Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) Read Free Page A

dirty bracer. It was black like the wing of a crow. A mage then. Not just any ordinary one at that. ‘Alright,’ she replied, and held out her mug of brandy. The mage smiled and gestured to the little girl perched on the edge of the other stool, eyes wide and more than a little scared.
    ‘And yours, little madam?’ he asked. The mother nodded and the little girl gave up her mug too. ‘No use stopping for a drink on an evening like this if it don’t warm your innards, eh? Cold brandy and cold milk can only do so much,’ he said. He tapped the two mugs together with a clink, and then pressed them together, one in each hand. ‘Do you like magick, little girl?’ he asked, and the little girl nodded eagerly, a tiny white tooth biting her bottom lip, still pale from the cold, in earnest. ‘You do? Well, you’ll like this then,’ he replied, winking at both of them.
    It began slowly at first. The mage fixed the mugs with an intense stare. For a moment, nothing, and then, very gradually, his palms started to glow with a warm, ruby light. Then the air around his hands began to waver and shimmer. Before the mother and her child could lean closer, little flames sprang up from his fingers and began to lick at the bases of the two porcelain mugs. Tendrils of steam rose from their contents to sketch patterns in the air. The little girl clapped her hands with delight, drawing stares from the others in the tavern. With a grunt from the mage, the flames in his hands died away, and he leant forward so that the woman could take back her drinks. ‘Take them by the handles, m’lady,’ advised the mage, and she did, passing one to her daughter and then taking hers. The two of them were soon enjoying the feel of the warm steam on their cold faces, sipping tentatively at the hot liquid.
    The mage rubbed his knees and watched the two cradling their mugs. He smiled and reached inside his pocket for his tobacco and pipe. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked. The woman shook her head. She found herself watching the mage closely as he packed the bowl of his briar-root pipe with the tobacco. It was the cheap sort. More like bark shavings than the shredded moss. He didn’t seem to care. He had the look of a man several weeks of wine past caring. He put the pipe to his lips and pressed his little finger into the bowl, a lick of flame hovering around its tip. A few moments later and he was sucking happily on the pipe, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling, much to the little girl’s pleasure.
    ‘So,’ grunted the mage. ‘You’re not from the Crumbled Empire, I can’t hear any of that in your accent. Definitely south, but not too south, by your skin. I’d say Arka, if I had to guess. Essen, to be exact.’
    The woman raised her mug. ‘And you would guess correctly, stranger.’
    The man held up his hands and exhaled smoke. ‘I’m at an advantage. It’s hard not to recognise your own accent,’ he said, clapping his chest, ‘Arka myself, as you’ve probably guessed.’
    ‘Well, mage, I fear that your keen ear is wasted in your current employ.’
    The mage laughed heartily then, until a cough caught him, and he thumped his chest with his fist to get it out.
    The woman smiled, confused. ‘I wasn’t aware I made a joke.’
    ‘You didn’t, lady. I’ve just never heard being a mage like me described so light-heartedly.’
    ‘Well, isn’t it your job?’
    The mage held the pipe in his mouth, testing it against his teeth, eyes half-closed, thinking long and hard. ‘Curse, more like it.’
    The woman looked shocked. ‘A curse?’
    The mage shuffled in his seat and blew another smoke ring towards the girl. He was rewarded with a giggle. ‘Any path that leads a man to, to this ,’ he gestured at the tarred pine walls and ceiling of the tavern, ‘is bloody cursed.’
    The woman smiled politely. ‘But is it the path, or the way the man treads it?’ she asked.
    The mage shrugged, brushing off the question. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What brings