by Guy Antibes
“You are exactly right, and now you have given yourself a demonstration. We will continue your practice, but now we will focus on controlling one’s mind and dealing with distractions. It’s always better to stop the spell rather than continue.”
Trak nodded. “I can see that even better now.”
Jojo walked over to the blackened wall that Trak had created, and ran a finger over the surface. He showed a dark finger, and then pointed to it. “So can I.”
~
Trak used poseless magic one morning to fill the cart with ore. He had learned from Ben that spells were actually manifestations of the earth’s energy controlled via the magical channels that ran through his body, but now instead of posing to direct the power, he could create the same effects in his mind.
“You have exceeded my expectations. I thought you would take a lifetime to master what you already have. You far surpass my abilities.”
Trak nodded. “I have a habit of learning quickly. I don’t say that to boast, but…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Have you ever heard of teleportation?”
Jojo shook his head. “And what might that be? From the term you use, it has to do with some kind of movement.”
“I saw Vashtan magicians do it in Santasia. They teleported about a league away with each jump.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what else to call what they did. One moment they were in front of me and the next moment, they were a league away.”
“That is how Riotro, the Santasian Black Master, escaped you? You never did tell me the details.”
Trak sat down on the ground. “I was embarrassed by that.”
“No need to be embarrassed,” Jojo said. “Never be embarrassed if someone shows you something new. Learn from it and consider including it into your repertoire.”
“That’s why I bring it up. Do you think I could create such a spell? I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Jojo sat down next to Trak and put his hand to his chin. “Why don’t we do a little creating?”
Trak laughed. “The Colcanans call that Innovating.”
“Well, let’s innovate, then.” Jojo rose and grabbed a large rock and placed it inside a circle a pace away from Trak, and then made another circle in the dirt with the toe of his sandal a few paces away. “Move the rock using telekinesis from one circle to the other.”
Trak did as he said. “That’s easy.”
“That was very slow. Do it faster.”
They both worked the rest of the day, with Jojo and he alternated moving the rock faster and faster. Jojo rubbed his head. “I think we’ve done enough for now. We still have to get the cart up to the surface.”
“I think I’m nearly as tired as you,” Trak said, but he still felt fine. He didn’t want to show up his mentor. Trak got to his feet as slowly as Jojo.
His friend clapped Trak hard on the back. “You little imp. I can tell that you are faking. It’s okay. I understand my limitations. We’ll do more tomorrow.”
The next day, both Jojo and Trak began their day by using their magic to quickly fill the cart. They made new circles a bit farther away from each other and sat down again.
After a few tries, Jojo nodded his head. “I think we are ready for the new spell.”
“New spell? Don’t we just make the telekinesis spell go faster?” Trak said.
“We did, but nothing that we’re doing will create the effect you described. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess so,” Trak said.
“I want you to think about the rock disappearing and appearing.”
Trak considered what Jojo had just said. Poseless magic was all about imposing one’s will on the physical realm. He had no idea where the rock would go if it teleported. He took a deep breath and looked at the rock and then looked at the other circle.
When he visualized telekinesis, he always visualized the subject moving in the air from place to place. This time he tried to think of the rock disappearing and appearing, just like Jojo said. He took a deep breath. “Here goes.”
Trak clenched his fist and then imposed his will, triggering the spell by the simple word, “Go.”
Jojo jumped to his feet and ran to pick up the rock in its new place, but then he threw it down. “It’s hot!” He shook his hand. “It’s really hot. If that were a person, I think they’d be burned up.”
“So that isn’t it?”
“What?” Jojo said. “You definitely teleported it, but the spell heats up the subject.” Jojo paused for a moment. “I am very glad you didn’t try it on me.” He looked serious, but then broke into laughter. “How lucky we are for not trying that!”
Trak didn’t say that he had first thought to practice the technique on Jojo. If he had started on Jojo, Trak would have lost his partner. He couldn’t manage feeling the same relief that Jojo obviously felt and declined to practice any more that day.
~
“I don’t know why you can do this so much better than I can,” Jojo said, obviously frustrated by the pair’s lack of a solution to the burning problem.
“What? I can burn rock better than you can? I don’t call that an improvement,” Trak said, echoing the anger in Jojo’s voice. “Why don’t we just stop this?” He looked away from his partner.
“We can give it a rest in a few days, so teach me more of your sword forms. I’m getting worn out from using so much magic.” Jojo looked at Trak with tired eyes.
Perhaps it would be better to take a break, Trak thought. He felt they were missing something, and Trak just couldn’t get his mind to work the way he needed to solve the problem.
They fell into the forms that Neel had taught Trak long ago. Jojo had learned swordsmanship in his youth, but when he became a magician, he let his skills lapse. Trak had reignited Jojo’s interest. They stood side by side while Trak performed and Jojo mimicked him.
A week went by, and Jojo had regained a feel for the forms, but Trak could see that the older man no longer possessed the fluidity that Trak had.
“You are so damned good,” Jojo said. “Youth!” He spit on the floor of their mineshaft. Jojo’s face grew alarmed. “Toss your stick over there!” Jojo dropped his and kicked it to the side of the floor and picked up his shovel. “Work.”
Trak didn’t have to worry about appearing to have worked. Both men had their shirts off and their exercise with the sword forms had given both of them a sheen of sweat. Trak grabbed a pick and began carving out the iron ore.
Naroki, Mother, and two other guards turned into their shaft.
“Inspection time,” Mother said, looking up at both of the much taller men. She gazed up and down their shaft. Trak had never been subject to an inspection before, and he didn’t know what to expect.
One of the men picked up one of the broken handles they used as swords. “Why is this shaft so clean, and yet you have this handle littering the ground? You’ve been taught better.”
Jojo relaxed a bit. ‘It’s a game that Trak and I play when we are bored.”
“Bored?” Naroki said. “Don’t we give you enough work to do?” He looked at Trak and poked him in the stomach with the baton he always gripped when talking to prisoners. Naroki sauntered over to the nearly full cart. His eyes widened. “You filled this up quickly. So what about the game?”
“Something we did in Pestle. It’s a game that involves hitting a ball back and forth with the sticks. We call them ‘batons’.”
“Like this?” Mother hit Trak on the shoulder, hard enough to hurt, but not to damage. “Toryans. I have no use for you or your friends.”
Naroki gave Mother a dirty look, and then turned to Trak. “Show us.”
“Jojo isn’t very good,” Trak said, since his partner might not have ever played a stick game before, “and we have to use rocks down here rather than something a bit softer, like a stuffed ball. We worked hard to fill the cart, so we had some time to play.”
Trak walked over to his stick and picked up one of the rocks they used to teleport. “Ready?”
he said to Jojo who looked nearly as confused as the four guards.
“You see, we just hit it back and forth. Whoever misses must withstand a forehead flick.”
“What’s that?” Mother said.
Trak grinned. “You’ll see.” He hit the ball with his stick to Jojo, who managed to hit it back, but Trak had to dive to get to the rock and hit it towards Naroki. Jojo couldn’t even attempt to get to the rock with the Chief Guard in the way.
“I won,” Trak said. He walked up to Jojo and put his middle finger under his thumb and flicked his middle finger tip into Jojo’s forehead. Trak looked at Naroki. “See? Finger flick.” He demonstrated by flicking his finger in the air.
Jojo rubbed his forehead. “You can see why we don’t play the game for very long. Damn Pestlan pastime.”
Trak just laughed. “But Jojo’s getting better.”
Naroki mumbled something that Trak couldn’t pick up and walked over to Trak and flicked him on his own forehead, and then he pushed his face into Trak’s. “Make sure you don’t distract your partner, so you miss your daily quota.”
“I’d never do that!” Trak said.
Naroki struck Trak on the side of his arm again. “Go back to work,” the Chief Guard said, motioning the others to join him as he walked away from the pair.
Trak put his hand up to his face. “He caught on to flicking much too quickly,” he said.
Jojo laughed, still rubbing his forehead. “Don’t be surprised to see red marks suddenly appear on the faces of prisoners and guards alike.”
“Why did he visit us?” Trak said.
“He comes around just before the Moon Festival. He thinks he can cow us into doing something foolish.”
“Moon Festival?”
“It’s the second most important holiday in Bennin. We get two days off this week. Since the mines will be idle, you will be able to visit with your Toryan friends. There are things I need to accomplish by myself.”
~~~
Chapter Ten
~
VALANNA HATED THE FILTHY ROOM. She had managed to sit up, despite her bonds, but she couldn’t do much more than that. At some point, she wished Trak had told her the spell that he had used to remove his ropes in the cabin in Santasia. She might be happier if she never woke up again.
She gazed at the two thin slices of bread and the cloudy water that Timor had brought up that morning. He didn’t give her a way to drink the water with her hands bound to her side. She tried to look out of the tiny filthy window from the bed. Beams of sunlight fought their way through the splotches of dirt and grime lighten up her makeshift prison. A blank wall stared back at her from the other side. She hopped to the nearly opaque window and looked down at the barely-visible refuse-strewn alley below.
She wondered if Coffin Cricket worked with Podor, but that didn’t make sense. Would he even know if she had been abducted or merely brought in for consultation by Warish overseers? He might never have believed her words. The man always looked innocent enough, but now she knew that those who played at spy craft had to be much stronger than she felt at the moment.
The tears in her eyes clouded the vision below. Valanna bit her lip. Now wasn’t the time to feel sorry. She looked around, trying to find something to use to break out. She could break the window and perhaps cut the rope with the sharp edge of the glass, but what if her efforts failed? Timor might hear the shattering of the pane and catch her before she had a chance to escape. Jumping out the window would certainly result in injury.
Perhaps she could just end her life, but as she looked around her, Valanna could not, would not accept defeat in such a place where she stood. She lifted her chin. They hadn’t killed her, so they must have some use for her continued existence. That meant opportunities might arise for salvation, however thin they might be.
She leaned over and ate the two slices of bread from the plate using only her lips and teeth. If an opportunity came by, she would need strength to take it. The water in the glass seemed to represent a larger challenge, but she lowered herself to get to her knees. She balanced precariously, not able to fully bend due to her bindings, and fell to the floor.
Valanna stared at the glass. It represented a vast challenge at that moment. She rolled on to her front and tried to lift up, but she just couldn’t muster up the strength. After many tries she rolled onto her back and reprimanded herself for using up so much strength on the futile goal. She inched around on the filthy woven rag carpet.
A tear fell from her eye, and for a moment, she could see that the rug wasn’t gray after all, since grime had covered the colors it originally sported. Her tear had pushed away a tiny bit of grime, exposing something once better underneath. Were her fellow spies like that, dirty, gray, covered with the unpleasantness of their profession? Did colors and surprises lurk underneath? Were they brightly-colored after all?
No, not all, she thought. Podor Feely and his repugnant sidekick, Timor Saddlebug, possessed no positive qualities that she had seen. Wash away the grime, and you would only find rot. Valanna didn’t typically view others as enemies, but these two were definitely enemies.
Her thoughts only began to depress her more, but she blinked her eyes hard to banish the darkness from her mind. She rolled onto her back and lifted up her head to look up at the glass on the low table by her bed.
Valanna would try something else. She pushed her body towards the wall, bumping her head on the soft, rotted plaster. She pushed again, forcing her head up the wall where the surface hadn’t gone soft. Harder, she vowed.
She made it to a sitting position and caught her breath. How could she escape if she had to work so hard to merely sit up? But then she leaned forward and began to inch her way towards the table by small movements of her legs, feet, and hips, moving inch by inch until she sat next to the table.
From this position, she could lean forward and touch her lips to the glass. As she got closer, she noticed the lip marks made by other drinkers, likely Timor. Valanna gritted her teeth and leaned closer. She wouldn’t let the lecherous idiot beat her. She grabbed the edge of the glass with her lips and teeth and slowly tipped the glass so some of the water could make it down her throat.
After a few minutes of careful tipping, Valanna had enough to drink. Her dress had been drenched by her attempts, but she sighed with relief. She felt she had won a huge victory by accomplishing this tiny effort. She moved around so that she could sit, resting her back on the bed frame and mattress. Podor or Timor could move her onto the bed, if they chose.
Valanna closed her eyes and leaned her head back, exhausted. A bell rang, faintly. Perhaps someone had entered Timor’s shop. The words of two men flowed up to her, and then she heard steps. They came for her? Valanna tried to calm down by taking deep breaths. She closed her eyes again, and tightened her hands into fists, steeling herself to fight off Podor and Timor’s sickening advances as best she could.
The door opened. Valanna looked up to see two men standing in the orange light of the waning day. Timor rubbed his hands together. Nervously, Valanna thought. Would that be a good thing?
The new man, portly and smelling of garlic and alcohol, struggled to sit on his haunches. He took Valanna’s face by the chin. “This is Valanna Sleekbottle?” he said to Timor. “She doesn’t look very much like a dangerous spy.”
“Magic, Lord Puddingfan. She is an accomplished witch who fought in the recent Santasian civil war,” Timor said.
Puddingfan sniffed. “That’s the reason she’s tied up like that, eh?”
Timor nodded, but the fat man couldn’t see the gesture.
Valanna looked at Puddingfan. A life of rich food and much drink had ravaged the man’s face. Veins spread like tiny red weed roots over his cheeks and his bulbous nose. “Who are you?” she said.
“She talks! What a pathetic thing she is, trussed up. Would you like to dance in your pretty dress?” Puddingfan said, pulling on the rope in an inappropriate place and chuckled, obviously thinking that he sai
d something funny. Valanna could only think of the man as venal and mean.
“Who are you?” Valanna repeated.
“I am the Honorable Lord Agin Puddingfan, member of the King’s Privy Council, if you must know, and I’m not so sure you should.” Puddingfan rose slowly and ponderously to his feet and turned back to look at Timor.
“What is Podor’s intention with this woman?”
Valanna could see the Lord’s face, but she sensed he had now relegated her to an object status and no longer regarded her as a threat, if he ever had.
Timor looked down at her, anxiety plain on his face. “He wants to sell her to the Vashtans.”
“She is worth more to the King than a few pieces of gold, even if she is a magician. No, the Vashtans shall not have Miss Sleekbottle.”
“B-but the Vashtans get what they want,” Timor said.
“Fool! They aren’t really people in Harl’s mind, only tools to rid himself of Marom and the Warish threat. Those Vashtans will be eliminated soon enough, when the time is right, and with her appearance back in Pestledown, that time might be close, very close.”
“As you say, my Lord. But Podor might not be very happy if he doesn’t get to sell her.”
“Ha! Who cares what Feely thinks? The woman is not his…or yours either.” Puddingfan twisted and looked back at her, sitting on the floor. “Pitiful. What a wretch,” he said. “Make sure she stays alive and is not sullied. Unsullied, do you hear? Harl won’t abide two cretins such as Podor and you having their way with her.”
Timor managed a leer and a smile. “She is pretty, though, isn’t she? Valanna has only gotten prettier with age.”
Puddingfan slapped Timor across the face. “No touching!”
Timor’s hand went right to the reddening mark. He bowed to Puddingfan. “I won’t touch her, I won’t.”
“See that you don’t. We will move her tomorrow after dark, understand?”
Timor bowed, with his hand still on his face. “I do, I do, Lord Puddingfan.”
