***
Archibald closed the door behind him and crossed the room. “The envoy you sent to the Wind Mage has returned, sire.”
King Remy was sitting at his desk in the private study. A wall of books rose on either side of him and a great round window looked out over a starry, stubbornly still night. He was a middle-aged man of normal size, apart from his rather large belly. He had been slender once, spry and strong as the knights that now served him, but his daily work mostly involved sitting on a throne or behind a desk these days, and he was getting older. He was the king of Caraway, and the High King of all Aberdeen. His head was bald on top, so that his graying hair wrapped around the sides of it. He didn’t look like much these days, but in Archibald’s mind he was the best king that they had ever had; wise, fair, and honest in his dealings. His only real flaw was his temper, and perhaps the way that he had failed to connect with his son.
The king looked up distractedly from the papers he was studying. “There have been three more raids on our southern cities, Archibald, one of them quite close to the Magisterium.”
“I heard, sire.”
“Our intelligence points to the witches. Can you believe that?”
“The witches, sire? The witches of Kokum?”
“Yes,” the king said bitterly. “Those blasted witches are growing more and more comfortable in the Moorwood, and not twenty miles from the Magisterium…” he stopped at the look on Archibald’s face. “What brought you, Archibald?”
“The messenger you sent to the Wind Mage, sire…”
“Oh,” Remy said, shuffling the papers and sitting up straight. “Where is his report?”
“I have it here,” Archibald hesitated. “Sire,” he began delicately, “the Wind Mage has resigned.”
“What?” the king bellowed, sitting up straighter. “I don’t understand. He can’t just resign, Archibald.”
“He did, sire.”
“But what about the wind? What will become of it? Did he name a successor, perhaps? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I do not know, sire. He named no successor. In fact, he was not there at all.”
“Excuse me?” the king said, rising.
Archibald couldn’t tell if it was frustration or concern in the king’s voice now.
“Sire, the mage’s tower was empty. According to the townspeople, he dismissed his apprentice some weeks ago, sealed his tower, and disappeared into the wind.”
“Well,” the king said, sitting back into his chair with a defeated grumble, “apparently he took the wind with him.”
The king gestured for Archibald to sit. “What of his apprentice, Archibald? Did he have anything to say on the matter?”
“Yes, sire,” Archibald began. “The runner found him back at the school. He is trying to take up a position there. Evidently the mage will not let him continue his work. He said that he argued with his master over the matter of his retirement. He tried to reason with him, tried to make him stay, but to no avail.”
“No doubt. What is the boy’s name again?”
“Cannon.”
“Did he give Cannon a reason for his departure?”
Archibald frowned. “I’m afraid the boy wasn’t clear on that, my lord.”
“I would like to speak with him.”
“Yes, I thought you might. I have already sent for him.”
“Archibald,” the king said, his face darkening, “you don’t really think that he retired, do you? Surely we’re not buying that story, are we?”
“No, sire.”
Remy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “This is bad business, Archibald.”
There was a long silence, so long that Archibald began to notice the ticking of the grandfather clock on the other end of the room. Finally, the king broke it. “I think, Archibald,” he said slowly, “that you must find her now.”
Archibald looked up intently. This was not what he had expected. He didn’t know what to say, so he decided to feign ignorance.
“I believe the Wind Mage is a man, sire.”
The king gave a half smile, but it faded quickly into seriousness.
“No, my old friend. I mean you must find her.” He paused, and they were both silent for a time, looking down and thinking.
“The Magemother,” Archibald said quietly.
Remy nodded. His brow furrowed in concentration as he fiddled with the papers on his desk. “We have to find her, Archibald. We have to find out what happened to her.”
“Sire, the mages still cannot find her. If they cannot, how shall I?”
“You must.”
The white-haired counselor held the king’s eye. Remy looked back at him just as intently for a moment, then the strength behind his expression unraveled, revealing a hopelessness that Archibald had never before seen in his king.
“The Magemother vanished…” the king said, sinking further into a mood and his chair, “…or left us, for all we know. Long before that, the Mage of Wood went missing, and then the Mages of Water, and Fire. All this time, the Magemother has claimed that she was searching for them, but she never found them. Why would she, of all people, she who should know where they are at all times, fail? Now she herself is gone, and Animus, the Wind Mage, as well. What is happening, Archibald? What could make them disappear?”
“A question we have asked ourselves a hundred times, sire. Only they know for certain.”
“But they are not here to tell us!” The king slapped his desk with the flat of his hand. “Things will fall apart quickly without Animus, Archibald.”
“I agree,” Archibald said. “Things will take a turn for the worse. Animus was the oldest mage. It is my understanding that Animus has, until now, been able to take up some of the slack for the missing mages.”
“He has done a questionable job of it,” the king complained, shifting in his chair. “The trees have not grown properly since Lignumis disappeared. Nor has tide been quite regular since Unda went missing. If I had a quarter for every angry merchant or fisherman that has come before me—”
“He has done an excellent job,” Archibald cut in. “And more than his fair share.” He was one of the few people that could get away with interrupting the king mid-sentence. “He has done much to keep the other elements under as much control as he has. Without him, though, I fear the sea may rage out of control. The tides may cease altogether.”
Remy shook his head. “There are too many questions, Archibald, and not enough answers…” He trailed off, thinking, searching for answers that eluded him.
At length, he glanced back up, his expression tired. “We must find the Magemother, Archibald. It is clear to me now that only she can put things right.”
Archibald regarded him silently.
“I am sending you, my friend. You must succeed where others have failed.”
Archibald put a hand over his eyes, rubbing his head. Where would he even start? What chance did he have of succeeding?
“We need her,” the king went on. “I should have sent you sooner. You, I think, knew her best.” He looked down as if embarrassed to bring up such a delicate subject with his old friend.
“Where would I even begin to look?” Archibald asked, trying to ignore the influx of memories. Walking with her by the lake, conversations through the night, the way her hair looked in the morning—sunlit and curly.
“Archibald, if I knew where to begin, you know we’d have already gone down that road. I trust your judgment, and you’ve never let me down before.”
“No,” Archibald agreed. Then more firmly, “No. I haven’t.”
Archibald glanced up at the king and something passed between them, a feeling of appreciation and camaraderie that is reserved for the closest of friends.
There was a soft sound below that might have been a sneeze.
“What was that?” Archibald said.
“What?”
“Hmm. Nothing.” Archibald thought of what lay below them. The old library sto
rage was directly under the king’s study, but people rarely went there. The king’s ancient librarian, perhaps. Or the king’s son—the boy that saw everything, heard everything, and pretended to care about none of it. Archibald smiled slightly, an idea forming. “Perhaps I should take Hugo.”
“Excuse me?” the king’s tone tightened.
“My lord, some say that he is getting a little…restless here in the castle.”
Remy’s eyes narrowed. He was not accustomed to people telling him what to do with his son. “Some say? And what do you say, Archibald? You are one of his teachers, are you not?”
“I say he quite despises this place, sire. It would be good for him to get out and see his kingdom. He may come back more willing to rule it.”
“Or less willing,” Remy interjected stubbornly.
“I hardly think that is possible.”
Remy sighed in resignation. “Very well then. But I don’t want him leaving Caraway. If your travels take you outside of it, you are not to take him with you. Times have grown too dangerous for this kingdom’s only heir to be gallivanting across the face of the world.”
Archibald dipped his head and rose to leave. “As you wish, sire.”
“Archibald.”
Archibald stopped, his hand resting on the door. “Yes, sire?”
“Find her.”
Chapter Four
In which Archibald has a very important flashback
Archibald returned to his own quarters and began to pack a small travel bag. He picked his favorite bowler hat and swung his cane under one arm. Pulling on his white gloves, he checked the silver watch that hung from a chain on his vest. It was almost midnight.
He glanced at the portraits of his ancestors that decorated the walls of his bedchamber, there to remind him of the legacy of service that preceded him. He grimaced, thinking of the impossible task that lay before him. He had never failed Remy. His family had served the kings of Caraway for centuries and he was not about to let the royal family down now. He glanced at the pictures again as he left the room, thinking that he might be on his way to end the family streak of loyal service.
Still, he would do as he was bidden. He would search the kingdom from end to end if need be, but he had a terrible feeling he would not find her. The Magemother was a very great woman, beautiful, mysterious, and magical from the beginning of her heart to the ends of her delicate fingers. No one understood her mind or matched her power, and when people like that go missing, they must find themselves.
He made his way to Hugo’s quarters next, swinging the delicate silver knocker twice when he arrived.
“Yeah,” a lazy voice called from within.
Archibald opened the door. Sprawled casually across a blue velvet armchair in the second most lavish set of rooms in the castle was a boy of twelve, naked to the waist, who was apparently so engrossed in doing absolutely nothing that he couldn’t be bothered to look up.
“Who’s there?”
Archibald walked across to stand beside the armchair. Hugo’s eyes were shut idly. Archibald poked him sharply in the belly with the end of his cane. “It’s me.”
“Ouch!” Hugo cried angrily. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you were being rude,” Archibald said sternly. “And because you look like a fool. Where is your shirt?”
Hugo was looking up at him with a petulant expression, rubbing the little spot of red where Archibald had poked him. “I’m the prince, Archibald. You can’t talk to me like that.”
“So you keep telling me, my lord. I am sure I will learn sooner or later.”
“Make it sooner, then.”
“Yes, my lord. Speaking of learning, I came to inform you that your father has requested you accompany me on a journey.”
Hugo sat back, the bored expression returning to his face a little too quickly. “A journey,” he intoned flatly. “Sounds boring. Where are we going?”
“To look for someone.”
“The Magemother?”
Archibald gave him a sharp look. “Have you been spying on the king again, my lord?”
Hugo shrugged nonchalantly. “Who else would you be looking for?”
“Will you be joining me, then?”
Hugo cast his gaze around the room in a distracted manner. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging again. “Maybe.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Archibald said, bowing curtly and walking away. “If you so desire, you may meet me at the east doors in one hour. And Hugo,” he said, pausing in the doorway, “pack a good coat. I would hate to see that sneeze of yours turn into a cold.”
He closed the door on the flushing face of the prince of Caraway, and made his way down the hall to the Magemother’s guest quarters. The likelihood of finding any clues there would be small, since it had been thoroughly searched after she went missing, but it seemed proper to start at the beginning.
The doors to her rooms were locked, but they swung open at the touch of his hand.
“Hello, Archibald,” her voice said softly. It was not really her. The doors were enchanted to welcome her friends by name, and bar her enemies. He knew it was coming, but her voice still startled him. Her voice often did that to him, startling him out of the present world and into one long past. That was why he had slowly distanced himself from her over the past few years. Now he almost regretted that decision. Perhaps if he had nurtured their friendship instead of pruning it, he would have been able to help her, or at least know where she had gone. She had not been here for months—not since she disappeared. It had been much longer since he had been here. They had stopped talking many years ago on a day not unlike this one. The memory was still painful to him.
Archibald advanced through her rooms, his eyes falling on the sight of her possessions slowly becoming dusty without her use and care. To anyone else there would be nothing out of the ordinary; it was like any other empty and unused room. To him, someone who had so many fond memories in this space, it seemed disturbingly lifeless without her.
He had just decided that his trip to her rooms was a foolhardy idea when his eyes caught sight of something glinting from across the room. It was a small silver bell sitting on the corner of a writing desk. A memory brushed against him like a whisper from the past, and he crossed the room in earnest to pick it up, a sudden memory giving him a gust of hope. He had not seen it for at least twenty years.
He remembered a sunny day at Fall Hallows, rows and rows of booths, the smell of autumn, and the sound of country dances. She had purchased the little bell from the most unwholesome-looking witch he had ever seen. It wasn’t that she was particularly ugly, it was her outfit that was disturbing; she wore clothes that seemed to be fine leather at first, but upon closer inspection bore a frightening resemblance to human skin. He shivered at the memory. It was not normal practice for the Magemother to associate with such characters. As he recalled, she had also paid more money for the bell than he made in a year. It had seemed outrageous to him at the time; no doubt it was the absurd nature of the purchase that made it stick in his memory.
“Why would you purchase such a thing from such a person for such an outrageous price?” he had asked her in shock. She had simply smiled at him, held up the bell, rang it gently.
Suddenly, it was as if a loud gong rang out over their heads. The sound shook the ground and toppled a nearby cart. The witch who sold it to her yelled at them angrily and waved her fist in the air. Archibald was startled, unsure of how to react, but the Magemother gave a triumphant laugh, tucked the bell under her cloak and ran. She wanted to make a quick escape, he realized, before anyone recognized her and realized that she was the source of the tumult.
Later that day, when they had walked far from the market and were all alone on the road, she handed him the bell and instructed him to ring it when she had passed over the hill. He waited until he couldn’t see her anymore, then gave it a gentle ring. This time he noticed that the bell in his hand was silent, while the gong sounded
out loudly from the other side of the hill. A second later, the Magemother appeared at his side, as if out of thin air.
“It is my bell, Archibald,” she explained, smiling at the surprise on his face. “That is why it is worth so high a price. No matter how far from me you are, ring it, and I will hear. If I can, I will come. It lets me cross even great distances in no time at all, if there is real need.”
There had never been a real need for him to ring it. Not in all the long years since that time. Not until now.
He held it up so that moonlight glinted off the bell’s shiny silver surface. He paused, then rang it once.
Silence.
He sighed, tucked it into his vest pocket. He didn’t know what he had been expecting. As he left her rooms, he felt no closer to finding her than when he had entered.
He entertained one small hope: maybe, somewhere, she had heard it. Maybe she knew that he was looking for her now. He didn’t truly believe it, but he was too polite, too wise to dismiss hopeful feelings in a time of need, no matter how foolish they may be.
Chapter Five
In which Brinley scolds a bird and teaches frogs to do gymnastics
Every year when school let out for summer break in Colorado and the other children began to spend all of their time with their friends, Brinley worked on her special talent: being invisible.
She usually disappeared before her father left for work. She went, invisible of course, all over town and into the hills. She had secret places that she loved. Huts she had built in trees where you could see a long way off, a perfect spot by a little waterfall where you could hear the sound of water bouncing off the turning pages of a book. This last one was one of her favorite little discoveries. One day, lying beside the pool at the foot of the waterfall, she heard the sound of the waterfall change as she turned the pages of her book. Magic, she thought at first. Then she realized that it was just the sound changing as it bounced off the face of the turning page, just like how the sound of a siren changes as it drives past. Privately, she pretended that it really was magic. Life was more fun that way. With no company but her imagination, she whiled away the long, carefree summer hours in the wilderness.
The Mage and the Magpie Page 2
