the edge. Perhaps they ought to start up metalsmithing again; something to bring in coin and keep a roof above their head. (415)

Sylen

   Tired. Hungry. Irritated.

   His morning’s hunt had gone unbelievably poorly. Miriam had tasked him and two other Witchfinders with capturing a wanted target, one who had roamed around the edges of Faline for quite some time now, apparently. In the chase his two allies had been not only downed, but captured by the wild mage, and he’d had to bargain with her to release the two of them. When she refused, more Witchfinders had been called in to deal with the issue and Sylen had been forced to file the remaining paperwork.

   He slumped into an empty chair, letting one leg hang off the side and hooking an elbow over its top rail, leaning as far back into the seat as possible while still remaining vaguely upright. With his free hand he rubbed down the bridge of his nose, his mussed hair dangling over his brow as he stretched.

   He’d ordered his food at the bar. He didn’t drink, so he wasn’t here for much more than the whatever-it-was they’d be bringing to him. He picked at a splinter in the tabletop with his nails as he waited, the overexcited hollering and bellowing laughter from the bar getting a bit loud for his taste.

   Something flickered at the edge of his vision; head still tilted downward, he glanced toward it. A rusty dagger clattered onto the tabletop at the edge of the room. The hooded patron seated there reached for the knife, and Sylen saw it-- small tendrils of black, smoke-like energy pulling back into the figure’s arm, fast as lightning. If it wasn’t for Sylen’s extensive training in identifying mages, he likely never would have noticed it at all.

   His heart began to race, tight and cold, as he watched the mage lift the corroded weapon and drag a finger along the blade. He sharpened his focus, examining every inch of the dagger, the table, and the person seated at it in a desperate attempt to gauge the threat level.

   The mage barely tilted their head, but Sylen was watching; dark black eyes, like pools of ink, peered at the knife from under the mage’s hood.

   Corruption. It had to be. There was a powerful mage here, one with dark magic, corrupted and sick and dangerous and unpredictable--

   Sylen jolted up from his chair just as the barmaid arrived with his slosh of porridge. He quickly stepped to the front door of the place to make an exit, intent on alerting Miriam-- or any Witchfinder-- of the potential disaster awaiting Old Sailor’s Delight, and thus Faline.

    “’S not that bad, sir,” the barmaid called after him. “Promise!” [438]

Ioeth

Maybe it was just a moment of vigilance, a sense of someone watching ‒ Ioeth warily lifted their gaze, looked around again, and for a second they met the eyes of someone across the room. An average-looking man, not someone they would have taken notice of before, save for the man’s expression: fear. A moment later, the way he threw himself out of the chair and towards the entrance made Ioeth’s heart sink. Sure, the man could have been on his way to the outhouse, or forgot that he was supposed to meet someone, or… but no. Ioeth knew, with a chilling, heart-gripping certainty, that the man’s departure was not a coincidence.

On one hand: they should have been more careful. The moment of magic had been reckless, unnecessary; on the other hand, something burned hot and spiteful in them at the thought. Why shouldn’t they be able to use their magic without someone getting all rattled? It hadn’t even been a particularly impressive display of power ‒ a first-year student in Namarast could have done something similar, easily. Some small part of their mind wondered darkly what the reaction would have been, if they had done something more dramatic.

With a controlled exhale between their teeth, they lifted their glass, quickly swallowing the last mouthfuls ‒ they’d paid for that, after all ‒ and rose to their feet. The rusty dagger they swathed in some cloth, and put away into the folds of their cloak. Better leave quickly, in case the man would come back. 

A moment’s hesitation. A man leaving a bar was not a lot of evidence of anything foul going on; perhaps he had an errand somewhere…? Still, that certainty, the heaviness in their chest, a gut feeling they didn’t dare not listen to. If the man wasn’t a Witchfinder, Ioeth would have wasted a nice evening, if he was…there was a lot more to lose than just an evening.

It was not hard to leave unnoticed, despite Ioeth being taller than most of the other patrons; nobody else seemed to have noticed the across-the-room interaction, or if they did, had thought nothing of it in the bustle and noise of the tavern.

Their dust-coloured cloak and black cowl hid most of their features, and they could have been taken for a simple merchant. Ioeth was quite sure the man had already left ‒ they couldn’t see him anywhere in the room, at least ‒ and with a wary look around them, they stepped outside as well, into the narrow alleyway outside. (427)

Sylen

   Sylen hovered at the end of the alley, half-hidden by the random assortment of scrap metal and wooden crates dumped by dockworkers.    He scrambled to get his daggers into place, their sleek copper hilts now damp with the sweat of his palms; a cold bead ran down his temple and streaked down the back of his neck. He peered out of the alley, into the narrow street.

   The mage exited the tavern and began walking in the opposite direction, with a quick glance over their shoulder every so often. Sylen swiftly jerked back, trying to remain hidden around the corner of the stone building. His heart raced fast and cold in his chest, his ribs aching as they barely managed to contain his fear.

   Sylen waited a moment, then ducked out of the alley, walking quietly as he could; he’d donned his jacket just after he’d left the bar, and its heavy sides covered the daggers he gripped at his hip. Every few moments he would duck away, pause, catch his breath, readjust himself and head back out, locating the mage as quickly as possible. A handful of times he had to guess which direction the mage had gone in; so far, he’d been right. Except this time.

   Blood drummed loudly in his head, almost making him sway on his feet. He glanced both left and right; nothing but dirty alleyway and the occasional rat scurrying from brick to brick.

   Dread burst in his chest like a cold spray of frost, dropping down into his gut, making his stomach flip. He’d lost the target; he couldn’t leave and get Witchfinders, either. He needed the information, the whereabouts of this dangerous figure-- he had a general idea, but no clue where the mage was headed. He could get help, but if there was a chance of stopping this mage before some atrocity occurred, he would take it.

And they were corrupted. The black eyes, dark hands, shadowy tendrils. And the way they hid behind a hood, traced the edge of the rusty blade; it made Sylen fear worse than he’d already witnessed.

Lost in his own panic, Sylen tried to shake his thoughts off, tried to focus on the task at hand, and rushed forward, out of the alley and into another.

As soon as he stepped foot around the corner, he froze. A tall, hooded figure stood silhouetted at the alley’s other end.

He’d been caught. 

[406]

Ioeth

Outside the tavern, the alleyway was almost empty, save for a man snoring in the gutter, an empty bottle still in his hand. Ioeth carefully stepped over him, warily looking around. No glimpse of the man from the tavern; maybe he’d gone to fetch some companions, or he’d simply had somewhere else to be… in any case, they didn’t feel like lingering.

The sky was darkening into a deep blue above the rooftops. With a quick look around, Ioeth started walking; they set a brisk pace, not exactly sneaking but definitely keeping to the darker parts of the streets, avoiding torches or lamplight when they could. Better safe than sorry. They saw no glimpse of the would-be pursuer, and they could almost have persuaded themselves that they had been imagining the whole thing ‒ save for the nagging feeling of being watched. Followed. Maybe Miriam becoming Archon had made them paranoid, Ioeth thought, scoffing at themselves. Don’t be foolish...

But every little sound made them turn their head, pull the cloak a little tighter around themselves. It was tempting to use their magic ‒ sink into one of the dark shadows of a street corner, reappear somewhere else ‒ but that would take more effort than they would like, and if they were wrong, it was a lot of power spent on nothing. And so far… they hadn’t seen the man, or really anybody else. Maybe they had been wrong, after all.

But then their heart skipped a beat. A sound, like frantic steps against the cobblestones suddenly stopping, somewhere behind them, in the back-alley they thought had been empty. Ioeth whirled around, a brief moment of panic making them forget their disguise, claws curling beneath the cloak. Never again would they let witchfinders destroy their life and livelihood. 

But there was only one. It seemed to be the man from the tavern, alone, and once again Ioeth wondered if they had been wrong. Was it just a run-of-the-mill street robber? Or a Witchfinder? They frowned, eyes narrowed. Whatever the man’s plans, they had no qualms about putting a stop to them.

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you,” they said, before the man could disappear again. Their  voice was quiet, melodic, but with a barely hidden steely edge. Always that tendency of lashing out when cornered or provoked… 

“All the way from the tavern. Why? A simple quarry for an attempted robbery?” (402)

Sylen

   A wash of cold caught in Sylen’s throat. He stared, wide-eyed.

   He was absolutely fucked. There was no way he was getting out of this alive. They’d already started the corrupted transformation, he could tell; when they’d whirled toward him, hideous, bonelike claws had shown themselves from beneath the cloak. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt like the dark of the alleyway had grown even deeper.

   He tried to tighten his grip on the handles of his daggers; they slipped, the coating of nervous sweat on his palms making his hands slick. That, and his fingers trembled, anxiety coursing through his blood with such force it made him unsteady.

   He ran his front teeth over his lower lip, straining to swallow his fear past the choking ice.

   “Listen,” he said. He’d meant for it to be stern, strong; but his fear had gotten the best of him. It came out weak, cracked, barely more than a whimper.

   Past the throatful of ice came a wave of heat, a mix of present shame and nostalgic regret pushing through to his cheeks and forehead. He tried hard to breathe, to even the flow of air in his lungs.

   He was alone again. Alone, just him and a mage, one who stood corrupted-- and who might not even know it. He’d lived this before. He wasn’t sure he could do it again.

   His voice came back weakened, still. “You need to listen to me.” He tried to make eye contact; it only made him panic more.

    “Your magic,” he said. “It-- it’s corrupting you.” His thumbs ran over the pommels of each blade. “You-- you need to go to the Order, they’ll help you. They’ll help you get rid of it.”

   The shameful heat began to sting. He squinted, blinking to soothe the burning behind his eyes.

    “I promise there is someone out there can help you. There might still be some way to fix-- to-- please. Don’t-- don’t do anything extreme. Don’t use your magic.”

   His heart found its place and locked in. A second wind surged through him, finally steeling his nerves as he continued.

    “It’s dangerous. You don’t realize how easy it could happen to you. I need you to-- to come with me, to someone from the Order. And then we can help.”

   [385]

Ioeth

The man’s fear was almost palpable, even at this distance. Ioeth frowned; it was not at all what they had expected, and neither were his words. Go to the Order? Get rid of their magic? He was clearly not a street robber, but it was strange words from a witchfinder as well. Who was this man to lecture them on the dangers of corruption? 

At the mention of the Order, they almost laughed, but it was more of a scoff. “The Order. What makes you believe I’m not an Order mage? I spent fifteen years of my life in that damn organization, only to see it crumble in the hands of someone who hates magic. They’ve never‒ ” 

They interrupted themselves, bringing a hand to rub between their eyes. It was unlikely that this man would listen to, or believe, their words. Instead they took a step closer, holding up their hands with their palms towards the man, a placating gesture. I am no threat to you.  

A deep breath, and a controlled exhale through their teeth. “I’m not going to use magic, unless you make me. But there is nothing to fix, and I certainly don’t need help.” 

Ioeth didn’t miss the tense grip on those daggers. For all the man sounded like he was on the verge of panic, there was a real danger here; desperation and recklessness went hand in hand. Their gaze flickered from the knives to the determined expression of the man.
“I know very well how dangerous it can be.” One of their skeletal hands curled into a fist for a short moment before they forced themselves to relax, claws uncurling. 

A moment of silence, and perhaps it was that brightly burning spark of spite that made Ioeth meet his gaze with their own. Spite, and anger, and a kernel of fear.

“And if I don’t? I know what witch hunters like you do to mages.” (321)

Sylen

   As soon as the dark, bony talon curled into a fist, Sylen tore a dagger from its sheath; he hesitated, watched the fist relax, and likewise lowered his weapon. He kept it unsheathed.

   He could feel his kneecaps twitch, his knees threatening to buckle under him; he strained to keep himself steady, only barely prevailing. He swallowed a bit of fear over his dry tongue and inhaled.

   This person had once been of the Order, and they’d left. The concept made Sylen’s thoughts tangle. He knew training could be rigorous, or the rules at Namarast strict-- but he’d never heard of a mage defecting. He’d assumed they’d all gotten used to it, used to the boundaries set by the Order, that the laws kept them safe and their livelihoods intact.

   It must be anarchy. Pure anarchy, rebellion, some sick desire to take everything apart and let everything dangerous run wild. To let the corruption take them over. They just didn’t realize what they were talking about.

    “I know that you may feel your magic is intact,” he continued, “but corruption can be quick.” The mage seemed angry, but maybe, in some way, willing to cooperate-- they hadn’t attacked yet, which at this point was no less than a miracle in Sylen’s eye. He didn’t often make it this far in a negotiation without a fight.

   He took a light step back with one foot, adjusting his position to make sure he could run, or duck, or stab if his next words were taken incorrectly. “I’ve seen it before, up close. It’s not easy. The Order-- they may have been difficult, but they were keeping you safe.” A cold chill blew through the alleyway, carrying a throng of fog with it; maybe it was the anxiety getting to him, but Sylen was starting to feel oddly lightheaded. “The-- the Order, they-- it…”

   As his slurred words sluggishly dripped from his tongue, so too did he crumble, stumbling to one side and propping himself up with one arm against the brick. He hung his head, too sick to recognize the vulnerable position he’d suddenly entered. The mist was thick, and he was dizzy. His mind drifted.

   [364]

Ioeth

“Intact…? I don’t think you have anyidea what you are talking about,” Ioeth replied, their gaze not leaving the now-drawn dagger. “Magic needs discipline and control, and to be properly taught. Not to be hidden away under the pretense it doesn’t exist.” They spoke through gritted teeth, their gestures suddenly animated; it was a subject close to their heart, but this was neither the right time nor place for philosophical discussions about magic.

The man’s next words felt like a mockery. They were certain he believed them wholeheartedly, but the irony… This time, they laughed, but it was harsh and bitter.

“Did the Order keep Hagia safe? Did they ‒ ” They interrupted themselves, also feeling the strange chill on the wind. Had the weather suddenly turned? No, this didn’t feel natural at all, and they frowned, taking a half-step back, suddenly alarmed when the man in front of them almost toppled over. Was he sick? Drunk? He hadn’t seemed intoxicated before…

Still frowning, they took a step closer, wary and tense. Was it a trick ‒? They took a deep breath, the chill night air steadying them… and then they froze as the world briefly changed.

“Sylen?” A young boy, pale, with curly hair and a jittery stare, and he is speaking to Ioeth ‒ but they are not Ioeth ‒ they are someone else. Another boy, only slightly older. The pair is standing in a ripe hay field, the smell of late summer hanging heavy in the air, dust making the air glitter.
“Yeah? They reply, but it’s not Ioeth who replies.
“I… I don’t feel so good.”

Agnus. Ioeth knows that is the boy’s name, and Agnus turns into a monster. A terrible creature of spikes and claws and shattered chitin, mad with pain and terror. Ioeth also thinks they will go mad, but with fear, and guilt, and shame about how they ran away.

Their parents, and Agnus parents, help kill it. Him. Agnus. Ioeth ‒ Sylen ‒ can only hide, and watch from afar, their breath burning in their chest, their eyes burning in their head. The fear cloaks the town like a heavy blanket, and they can only close their eyes and hope it is all a nightmare to wake up from… 

It is not.

But it was. Ioeth took another breath, deep, explosive, a breath filled with fear ‒ and then exhaled, slowly, as the dark alleyway returned; the cobblestone, the smell of street waste and the breeze from the sea. Their ‒ his‒ fear loosened its grip, slipped away like the wisp of fog, and their head was clear again.

“What the fuck,” they muttered. Had the man, Sylen, done that? But why? They could still feel the ice-grip of panic around their heart as they recalled the boy turning into the monster, and bile rose in their throat. A reminder they did not need, but one that might explain Sylen’s immense fear of corruption… and mages. 

Carefully, they stepped closer, still keeping enough distance to not let Sylen use his daggers. “Are you… alright?” they asked, frowning. (517)

Sylen

   The mage’s words echoed in his head, making his ears ring. He blinked, slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to regain his balance. “Agnus?”

Focus weaved its way in and out of his head, pulling at the space between his eyes over and over, tugging bile inch by inch up his throat. He doubled over and retched, hot saliva dripping from his lower lip, the nails on one hand scraping against the cold brick.

   He had no idea what he was doing, where he was, what had been happening. He had a loose idea of it-- a corrupted mage, an argument of some sort, a tavern, bones-- but he’d lost time. Instead, it was like he’d gone back, his memories becoming real again, reliving every moment of his worst experience with full intensity. Every part of his body felt weak, his stomach sour. Something was wrong with him.

    “I’m fine,” he croaked. He barely managed to stifle another incoming retch. He held a hand against the base of his sternum, essentially propping himself up so he wouldn’t fall over. He tried to turn toward the mage, his vision still blurry, head woozy. “I just-- I--”

   He looked up and squinted, the fog mildly clearing from his mind. The tall, spindly mage before him, black-eyed and with skeletal limbs, was showing concern. Sylen’s brow furrowed and he let out a brief hum of confusion.

    “I was just thinking about some-- something,” he stammered, “from when I was a kid.” He ran his tongue over his dry lips and shook his head with a sharp inhale. He pushed off of the brick and tried to straighten himself upright.

   He looked toward the mage, who, haunting as they were, made no move to harm him. He looked down to the dagger in his trembling hand, then back to the mage; and he sheathed it. At the same time, a frostlike dread crawled through Sylen’s gut. Was it the mage who had done this to him? Made him sick, made him think Agnus was here? That all of that was real?

    “I-- appreciate you not harming me,” he said, voice still a bit torn. He cleared his throat and rubbed between his eyes. “I, um. I-- I think--” He sighed mid-sentence, the effort of speaking suddenly too much for him to steel through. And what was he supposed to do? At this point, he couldn’t even run. Every option he had had been removed from the equation. Fighting, negotiating, running, calling in backup-- gone. The only thing left was to surrender.

   He raised both hands, palms forward, as the mage had done only moments ago, though it felt like days, now. He sighed, eyelids heavy, struggling to keep his head from lolling. “I-- I can’t stop you.” Stinging white beaded at the edge of his vision, his ears ringing, and he began to sway on his feet. He barely managed to croak out a following word or two before he blacked out.

[500]

Ioeth

Agnus. There was that name, the boy from the memory. Ioeth’s brows knitted together, and once again they wondered if the man had done it on purpose. But they doubted it ‒ he seemed as clueless as they. Had he seen the vision, or memory, or whatever it was, as well? The fog was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, and Ioeth thoughtfully brushed their fingers together… nothing. Had it been the fog?

They took a step back as the man bent over, averting their gaze, perhaps a small courtesy. “You don’t seem fine,” they murmured, glancing at the sweat at Sylen’s brow, his shaking limbs. They were on the verge of asking how Sylen had done that, what he had done, but something in the man’s demeanour stopped them. It must have been his doing; the alleyway was deserted, plunged into night, no sign of any other living being around to conjure a memory-vision out of nowhere. And the memory had been specifically from Sylen’s point of view… A sudden insight gripped them, a quiet inhale, and they stared at the man. A mage? A mage in the hands of witchfinders, unaware…? 

Shaken out of their brief reverie by sudden movement, their expression of alarm turned into one of relief when Sylen sheathed the dagger. “Yes, well, I could say the same,” they replied, voice dry. “Not all witchfinders would show the same restraint.” 

Sylen definitely didn’t seem well, though. The moment of seeing ‒ being ‒ the young Sylen and his greatest fear had cooled their quiet anger, turned it into something almost like compassion, or at least the beginning of sympathy. 

“I think you need to go home and rest,” they continued, raising a hand as if to steady him. “Before you‒”

Thud.

“‒fall down.”

They sighed deeply, rubbed their forehead. The easiest thing would have been to leave the man to his fate, whatever it may be; one more person passed out in the night wouldn’t draw much attention. But they knew his name now, and a lot more besides.

Ioeth did not cherish violence. They’d defend themselves, if they had to, if their life or livelihood was threatened, but they would not stoop to senseless acts. Maybe they had lost their senses, helping a man they should have considered an enemy. It was with a groan and another deep sigh they crouched down, carefully hauling the unconscious Sylen into a more comfortable position against the wall. “What are the odds I’m going to regret this,” they muttered, taking his hand in theirs. Calloused, scarred; a hard-working man’s hand.

Concentrating, they touched his palm. This was not their magic: this was a small trick, learned from a healer in the medical ward of Namarast some years ago, something that just barely could work as a first aid. It would wake him, if the fates were willing, and maybe soothe the nausea. But while it was not Ioeth’s innate magic, it was influenced and affected by it, and the touch left a dark stain, like a shadowy bruise in the palm of his hand. It was painless, and would fade… eventually.

“Wake up, Sylen,” they said, rising to their feet, ready to turn and leave. They sounded tired now, and they gave the man one long last look, as if to remember the features of his face.

“I don’t think you could have stopped me anyway.” (572)

-fin-