by Toby Forward
Dorwin didn’t smile in return. “I understand,” she said. “And it’s a fair question.” Now she smiled. “And let me give you a wizard’s answer.”
“What’s that?”
“Another question, of course.”
“Ask it.”
Dorwin looked Sam straight in the eyes. “What came before the magic?” she asked.
“Tell me.”
“The fire. The iron. The anvil. The smith. The swords. The shield. The mirror.”
“And what comes after the magic?” asked Sam.
Silence fell on them like silk.
Flaxfold banged her fists on the table,
stood up and gave the broadest smile Sam had ever seen on her face.
“Come on,” she said. “If we’re going to die, we’ll have some fun first.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She swept past him and out of the door.
Tamrin was first after her, then Jackbones, surprisingly alert and keen. The others pushed through as fast as they could.
“Magic attracts attention,” said Flaxfold. “Is that right?”
They agreed that it was.
“So we’ve hidden it, rationed it, hugged it close? Yes?”
“What’s the point of all this?” asked Sam.
“You know,” she said.
She opened her arms wide, lifted her face to the skies and called out, “Butterflies. I want butterflies.”
With no pause, no arriving swarm, no wait, she was surrounded by coloured wings. Blue and powdery yellow. White with orange tip. Red and black. Colours that blared out like trumpets. Colours that shyly peeped from between their fingers. Subtle browns and startling scarlet. Wings that had eyes like owls’. Wings like the bark of a beech tree. Wings like the fur of a tortoiseshell cat. Wings of veins and feathers and dots and swirls.
They flew around Flaxfold, tickling her face. Settling on her shoulders, her arms, her hair. Primrose-coloured wings made a halo round her head.
“Come on,” she said. “Magic.”
Sam felt as though he had been bound and gagged for a year. The fastenings fell away from him. He couldn’t stop himself from running off, away from the house, into a clear space and jumping, high, high as the window he had looked through, high as the top of the apple tree beyond, high as the top of the old elm by the field edge. He spiralled down, whooping till his throat hurt.
He landed, gentle as a dry leaf, and grinned at them. Without thinking, he moved straight on to another spell. Rapping his staff on the ground he called out a charm. Pointy-nosed moles popped up all around him, their eyes tight against the sunlight, their little hands pushing aside piles of earth.
Tamrin ran over, laughing. “Don’t,” she said. “You’ll frighten them.They’re supposed to be asleep.” She rapped her staff and the moles covered themselves with earth and were gone.
“What, then?” asked Sam. “What shall we do?”
“Try this,” she said.
She lay on the grass, pushed her cheek against the ground and whispered to it. Meadowsweet and clover. Vetch and ox-eye daisy. Celandine and buttercup. Orchids of all sorts, and foxglove and campion. Wild meadow flowers, in and out of season, sprang up. They ran out from her in all directions, glorious in scent and colour and form.
Sam hugged himself in delight. He whispered a new plant into being. A jasmine, evening-scented, yet pouring its sweet aroma into the fresh morning.
Tam sat up, plucked a sprig, fastened it in the neck of her cloak and smiled at him.
They held each other’s gaze for a moment, until they were broken by the sound of Flaxfield, drumming his staff on the trunk of a willow. They looked across. The upstretched arms of the tree burst open and a thousand birds flew out. Every songbird and warbler that Sam had ever learned about in his studies. They invented themselves in song and spread out, filling the sky. Everyone raised their heads and looked at them in sudden joy. Sam looked to see how Flaxfield liked them. He couldn’t see him at first. He moved forwards, taken with a swift fear that Flaxfield had been attacked or taken, that the magic had brought a sudden response. The tree trunk bulged and narrowed. Flaxfield stepped towards Sam. Like a moth whose wings mimic the bark, Flaxfield had seemed to be one with the willow, and then he was himself again, his cloak the colour and pattern of the tree.
“What happened?” asked Sam.
“You like them?” said Flaxfield, indicating the birds.
“The tree,” said Sam. “What happened?”
“Look at Jackbones,” said Flaxfield.
Sam turned to see the old librarian conjure up a field of faces. He surrounded himself with a company of people of all ages, men and women, like an audience in a vast arena, with himself at the centre.
“It’s his library,” said Flaxfold, joining them. “He misses them all.”
“Have you ever been there?” asked Sam.
“Oh, yes. Of course. We’re very old friends.”
“Why hasn’t Cabbage made himself a storeroom?” asked Sam.
Cabbage and December stood together, hand in hand, looking away from the others.
“He hasn’t made anything,” said Tam, moving close to Sam.
“Nothing you can see,” said Flaxfold.
They stood and watched the two, distant from them. Sam turned over in his mind what it might be that they had made.
“Hey, look at this!”
Dorwin, who had no magic and had not joined in, had wandered off. She rejoined them, leading a memmont. Not so much leading, as walking beside. It trotted happily along with her.
Sam crouched and looked at it. “Is it Tadpole’s?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Tam.
“We work with roffles. At the forge. I know memmonts. This is Tadpole’s.”
They all stood around, united again.
“Where’s Tadpole, then?” asked Cabbage.
“I didn’t see him. This fellow just came up to me. He was hiding in the bushes.” She pointed.
“If Tadpole went home, he’d have found the memmont,” said Flaxfold.
They looked at Tam. Her face reddened.
“I ran away,” she said. “Drawing the takkabakks after me. I told you. He ran into the woods.”
“But not back to the Deep World,” said Cabbage, “or he’d be with this memmont.”
The memmont leaned forward and tied Sam’s lace.
“If he didn’t go home, where did he go?” asked Sam.
He knew the answer, as well as they did. He just wanted someone to say it.
“He could only have gone into Boolat,” said Tam. “There wasn’t anywhere else.”
“Then we’ll have to go there for him,” said Jackbones. “I’m responsible for him.”
Flaxfold clapped her hands. “Too much magic,” she said. “We’re wasting time.”
The assembly of scholars melted away. The birds flocked back into the silver-green leaves of the willow tree, leaving silence. The butterflies dissolved back into air. The wild-flower meadow drained into a single spot, like water circling into a drain.
Sam could never remember who said, “It’s time. We’re going to Boolat.”
As armies go,
it wasn’t much of one. Two young wizards, Sam and Tamrin. An old wizard, Jackbones, half-faded away. Two old wizards, Flaxfield and Flaxfold, who walked apart from the others, talking to each other in low voices, sometimes smiling, not often. Two other wizards, a woman with a face destroyed and a storeman from a college that was rotting away.
And there was Dorwin, leading a memmont. Sam noticed that she strode out confidently, making easy ground without the handcart to push.
“Who will protect Dorwin?” Sam whispered to Tamrin. “If there’s fighting. She hasn’t got any magic.”
Tamrin had been looking up, scanning the sky as they walked.
“We’ll have to watch out for her,” she said. “Have you seen Starback?”
“Where?” Sam looked up.
“No. I don’t mean, can you see him. He’s not there. I mean, have you seen him? Today. Since we set off.”
“No.”
“No.”
They walked on in silence. The nearer they drew to Boolat the more damaged the countryside. Fields black with burned crops. Orchards uprooted, the trees lying ashamed, their roots uncovered, their branches snapped. Streams running with the filthy effluent of slaughter.
“It’s worse than ever,” said Tamrin.
“The kravvins have been busy,” said Dorwin.
She came alongside them, the memmont trotting next to her.
“But where are they now?” asked Sam.
Flaxfold and Flaxfield dropped back, to make five.
“They’re waiting,” said Flaxfold.
Jackbones slowed down and added to their number.
“I’ll go ahead,” he said. “You hang back and I’ll see if they’re lying in wait, or if they’re in the castle, getting ready to attack.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said December, as she and Cabbage approached.
Sam felt a wave of pleasure wash over him as they all joined forces. He smiled at December. She smiled back, a broad, welcoming smile, and Sam noted that she had not drawn her shawl across her face since they had set off. Her eyes met his.
“No more hiding,” she said. “No more covering myself. I am this. And Ash, Slowin, can confront me as I am, if she dares.”
“She can. She will,” said Flaxfield. “Slowin never had any shame. Not even as an apprentice. He, she, will look on you and gloat.”
December smiled again. “Not for long,” she said.
“Ash is very strong,” warned Cabbage.
December took his hand. “Then I’ll have to be stronger,” she said. “Or be killed.”
Jackbones made a little moan. “Death isn’t so easy,” he said. “Death has been hiding from me for more years than I know.”
Tamrin stopped without warning and Dorwin bumped into her.
“Sorry,” said Dorwin.
Tamrin shook her head, dismissing the apology. She raised her arm and pointed. “Look.”
The topmost tower of Boolat poked above the trees.
“I didn’t think we were so close,” said Sam.
“Are you all right?” asked Jackbones.
“Fine,” said Sam, feeling sick. “I’m fine. How did we get here so soon?”
“Things are shrinking,” said Flaxfold. “Time. Journeys. Choices. Powers.”
“All drawn towards Boolat,” said Cabbage.
“We’re stronger together than apart,” December said to Jackbones. “We go on as we are. No acting alone.”
Jackbones turned his head away from her, ignoring her.
“She’s right,” said Sam. “If you go off without us, we’ll only have to follow to find you. We’ll split up. We’ll lose our concentration.”
“Anyway,” said Tamrin, slipping her hand into Jackbones’, “I want you to be with me.”
He nodded. “All right. But I feel guilty about Tadpole. You know? I was told to look after him.”
“I know,” she said. “I was supposed to look after him as well.”
“So what’s next?” asked Sam. “Should we rest up here and get ready? Make a plan? We can’t just go running in without anything in mind. I suggest that we—”
“Hang on,” said Tam.
“What?” Sam snapped at her. He didn’t like to be interrupted, and especially he didn’t like not knowing Tam’s mind any more.
“The memmont,” she said.
“What about it?”
It had broken free of Dorwin and was loping off, towards the trees, fast, in the direction of the Castle of Boolat.
“As soon as you said ‘Tadpole’, it ran off,” said Dorwin.
“That’s it,” said Tam. “We’ll have to follow it. It knows something.”
“We haven’t chosen a plan yet,” said Sam.
Tam put her arms around him and hugged him tight. She stepped back, laughing. “Don’t you remember anything?” she said.
Sam scowled. “What?”
“We’re not choosing to run straight at Boolat,” she said.
Sam stopped scowling and laughed. It was simple. Obvious. And it took away all need to worry and plan. “It’s chosen us,” he said. “Come on.”
Sam and Tamrin ran off after the memmont.
“Young legs,” Jackbones complained, hitching up his cloak and running after, leading the rest.
Tadpole only knew it was morning when Smedge came into his cell. No light penetrated that deep. Only the greasy flame of the rush torch that Smedge held lit the gloom. The roffle sat up, his back against the stone wall, and stared at him.
“You slept well?” asked Smedge, as though Tadpole had dropped in as a guest.
Tadpole stretched and scratched his shoulder. His chains clinked. He had slept well. He couldn’t believe it. No nightmares or sudden waking up. He slept right through. He looked around. Khazib was still sitting in the same position as before, staring ahead.
Smedge came right into the cell, kicking the door shut after him. He fixed the torch into a wall bracket, folded his arms and looked at Tadpole.
“It will be so easy for you, and for everyone, if you show us the roffle door,” he said. “Then we can let you go. Back to your friends. Back to the Deep World. Anywhere you want.”
Tadpole squirmed to get comfortable on the slimy straw. He hugged his roffle pack to his chest, and gripped his staff.
“Look at you,” said Smedge. “You’re a joke. Dressed up as a wizard, with your cloak and your staff.” He moved towards Tadpole. “Let me tell you,” he said, “the cloak doesn’t make the wizard. You can dress up all you want, but unless you’ve got magic, you’re not a wizard.”
Tadpole tried to stare him down. He found it hard to keep his eyes on Smedge’s face.
Smedge advanced, his expression growing more malevolent with every step.
“And what are you?”
Smedge stopped. He turned to Khazib. The man had not moved. Still he stared straight ahead.
“What?”
Khazib ignored him.
“What did you say?” asked Smedge. He turned his attention to the wizard.
“You’re not a wizard,” said Khazib.
Tadpole wriggled up to a more upright position, to pay closer attention. It was easier now that Smedge had turned away.
Smedge clicked his fingers and a thousand tiny needles dropped from the roof of the cell, showering Khazib and piercing him all over.
A spasm of pain crossed Khazib’s face. He shook it off, unmoved.
“Oh, you’ve got magic,” said Khazib. “And you’ve been to the college with the weak idiot Frastfil, but you’re no wizard.”
Smedge drew back his foot and kicked Khazib, hard, in the ribs. The wizard rocked to one side, steadied himself and returned to his position.
“You’re made of bad magic,” said Khazib. “You’re a waste product, not a person. Any magic that spills out of you is like the outpouring of a sewer.”
Tadpole hugged his cloak round him, trying to disappear at the sight of Smedge.
The boy shimmered again, and shifted shape. He lost the form of the uniformed soldier and became all forms and none. Rat and slug, toad and cockroach; all overtook him. Worst of all, they melted into each other, making new-formed horrors. And, under it all, the persistent emergence of green slime. Tadpole felt that Smedge was struggling to push back the form of slime, to clamber into real shape, real body.
Khazib smiled and moved his head to look at Tadpole and nodded.
Green smoke poured out of Smedge, stinking and damp. Tadpole tried not to breathe too deeply. Smedge was still trying to regain shape. Little by little he emerged from the mess, until he stood before them again, complete, uniformed and stable, save for a dribble of green slime at the corner of his mouth.
“We’ve kept you too long,” he s
aid to Khazib. His voice was damaged from the changes and it squeaked and slurred. More slime oozed out as he spoke. “You’re no use to us now. We’ve got the roffle. We can get rid of you.”
Khazib sighed. “At last,” he said.
“No,” said Tadpole. “Don’t. Please. Don’t.”
He hated the look of joy that crossed Smedge’s face.
“So sweet,” said Smedge. “You care about each other.” He paused. “I wonder what that’s like?” he said. “Oh, I know. It’s useless. It makes you weak.” He kicked Tadpole’s leg gently with the toe of his boot. “You don’t want to show me a roffle door?”
“I won’t.”
“Even if I hurt you?”
“No.”
Smedge leaned down and whispered in his ear, wet and foul. “I think you will. If I encourage you.” He touched Tadpole’s cheek. A flash of pain shot through him. His back teeth filled with a hurt so intense he thought he would faint. A moment later, it was over. “Oh, I think you would, eventually.”
He stepped away, leaving Tadpole gasping in memory of the pain.
“But I think it will be quicker if I make you watch me destroy this one,” said Smedge. He kicked Khazib again, hard. “He’s going to die today, anyway, so I may as well make use of him.”
“No,” said Tadpole. “Leave him alone.”
“Then show me the door. It’s easy.”
Tadpole heaved himself to his feet, using his staff. He shouldered his roffle pack and stood glaring at Smedge. Smedge laughed. Tadpole raised his staff and swung it at him. Smedge stepped back. Tadpole tottered and slipped to his knees. Smedge aimed a kick at him and sent him halfway across the cell.
“This is better,” he said. “Come on, roffle. Try again.”
Tadpole found his feet again. He clenched his staff, wanting to point it, rather than swing it, wanting magic to pour from it, wanting to hurt Smedge, to stop him. He hesitated. Smedge laughed again.
“There’s no magic there,” he mocked Tadpole. “Here’s magic.”
He clapped his hands. The roof of the cell came alive as hundreds of bats dropped down and flew round and round over their heads. They swooped and crackled. They veered into Tadpole’s face and dived away at the very last second.
