“Since you’re posing as deputy elder, I think you might do it,” Tirr accused.
The blond-haired woman stood resolutely in front of Mirka, barely flinching as the cold mountain breeze rustled their tunics and robes.
Mirka bristled. “First, let’s get this straight. I’m not posing as deputy elder. I am deputy elder.”
A crowd was beginning to gather behind them. Mirka could hear the shuffling of feet and muted mutters. She brushed her wiry black hair out of her face and forced her shoulders to relax. “Second, Tirr, I don’t quite understand your accusatory tone. I have no intentions of murdering the magic casters of my clan, much less my best friend.”
More movement behind her. Was the whole clan gathering?
She continued, “And just because you think I stole this position unfairly doesn’t mean I’m the one slinking around killing people.”
At this point, the mutters were getting much too loud. And uncomfortably intelligible. Mirka shoved back the rise of anger. Barely. How could they even think it was her? She loved her fellow clanspeople! She whirled around on her heels, star-speckled deputy cloak swirling around her lithe form. She faced the crowd with fiery eyes. “You know me! Why even consider that I’m the Dark Mage?”
“And we know everyone else here,” Elder Kar pointed out. He gestured at the pocket of space the village had managed to wedge itself into the mountainside. “There are no others for miles. The Dark Mage lives among us.”
And the Dark Mage is you, his expression finished for him. Mirka closed her eyes for a moment, calming the boiling stew of frustration, worry, and anger inside her. They were scared. A magic caster had been killed. No one kills magic casters.
“I know that you whisper about bring back the old traditions,” she spoke quietly. “We can cast a condemning vote, sure. But I have killed no one and condemning me will not stop the killer from going after his or her next victim.”
Old man Verokai leaned against one of the huts, sour face puckered even more than usual. “Give us proof you’re not the Dark Mage.”
Mirka hesitated. This was not the greatest time to have an affinity for destruction magic. One spell and the entire village would be convinced. “I can’t prove it, and you can’t prove that I am the Dark Mage.”
“Can’t we?”
Mirka had almost forgotten about Tirr and jumped at the sudden voice behind her. Tirr stalked past, giving Mirka a wide berth as she did, then stood in front of the villagers as if representing them. Even the Elders allowed her the position. “Give it up, Dark Mage. Just admit it--we've found you out.”
“But . . . Mirka’s nice. How are you so sure?” someone called out. The voice sounded like Miss Emfi, and Mirka smiled a bit.
Murmurs of agreement followed this. The tiniest bit of light welled up inside Mirka.
It crashed as soon as Tir spoke.
“I saw you kill something last night at midnight.” Gasps resounded among the clan. Tirr folded her arms and arched her eyebrows. “Awfully coincidental for you to be up at Sacrificial Hour. And when Haru happened to disappear.”
Mirka felt the blood drain from her face. The shadow wraith she had followed and killed. Sure, she'd been protecting her clan from a magic caster’s overactive magic-imbued dreams, but in the dark fighting something that looked an awful lot like a human . . . Mirka’s hands curled into fists. “No! That wasn’t Haru. That was just a nightmare manifestation I was taking care of. As is my duty. Because I’m . . .” She trailed off, realization hitting her unpleasantly hard in the gut.
Tirr. It was Tirr. No one knew exactly when Haru had disappeared. And her eyes when she spoke of his murder? Excitement and satisfaction. Not a single ounce of grief. She must’ve been hiding her magic talents, posing as a non-caster. Mirka swallowed hard. And now here she was, standing in front of the Dark Mage, aware only that her magic abilities had to have been great enough to kill High Elder Garyn.
She willed her voice not to tremble. “Fine. I can sense a lost cause when I see one. I’ll obey your wishes and leave, as that seems to be what you all want. But please know that I am not the killer. The Dark Mage—whoever he or she may be—will still be living among you. Whoever’s blood spills next is on your hands.”
With that last spitting remark, Mirka threw down her deputy cloak and stormed out of the village.
Once she was a safe distance away, hidden by the mountain cliffs, she collapsed into the nearest cave and huddled against the wall, trembling and replaying in her mind the last glimpse she’d had of Tirr—triumph and ravenous hunger for the life-magic of her own clans people.
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