by CM Raymond
The wispy picture of Clark disappeared as the storyteller sat. The room applauded—but tentatively so.
The other mystics were uncertain about the story, but Ezekiel understood it all too well. It was a morality tale about magic and the current state of Arcadia. While Clark and his genie were only a fiction, the warnings about the dangers of power were far too true. The young magician was very good at mental magic.
Through drink and food, Ezekiel had dropped his mental defenses, and he knew that the girl had made her way into his mind. She was clever, and her magic was strong. She told the exact story that Ezekiel needed for them to hear. The girl had sowed the seeds, encouraging her community to come to the aid of Arcadia, to the aid of all of Irth.
Julianne rose and thanked the girl for her story, though her words were measured. Turning to Ezekiel, she asked, “Would you be so kind, Master Magician, to share a tale with us? There is nothing like foreign stories to invigorate our craft.”
Ezekiel knew that an invitation to share a story was not something that could be denied. He decided to follow the young mystic’s lead and put his story to good use. He smoothed his beard as he stood. “Of course, Julianne. I’d be more than happy.” He looked up at the ceiling, searching for the right one to tell at this moment. “First, let me say thank you to…”
“Zoe,” the girl said.
“Zoe, yes. It means life—in an older tongue. Might your beautiful and timely tale give us life? Gifts, the best of them, can be both a beautiful and sometimes a dangerous thing. It does not, of course, mean that we should stop giving them.”
The group of mystics nodded in unison, and he knew that they were all walking through his mind. It was no secret what his commentary on the situation was.
“You will need to excuse me, as I am not a master of storytelling, but I will share a tale about a boy as well. Not one of fiction, but of autobiography. As many of you know, I was not born nor raised here, but rather, my roots are in a place that was, before the Age of Madness, called Siberia.
“It was a cold and desolate land, and the people reflected their landscape. My mother was hardened by the eternal winter, but my father, he was a different sort. A man of great dreams and visions, he inspired me to believe that the world could be different, that Madness could one day end, and that we, as a human race, could flourish once more. But my story today is not about flourishing, but about fear. The man who raised me knew no fear, but my mother instilled in me the importance of self-preservation.”
Ezekiel scanned the room. The eyes of the mystics were glassy with the effects of their strong ale, but nevertheless, they were all attentive. They seldom had the stories of an outsider in the great Hall, and Ezekiel hoped to give them something to feast on.
His story was not only one for the sake of entertainment, but like Zoe, his was meant to move them.
“When I was but a child, my family wandered through the wilderness from town to town, fleeing the Mad. In those days, there was never a moment of rest. Those who took a chance, who settled in, their days were always numbered. So, it was my mother, of course, who kept us on the move. She believed that if we ever settled down or even rested that the Mad would catch up with us and all would be for naught.”
Ezekiel took a sip from his own glass. Placing it back on the table, he continued, “One night we came upon a young woman. She was starving, half-frozen—and for all we knew, she was more than half-dead. My father, being the idealist that he was, wanted to help. It was always his way.
“But my mother was always more discerning. Our family was more important to her than anything else on the face of Irth. I was young then, and I can still remember the fight they had. There was heavy conversation and even a shout or two. But finally, my father’s ideals overcame my mother’s reservations. She relented.”
“We built a shelter there in the woods, although the position was far from secure. My father built a huge fire, a risk no matter where we were. But the generous man thought that we could revive her. And we did. The fire worked, but it worked too well. It brought this woman back from the brink of death, and it led the Mad directly toward us.”
Ezekiel’s eyes went red, and he raised a hand in the same manner that Zoe had. An image danced in front of the audience. Although stories about the Mad were common, the mystics still gasped either in surprise or sheer appreciation of Ezekiel’s magic.
The spell produced a moving image of ragged, starving people lumbering through the woods. It was hard to even conceive of them as human, though they shared the form with those who are watching. Their eyes glowed stunning red in the night darkness. The Mad lacked all thought—all thought but their desire for human flesh.
“None of you were alive during those days,” Ezekiel said. “And lucky for you that you never had to see them for real, although the same blood runs through your veins—the same blood that gave our matriarch her strength, the same blood that gave us magic. But the blood had turned bad, turning these once humans into what the Lowlanders call zombies.”
“My father was busy helping the sick woman. He was mending her wounds, rubbing the heat back into her feet and arms—because of his deep care for someone in need, he was totally unaware of the Mad advancing upon our shelter.”
The magician’s story, one of fact, but that was nevertheless more compelling than fiction, held every ear in the room. He was, admittedly, not much of a storyteller. But sometimes the narrative could trump the form.
He gave them all a nod and continued, not wanting to cliffhanger them too long. “I sat there, only a child. But even then, I marveled at the differences in my parents. My father was driven by compassion, my mother by vigilance. She agreed to let her husband help a stranger, but she never once let down her guard. And as he fought off frozen death, she, with a walking stick in one hand and a large knife in the other, fought off the Mad.”
“The creatures were strong, but she was fast, moving at a speed I could not fathom. In the shadows of our camp, I watched as her staff whipped around smashing in heads and taking out legs. I remember the knife, it’s blade grabbing the campfire lights, driving through the eye socket of one of the Mad. The twitching of its body will never leave me, and then, it fell still. Another one, she engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Fighting off its lumbering blows, and parrying the monsters’ attacks with her own offense. She was a true warrior.”
“There was a moment when one broke through her defenses and ran toward me, my father, and the broken girl. My mother drove the knife into the throat of one of the Mad and turned, dashing for her loved ones. I was frozen. Useless. Just a child. But I knew that my life was about to end.
“As a zombie reached down for me, my mother dove and took out the inhuman by the legs. They struggled on the ground, and pulling a flaming brand from the campfire, my mother drove it through the zombie’s torso. The thing screamed until it died.” Ezekiel paused and looked around the room. “And that is just a little story about my childhood.”
Ezekiel finished his glass and sat. For a beat, the entire room was silent. All eyes were on him. He took it as an invitation and continued. “Young Zoe’s story was about watchfulness against pride. About the evil that can spread when power goes unchecked. This is an important lesson. But my little story might tell us this: watchfulness takes many forms.
“Like my father, often we need to learn to love and care for those in need. But that cannot overshadow the gifts and drives of my mother, who understood that we must always be ready to defend those that we love with fire and wrath.”
Ezekiel ended his speech, and he, too, received applause—though more tentative than what was given to Zoe, the young mystic storyteller. His tale was one of gravity, and he hoped it watered the seeds that Zoe had planted. He wondered if it had any effect at all.
Exhausted by the drink and the use of magic, he excused himself from the company of the mystics and made his way to the bedchamber his hosts had provided.
Settling into bed, the room spun gen
tly, a result of a bit too much wine and the intoxication of stories told. It was good to be in the Heights, and Ezekiel wished that he could remain forever in the mountain monastery, but he knew that he couldn’t stay. Arcadia called him. Justice called him. As sleep came rushing in, he prayed to the Patriarch and Matriarch that his journey to the Heights wouldn’t be for naught.
On the edge between waking and sleeping, a commotion from the great hall woke him with a start. The vigilance that his mother instilled in him told him to fear the worst.
Ezekiel jumped from his bed as sober as a church mouse and entered the hallway.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sun caught the edge of the rearick’s silver blade as Hannah wiped it clean of the lycanthrope’s blood. Karl’s gift had already been a blessing, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much more blood it would spill before peace returned to Arcadia. Her body was tingling from her first kill, though Parker was the one that finished the job. Sitting next to her oldest friend on the steps of the tower made everything feel a bit more normal, even if her world had been turned upside down.
“So, I guess you’re a magician now,” Parker finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. “What have you guys been doing up here? Sacrificing goats and shit like that?”
“Glad to see you haven’t gotten any funnier in my absence,” Hannah said. “And no, no animal sacrifices. Mostly it’s a matter of focus. Tapping into the power that was always there, in my blood. In all of our blood actually.”
“Wait.” Parker looked at his hands, playing with his fingers to make signs. “I could do that shit?”
“Maybe. Ezekiel says that in the days just after the Age of Madness, people were running all over Irth trying to access the power within. The problem was it takes willpower and a sharp mind to control it. So, you’re probably out.”
“Man,” Parker said, “have I missed you.” He jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow.
“Yeah, I’m pretty charming. It’s wild, I’m learning so much from him about magic, its history, and how it all works. The crazy thing is that the Chancellor – he was Ezekiel’s first student. The old man even left him in charge of Arcadia when he left. That’s when everything changed. Adrien was the one limiting the magic, telling certain people they couldn’t practice. At first, some folks thought it was to protect the citizens, but soon it just became the way things are.”
Parker nodded. “Which is why we all thought that magic was something you were born with, not something anyone could develop.”
“Exactly. Son of a bitch is controlling magic so that he can maintain power and control all of us. I mean, imagine what QBB would be like if we had been raised learning magic and could use it to make our quarter better. That’s some messed up shit.
“Here’s something else that’s fascinating: There are three forms of magic. In Arcadia, we practice the physical magic arts. It’s taught and passed down from teacher to pupil. There’s also mental magic, which the mystics do, and the nature magic of the druids.”
Parker laughed. “He told you there were druids? OK, the Founder might be a madman after all. No such thing as druids.”
“And… I would have said there were no such thing as lycanthropes if you asked me over breakfast. But I just saved your skinny ass from one.”
“Point taken. And who saved who’s skinny ass?”
Hannah smiled and then ignored him. “What’s crazy is that all of those different kinds of magic are all from the same power that is inside everyone. It is just learned in communities and mastered. I guess some of the people have a leaning toward different forms, and then the form shapes them, reinforcing the magic style they master.”
“So, which one is the Founder teaching you?”
“All of them.”
Parker looked at her sideways. “You’re learning all three forms. How are you not blowing up?”
Hannah jabbed him in the ribs. “Because I’m a badass. Actually, he’s trying to teach me a fourth. Zeke thinks it is somehow a combination of all three arts into one. It’s how I created this guy.” She nodded at Sal, asleep between her feet.
“Damn. That’s pretty awesome. So, are you going to create an army of dragons or something?”
Hannah looked down at the dragon. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll be able to do that. Me and Sal have a special connection, you know? I think it might have been a one-off kind of thing. But Zeke is hopeful. Enough about me. How’s my brother?” she asked, her stomach tightening into a knot as she mentioned him.
“William’s better than ever. Healthy. Strong. He’s started doing a bit of hustling—he decided it was time to be done as a panhandler.”
“Oooh, good for him. With those big pouty eyes, he’ll do just fine. And my—”
Parker saved her from naming her father. “He’s fine. Still walking all over the freaking city trying to find work. Will told me about the spell he’s under. Hasn’t touched a drink since you’ve left.”
“Well, if you didn’t believe in magic before…”
“Yeah, right? Arcadia is also, well, different since you left. Everybody on high alert. The Guards and Hunters are always on the street. They’re turning houses over looking for you and the Founder and rounding up Unlawfuls along the way. Word is, there’s a pretty sizable sum on your heads. The Founder’s bounty alone would be able to buy you a place in the noble’s quarter.”
“Now I know why you’re here!” She pulled the rearick’s knife. “Don’t get any ideas.”
She laughed at her own joke, but inside she was hurting. To think that her actions had brought more severe treatment on the boulevard made the power within her boil. Nothing drew her passion more than the mistreatment of her people, and she knew that soon justice would be hers.
Hannah also knew that she wasn’t ready. Adrien and his forces were more powerful than a single lycanthrope or a wild boar.
“Actually, I just came to warn you about the bounty,” Parker continued. “I’ve been saving your ass for years. I figured a few miles of distance shouldn’t change anything. And…”
Hannah’s throat tightened as she readied herself for more bad news. “And what?”
“And, well, I missed you.”
She could feel herself flush. Parker had always been the person she was closest with, and she thought he was great—and not terrible to look at. Although she wasn’t inexperienced with men, she’d never thought of him in that way.
“But you’re mostly here for the reward,” she quipped, deflecting his comment.
“You got me.” Parker cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Come on out boys we got her.”
They both laughed as if nothing had ever changed.
****
Stellan’s patience had worn thin. The mystic at the door was both spaced out from too many years of meditation and already half in the bag on their powerful drink.
He didn’t mind the latter, in fact, after a day with the douche brothers, he was mostly jealous of the man’s intoxication. Not to mention that if his gift was walking around in other people’s twisted brains, he’d be half drunk all the time as well. But the man working door duty was obstinate, bordering on downright rude.
“I’m not asking to see the Master, I am telling you to bring us to her. Not giving you an option here, spacebrain. We are on official business from Arcadia by order of the Governor and the Chancellor.”
He could feel the mystic push against his brain. The man wasn’t strong enough to get through Stellan’s defenses, but he had to remember to keep the wall in place. Anger had a way of weakening one’s capacity to keep a mystic out.
“Yes, yes, yes. The Governor and Chancellor… I heard that. I just can’t, not tonight, she isn’t to be disturbed. Would not be prudent to go against what she desires.”
The man’s bloodshot eyes dashed back and forth from Stellan to the other two guards and back again. He was suddenly nervous, and it struck Stellan why. The mystic was in their heads, and now kn
ew more than he should.
“Damn it, boys, defenses,” he shouted.
But it was too late. Dirk pulled his gun, a magitech weapon, and held it out at the man. “Out of my head, freak. Out now.”
“Holster your weapon, Dirk,” Stellan commanded.
The tension was thicker than a morning fog on the River Wren.
“Get out,” the kid screamed again.
The mystic’s confusion increased. Alcohol dampened his ability to think clearly. He jerked his arms toward the sky in defense, but it looked more like he was moving to cast magic. And that’s when Dirk blasted him with a thick blue beam of magitech energy.
