Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1)

by D J Salisbury

  What made the snipped thread believe anything? He never thought about her, what she wanted.

  Today she wanted a party. A real birthday party. Her and the kid could have all the fun they wanted. She didn’t even need to tell him what they were celebrating.

  She trudged up Trevor’s rickety staircase. She really oughta repair them steps sometime, before the kid broke his fool neck by dancing on it. And the kid oughta be getting out of bed and out of the house soon. He’d been beat up a lunar ago. Trevor couldn’t keep him in bed forever.

  Still, he was half dead, that night. She’d been sure he was all the way dead until he moaned, said he wanted to die. She didn’t want to know what they’d done to him to make him beg for death.

  And it was all her fault. She had to make it up to him somehow. Staying with him while he was sick was a start, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  Getting revenge on Jorjan might not be enough. She still hadn’t figured out a good revenge, and the gang was hiding out from her. How could she teach them a lesson when she couldn’t find them?

  She pushed through the front door without bothering to knock. Trevor would still be in bed this early in the morning. She hung her new cloak on a peg and kicked off her boots. The old man always kept the kid’s room way too warm. She could never decide if that would help him heal or keep him weak. But opening a window brought old Trevor down on them quick enough. Just once of seeing those scrawny legs below the hem of his nightgown gave her the shakes. How could anybody walk on legs with hardly no muscles?

  She still didn’t remember what he’d yelled at her. Something about disturbing the influences. Or distributing influenza. Typical Trevor talk.

  The kid had laughed himself silly, clutching his taped ribs and hooting like a harvest parade trumpet with a sticky valve.

  How could anyone hurt such a sweet little guy? Jorjan was gonna pay. All that gang was gonna pay. She had plans for them; at least, ideas for plans. She’d learn their weak points as soon as the kid got healthy enough to be trusted to Trevor.

  At the moment, she didn’t trust old Trevor to remember to feed himself, much less the kid. How had the old man survived before the kid showed up to take care of him?

  She bent double to squeeze under the overhang above the stairs. It was almost habit now, she’d banged her head so many times. She swore the fraying overhang got lower every day.

  She strolled to the second door on the left and peeked in. “Hey, you’re awake.”

  The kid put down his book and smiled back at her. He looked strange with his hair cut so short, but Trevor had finally taken the bandages off his head. At least something was healing up right. His nose was still pretty mashed, but the yellow bruises nearly faded into his golden skin.

  He musta seen her staring at his flattened nose, ’cuz he covered it with one hand. “If you start, too, I’m not speaking to you ever again.”

  “Start what?” Silly kid, like she’d ever hurt him.

  “Yanking on my nose. Trevor says he can pull it straight, if I’d hold still and let him.”

  “Move your hand, Loom lint.” She studied his face more carefully. “If you ever wanna breathe right, you better let him. You look like one of them pug dogs.” She’d never heard of a healer pulling a broken nose straight, and Weaver knew, Trevor weren’t no healer, but the old man could do some strange things.

  The kid sighed through his mouth. Come to think of it, he’d been a mouth breather ever since… since that night.

  Weaver crush that Loom-breaker. Jorjan wouldn’t get away with it.

  Just to keep from thinking too loud, she started fussing about the room. The boss musta been here lately. The place was pretty clean.

  The kid rolled his eyes. “Sit down, would you? I get tired from watching you.”

  She stood up straight and glared down at him. “I think you oughta stand up, instead.”

  “You’re probably right.” The kid threw back the covers and eased his legs over the side of the bed. His little white nightshirt rode up above his scarred, knobby knees.

  Blood in the Weave. The boss would kill her if he hurt himself. She better stop him.

  He waved her back before she took single step. “Watch the hall, would you? Trevor and Faye are turning me into a rag doll. I move around a little whenever they’re not here.” His sunken eyes glanced up at her. “I thought you’d understand.”

  She understood all right. Every time she got sick she died of boredom. “You gotta be careful, though. The boss would fire me, and who knows what old Trevor would do to me. Turn me into a toad, maybe.”

  The kid snickered. “I doubt he can manage that. Conservation of mass would interfere.”

  She smacked her forehead against the doorjamb. “There you go, talking like Trevor again. That chatter mean anything?”

  The kid laughed, but when he stood upright he gasped and grabbed at his ribs. “Blast, that hurts. It means he can’t turn something big into something tiny. If he could shapechange anything at all. Shaping is something only the most powerful wizards can do.”

  “And Trevor ain’t no wizard.” More fraying magic stuff. Sometimes she wished she could take the kid home and make him her father’s new apprentice. Nobody needed magic. Look how weird it made old Trevor.

  “Right. He’s a sorcerer. That’s a different branch of magic.” The kid wobbled some, but he trudged all the way across the room. He leaned against the wall, all hunched over, and sorta grinned at her. “He’d tell you he’s a member of the Society of Sorcerous Sciences.”

  “Blood in the Weave. I ain’t even gonna ask.”

  “I think it means they study everything before they try to change it in any way.” The kid turned around and glared at his bed. “I’m sure it means they simply talk about every idea until it curls up and dies from boredom.”

  Lorel laughed out loud. Crap, that might’ve woken Trevor. She stuck her head out into the hall before closing the door quietly. “Get back into bed in case hisself comes checking on you.”

  The kid nodded and hobbled back to the bed. He looked awful relieved when his back hit the mattress, like the pain was really bad. She’d broken a rib once, but that kept her flat far less than a lunar. He should be up by now, shouldn’t he? “Them snipped threads hurt you worse’n broken bones?”

  The kid shrugged. “They … kicked me in the gut a few times. A lot of times. I think Trevor was afraid I wouldn’t make it. He asked Faye to send for a healer.”

  The kid musta all but died. Nobody but rich folk used healers. Only rich people could afford them, and the fraying Nashidrans made them live in their part of town. The boss called in a favor to get a healer to travel to this neighborhood. A big favor.

  She hoped that favor didn’t belong to Jorjan’s family. Those thread snippers called in debts the way farmers called in chickens.

  Not a thing she could do about it. Not now. She’d deal with Jorjan as soon as she could, and keep the boss as far out of the action as possible.

  The kid tried to pull the blanket over his shoulders. Wasn’t it too hot in here already? Maybe not, if he was still hurting.

  She strolled across the room and spread the blanket over him, over the whole bed. “Anything else you need?”

  He looked kinda shy, but pointed to the corner farthest from the fireplace. “My mandolin?”

  “Hey, you remembered to keep it away from the heat.” She snatched up the case, opened it, and laid the instrument in his lap. “You wanna try and sit up?”

  “Good idea. I can’t see the strings from here.”

  She eased him up and pushed all the pillows behind him. “Good?”

  “It’s fine.” He rested his bandaged arm on top of the mandolin’s body and slowly tuned the strings, half a note at a time.

  She sat on the floor and leaned against the bedframe. It cost all her strength to not grab the instrument away from him and tune it herself. He had to learn to do it, even if he drove her crazy. Sooner or later he’d g
et the hang of it.

  If she didn’t smash the fraying mandolin first. She’d never seen such a slow learner. No wonder that drummer guy threatened to break his hands.

  How could such clumsy fingers carve miracles like her swords? Was it the broken arm that slowed him down?

  Finally he pushed the instrument toward her and begged with his eyes. Sing to the Weaver. She got it tuned faster than he could catch his breath. He was breathing pretty hard. Kid must be as frustrated as she was.

  He nodded and sorta smiled when she handed the mandolin back. That was one thing she really liked about the kid. He never fussed about manners and such. Of course, coming from the wild woods he might not know too many manners.

  The weird little smile worried her. Had he forgotten how to smile normal? Or was he in that much pain? And why wouldn’t he look her in the eye?

  Slow notes plunked through the air like a gravedigger shoveling dirt.

  She forced herself to not cringe. “Trevor been teaching you?”

  “Trying to.” The kid stopped plunking and sighed. “He says he studied music, but you couldn’t prove it by our lessons.”

  “Right. Try pressing the strings harder with your left hand and pulling the strings faster with the fingers on your right hand.”

  The notes rang clearer, sharper. Not in any key she’d ever heard, but at least they didn’t sound dead anymore.

  The kid’s eyes shined like he’d won the kiddie prize at a magician’s show. Shuttle on the Loom, he was easy to please.

  She leaned against the bed and listened to him play a few babies’ tunes. Most of them weren’t familiar. Maybe they were barbarian babies’ songs. Maybe he was just so bad she couldn’t guess what he was playing. But he looked so happy, it really didn’t matter what he played.

  Lorel sighed and stretched out her legs. The fire in the hearth warmed her stockings. The kid’s shy smile warmed her heart.

  This was the best birthday party she’d had in years.

  Chapter 31.

  Another lunar of studying chants crawled past. Viper sat down at the kitchen table and leaned his head into his hands. He tried to be grateful he was able to move freely again, but he hated all the time he’d lost.

  Three wind-blasted, wasted lunars. It was disgusting to spend so much time to accomplish so little, especially when Trevor thought he’d do more within two dreizhn. The time lost from the attack didn’t count. Or counted double, and against him. He had so much to learn.

  No way would he let those stinking vultures stop him. He wouldn’t let them steal his honor. Not without consequences.

  How could he disgrace the gang? Lorel’s dreams of revenge looked more and more impractical. But there must be something he could do.

  He glanced at the pot over the hearth fire. The sandblasted spoon had slowed almost to a halt. He chanted at it:

  “Stirie, Spon, stirie,

  “Daunce roond abutan.

  “Swish tha brewe, eand

  “Slosh tha stuwe,

  “Til soupe gestiridet beon.”

  The spoon began again in its rounds.

  At least that one worked. It was no wonder he had so much trouble getting the chants right. Old Tongue or not, they all sounded silly. Little children in the street made up better poetry.

  These chants didn’t help him concentrate, they distracted him so much he couldn’t think.

  He glared at the little pile of dust entrenched in the center of the kitchen floor. His best attempts with both verses of the sweep-the-floor chant had not succeeded in routing his adversary. War had been declared three hours ago.

  So far the dust was winning. He chanted the first verse once again.

  “Brom, reis, wac.

  “Accioun nu tak.

  “Swep tha floor

  “Til dust na mo

  “Lieth yn eower vak.”

  The broom wobbled drunkenly, shuddered, and thudded back into its corner.

  That was an improvement. One more good wobble and it would have fallen over and dispersed the dust the hard way.

  Of course, that would have been cheating. I suppose I’d have to regroup the dust. Disgusting. Wind blast honor, I’ll use any means at hand to defeat the enemy.

  It was time to try the more difficult second chant. Or rather, try it again. He ought to have the pronunciation perfected by now.

  “Brize, wacan, heorc.

  “On journee neowe embarc.

  “Swep tha floor

  “Til dust na mo

  “Staie makien mearc.”

  A slight breeze wound in a tight circle around the tiny hillock. He concentrated on blowing the dust out the kitchen door, but when the breeze subsided he let out a frustrated grunt.

  The dust was heaped in a tighter, taller pile than before.

  “Battle sixty two goes to the dust.” He pounded his fist on the table. “That’s sixty two to zero. Lightning blast you.”

  A bright ray of sunshine burst through the clouds and haloed the pile of dirt.

  Viper collapsed in a heap of laughter. Even the weather thought his situation was funny. How could he stay mad at a mound of dust?

  When he recaptured his breath, he looked out the window. At least the weather was improving. Soon it would be dry enough to meet Lorel for sword practice. He’d bet she’d been practicing all winter, wind or hail.

  He’d better start exercising again or she’d do something really nasty to get him into shape. Though she’d been awfully nice to him since he was … sick. Nah, she’d beat him up just the same.

  And she’d gotten so thundering tall. As if she weren’t tall enough, she’d gone and grown nearly a head taller than Trevor. Now why couldn’t a little of that height have reached him?

  He hadn’t grown a finger width since that snake bit him. He was thirteen years old and still the size of a six year old.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Viper scowled at the little pile of lint and dirt. He wasn’t lint, even though Lorel called him that sometimes. He wasn’t dirt.

  Nobody had the right to treat him like dirt. Not his father. It wasn’t his fault he stopped growing.

  The dust edged away from him.

  Not the caravan carters. He’d sweated as hard as any of them. He’d done his full share of the work.

  The spoon stirred faster.

  Not the tradesmen or the food sellers. They had no right to laugh at him because his hair looked like fake gold. Because he pronounced Zedisti like a chant. His accent wasn’t that strong.

  Foam sloshed over the brim of the pot and bubbled into the fire. Steam hissed and boiled up the chimney.

  Not the other sorcerers. How was he supposed to know anything about magic? Setoyans didn’t use it. Didn’t like anyone who did use it. Magicians were barely tolerated. How dare Bahtdor Nose bet he’d never make it to the first level?

  The broom danced circles in its corner, whirling like a drunken weathervane in the middle of a hurricane. The dust crept toward the kitchen door.

  How dare Jorjan and his gang attack him. How dare they try to reduce him to the status of a slave?

  How dare they try to steal his new life, his new home, his new name?

  He glared toward the backdoor, so angry that his eyes wouldn’t focus, so furious he couldn’t breathe. Seawall waves crashed inside his ears. His sight exploded with pulsing red stars.

  Nothing would stop him. No one could steal his name.

  No one.

  “Viper? Viper! How many times do I have to ask you?”

  He looked up and blinked. “Ask?” The flaming stars receded in dizzy spirals. “What?”

  “I said, what are you doing?” Trevor crossed his arms and glared down at him.

  “Doing?” He sat up and tried to gather his wits. “I was trying to make the sweep-the-floor chant work on that pile of dust, and – Where’d it go?”

  “What?” Trevor looked about suspiciously.

  “The dust! I’ve lost my dust.”

  Trevor co
cked his gray head to one side, obviously weighing his sanity.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been working on the sweep-the-floor chant all morning, and I was practicing on a pile of dust. But it disappeared.”

  The old man pointed to the door. “I believe it’s over there.”

  “Yes, that’s it.” He jumped up, but froze halfway to the backdoor. Thunderer’s dice. How did it get over there? He must have had help. “You moved it there, didn’t you?”

  “I did not.”

  “I didn’t either.” He couldn’t have done it. He’d stopped even trying to move it. “How did it get over there?”

  Trevor shook his head slowly. “Child, you were generating enough magic to be felt from here to Shi. No definition, but plenty of energy. Sorcerers will spend sleepless nights trying to figure out where that racket came from. You did move that dust. What were you thinking about?”

  “I was mad at Jorjan and pretending I was bashing on his face.” Viper hunched his shoulders. “I was so mad I heard the ocean.”

  Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have talent, child. If I can ever channel it, you may someday be a power. Until that time, you are a hazard to yourself and everyone around you. I must ask you to learn to control your emotions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Viper said humbly, but his heart soared. If Trevor thought he had enough magic to count, someday he’d do marvelous things. He’d fly across the ocean and visit exotic lands. He’d see gruesome monsters and talk to dragons. He’d be able to help people.

  He’d be able to protect himself.

  “Now listen to me.” Trevor slapped the tabletop.

  Viper flinched and backed toward the fireplace, startled by the intensity in the old man’s voice. Had bad news arrived?

  “I told you to stop making stew. Chants or no chants, practice or no practice. No more stew.”

  Viper cackled and collapsed onto the hearth. “That’s not stew. I never cook stew anymore.” Praise the Thunderer. He’d finally admitted he didn’t know what he was doing in the kitchen. Four days out of five, one of Faye’s servants brought them food. On the other days Trevor grumbled about the meal being undercooked, or burnt. But he did his best, and during most meals Trevor was too distracted to notice, anyway.