by Jaxon Reed
Unable to explain things to herself, she finally walked out the door and down the stairs toward the kitchen. Cookie smiled at her as she sat down, the facsimile carrying plates of steaming food to the table.
“Good morning, dearie! How about ham and eggs for breakfast?”
Mita smiled. The facsimile invariably had breakfast prepared every morning just as she walked in. Other meals were handled the same way, the magic somehow anticipating her needs perfectly.
Mita cut a slice of ham and chewed it thoughtfully, grateful she no longer had to kill the animals she ate. As part of her training, she had to learn how to feed an army without magic. Pigs were especially nasty, she thought, grimacing at the memory of slaughtering them.
Cookie walked back to the table carrying a mug of steaming hot tea. Setting it down, she exchanged another smile with Mita. No longer overweight as a result of Oldstone’s modifications to her appearance, Cookie stood tall, slim, and attractive.
The facsimile’s eyes wandered down to Mita’s middle. She said, “You’re injured, dearie! Why don’t you heal yourself?”
Mita touched her stomach self-consciously, wondering as she did so how the facsimile had sensed her wounds.
“I tried, but for some reason my magic won’t work on this one.”
“Hmm. You should see Oldstone about it. He’s in the library.”
Mita nodded dutifully. When she finished her food, the plate and fork disappeared. She took her mug and walked down the hallway toward the library.
The door opened for her and she stepped into her favorite room in the castle. Tall ceilings made it feel especially spacious. Huge windows on the far side of the room offered a wondrous view of the surrounding countryside from the castle’s lofty height in the sky. Books filled shelf after shelf. Display cases held rare artifacts. Portraits for kings, wizards, and other important figures were scattered about the room as well, some behind glass while others stood on tripods.
Oldstone placed the morning broadsheet from one of the capital cities he’d been reading down on the conference table, and stood to greet her.
“What’s this about a wound that won’t heal? Where did you get it?”
Mita wondered, briefly, at the magical bonds Oldstone shared with his facsimiles. How had he known? How had Cookie told him? Was he watching through Cookie, or did the facsimile contact him on her own accord?
He quirked an eyebrow and she jumped out of her thoughts.
“It was a dream. I got injured in the dream by an unseen animal of some sort, and when I woke up I discovered I really was hurt.”
He pointed to his chair and said, “Sit down. Let me see.”
She sat, and mentally pulled back the leather armor from her belly. He kneeled and began unwrapping her bandages, his fingertips light and graceful.
Cutie, Oldstone’s other facsimile, young and fresh-faced, ran into the room carrying a washbasin filled with water along with some clean towels. Mita decided he must have mentally summoned her. Cutie stood back at a distance, quietly observing as Oldstone pulled back the last of the bandages.
He looked at the four claw marks and said, “Try healing again.”
Mita cast the spell, but nothing happened.
Oldstone held out his hand and a knife appeared in his palm. He clasped it tight then pulled the tip along the inside of his forearm. He extended his bloody arm to Mita.
“Heal this.”
She cast the same spell. Instantly his bleeding stopped and the skin knit itself back together, leaving no marks.
Oldstone nodded thoughtfully as the knife disappeared. He cast his own healing spell on her stomach.
Nothing happened.
“I’ll try a more complex one.”
He furrowed his brows and Mita could sense the power being summoned. She looked down at her wounds. They remained stubbornly open, oozing blood.
Oldstone sighed, and Mita sensed his worry, tinged with frustration. He motioned toward Cutie.
“Clean and redress her wounds, please. Then stitch her up.”
Cutie dutifully knelt down and wiped the wounds with a clean cloth while Oldstone walked toward the back of the library.
Cutie retrieved a needle and thread and began sewing up the wounds. Mita quickly numbed her skin around the wounds, grateful that at least the anesthetic spell worked.
Mita raised her voice so Oldstone could hear and said, “What do you think?”
He didn’t respond right away. By the time Cutie had rewrapped Mita’s stitched-up stomach with a fresh set of bandages, Oldstone returned carrying an old book. He placed it on the table in front of her, opening it to a page he had marked with his thumb.
“I think you faced a mind monster last night.”
Mita looked at the text intently and tried to understand what she read. It seemed to be a history of some sort, discussing the challenges faced by the First Wizards shortly after the creation of the world.
“What is a ‘mind monster?’”
“They’re very rare. Only a few have been known to exist.”
“But what is it? Why did it attack me? And how did it get to me in a dream? And why can’t we heal the wounds it gave me?”
Oldstone nodded, acknowledging the questions, and she suddenly noticed he seemed tired. He waved a hand at the book, as if all the answers were contained in it if only she took the time to read.
“From what we know, mind monsters only appear to a select few wizards. The very strongest ones. Since the early days of Creation, they have appeared far less often. Of course strong wizards are fewer in number, too. And since they only attack the strongest, it makes sense we wouldn’t see as many of them. In fact, you are the first to meet one since . . . well, since I battled mine when I was your age.”
He smiled, and she couldn’t help but notice the twinkle in his eye despite the gravity of the situation.
She struggled to digest his words and said, “They only appear to strong wizards? And I’m strong enough to get one? And nobody else has seen a mind monster since you battled one?”
He nodded at each question.
She said, “Darkstone didn’t have one?”
“No. Neither did Greystone, and he is nearly as powerful, in his own way, as I. So, you are beginning to see how momentous your little fight was last night.”
“Little fight? That thing reached out and hurt me in my dream! And nothing I could do fazed it. It was impervious to all magic. I couldn’t even see the rotten thing!”
He nodded sympathetically and said, “Mine was equally vicious. It broke my arm. It took months to fully heal. I still have nightmares.”
“Did it appear in your dreams?”
Oldstone shook his head and said, “No. Each one is different. Mine attacked when I was alone. I must say, it took me a century or two before I finally felt secure being alone again. Even so, I still like to keep facsimiles around for company. I’m far more comfortable in this castle with them present.”
“So how did you defeat yours? Nothing I tried in my dream worked. Even the Spell of Expulsion was useless.”
“I’m afraid if I told you how I defeated mine, it would do you no good. Each wizard’s mind monster is unique, and no two victories occur in quite the same way. You’ll have to figure it out on your own, just as your predecessors did before you.”
Mita looked at the book again with renewed interest. She pulled it closer and tried once more to read through the page Oldstone had left open.
She gave up and asked, “So what are these things? Why do they attack powerful wizards?”
Oldstone shrugged and said, “No one is really quite sure, although some theories have been proffered. One is that they represent balance in nature. The most powerful wizards should have an equally powerful opponent who must be overcome before the wizard can truly come of age.
“Another idea is that you cannot explore the full extent of your power until you have defeated your mind monster. All the wizards who did so went on to obtain pheno
menal capabilities, and all became exceptional. Myself included, of course.”
“Wait. ‘All the wizards who did so?’ Do you mean some did not?”
“Oh yes. You can read about it.” He pointed at the book again. “Some of their deaths were quite gruesome, especially for those experiencing mind monsters before their trials, like you.”
Her stomach clenched at the thought. She wrapped one arm around her injuries and pushed the book away.
Oldstone’s eyes rested on her middle. He said, “They always seem to attack something vulnerable, something personal. For me, when I was a young wizard (and I met my mind monster after my trials), I used my right arm to cast spells. I thought by waving my arm a certain way, I could induce more power into a spell. And I probably did, looking back on it. Half of magical ability is believing you can do it, after all.
“After the mind monster broke my arm, I had to learn how to cast without using gestures, much as you did in your training. Oh, I could use my left arm, but it wasn’t the same. I’m right-handed, and my spells were more powerful when I used my right arm.
“Eventually, I figured out how to focus power without using bodily movements. So in a way, my mind monster performed me a generous favor, although it didn’t feel like it at the time. Once I defeated him, my confidence bloomed and I grew considerably more powerful.”
They both looked back down at the fresh bandages around her middle. Dread filled her heart as she processed the wizard’s words, and what they implied for her.
She said, “What has he done to me?”
Oldstone looked up and met her gaze levelly.
“I suspect, Mita, you can no longer have children.”
Chapter 3
Greystone smiled as his steed plodded down the road at a leisurely pace. His long blond hair and his long blond beard, both streaked with gray, waved gently in the afternoon breeze.
Deedles the blind cat lay sprawled across the saddle and his lap, snoozing through the horse’s steady movement.
Reluctantly, Greystone’s attention wandered back to the royal retinue, on its way to a duke’s summer manor for a meeting with the kingdom’s top nobility. King Keel was already there. His wife and daughter, along with Trant and the wizard, were due to arrive that evening.
In front, Captain Tomlin led a contingent of five other Royal Guards. In the middle, Prince Trant and Princess Margwen rode side by side, deep in conversation about some book they both had read in childhood. It seemed obvious to all the two were deeply in love, and it mattered little what they discussed so long as they were together.
Behind them rode Anabella, Margwen’s former nanny, along with Isabeth, Trant’s former nanny, and two other ladies of the court. These four held their own conversation, an ongoing commentary about the sights and people around them. They served as chaperones to the couple, and were constantly present when Trant and Margwen were together.
Wizard Greystone followed them along with Queen Kita, Margwen’s mother, who had taken a liking to Greystone, much to his dismay. He turned back to her conversation and smiled politely, offering no outward sign of his discontent.
Behind them rode more guardsmen, followed by a royal carriage which wheeled its way along the empty road. Margwen and Trant wanted to ride today.
At first Greystone was content to let the lovers ride while he remained in the carriage. He considered passing the time by expanding its internal space with magic, perhaps adding a bedroom and bathroom. But the queen latched onto him and would not stop talking. She stayed in the carriage with him, and talked. And talked. He felt it would be extremely rude to ignore her, so he listened. He had been listening all day. Or at least feigning to listen.
After lunch at an inn, he decided to ride along with the prince and princess, choosing one of the spare horses tied onto the back of the carriage. The queen joined him. Although she preferred the comfort of the coach, she gamely chose a horse of her own in order to maintain her one-sided conversation.
Greystone nodded politely at something she said, although if asked on the spot to repeat it he would not have been able to.
The queen appeared quite attractive, even without makeup or magic. In her middle fifties, the gray in her hair made a more aggressive showing with each passing year. In fact, little of her original color remained. Greystone knew she could fix that herself. She had the magic for it but refused to use it. Many women had varying degrees of glamour spells they used on themselves. And for those with little magic, plenty of mages would be willing to oblige for a small fee. Certain spas, Greystone knew, existed for that sole purpose. Women entered, dropped some silver, and left looking ten years younger. Until the spell wore off, necessitating another visit and more silver.
But not Queen Kita. It had to do with some odd Coralian tradition, he thought. The royal line never enhanced their looks by magic. They always appeared to their subjects with unadorned features, never altered by beauty spells.
Not that the queen needed much enhancement. She hailed from one of the five major noble families in Coral, although the wizard couldn’t remember precisely which one at the moment. The families had intermarried with one another, with occasional injections of fresh blood from one of the minor houses, for a thousand years. There were enough varieties in the bloodlines for the nobility to consistently produce attractive offspring, and it was not unusual for the King of Coral, whoever that might be at any given time, to choose a bride from one of these five families.
Even unadorned, the queen’s finely chiseled features carried the sort of feminine qualities poets often mention, Greystone thought. He decided the gray hair did not detract from her looks. If anything it seemed to enhance her stature, as if bestowing an aura of wisdom alongside her beauty.
If daughters followed their mothers in looks as they aged, Trant would find his wife exceptionally attractive well into old age, the wizard thought.
Provided he lived that long. That was always the caveat when considering Trant’s future. And so many elements were lined up against the prince.
Well, I’ve kept the lad alive so far. Perhaps he’ll at least live long enough to sire an heir, Greystone thought.
The entire party drew to a halt as Trant and Margwen paused to watch a group of peasants working around a collapsed building.
Tomlin looked back, questioningly, at his princess. Greystone knew the Captain refused to let anyone else in the Royal Guard accompany her without his say-so. After losing his men before and during the Battle of Greystone Village, Tomlin had proven particularly mule-headed about maintaining his assignment upon returning to Coral. He had personally chosen each guard accompanying the party today. His men stood in awe of him, fearful of his battle-hardened reputation. None doubted his loyalty to Margwen, nor his willingness to sacrifice his life, if need be, to protect her.
After conferring with Trant for a moment, Margwen made a motion to Tomlin indicating he should investigate what the peasants were up to.
Greystone’s attention returned to the queen, who hadn’t stopped talking and now brought up Trant again. The wizard suspected one of the reasons Kita insisted on accompanying them on this trip was to pry as much information as she could about the man in which her daughter had taken such an interest.
For his part, having practically raised the orphan prince, Greystone felt happy to oblige. But after the first few hours of their journey he had run out of new things to say, and the conversation shifted to other topics which held little interest for the wizard. But he never let the queen know of his boredom.
She said, “I am so glad you and Prince Trant are able to see the countryside. It is my opinion, I’m biased of course, that Coral is the prettiest of all the lands. And we have such excellent peasants. They are very hard working. Good, kind, decent people who till the land and work the soil.”
Greystone nodded, but kept his eyes on Trant. The prince fidgeted in his saddle. The wizard knew he wanted more than anything to question the peasants himself, and spend time inves
tigating, perhaps assisting them in their efforts. But as a royal, such action would be unseemly.
Trant knew this, having been coached by Greystone extensively. Trant was fully versed in all the customs. But the wizard knew he didn’t like it. Around the village back home, he often mingled with the people. The commoners loved Trant, and he treated them well, not as some arrogant ruler keeping his distance.
But custom in Coral, as most elsewhere, dictated that distance indeed be kept between the nobility and common folk.
Tomlin rode back to the party and addressed Margwen, saying “The old granary collapsed, Highness. The local villagers want to reuse the stones for their houses, but they’re having a hard time prying the remaining ones loose.”
Trant looked over his shoulder and raised questioning eyebrows toward Greystone. The wizard smiled. He said, “I must beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I believe I can be of assistance in this matter.”
The queen nodded. He squeezed his ankles into his horse’s side, rode away from the royal party and headed toward the fallen building. The structure once stood several paces high, perhaps three rods or so, Greystone estimated, but had collapsed in a pile of rubble. The villagers had already carted away most all the good stones, save those near the foundation.
These, Greystone realized, were bigger and heavier than the smaller ones comprising the upper portion of the granary. He noted a group of men worked with a team of horses struggling to pull out one of the heavy stones. The horses pulled hard in their harnesses, straining powerful muscles, but barely budged the giant block.
Several other men and women worked, all dressed in simple unbleached linen, breeches and dresses died occasionally brown or green or dark yellow. They loaded stones and fragments and other remains of the building onto wagons. Children darted here and there, gathering small rocks and trying to be helpful while playing at the same time.
One of the men stopped working and approached Greystone’s horse, knuckling his forehead in a respectful greeting. He stood tall and stout, brown hair matching the color of his clothes, barrel-chested and broad shoulders and a ready smile. He was the same man who had spoken with Tomlin a moment ago.
