Page 2 of Crown of Ashes and Awe

“Don’t worry,” Hux said. “I will fix him.”

A gray mist rose from the pile of rags that hid Iphocles’ ancient bones. It concentrated itself into a writhing snake and inched its way off the ground as if anxious to leave the decrepit body behind.

Tearloch tried to hold Huxor back, but it was no use. As his friend shrugged out of his grasp and reached out for the mist, Tearloch realized this had been Hux’s plan all along. He’d always been susceptible to the lure of power. And now that he was this close, he couldn’t let it go.

So Tearloch stopped fighting. After all, if Hux survived the transfer, he might be able to undo the curse on Sweetie.

Should he lose one friend to save another? Of course not. But it was Hux’s will that was in charge now, not Tearloch’s. Even back when they’d accepted the commission to hunt down Iphocles, it had been Huxor who had tipped the scales and convinced them to take the job—a service to Hestia, he’d called it.

And now, they’d very nearly lost Minkin, and Sweetie might be deformed for life. So, it was only right that Huxor undo the wrong his ambition had wrought.

The snake of mist fought back, trying to rip itself out of Hux’s grasping hands, giving Tearloch a small dose of hope. But the mist, like Tearloch, had underestimated his oldest friend, who fought just as ferociously to hold fast. At one point, the gray stuff had nearly gotten away, all but a small tail of the stuff caught between Hux’s fingers. But then it stopped, hovered mid-air, and turned to look down into its opponent’s face. And whatever it saw there, whatever it read there…it liked.

It pulled that last little tail up into itself, moved over Huxor’s head, and dove like a thirsty man into a pool of clear, clean water.

Too late, Bain and Dower realized what was happening and arrived at their older brother’s side just as the mist chose its new host. They held his arms, supporting him while he, like Sweetie, grew accustomed to his new incarnation. But unlike Sweetie, Huxor’s countenance changed.

His eyes sank deeper into his skull while his cheek bones rose, removing most of what had made the man handsome. While they watched, rune-shaped scars etched themselves into the skin of his forehead and the backs of his hands. It had to be painful! But the man gave away nothing.

His hair and beard grew by degrees, as if the mist inside him were stretching its fingers. Under the growing resemblance of the dead sorcerer, only half of Huxor remained. He still had the dark of his hair, his brawn, and his height.

Tearloch prayed more of his friend lingered on the inside. He hurried to Sweetie, to move him into Huxor’s line of sight. “Quick now, Hux. Reverse the spell and then we’ll worry about what comes next.”

Huxor grinned at Sweetie. “Not so pompous now, are ye?”

Ye?Already, he sounded like Iphocles!

Tearloch waved to get the man’s attention. “Huxor! Not now. Make Sweetie whole and he’ll be indebted for the rest of his life. You know he will. Then we will get you back.”

The man blinked. He looked at his brothers in turn, then lifted an imperious brow in a silent order to release him, which they did, reluctantly. They could barely stand to look at him without pity leaking from their eyes. The handsome trio was down to two.

Hux shrugged his shoulders and held out his arms, as if testing the fit of his clothes. His size hadn’t changed.

He turned in a circle. “Give me room. Give me room. Let me think how to reverse the spell.” His old face seemed to shift just beneath the surface of his skin as he walked around the perimeter of the alley, again and again, while the rest of us stood waiting in the center with the old man’s body at our feet.

Hux came around to the head again, but this time, instead of stepping around it, he picked it up, tossed it in the air, and laughed. “Do something with this, will you?”

Blood rained from the bloody neck, and we dove in different directions to avoid it. The head hit the ground with a dull thud, face down. It didn’t move.

When we looked up, Huxor was gone.

1

A RICH INVITATION

“When once again a blue dragon is seen in the skies, all of Hestia shall die.” ~Moire, the prophetess

In anticipation of sunrise,the Redstone Canyon was slow to come alive. What little dew had accumulated in the night lingered on the ground and kept the orange-red dust from stirring. Loathe to invite the heat of the day, creatures of all sorts kept still and silent, holding on to that last cool breath of dawn.

As usual, Demius forced me to wake long before I was ready, speaking to me as if I were fully alert. I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. By the time I figured it out, sleep was out of reach, which was exactly what he’d intended. But this morning, he’d pulled me from a pleasant dream. So, to show my irritation, I declined to answer when he asked if I’d moved his shoes.

“Asper?”

I refused to look at him. I grabbed my clean robes, marched out of the shelter we generously called our home, and turned to the right, away from the gully. A hundred feet away, a deep depression in the rock floor made for a shallow bath, perpetually refilled by a dripping overhang at the base of the hillside. It was the one place he wouldn’t follow.

And to torture my master just a bit longer, I took my time in the chilled water, washed the sand from my stiff white hair until it was soft again, and waited for the morning sunshine to peek down the ravine and dry it.

When I returned to the house, the ancient man had no attention for me. Instead, his focus was on the open tome on the table before him. His head swayed back and forth as he read the lines, as if consuming the words was much more urgent than the first meal of the day. My absence hadn’t tortured him in the least.

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