The Embers of Light Read online

  It had been so long since Malcolm had seen another living being, that just the sight of these slavers and their peasants was causing a storm of frustration within him. In his time as a prisoner of Valenia, hours felt like days, days felt like months, and months dragged on until all sense of time was lost. And the rising sun and budding of new spring life became a reminder that he was no more than a shadow of life; a dying ember of a fire that had once burned bright.

  He was fading and all he could wish for was more wine to numb his pain.

  “I will send Eli to Dunport in the morning. If the wine is gone, then all the supplies must be running low,” Malcolm said.

  “You can’t send him out while those men are there. They’re slave traders, Malcolm. They take people wherever they can find them. If they spot Eli, he doesn’t have the wits about him to fight.”

  Malcolm spun around. “And what if they don’t leave? Mara may have spelled me with the years of a Dia, but I certainly still have the needs of a mortal.”

  He hung his head and slammed his fist on the rock wall. “That bitch cursed me. They’ve all cursed me! I should have killed Corbin, then at least I could know that Mara and I were even.”

  Eli returned with a full jug of ale in his hands. He set it down on the table and after a momentary, hypnotic pause he walked to a chair and sat down. Eli’s gaze looked in to nothingness and his dark hair hung over his eyes.

  In his right mind, Eli had been a formidable fighter, even as a mortal. He was to be Malcolm’s champion, but now he was no more than a nursemaid.

  Malcolm pursed his lips at the sight of the warrior he’d had such high hopes for and looked back out the window. “I have to get out of here,” he repeated.

  “What if—” Daria trailed off, her eyes fixed on the ships resting on the beach. “What if there’s still a way?”

  “What are you going on about?” Malcolm asked.

  She continued to look out the window for a long moment before she turned to him. “A ship will drift wherever the ocean carries it, but a ship that is anchored will stay in place.” She turned to look at Eli.

  Malcolm’s eyes widened as he followed her gaze. If his spirit couldn’t stay out of his own body, perhaps he could anchor it to another.

  “Do you think it will work?” he mused.

  “It might,” she said.

  “But?”

  “Right now you are in the body of a Dia without power, but you are still a Dia. In Eli’s form, you will be truly mortal; Mara’s spell won’t protect your life. You’ll be vulnerable to mortal danger.”

  “Then I will take care until I find them and get my powers back.”

  Daria paused in thought.

  “What else is it, Mother?”

  “There’s no telling what will happen once you’re in a mortal form. Your ability to move in spirit is weak as it is, you may not be able to detach yourself from him. Perhaps seeking out Mara and Corbin is unwise until you have the strength to move your spirit from one person to another. ”

  “What’s the alternative, Mother? I am trapped! I am trapped here, and even if I escape Valenia I am trapped in mortal darkness!” He clutched the sides of his head, wincing. When he looked up his eyes were filled with pain. “A chance at escaping and getting my Light back is worth the risk.”

  Daria nodded with pity and moved to touch his arm, but Malcolm pulled away.

  She clasped her hands in front of her and her expression hardened. “Just don’t be foolish, Malcolm. In Eli’s body, you may not be able to see me in spirit form. I may not be there to guide you.”

  “Ha!” Malcolm scoffed. “I’ve had no motherly guidance my entire life, so what makes you think I need you now?”

  Daria nodded and looked away.

  Malcolm dismissed her feigned show of regret, sat across from Eli, and closed his eyes.

  Unlike Dia magic, which required concentrated focus, leaving one’s body called for a loss of consciousness, to become completely mindless. He pushed the rage in his mind away and took long, deep breaths until his body felt weightless, and his mind drifted between wakefulness and sleep.

  He’d gotten to this point before, but this time felt different. He could already feel himself detaching, driven by a new determination. He held on to the sensation until he was finally in spirit form, but the moment he looked down at his lifeless body, he felt the pull on his soul drawing him back like the trap it was.

  Malcolm glanced at Daria as he forced his spirit to let go and move towards Eli, and without hesitating, he pushed himself into the body. It was like swimming in an endless sea of dark water, spinning with no direction.

  Then Malcolm felt his soul grip onto the new host.

  There was a moment of utter darkness, but it was still lighter than he felt in his own mind. Malcolm wondered if this was what death felt like, only when he opened his eyes, he knew he was still alive.

  “I did it,” he said, looking around the room. Daria was nowhere in sight. “Mother,” he called.

  She was indeed no longer visible to him.

  Malcolm rose to his feet, grabbed the silver platter, and tipped the food onto the floor. He took three short breaths and looked at his reflection; the face staring back at him was Eli’s.

  Suddenly, a strange burning sensation tore through his chest. He felt a twisting like he was being ripped apart from the inside out. Malcolm tried to grab the edges of the table but fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

  “What’s happening to me?” he cried as his body twisted.

  It went on for what seemed like an eternity until he finally went limp. The searing pain abated with each breath until Malcolm was finally able to roll over, get to his knees, and stand up. He picked up the silver tray, looked in to it again and gasped. He was looking at himself; his own image was before him.

  “Damn!” Malcolm growled, thinking he’d been pulled back into his own body. But when he looked down, his lifeless body was still on the floor.

  He stared at it a moment before realizing that in Eli’s body, he’d somehow managed to take on his own likeness.

  He spun around. “How do I look like myself?”

  No answer came.

  “You didn’t tell me I could look like myself,” he said, returning his gaze to the tray and touching his cheek. He brushed his white-blond hair from his forehead and examined his eyes. They were a dark gray, showing no hint of magic in them. The familiar sense of loss pinched him, but he’d grown used to it and now it was easy to overcome. Malcolm shrugged. This was his chance of getting out of Valenia.

  He dropped the tray and stood over his old body. With the new limbs he now commanded, he reached down, lifted the soulless body, and carried it through the hall of chambers. With a kick he opened the door and set his body down on a pallet, crossing the arms like a fallen comrade.

  This was the only way he would ever free himself, the only chance he had. He let out a breath and bid farewell to his body, hoping with all measure that someday he would command it with the power of a Dia once more.

  Malcolm took one last look out the window of Valenia. The high crescent moon looked down on the sleeping slavers and their captives.

  He’d decided to head north. With the invasions in the west and bands of tribal kingdoms throughout the eastern lands, Malcolm was certain the north, with its vast rural terrain and secluded mountains, would be the perfect place for a band of Dia to hide. They must have headed that way.

  He turned from the window, dressed in his finest black tunic, picked up his cloak, a pack of what little food he could find, and headed down the stairs to the great hall. The door that stood between Malcolm and his freedom was a looming reminder of his plights. Would he make it through the door in his new form? Would it work? He swallowed hard. If it didn’t, then all hope was surely lost.

  Malcolm took a tentative step forward just as a cold burst of air brushed past him. “Mother?” he whispered. But he was alone.

  He looked back to the door, marched
towards it, and pulled the latch. To his complete surprise, the seal cracked and the door swung open. He stared as if dragons guarded it. It had been more than two years since he was able to set foot on the other side of this door. He had never even tried to leave, fearing that one foot over the threshold would cause him to burst in to flames. In that moment, part of him didn’t care if he did. He’d come to want his freedom more than he feared his own death.

  Clutching his fists, Malcolm closed his eyes and stepped forward, and when both of his feet were on the opposite side of the door, he snapped his eyes back open.

  “I am whole,” he whispered.

  Without looking back, Malcolm climbed down the levels of rock and fell hard onto the sand. It was exhilarating, feeling the pieces of his old self come back to life. He quickly moved right to head up the beach, but stopped. The thought creeping in to his mind was absurd, dangerous, and completely enticing.

  The old arrogance within him rose up and a sly smile crossed his lips. He turned back, ignoring the cold breeze of warning that surrounded him, and crept over to the base of Valenia where it met the beach. He pressed himself against the rock and stretched his neck out to see the sleeping slavers. Another cold breeze brushed by him and his heart began to race. The warlord lay closest to him, snoring like a growling bear.

  Malcolm nodded to himself, willing himself to be brave, and stepped away from the rock. With silent steps he approached the group. The slavers didn’t stir, nor did their captives, but when Malcolm looked them over, he noticed the girl, the one who’d almost been raped earlier, looking at him.

  Her dark green eyes were wide and frightened, pleading with him to help. Malcolm watched her for a moment, studying her face. To him, she looked a bit like Mara, but then again, after so long thinking only of her face, perhaps all women looked like Mara. Malcolm put his finger to his lips to hush her. She was desperate, but not foolish, and when he was sure she wouldn’t give him away, he took another step towards the leader. The man looked even more barbaric up close, and he reeked as though he’d never bathed in his life. At his chest, the man gripped a flail—a short wooden post with a thorny ball of metal attached to a chain. Resting next to him was a short sword, longer than a dagger, with a wide double-edged blade.

  Malcolm held his breath and pushed his tongue into his bottom lip as he carefully reached for the sword. The young woman continued to watch him in horrified silence, and when Malcolm’s hand rested on the hilt of the sword, the slaver let out a loud grunt and shifted to his side. Malcolm’s heart nearly leapt out from his chest. If he were caught, the slaver would surely bludgeon him to death with the flail. Malcolm fought the urge to run. Instead, he waited until the slaver had settled back into the steady rumble of sleep. With a quiet breath, Malcolm picked up the sword.

  As he was about to flee, the woman raised her head and shoulder off the ground, holding up her bound hands to him, her eyes begging him to release her.

  Malcolm glanced at the sleeping slave traders, took a bold step towards her and bent down. “I’ll wake the others if I let you go,” he whispered in a breath.

  “Please,” she said.

  He considered it for a moment, the joy of his own liberation amplifying his sense of generosity. But that face reminded him too much of the woman he hated the most. “I’ve had enough of women in this life. You aren’t worth losing my neck for.” With a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders he turned and ran as fast as his mortal limbs would allow, and when he reached the cover of the cliff, he laughed quietly to himself.

  “Mortal or not, I’ve still got it.”

  He slipped the sword in his belt, threw his pack over his shoulder, and marched towards the forest.

  Malcolm wiped the sweat from his eyes as the sun beat down on him. After spending two years locked in Valenia, he wasted no time, not even through the dark hours of the night as he traveled, relishing the noises and scents he’d only experienced through a window for so long.

  He’d covered a good distance north, marching along the coast until finally, mortal fatigue began to set in on him. Daria was with him. He could sense her, and although he couldn’t see or hear her, he knew she was the cold breeze that rose up every now and again.

  It was finally time to rest when Malcolm’s feet could carry him no longer. Turning away from the coast, he stopped when he came to a stream that ran through the cover of a forest.

  Sitting down at the edge of the water, he filled his leather sack, looked around and placed a hand on his stolen sword. If anyone meant to attack him, he’d be ready.

  With a yawn he rolled his cloak, put it behind him, and sat back to eat the small portion of rye bread and cured ham. The stillness of the forest and the smell of freshly sprung leaves made him smile. The babbling stream flowed like his thoughts as he pondered his next move.

  He had little money and barely any food. He held up the short sword and examined it. He could sell it in the next village, but without a weapon, he’d be even more vulnerable than he already was.

  How did mortals survive like this, he wondered as he broke off another piece of bread. He’d have to find more provisions if he was ever going to get to Corbin and Mara. But then what? What would he do if he found them? It was true, he looked like himself, but if they even suspected he was in Eli’s body, they might kill him on sight anyway. They loathed him that much.

  Malcolm pushed forward on his knees and looked at his reflection in the water. His hair had grown long. He set down the bread, dipped his head in to the cool water, and whipped his hair back. Revitalized, he picked up the short sword and smiled. This was a warlord’s sword, and he’d taken it right out from under the man.

  Malcolm ran his hand through his wet hair and looking in the water, he began to cut away at his blond locks. Clumps of it fell to the ground, tangled threads of snowy gold pooled in front of him, and when most of it was gone, he ran the blade close to his scalp, cropping the hair as short as he could get it.

  He washed his head with more water and when he looked at himself again, hoping to see a reflection of the man he once was, he frowned.

  He was mortal. He looked mortal. And he felt miserably mortal.

  With a sigh he leaned back on the grass and reached for the bread, but it was gone. He bolted upright and looked around, when a rustling of grass from behind a large rock caught his ear.

  Malcolm grabbed his sword and was on his feet, stealthily stepping toward the sound. When he reached the rock, he stole a quick glance around the corner and let his hand drop to his side. It was only a small boy, maybe eight years old, stooped against the rock, stuffing the bread in his mouth.

  Malcolm huffed with irritation and grabbed the boy by the collar before he even realized he’d been caught.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Malcolm demanded.

  The boy’s mouth dropped, still filled with bread.

  “Well?” Malcolm glared at the boy and released him. “What kind of thief steals food and then eats it right in the place it was stolen?

  The boy was dumbstruck.

  “Do you speak?” Malcolm asked. “Or are you simple?”

  The boy swallowed and shook his head, his dark eyes wide. “I’m not simple. I’m hungry,” he said in an accented voice. He removed the felt cap from his head and scraggly locks of brown hair fell in his eyes. “I beg you not to kill me, my lord.”

  Malcolm frowned. The boy certainly looked underfed, and judging by his filthy, oversized tunic and trousers, he was the poorest kind of peasant, a forest dweller most likely.

  “How is your hunger any concern of mine?” Malcolm asked with a hard stare.

  The boy returned the cap to his head and shrugged. “Does the fox care if the wolf has eaten?”

  “It should!” Malcolm took a step forward but found himself more amused than angry at the boy’s clear lack of remorse. He hardened his stare again. “You’ve had your fill, then. Now get out of my sight before I spear you.” He pushed the blade of the swo
rd at the boy and turned back to the stream. He expected to hear the boy’s footsteps in the grass running away, but when Malcolm glanced back, the boy simply stood there watching him.

  “You’d better heed my warning, boy.”

  The boy took a tentative step forward. “You don’t look like you want for anything. I’ve never seen such fine clothes before. Are you a prince?”

  Malcolm scoffed. “A prince? Well, then you must be simple. Don’t you know you can’t judge what a man is or isn’t by appearances? Now get out of my sight.”

  The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watching Malcolm with curiosity. He took another step forward, unfazed by Malcolm’s glare, and crouched down to hug his knees. “My name is Wynn. What’s yours?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” Malcolm said. “Why do you persist with bothering me? I told you to go.”

  Wynn looked around him. “Am I bothering you? It looks to me that you’re all alone. Surely a man like you would welcome someone to talk to.”

  Malcolm frowned, realizing this was the first conversation he’d had with another living being in two years. “I am alone because I choose to be,” he said. “Go away.”

  Wynn smirked. “Nobody chooses to be alone, that much I know.”

  Malcolm laughed, but in his mind he wondered if the boy was right. He wasn’t alone now by choice. He was alone because it was forced upon him. “I am alone because I have to be,” Malcolm said, more to himself than to Wynn.

  Wynn’s gaze trailed off for a moment before he looked back at Malcolm. “May I stay with you a while?”

  The question caught Malcolm off guard, and immediately his defenses went up. “Are you mad?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow and lifting his sword. “Be gone. I am alone because I’m dangerous. Being a child does not exempt you from my wrath!”

  Wynn’s eyes bulged. Malcolm took a threatening step toward him and the boy got to his feet then he turned and ran the other way.

  Malcolm waited until Wynn had disappeared through the trees then settled back down onto the bank of the stream. In the silence that followed, Malcolm suddenly became aware of just how alone he truly was, and while he was sure his mother was still with him, she was not the kind of company he desired.