The Way of the Wizard

by John Joseph Adams

  “We’ll have to do a deal, then,” he said.

  “He won’t make a trade for me,” she said. Garlock had told her as much. He was crazy. He was obsessed. He would never let her go.

  “He’ll like my terms,” Renfrew said calmly. “Not many people say no to me.”

  Could she trust this ruthless stranger? There was no reason for him to do a deal unless he had his own plans for her. Was she trading the devil she knew for the one she didn’t?

  Truth be told, she was ready for a different devil. It wasn’t like she owed any loyalty to Garlock.

  “All right,” she said. But she had to ask the question that had been dogging her. “But I don’t get it. If you knew it was a trap all along, why did you stay?”

  The wizard smiled, a long, slow smile that improved his looks considerably. “I thought it was obvious,” he said. “I stayed for you.”

  He brought his hands apart quickly, and the walls of light shattered, the shards drifting to the floor like sunlight. Then he flung his arms up towards the ceiling of the chamber, palms up. He muttered a charm, and the wood and plaster above their heads seemed to dissolve, glittering into the darkness.

  And there was Garlock, suspended in the air, his eye to the peephole that no longer existed. As Renfrew lowered his hands, the broker settled gently to the floor at their feet.

  Garlock lay there a moment, as if he thought he might go unnoticed. Then he scrambled to his feet, brushing nervously at his unfortunate clothing. His face was pale as putty.

  “Mr. Garlock, thank you for . . . dropping in,” Renfrew said with a smile. “I’m interested in the enchanter after all. I won’t wait to see the warrior. I’ll trade the heartstone for her.”

  Garlock’s eyes darted from Linda to Renfrew. She knew what he was thinking. This dragon was hardly defanged, and the fault was hers. “The heartstone for Linda,” he said, wetting his lips. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “What’s to think about? Surely a win for you. A warrior is worth more than an enchanter in the markets, and you said you were willing to do that deal for him.” Renfrew’s voice had acquired a distinct chill.

  Garlock glared at Linda, suspicious. “You! Get over here.” She shook her head, and remained at Renfrew’s side.

  Suspicion turned to fury. It was done, now. There was no going back.

  “I understand you hold her with a slaver,” Renfrew said. “I’ll want the key to that as well.”

  “A slaver!” Garlock wiped his hands on his shirt. “I don’t know what this slut has told you, but we both know lying comes as naturally to an enchanter as breathing.” Garlock was trying, in his way, to be charming, wizard to wizard.

  “This offer is available for a limited time,” Renfrew said, as if Garlock hadn’t spoken. “I’m going to count to three, and then it will be withdrawn. My next offer will be . . . considerably less appealing.”

  Garlock blinked at him.

  “One.” The trader extended his arms, straight in front of him, palms out. The air shimmered, solidified, raced away from him. When it struck the wall, the concussion nearly blew the three of them off their feet. When Linda uncovered her eyes, one entire side of the room was gone, the wall on the ocean side. The rain poured in, the wind lifted papers from the desk and spun them out into space.

  Linda could hear the ocean clearly now, crashing far below. She took a step away from Renfrew, the back of her hand across her mouth. What had she done? The charms Garlock used were personal, small time nasties. She had never seen anything like this before. From any wizard.

  Garlock’s mouth opened, then closed, and his fingers knotted themselves together.

  “Two.” Renfrew lifted his hands, and white-hot flame spiraled from his fingers, blasting upwards, driving the color from the room with its brilliance, running like rivulets over the stone, finding the opening in the ceiling, gathering there. With a blaze of heat, the ceiling was gone, and the roof three stories up, everything between incinerated or blown away.

  When Linda looked up, squinting her eyes against the wet, she could see only darkness, and the rain arrowing down. In moments, she was soaked through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head, water running down her neck, the wet fabric of her dress sticking to her flesh. They were entirely out in the weather, clinging to the edge of a cliff that was being taken apart, piece by piece around them.

  Renfrew smiled, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. He extended his arms toward Garlock, opening his hands. It was clear what the next target would be. Or who, rather.

  “Wait!” Garlock screamed to be heard above the clamor of the gale and the roar of the angry ocean. “I’ll make the deal!” he shrieked. “I’ll make the deal,” he repeated, to make sure Renfrew got the message. “Only I . . . I have to go get the key.” He was shaking, hands opening and closing helplessly. He had made no move to launch a counter-attack. He was out-classed, and knew it.

  “Tell her where it is.” Renfrew nodded at Linda. “She’ll fetch it.”

  “He keeps it on him,” Linda said. “Night and day.”

  Garlock pressed his lips together. His gaze shifted from Renfrew to the door, as if he were judging his chances of making his escape. Finally, shoulders slumping in defeat, he slid his fingers into his neckline and pulled a chain from under the collar of his jacket. He lifted it over his head and thrust it towards Linda. A large gold key dangled from it.

  “It had better not be jinxed,” Renfrew said. “That would be most unfortunate.”

  Garlock shook his head, his eyes fixed on Linda. She closed her hand over the key, jerking the chain out of his hand.

  She thought of simply taking it and running away, somewhere wizards couldn’t find her. But she needed to get the collar off first, or she wouldn’t get far. She dropped the key onto Renfrew’s palm. She’d been passed from one wizard to another. Was this progress?

  “Watch him,” Renfrew said to Linda, tipping his head toward Garlock. Facing her, he slid his fingers under the torc around her neck, turning it. Linda’s breath hissed out as the metal pressed against her blistered skin. “Sorry,” he murmured, his breath warming her frozen hair.

  Sorry? Sorry? Wizards never say they’re sorry.

  Renfrew found the joining and inserted the key into the lock. A soft click, and he opened the collar, lifting it away from her. Then swore under his breath. Looking into her eyes, he brushed his fingertips over the inflamed skin, more gently than she would have thought possible.

  Linda tilted her face up into the rain, to wash her tears away. Don’t give in, she thought. Don’t trust him. He’s a wizard.

  Renfrew lifted the slaver in one hand, raising it high. It took on a glow, was too bright to look at. Then it slumped, lost its shape, seemed to dissolve. Molten metal dripped from his fingers and hissed and sizzled as it hit the wet floor. Finally, it was gone.

  “What . . . what about the heartstone?” Garlock asked, startling Linda. She’d nearly forgotten he was there.

  Renfrew turned to Garlock. “You are fortunate,” he said, “that I am better at controlling my temper than I used to be. I’ve left you alive, and I’ve—ah—left you a wall and a door to go in and out of.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I think you should count yourself fortunate. Unless you want me to propose another trade.” He raised an eyebrow.

  Garlock shook his head wordlessly.

  Renfrew gripped Linda’s shoulder, turning her away from the cliff. Surprisingly, very little heat came through. With a thrust of the other hand, he drove a pathway through the rubble to the outside.

  Garlock looked down at the puddle of metal on the stone floor, and then up at the trader. “Renfrew,” he said softly. “Why have I not heard of you?”

  “Renfrew?” The trader smiled. “You must have misunderstood. My name is Hastings.”

  “Hastings?” It came out strangled, a mix of dread and sudden understanding. “Leander Hastings?”

  Hastings, Linda thought. Jared had shared
a rumor about a wizard named Leander Hastings who had single-handedly disrupted a tournament at Raven’s Ghyll and spirited away one of the warriors. At first, everyone assumed it was a simple robbery—that the warrior would resurface in the Trade, at a fancy price. But it never happened.

  Instead, there were more raids—on tournaments, on auctions, on the network of wizard slavers known as the Trade. And the members of the underguilds who disappeared—some said they were working with Hastings now, joining in his dangerous and hopeless quest.

  Linda didn’t believe it for a moment. Why would a wizard risk his life for the underguilds? It was just a fairytale the powerless told each other to prevent despair. Or a lie spread by the powerful in order to convince the underguilds to wait for a rescue that would never come.

  But now, confronted with the man instead of the legend—a tiny spark of belief kindled within Linda.

  As Hastings propelled her through the ruins ahead of him, Linda thought, All right, Leander Hastings, if that’s your real name—you’ll not be rid of me so easily. I’m going to find out if any of those stories are true. And if they are, I’m going to show you what I can do.

  Linda glanced over her shoulder and saw Garlock crossing himself. For a murderer and a thief, he had always been devout. For years after, she held that incongruous picture of Garlock in her mind. But she never saw him again.

  Life is a series of trades—a heartstone for an enchanter. New stories for old. Sin for redemption. The devil you knew for the one you didn’t.

  Perhaps an ending for a new beginning.

  Adam-Troy Castro’s work has been nominated for several awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Stoker. His novels include Emissaries from the Dead and The Third Claw of God. He has also collaborated on two alphabet books with artist Johnny Atomic: Z Is for Zombie, and V Is for Vampire, which are due to come out next year. Castro’s short fiction has appeared in such magazines as The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Science Fiction Age, Analog, Cemetery Dance, and in a number of anthologies. I previously included his work in The Living Dead, The Living Dead 2, and in Lightspeed Magazine. His story collections include A Desperate, Decaying Darkness and Tangled Strings.

  The oldest and most primal form of storytelling is fantasy—tales of gods and monsters, heroes and magic—and the most fundamental form of fantasy is the quest narrative. In his highly influential work The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell identifies what he calls the “monomyth,” a story that is told and retold in every human society—that of a young man who sets out from his village on a great quest. He faces steadily escalating challenges and acquires magical talismans and helpful companions—often including a talking animal and a wise old man. Finally he faces his greatest fears and returns home to share the wisdom and power he’s acquired. In many quest stories, the hero must also rescue a beautiful princess. Video games frequently evoke this motif, with games like Super Mario and Zelda building long-running franchises around the idea of princess-rescuing. Contemporary fantasies, such as The Stepsister Scheme by Jim C. Hines, often turn this idea on its head, featuring princesses who are more than capable of rescuing themselves, if the need arises. Our next tale also features an unconventional take on the idea of a quest to rescue a beautiful woman.

  Cerile and the Journeyer

  Adam-Troy Castro

  The journeyer was still a young man when he embarked on his search for the all-powerful witch Cerile.

  He was bent and gray-haired a lifetime later when he found a map to her home in the tomb of the forgotten kings.

  The map directed him halfway across the world, over the Souleater mountains, through the Curtains of Night, past the scars of the Eternal War, and across a great grassy plain, to the outskirts of Cerile’s Desert.

  The desert was an ocean of luminescent white sand, which even in the dead of night still radiated the killing heat it swallowed during the day. He knew at once that it could broil the blood in his veins before he traveled even half the distance to the horizon. It even warned him: “Turn back, journeyer. I am as sharp as broken glass, and as hot as open flame. I am filled with soft shifting places that can open up and swallow you without warning. I can drive you mad and leave you to wander in circles until your strength sinks into the earth. And when you die of thirst, as you surely shall if you attempt to pass, I can ride the winds to flay the skin from your burnt and blistered bones.”

  He proceeded across the dunes, stumbling as his feet sank ankle-deep into the sand, gasping as the furnace heat turned his breath to a dry rasp, but hesitating not at all, merely continuing his march toward the destiny that could mean either death or Cerile.

  When the desert saw it couldn’t stop him, the ground burst open in a million places, pierced by a great forest that with the speed known only by miracles shot up to scrape the sky. The trees were all hundreds of arm-lengths across, the spaces between them so narrow that even an uncommonly thin man would have had to hold his breath to pass. It was a maze that could exhaust him utterly before he traveled even halfway to the horizon. It even warned him: “Turn back, journeyer. I am as dark as the night itself, and as threatening as your worst dreams. I am rich with thorns sharp enough to rip the skin from your arms. And if you die lost and alone, as you surely shall if you attempt to pass, I can dig roots into your flesh and grow more trees on your bones.”

  He entered the woods anyway, crying out as thorns drew blood from his arms and legs, gasping as the trees drew close and threatened to imprison him, but hesitating not at all: merely continuing to march west, toward the destiny that could mean either death or Cerile.

  When the forest saw that it couldn’t stop him, then the trees all around him merely withered away, and the ground ahead of him rose up, like a thing on hinges, to form a right angle with the ground at his feet. The resulting wall stretched from one horizon to the other, rising straight up into the sky to disappear ominously in the clouds. He knew at once that he did not have the skill or the strength to climb even halfway to the unseen summit. It even warned him: “Turn back, journeyer. I am as smooth as glass and as treacherous as an enemy. I am poor with handholds and impossible to climb. And if you fall, as you surely will if you attempt to pass, then the ground where I stand will be the resting place of your shattered corpse.”

  He proceeded to climb anyway; moaning as his arms and legs turning to lead from exhaustion, gasping as the temperature around him turned chilly and then frigid, but hesitating not at all: merely continuing to climb upward, toward the destiny that could mean either death or Cerile.

  When the cliff saw that it couldn’t stop him, then warm winds came and gently lifted him into the sky, over the top of the wall, and down into a lush green valley on the other side, where a frail, white-haired old woman sat beside a still and mirrored pond.

  The winds deposited him on his feet on the opposite side of the pond, allowing him to see himself in the water: how he was bent, and stooped, and white-haired, and old, with skin the texture of leather, and eyes that had suffered too much for too long.

  He looked away from his reflection, and faced the crone across the water. “You are Cerile?”

  “I am,” she croaked, in a voice ancient and filled with dust.

  “I have heard of you,” he said, with the last of his battered strength. “How you have mastered all the secrets of the heavens and the earth, and can make the world itself do your bidding. How you’ve hidden yourself in this place at the edge of the world, and sworn to grant the fondest wish of any soul clever and brave enough to find you. I have spent my entire life journeying here, Cerile, just to ask this of you. I wish—”

  The old woman shushed him, softly but emphatically, and painfully pulled herself to her feet; her bent back forcing her to face the ground as she spoke to him again. “Never mind your wish. Meet me in the water, journeyer.”

  And with that she doffed her clothes and lowered her withered, emaciated frame into the water, disturbing its mirrored surface not at all. By the tim
e she was knee-deep, her white hair darkened, turning raven black; by the time she was hip-deep, the wrinkles in her face had smoothed out, becoming perfect, unblemished skin; by the time she was shoulder-deep, her rheumy, unfocused eyes had unclouded, revealing a shade of green as brilliant and as beautiful as the most precious emerald.

  By then, of course, the journeyer had also descended naked into the magical pond, to feel the weight of years lifted from his flesh; to feel his weathered skin smooth out, growing strong and supple again; to feel his spine grow straight and his eyes grow clear and his shoulders grow broad, as they had been before he started his quest, more years ago than he could count.

  When they met, at the deepest part of the pond, she surprised him with an embrace.

  “I am Cerile,” she said. “I have been awaiting your arrival for longer than you can possibly know.”

  He couldn’t speak. He knew only that she was right, that he had known her for an age far beyond the limited reach of his memory, that they had loved each other once, and would now love each other again.

  They kissed, and she led him from the water, to a small cottage that had not been standing on the spot a heartbeat before. There were fine clothes waiting for him, to replace those torn to rags by his long journey. There was a feast, too, to fill the yawning void in his belly. There were other wonders too, things that could only exist in the home of a miracle-worker like Cerile: things he had not the wit to name, that glittered and whirred in odd corners, spinning soft music unlike any he had ever heard. He would have been dazzled by them had Cerile not also been there, to dazzle him even more.

  But still, something gnawed at him.

  It wasn’t the wish, which seemed such a trivial little thing, now, a trifle not even worth mentioning, because Cerile in her love gave him everything any man could possibly want . . . and yet, yes, damn him, it was the wish, the miracle he’d waited his entire life to see, and had marched across kingdoms to find.