Free When the Heavens Fall by Marc Turner Page A

seeks a way to manipulate them, perhaps block them entirely.”
    â€œHave you been successful?”
    â€œNot yet.” The mage gestured to the scrolls resting against the ceiling. “Thus far, your humble servant’s changes to the composition of the atmosphere have had little effect on these mysterious forces. Mottle thought to remove all of the air from this chamber, but then how could he be present to observe the result of his experiment? The solution proves elusive, alas, but Mottle will persevere.”
    The skeleton jerked, and Ebon tore his gaze away. “And the bones? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know where you acquired them.”
    â€œTheir previous owners no longer had any use for them, Mottle assures you. And he has found bone to be more sensitive to these energies than either wood or stone.”
    â€œIndeed. What type of forces are we dealing with, then?”
    The mage stopped pacing. “Ah! The same thought has been troubling Mottle. Death-magic, for sure, although as to which denomination, Mottle knows not. Worrying, yes?”
    Ebon looked round. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows closing in? “And where do they come from, these energies?”
    â€œThis fortress, in part,” Mottle said, placing a hand against a wall. “Centuries of conflict have seeped into the stone, leaving scars that will never truly fade. But these should cause only the slightest of tremors. This”—he gestured to the twitching skeleton—“this potency  … Mottle has never before seen the like.”
    Ebon held the old man’s gaze. “What did you sense at the forest? What do you sense in me?”
    The mage’s forehead creased. “In truth, Mottle does not know. But there is something different about you, yes? A change since the spirits last took you.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œYour humble servant is unsure. There is a shadow upon you, but when Mottle tries to concentrate on it, it escapes him.”
    â€œYou speak as if it were some conscious entity. Something that withdraws when it senses your scrutiny.”
    â€œThat is Mottle’s fear, but then would it not leave some trace of its passing? Mottle can find none, and he is not easily thrown off a scent.”
    The clicking of the skeleton was beginning to set Ebon’s nerves on edge. “All I hear is speculation, mage. Not good enough. I need answers.”
    Mottle raised an eyebrow. “Then search for them within, my boy. The solutions await you there, if you have but the will to seek them out.”
    â€œYou don’t understand. The spirits … If I relaxed my guard, they would drag me down. Theirs is a world of torment, Mottle. I will find no answers there, only madness.”
    â€œCertain, are you? Do not be so quick to reject Mottle’s sagacious counsel. Centuries ago, the spirits—the Vamilians as they were known—were a powerful race. Civilized, yes, but expansionistic. Their empire was so vast that the sun would rise over one part even as it set in another—”
    â€œYou have told me all this before,” Ebon interrupted. “What is your point?”
    â€œMottle’s point? Simply this: There may be a way for you to exploit the Vamilians’ presence. You have some of their memories, yes? You share their knowledge.” Mottle’s eyes glittered. “Perhaps there is power, too, that you can use. Power you may need before the end.”
    â€œThe end of what?”
    Mottle smiled innocently. “Why, whatever is upon us, of course.”
    Ebon regarded the old man sourly. For a moment there, I thought I had him. I can only hope the mage is as careful with my secrets as he is with his own. He batted aside a roll of parchment as it floated upward past his face. “Tell me, this presence you sense … Has it marked me in some way? Will others be able to detect it?”
    â€œMottle