Chapter 32: Chapter 32: The Most Important Man

On the third day, the day the witch had foretold that the most important man in the castle would die, a hush fell over the guards and servants. Armed men stood outside every door. In hallways and corners, the servants huddled together, whispering. Even the kitchen—usually loud with the sound of banging pots and shouting, “Where is the wood for this fire!”—was quiet. Lord Togair—for surely the prophesy foretold his death—remained inside, sitting only in rooms without a window.

Saoirse's thoughts swung back and forth like the pendulum of a great clock: My father is going to die and I'm going to be eaten by a dragon. Her anxiousness had the colors constantly blazing about her. She woke to her maid's shifting aura, filled with ever-changing emotions, except when she ate, when her aura blazed a fiery red. The woman lusted for food.

In the afternoon, Saoirse joined Murtagh in the turret. She stood at the window, leaning out, looking at old Fergal sitting on his stoop. His meager house was no more than a single room nestled against the sea wall where the land jutted out into the water. Yet he was grateful. “Twas my honor to fight alongside your uncle,” he'd told her many times. She turned anxious eyes to Murtagh. “You've warned father? He isn't going to visit Fergal tonight, is he? They usually take cider together—”

“Yes, yes. He's not going.” Murtagh waved his hand. “Close the shutters.”

She pressed into the auras of the guards, standing along the walls, many threaded a deep blood red with fear.

“Close the shutters, you need to practice.”

“No.” She remembered the single word and her first lesson. “Do you remember . . .”

He finished her thought. “When you stood up to me? When you sat there on the floor.” He pointed to the spot. “All of five years old, stubborn as a mule.” In Murtagh's aura, yellow brown with exhaustion, a single blue thread sparkled.

Leaning out the window, she pressed into the Captain of the Guard, the archers, into the boy carrying five loaves of bread on a board across the courtyard, searching each for the peculiar mottled purple arrogance of betrayal.

“Close the shutters!”

She turned. Murtagh's aura swirled yellow brown with exhaustion.

“I-I'm sorry.”

“Saoirse, I've been reading for two days, and I'm cold.”

She fastened the shutters.

“It shouldn't be this easy.” He slammed the book on his lap closed. “I've missed something.”

“Surely, the old, wounded warrior the witch was referring to is Fergal.”

“Yes, yes, your father and I are long past thought of that.” Now the impatience in his aura bellowed at her. “Bring me Gayland's book.”

She brought him the large tome. An hour passed. All the while Saoirse watched him, silently pressing into his aura. Yes! In his aura a single thread glittered silver. “You've found something?”

“Gayland speaks of another witch prophecy which was quite similar. I believe the key phrase is: The most important man. Perhaps it's not your father.”

“Who could be more important?” Saoirse asked.

Murtagh rose from his chair, moaning. “Oh.” He rubbed his hip. “My hip hurts when I sit too long and complains all the more if I stand. It hurts even to breathe.”

Saoirse rose. Mustering her courage, she called the sight. At once the world blazed green. The moldy stones on the turret floor throbbed a dirty, muddied green. A ladybug, yellow green, meandered across the window ledge. Beyond the latched shutters the sea glowed so brightly it was as if a great green sun burned beside the tower. Even the air sparkled as if filled with green glitter. She breathed in the magic, summoning it, holding it in her mouth, feeling it puff out her cheeks. She let it rest there as she imagined Murtagh, smiling, the ever-present pain gone.

She breathed out.

“No.” Suddenly seeing her intent, he put up a hand, but it was too late. The twinkling magic, now visible to him, touched his nose, his eyes, his chest. A rare smile brightened his face. He was almost not ugly. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the healing. Warmth spread throughout his body. Again, he breathed—so easily. He stretched; his joints didn't hurt, even his hip was pain free. “Saoirse . . . ” he breathed again, rejoicing, but melancholy took his smile. Cupping her beautiful face between his hands, his weary eyes looked into hers. “Thank you, I feel so much better. It's just that I . . . ” Dropping his hands and his eyes, he said, “Saoirse, you can't do that.”

“Why? I need to practice . . . and . . . and you were hurting.”

You are reading story The Death of Magic at novel35.com

“I'm addicted, Saoirse.” At her confused look, he added, “Remember the story I told you when you were little about the boy who had lost his mother and the mage that addicted him . . .

“That was you?”

“And yet, your magic does not bring the same rush, the lightheadedness.” He gazed down at his hands. “I'm not trembling . . . ”

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter.”

The guard sneered at the sight in front of him, at the old man, in his thick, woolen sweater, and the young miss grown so beautiful, always alone with him. Saoirse looked away from the guard's burning lust, so like Quinn's.

“Seer Murtagh, you are to attend the lord.”

Though summer was fast approaching, a chill was in the air. When Murtagh left with the guard, Saoirse rose and unlatched the shutters, welcoming the abundant magic of the sea, the wonderful greens warming her more than the fire. Her cheeks grew flushed, drops of sweat formed on her forehead. “Help me,” she whispered. “Important to who?” The magic danced in front of her, forming itself into a likeness of Murtagh and herself. Astonished, she watched herself breathe in the colors and heal Murtagh. Again he confessed, “I'm addicted.”

“If I was sick, I would a count a doctor more important than a lord,” she whispered.

She sat in Murtagh's chair, her eyes turning to the fire, where one orange flame danced. “The most important man in the castle . . . ” Idly, she pushed magic into the hearth, and the flames leapt, as if they'd found oil. “Important to who . . . ”

Fidgety, she jumped from the chair. In three steps, she was again looking out at the sea. Another two, and she looked at the courtyard, pressing into the auras of two guards sparring. Movement caught her eye. Fergal raised his hand in greeting, as Murtagh crossed the courtyard toward him, carrying a trawler of cider.

Father must have sent it.

The old soldier, his hand having been pierced by a knife in a long-ago battle, fumbled with the latch. Dread churned in the pit of Saoirse's belly.

Important to me. This is all about me. And Murtagh is my teacher.

Before she could cry a warning, before she could turn and run down the steps, an arrow pieced Murtagh's chest. He fell. As shouts rang out from the guards and men scrambled and shouted, “There, in the western turret—,” Saoirse sped down the stairs, through the hallways, down the main staircase and out into the yard. Pushing aside a guard, she entered the old warrior's house. They had laid Murtagh on Fergal's bed. She knelt beside him, bending close to hear his faint, whispered words. “I'm so sorry, my dear. You were right. The dragon is coming for you. But it's weak, Saoirse. It had to kill me, to isolate you.” His aura faded.

Desperately, she breathed out the colors. They crossed the small gap between them and disappeared into the flesh of his face.

He gasped for breath, clutching her gown tightly holding her to him, “Remember: It takes a seer to kill. . .,” his words faded.

His eyes lost the glow of life; his aura faded to nothing. “No.” She shook his shoulders. “No.” She hugged his lifeless body, pushing the magic out of her hands, her arms, her chest through his woolen sweater, but he did not breathe nor did his aura return.

Eventually, old Fergal pried her loose. With surprising strength carried her—as he had carried so many others wounded—to her room.

As eventide approached, Rory and his men arrived at Keep Nathair. The overly grand house boasted no moat, no outer wall, but Lord Nathair had built two large towers from which his banners waved. A long road lined with oaks lead to the massive, intricately carved, oak door.

Saddle weary, the men dismounted on a hillside from which they had an excellent view of Nathair's grand front door. As they talked quietly among themselves, they observed Nathair riding out—alone.

Rory laughed. “Alone? That coward?” With a leap he mounted. “The fool shouts to be followed.”

 

You can find story with these keywords: The Death of Magic, Read The Death of Magic, The Death of Magic novel, The Death of Magic book, The Death of Magic story, The Death of Magic full, The Death of Magic Latest Chapter