CIRCLE OF SHADOWS Part 1: Shadow Chaser
† 12 - confrontations †

Simion kneels before his bed silently, his eyes closed, breathing deep and even.

A ray of light spears through the small slit cut into the wall, falling brightly across the floor and over Simion’s bent back. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Dust motes fly through the air, dancing lightly through the ray of light, shimmering and sparkling in the early morning sunrise.

His white nightdress soiled at the knees, hair dishevelled and unruly after a restless nights’ sleeping, Simion opens his eyes.

His early morning ritual finished he gets to his feet, ears picking up the sounds of industry floating on the chill air through the small window.

Hammers banging loudly; saws rasping through wood; metal clanging on metal; people screaming and talking.

Turning towards a wardrobe standing in the corner of the room, he surveys the sparsely furnished room. With a resigned sigh he moves towards the wardrobe, pulls the doors open and pulls out the satchel he had carried with him.

Lifting the flap slightly he peeks inside, relief flooding through him when he sees the book still wrapped and lying where he had put it.

A snatch of conversation catches his ears, and he places the

book back inside the dark wardrobe before moving closer to the door. The sounds of conversation grow stronger as he nears the closed door and he turns his head and places his ear against the cool wood.

‘I told you before. No one is allowed to see him. By order of His Grace.’

A gruff voice comes through the door muffled.

‘I still don’t understand why not!’

Simion backs away from the door slightly, surprise masking his face as he recognizes the voice of the second person outside.

Leaning back forward he closes his eyes as he strains to discern more of the exchange.

‘I am a Mage with a Council seat. How dare you deny me entry?’

Garet’s voice sounding pinched and venomous as it seeps through the wooden door.

‘I am only following orders, sir’

The gruff voice smoothly counters, before continuing.

‘We are ordered to apply force when necessary.’

The underlying threat pierces the door like a knife and Simion gasps for breath.

‘What!?’ Garet’s voice shrilly demands.

Sshrrriiinnggg!

Through the door Simion hears the metallic ring of a blade

pulled from a sheath.

‘How dare you draw a sword against an Order Mage?!’

Silence hangs heavily behind the closed door and Simion begins to swat panicky.

‘You shall leave this tower immediately... or I shall be forced to make you go... Sir!’

The guards’ voice grates against Simion’s nerves, the gruff voice raspy and dry. Walking closer again he pulls at the door knob.

Locked!

Standing back, hands dropping to his side, he hangs his head, shaking it back and forth.

His voice soft, he groans to himself.

‘No no no no no no no. This can not be. I am imprisoned. What a fool I was to have come here!’

The heated discussion continues outside, muffled and unclear through the thick door. Simion disheartened, turns around, his body shaking uncontrollably he walks to the washroom, closes the door behind him and crosses the small chamber to the urn of water placed there earlier for his ablutions.

Dipping shaking hands into the cool clear water, he cups them and pulls them up, splashing the water over his face.

Rubbing vigorously he washes off the grime and dirt collected during the night.

He picks up a soft towel lying to the side, dabs his face dry

and walks back into the main chamber, moving towards the open wardrobe.

Pulling out a light red robe, black stripes running parallel down its back, he walks back to the bed and throws it on the dishevelled linen.

He deftly undresses himself and dons the bright red robes, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to smooth them down.

Failing that he sits down onto the bed his shoulders slumping despair as he stares at the floor.

The conversation outside the door had died down as he had washed and Simion now sits quietly thinking to himself adamantly.

‘I must not allow him access! He has betrayed us all.’

A pensive look crosses his face and he looks through the window into the clear blue skies beyond, the bright sun beaming happily across the grass lands.

‘You were a fool Simion! You should have stayed away!’

A tear runs down his cheek and he wipes it angrily away.

‘You alone can rectify it!’

Eyes flashing determined he gets up, walks over to the window and looks down.

Far below him the common yards lie spread out, people in light red robes and dark grey milling about like ants. Industriously busy with various tasks to keep the Castle of the Red Mages

intact.

To the left of the yard below, a stable and training yard lies, horses loudly nickering to one another; to the right, green gardens, colourful flowers dotting the grassy hillocks rolling smoothly as far as the eye can see.

Dark red robed figures amble along paths or sit clumped in groups, practising the arts or meditating. Continuing, completely oblivious, with their daily lives, most of them not even realising the danger in the towers above them.

Simion rests his elbows on the sill, gazing far into the distance, eyes scanning the western horizon.

‘Please do not let this happen! If you survived you must hurry!’

He whispers softly into the air, closes his eyes and lies his head down onto his crossed arms.

With a violent push against the window frame he spins around and stumbles to the bed, where he falls soundlessly on it.

Sobs rack his body as he cries freely, tears flowing into the sheets.

Garet hurries down the narrow tower stairs, blood raging through his body, his face flushed red hot. Thick legs pump viciously up and down as he descends the tower, his breathing rasping haggardly in his chest. Sweat course over his face, salty drops running into his eyes and blinding him.

Garet reaches a landing, swerves through a stone archway unto a corridor leading away from the stairs. Fuming inside, he forces his rushed pace to a steady, dignified gait.

Eyes blazing madly he stalks down the corridor, ignoring several doorways standing open, red robed men and woman staring at his sweat covered face and ruffled hair.

Garet lifts his head an inch higher and looks disdainfully over his nose at the people around him.

Walking briskly he reaches the end of the hallway and pushes a dark mahogany door open, dull iron braces holding the panels steady, and moves through into a dimly lit corridor.

Lit candles perch precariously on their stands mounted to the wall, dark patches of soot spreading up against the grey slate wall proof of long use.

Garet looks down the hall, eyes adjusting quickly to the dimmer hall as he closes the door behind him.

Click!

The door’s lock slips softly into place.

Garet looks behind him at the door, frowning he backs away.

‘Strange.’ He muses silently to himself as he turns and walks hesitantly into the dim interior.

Locked doors lead off the hallway: their dark panelled doors closed shut and locked securely, unopened for ages.

Garet walks softly over the thick carpet running down the length of the hallway, deep red colours mingling with black

swirls hypnotically.

Shadows hang thick in the corners where the faint candle light fails to reach, inky black pools, impenetrable and sinister.

Looking around him Garet swallows hard, fear replacing the anger he had felt not too long ago.

He wipes the sweat on his brow away, the wet stain deeper red against the robe’s colour. A shiver runs down his spine, a cold clutching embrace surrounding his beating heart, the intense chill suffusing the warmth of his body into shivering spasms.

Halting suddenly, Garet turns around and looks back towards the closed door far behind him, longing for the bright halls beyond, burning through his mind.

Regretting his brash decision to confront Venere after being thwarted of seeing Simion, Garet begins to walk forwards again.

The darkness becomes slowly thicker as he nears a set of black doors: panels smooth and shiny, silver hinges and knobs sparkling brightly in the dim corridor, intricate designs carved into the black wood depicting runes and symbols unknown to Garet.

Garet lifts his hand up slowly, closes his eyes as he sighs, and raps gently with his knuckles against the door.

Tik-tok-tok!

Garet holds his breath as the faint sound echoes into the chamber beyond, amplifying loudly in the silence.

Standing there motionless Garet waits.

Frowning Garet lifts his hand again, rapping a little harder against the door.

Dropping his hand down he listens as the echoes die down in the adjoining chamber, ears strained to pick up the smallest sound of movement inside.

Swooosshhhh!

Garet jumps back quickly as the black door swings open, hot air blowing into the corridor he is in.

‘Come in!’ Venere’s voice booms angrily out through the open door.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Garet inches forward unsteadily, heart beating madly in his chest.

‘What do you want Garet!?’

Garet follows the voice and locates the red robed and shrouded figure sitting in a high backed chair studying an ancient tome intently. Venere bent closely over the books spread wide on the large desk, light streaming into the room through the large window looking out into the morning sky.

‘Your Grace... I... uhm....’ Garet stutters panicky.

Venere looks up from his perusal of the books and glances over his shoulder at Garet.

Garet flinches and takes a deep, calming breath.

‘I came to enquire... as to why no one is allowed... to... to see the pr... see Simion.’

Venere shrugs his shoulders and bends back over the books.

‘I have ordered it be so for various reasons.’

Venere’s soft voice barely reaches Garet’s ears and he moves forward gently.

‘But your Grace, he is my friend. I would like to see him, if only for a little while.’

Venere’s head snaps up and he glares in Garet’s direction. ‘Friend? The only thing you want to do is find out why he is here. Do you think me an idiot, Garet?!’

Garet shakes his head quickly, dips his chin down and closes his eyes as he stammers.

‘No... no... Your Grace.’

‘Why did you come here, Garet?’ the soft voice filled with suspicion.

‘I... I needed to speak to your Grace about the guard placed at Simion’s door. He drew his sword and threatened me!’

Garet’s voice fills with slighted pride and contempt as he continues.

‘He told me he had been ordered to let no one in and had been ordered to kill anyone who did not comply. This is unacceptable and I felt I had to come and discuss this with Your Grace first before taking my complaint to the Council.’

Swiiiissshhhh!

The faint sound whistles through the air and as Garet looks at where Venere had been standing, a thin white hand grabs him by the throat and chokes his windpipe closed, the red shroud flowing sinuously through the air around him.

Garet grabs at his throat, scratching wildly at Venere’s iron grip, fingers questing for a place to get a hold.

Red faced and gurgling Garet struggles madly, whipping his head backwards and forwards.

‘Hold still Garet, or die!’ Venere hisses softly into Garet’s ear.

Eye’s popped wide open Garet stops his struggling and Venere relaxes the grip around his throat slightly.

‘Now listen to me carefully...’

Garet feels Venere lift him up slightly, his toes touching the cold floor below him as he dangles in front of the red shrouded high master.

‘I have my reasons for doing what I did. Either accept it, or don’t! Either way, I do not care.’

Garet looks at the master pleadingly.

‘But do not come into my chambers and try to threaten me with the council!’

Venere releases Garet’s throat and stalks back to his desk, as Garet slumps limply to the floor, chest heaving and breath rasping in shallow drags.

‘Leave now Garet!’ the soft voice commanding.

Garet stumbles quickly to his feet, eyes flicking around anxiously, stretched wide open in fright and surprise.

Backing away as he rubs weakly at his throat, he looks over at the shrouded figure standing next to the table, a clenching fist of cold fear grinding inside his stomach.

Shaking uncontrollably he reaches the door, soft whimpers and sobs escaping from his lips, and pulls it open.

Holding one hand against the wall he trots down the dim corridor, each new breath carrying an even fouler curse, followed with silent urges, pleas for his weakened body to get him away as swiftly as possible from the demon in the room behind him.

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