Chapter One of The Sanctum of Souls: Edited
Marcus didn’t much care for magic, nor for most of the mages he knew – and he certainly didn’t care for the one that was now trying to humiliate him.
Lord Spindley had crossed his path on the way home, and was attempting to show off in front of his female companion by making Marcus the butt of his joke. It wasn’t working, of course. At twenty-six years of age, he’d long since learnt to disregard the jibes of his peers, and knew exactly how to handle them.
Smiling a crooked smile, he couldn’t help but be amused at the funny, little man – balding long before his time and sporting a lazy eye, and a beard that grew in patches. At exactly six-feet tall and with a strong, toned body, Marcus was never belittled for his looks, but often, as was currently the case, for his socially -unacceptable decision to spurn magic.
“Oh look, it’s Lord Ryan. Marcus, do entertain my good Lady Havelroy and I with one of your ‘charming’ displays of basic fire lighting. Here, I’ve two perfectly good sticks for you to rub together.” The balding man guffawed at his own joke, readily joined by Lady Havelroy.
Marcus waited, allowing them a moment of amusement.
“Lord Spindley, how good of you to offer the use of your arms for such a practical undertaking. However, I find wood is far better suited to the task. Not as brittle, or as likely to break when exerted beyond anything more than a rhythmic up-and-down movement. Judging by the less-than-impressed look Lady Havelroy is aiming at you now, I believe at least one of your arms may be required for something of a more personal nature this evening.” With that, Marcus feigned respect for the woman with a mockingly low bow and flashed a charming smile, before brushing past his tormentors and heading home.
He whistled to himself as he walked. Having endured such taunts throughout his life, he’d grown accustomed to treating them with the indifference they deserved. He took neither himself nor life too seriously, a personality trait that had served him well as a magicless mage growing up in Whitestone. He was of noble birth and, like all nobility, had been born with magic in his blood. Still, unlike his contemporaries, he’d defied what was expected of him and refused to study the craft, spending his years from six to sixteen outwitting both his parents and his tutor; anything to avoid being schooled in magic. He’d never been able to explain why, but even the thought of using it made him feel uneasy.
However, there was no sympathy to be found within the walls of the Ryan mansion. Magical ability was considered a birth right, a mark of honour, and his rejection of it brought great shame upon his parents. The outcome was that his family didn’t like him very much – but the feeling was mutual, so he didn’t care.
As a result, he spent as little time as possible at home, preferring instead to walk to the city’s outer walls where he’d find a quiet spot to read or daydream. He would spend hours by himself, enjoying the solitude. It was only the journey there and back that threatened to ruin a generally pleasant day, and if he was lucky, he’d avoid anyone who might seek to put a dampener on his cheerful disposition.
Unfortunately, today was not one of his luckier days.
Marcus took his usual shortcut, a narrow alley between streets that limited the chances of interacting with anyone. However, as he entered the alley, he was stopped in his tracks by Lord Spindley and two other men, whose faces he knew but whose names he’d not cared enough to remember.
They walked towards him from the opposite end of the alley as his whistling slowed and quieted, a lopsided smile taking over from the pursed lips.
“Lord Spindley, good to see you again so soon. We really should stop meeting like this.”
“You made me look like a fool!” Spindley’s eyes narrowed beneath a clenched brow, anger clear in his tone.
“Ah, you give me too much credit. I think you did a fine job of that, without any assistance from me.”
Marcus never did know when silence was best. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Lord Spindley’s hands tightened into fists and became enveloped in rippling flames. One glance at the hands of the other two men, and Marcus could see they, too, were prepared for a magical assault. A voice inside his head said just one word – run – and if he’d learnt one thing from growing up in a city of magic, it was how to flee.
As the three men shot balls of fire in his direction, Marcus was already sprinting back the way he’d come, the fireballs narrowly missing his behind and fizzling out as they collided with the corner of a building. Through the familiar streets he ran. His long, muscular legs took him effortlessly up and down side streets, dodging people and hurdling over wooden crates and barrows, turning corners seconds ahead of fire and ice projectiles, and leaping up to catch an overhanging beam to take him safely over the top when he couldn’t outrun them. Twice he managed to hide behind a corner at a junction as the men sped past, doubling back as soon as they were out of sight. Another time, he just made it past a window cleaner about to throw water from a bucket. However, Spindley and the others weren’t so fortunate. He chuckled to himself as he looked back to see them soaked through, then sped off faster as they stepped up their chase with increased fury.
Past noble children playing with mini-whirlwinds, around noble teenage boys conjuring shiny things with which to woo noble teenage girls, ducking behind carts laden with magical paraphernalia, and evading magic tutors showing their students how to light torches with their fingers, Marcus continued to run. Nevertheless, despite his speed and cunning, he eventually found himself cornered in a dead end with Lord Spindley and the others blocking his exit. Approaching him slowly, malicious intent emblazoned across their faces, the men sneered. Spindley’s hands crackled with an electrical charge, and the hands of the other two bubbled with small water spouts. Marcus seemed to be out of options. Darting his eyes around in one last attempt to find an escape route, he caught site of a mirror, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. In a single swift movement, he made a lunge for it and thrust it forwards just in time to reflect the combination of spells aimed at him from the mages. The electricity and water met the mirror, bounced back at the men, and hit them with the effect they’d intended for Marcus, throwing them to the ground with a debilitating electrical bolt. He placed the mirror back where he found it and turned back to snigger at the singed clothes and spiked hair of his former assailants. They’ll live, he thought to himself, but Spindley may not be coming out in public for a while.
He jumped to grab at the edge of an overhanging balcony, pulling himself up and continuing onto the roof of the building. Coming down into the street the other side, he calmly resumed his journey home – totally oblivious to the dark-haired man who’d watched him leave, grabbed the mirror, and walked straight through a solid wall.
*
As Marcus approached the imposing iron gates that guarded the path to the front doors of the family property, something occurred to him; there was no rational explanation for a perfectly intact mirror to be on the ground down a back alley. There’d been nowhere it could’ve fallen from, and Whitestone’s elite weren’t in the habit of using back alleys for the storage of household items. Peculiar, he thought. Coming up with no sensible answer, he then wondered what mood he’d find his father in, or if he could avoid finding him at all. His stomach growled so he stopped wondering, and pushed open the gates. The chase had made him hungry, and neither the puzzle of convenient mirrors nor the wrath of the elder Lord Ryan would stand between him and food.
*
Two hours and one confrontation later and Marcus stood outside the mansion once more. He’d eaten a sizeable supper before the inevitable quarrel with his father. So, as he paused on the cobbled street, the cool evening air reminding him of the season, he was at least warm and satisfied from a good meal. Mostly, he was unbothered by people’s actions towards him, but altercations with the elder Lord Ryan affected him more than he cared to admit. Which was exactly why he’d had to vacate the premises that evening. He could feel his strings about to snap whenever they fought so, for his own sake, he needed to be as far away from his father as possible – before he asked for more trouble than he could handle.
The sun was just starting its descent behind the Stone Highway and the Geryndor Mountains beyond. Marcus looked upon the fading, fiery aura and felt drawn to head to the east of Whitestone. His whimsical nature wondered how far he would get before its journey was complete and the cool blue light of the moon filled the vacancy in its wake.
The city was a remarkable sight at any time, but particularly at sunset, when the long, low reach of the sun’s farewell glory touched the white structures, briefly staining them with a pearlescent pink hue. Lit with tall, evenly-placed oil lanterns, the streets were wide and paved in the same white stone as the buildings they cut between, every one converging at a large open plaza in the centre of the city. Marcus had loved his home ever since he’d been old enough to appreciate its magnificence. Every tower, every arch, every intricately-carved balustrade – the entire city seemed to rise organically from the ground.
Reaching the entrance to a tavern as the last of the sun’s rays faded from view, he realised he’d arrived in a part of the city known in noble circles as ‘the common quarter’. Most buildings in this part of the city were built from wood, ramshackle and giving the impression of an architect’s afterthought. The few stone shops and houses were in a far worse state of repair than those where Marcus lived, with cracks extending out like veins and shutters creaking as they hung from broken hinges. Weeds had started to spread tendrils into the slightly larger gaps and several of the street lanterns were not lit, causing dark recesses where the buildings overshadowed each other.
However, it was the inhabitants of the common quarter that really earned the district its label. This part of the city had been allocated to commoners; those from non-magical bloodlines who had decided a life living off the land wasn’t for them. As far as they were concerned, it was far better to serve the mages of Whitestone in return for the relative comfort of residing within the city walls.
Like all nobility, Marcus had little interaction with the residents of this part of the city. Unlike them he refrained from passing judgement based on nothing more than where a person lived. Besides, if the Ryan family cook, Julia, was a good example of a commoner, he was satisfied he’d like them a lot more than he did the nobility.
Despite his lack of prejudice, the chill night air made him shiver, and he realised how dark it was away from the brightly lit streets around his home. Perhaps it would have been wiser for him not to be in this part of the city as night fell. Whitestone had its fair share of crime, and the dark niches provided keen cover for anyone who spied a well-dressed nobleman, stood alone and looking lost. With this in mind, he briefly considered turning around and heading home. If not for the inviting sounds coming from behind the aged and fading wooden doors of the tavern, he may have done just that, but the cold and a movement in the shadows helped make the decision for him. Laughter, music, merry souls, and a roaring fire – what could be the harm? Besides, his father would hate it if he knew, and he’d make sure he knew, one way or another.
It would have been fair to say that his arrival in the Crooked Wing tavern was not looked upon without suspicion. In his intricately-embroidered tunic, well-polished leather boots, and silk sash, he certainly stood out. Gazing around the crowded room, Marcus suddenly felt ridiculously overdressed. From the looks on their faces, it was obvious the establishment’s regulars rarely, if ever, included anyone of nobility.
As he paused in the middle of the room, the noisy banter became hushed whispers behind cupped hands, and the music faded to a gradual, premature end. However, such a situation didn’t faze Marcus. He reckoned a wide-eyed stare and toothy grin would suffice, and pasted them onto his face before heading in the direction of the bar.
His prediction of the drinkers’ reactions was astute. Most of them just assumed he was mad – some not-so-well-kept secret, noble son afflicted with lunacy, perhaps. He’d probably just drool and giggle to himself quietly if they left him alone. Sure enough, after a few tense moments, the revellers resumed their merriment and the music played once more.
Chuckling to himself, partly to keep up the ruse, Marcus sidestepped between the haphazardly placed tables and chairs, careful to avoid standing on anyone’s feet, and approached the bar. Perching himself on a rickety stool, he began his evening of liquid solace.
*
Hours later and Marcus sat hunched over the bar, his head groggy, and the room starting to spin. He’d always considered it curious just how attractive any female could look post-ale-consumption, yet he knew he’d definitely consumed too much on this occasion. The overweight, greasy-haired barkeep, called Nathan, was beginning to exude an enticing aura. It was clearly time to call it a night.
Reluctantly sliding the last of his coins across the bar, the one for the road already poured, his noble manners obligated him to empty the tankard. Staring down at the dark-brown liquid, Marcus realised he didn’t even like the look of it. He inhaled the musty, ale-saturated air of the dimly-lit room, fighting the urge to recoil in disgust, and downed the beverage in one go.
Stumbling over his own feet as he made to leave the tavern, he questioned his decision to drown his sorrows, especially as he and ale didn’t enjoy each other’s company that often. Fine wine he could handle, but ale was a different matter. The last time he’d drunk it was when, as a teenager, he’d snuck into the kitchens and imbibed some that was kept for cooking. The result was a level of drunkenness his father had said put him in the category of plebeians. Of course, that made it the drink of choice for one keen to irritate their father.
He laughed and hiccupped as the image of a furious Lord Ryan crossed his mind. Wobbling towards the doors, Marcus dismissed the scrutiny of his evening’s entertainment as pointless. Forming cohesive thoughts was making his head hurt, and he was enjoying his pleasantly intoxicated state too much to bother with tedious interruptions. It was quite clear this self-induced brain-fog was the reason ale had been created. For now he could forget, and push all thoughts of his father to the far recesses of his mind. He could pretend he was just a simple man from the common quarter, out for an evening’s inebriation – if only until the harsh light of day, when reality bit into his backside with a vengeance reserved for drunken fools.
As the tavern’s tired, wooden doors slowly closed behind him, the sounds of merry drinkers gradually became no more than a muffled hum, punctuated by the occasional high-pitched laugh and rowdy shout. Standing in the street outside the tavern, it dawned on Marcus that he’d never experienced an atmosphere quite like the one still filling the building behind him. His life had been routinely dull in comparison. Though he’d taken every opportunity for levity he could find, the rigid rules of noble society restricted fun to sanctioned areas at predetermined times. According to his mother, the ‘honourable’ Lady Ryan, “one must never deviate from the noble path, not even for a second.” He could hear her voice in his head, scolding him for running around, flapping his arms and making duck noises while visiting the large house of some other ‘honourable’ noblewoman. He guessed the children of the people in the tavern weren’t confined in such a way. Oh, to be able to flap ones arms and ‘quack’ freely!
Smiling to himself – a wicked, boyish smile – Marcus began to waddle up and down the dusty street, arms rising and falling.
“Quack,” he said, pausing to laugh. “Quack, quack.” His return to deviancy providing no small amount of entertainment and his mind de-shackled by the alcohol-induced removal of inhibitions, Marcus was oblivious to the approach of a mysterious male figure from an unlit section of the street.
The figure remained still, head tilted to one side. He watched for some time as Marcus continued his duck impersonation, still in a world of his own and quite unaware of his curious audience. The man sighed as he observed the eldest child of one of Whitestone’s most esteemed houses quacking and flapping beneath the flickering light of a common quarter street lantern.
Finally, stepping out from the shadows, he boldly approached Marcus from behind. Slowly raising his right hand, he paused as if considering his next move. The decision made, Marcus nearly leapt into the air as a hand firmly gripped his shoulder. He spun around to confront the owner of the hand, prepared to defend himself.
Now face-to-face with his assailant – a man with a mop of black hair, and dark-brown eyes, his olive-skin darkened by a neatly trimmed beard – Marcus adjusted his posture to appear as intimidating as possible. He noticed he was a couple of inches taller than the stranger, so, with his extra height providing added confidence, he clenched his fists and prepared to strike. To his surprise, the man’s demeanour remained passive. His arms loosely resting at his sides, he spoke with an unexpectedly soft and refined tone.
“Marcus Ryan.” A statement rather than a question. “We need to talk.”
