The Breath -Sixth Whale Book 1

*2*

Ofrin was confused, from all accounts he had spent the last few hours telling every witch or warlock he could find to spread the news about a meeting being held by the Witchfather. His problem was he didn't remember any of it. There was still another hour before dusk, but nearly all the magic folk had gathered. He has even spotted a few wizards trying to blend into the crowd. There was a buzz of excitement, nobody remembered when the Witchfather had last called a meeting except perhaps Old Aggie, who sat dutifully in the rocking chair facing the front door of the hut. He briefly wondered how the old hag had convinced anyone to carry it there. Still, Ofrin couldn't understand it, why did anyone still care what that man had to say? He sat there in that derelict hovel, festering in filth, but people still wanted to listen? The older ones did at least. Most of the younger generation stood at the back resentfully. Ofrin smiled at his followers, he was excited for a different reason, this meeting was the perfect chance for them to overthrow that placid fool and take control of The Halves and then the city.

A hand slipped into his and squeezed it, Ofrin looked at its owner with delight. He could feel her excitement in the wild magic she exuded. Pink sparks of magic skittered across her golden skin, she shone like the moon on a cloudless night. Shae, he was going to do this for her, a city for witches with no fear of death and persecution. Shae, his Shae, had experienced enough of that. She had come to The Halves just ten years ago as a child refugee from Xan-Darkut. There were no witchfathers or mothers there for abandoned children touched by the breath, no schools for wizards. Just death, not just to the child but to the entire family. Shae had been a late bloomer, she was seven when her hair turned white and her eyes shifted from brown to heather. She had been struck by a cart and the shock flicked something in her, the entire family fled with nothing. Her father and brother both died during the three-year crossing, only her older sister Mae and her survived. Ofrin knew Mae resented Shae, there was love and protection but she made no attempts to hide her disdain for witches. With straight black hair, chocolate eyes and abnormally pale skin Mae would have been considered the epitome of beauty in Xan-Darkut. Shae would have been too, before the change. Here though Mae was just a pretty foreigner and Shae shone like a diamond in the mud. She was loved by the magic and Ofrin needed her power. He was lucky she loved him. So very, very lucky.

Inside the cabin, for that was what Thandre had convinced himself it still was, the Witchfather was rummaging madly. Not once had Derys ever criticised his appearance. Yes, his hair had gotten a bit long but it wasn't that bad... was it? He could admit the robe was perhaps a little worse for wear, it was still usable though... right? It was this sudden doubt that had him desperately searching for a mirror. Eventually, he gave up and found a large bowl and filled it with water. With a light touch of magic, he now had a mirror. He was horrified to realise Derys had been right. His mind then flicked to the young warlock from earlier that day. He didn't want to respect him or want to listen. How could anyone who looked like this know what was best? How could someone so incapable of looking after themselves take care of so many? He reached for a knife and chopped off the ragged mat of hair and most of the beard. He let soft pink mist gather around his fingers and pushed them through his hair coaxing the knots away, trimming extra ends and removing the dust of decades. Once he thought his hair presentable, with thick brown waves brushing his shoulders, he set to work on the beard. Looking more like a sane man, Thandre removed the robe. His pale skin exposed he grabbed a clean rag and began to wash. His body was not the peak it had once been, rippling muscles had long since wasted away, he was little more than bones with skin hanging on. He hadn't eaten since... He tried to think in days but ended up going back decades.

It was like he'd been woken from a foggy dream by a bucket of ice. The reality was pulling him back in and it was a shock. He hadn't been living, existing yes, but living no. He went to his clothing chest and tried to find the least damaged piece of clothing, something he could repair quickly. By the time dusk had come Thandre felt like he was presentable, he was tidy, clean and his clothes weren't full of holes. He stood opposite his front door dressed in a simple white tunic and grey trousers, a piece of white marble from the cavern hung around his neck on some simple leather cord. His shoes were brown leather boots that, despite some serious efforts through the still throbbing headache, were still looking slightly on the rough side.