The sun shone in a scattering of narrow beams through every crack in the tunnel. The rest was dark, a black Shadow with shadows of horses and knights shifting in and out of view.
Again, Epik thought he caught a glimpse of something. But when he looked back, there was nothing there.
“Here you are.” Todder handed Epik his helmet, the copper gleaming. It roused the halfling from his slight daze. There was no Shadow. He was imagining it, wasn’t he? “It’s your go. They just called your name,” Todder said.
Sure enough, Epik heard the announcer’s voice introducing Sir Puckett who rode up alongside Epik in the tunnel. His steel armor was tarnished and bent from his falls the previous day. He sized Epik up swiftly—there wasn’t much size to a halfling.
“Good luck today,” Puck said thickly.
“You, too.”
Epik had tuned out the announcer, but he was pretty sure the man had just used the word Cinderella along with his name.
But there wasn’t time to think about it. Epik encouraged Buster from the tunnel to more jeers.
He would need luck. He thought about that kiss.
Luck he might have, but it was magic that still eluded him. Epik couldn’t make heads or tails out of anything he had read in his books. Every sentence contradicted the next. He only hoped the little help from Sir Dom would get him to the next round.
But really, what was there to lose? He could quit now. They could focus on the delegation—the treaty. But the Grand Sovereign showed no inclination to take the process up.
The muddled words of the announcer passed into and out of Epik’s ears. Then a Shadow crossed the ground where no shadow should be.
Another figment of his imagination?
Epik’s mind began to whir with the information of the day—Prince Gabriel, moonstones, and this Shadow…
Then like a lock picked open, it clicked.
Anger gurgled in his gut like Wallack’s stomach after a feast. Epik had been fooled. He understood it now.
Epik cast a vanishing spell on Buster who whinnied approvingly. The crowd approved, too. They cheered at the magic. The flags waved. The heat in Epik’s stomach was white hot, and Epik thought of fire—how fire destroys everything in its path.
A red-orange flame shot up the length of the lance. Epik buried it in Sir Puckett’s chest.
The Coliseum roared.
The magic lingered in the back of Epik’s mind. The fire still burned in his stomach and chest.
Something else burned, too. Or someone. Sir Puckett patted out flames with gloved hands. He rode to meet Epik, only the tilt fence between them. Throwing up his visor in a swift motion, Puck looked shaken. He spat out his words.
“Ease up, rook. That was real fire. You singed my damn beard.” It was quite true. The tips of the knight’s red beard were black. His second chin was plainly visible. “I took it easy on you last lance. A mistake I won’t make again.”
Any other day this might have been intimidating. But not this day. Epik circled on his invisible pony. Through the announcer, he learned that he was awarded two points to Puck’s one. He didn’t remember feeling a blow at all. Puck had hit him in the shield.
Now that he was looking, Epik could see the Shadow with little effort. There was a chapter he had skimmed over in his books, something to do with spies and sun and how some shadows develop a mind of their own, taking on characteristics apart from their owner.
Epik knew whose Shadow it was.
Buster snorted, anxious for the next lance as Todder handed one over. Epik took it in his gloved hand. Already, the heat was building from his stomach. Fire, Epik thought. He pictured Gabby’s shop burning.
The flags did what they did, the horses, too, and Epik’s stomach burned hotter than ever. A fireball burst from the tip of the lance before it even met Sir Puckett’s chest. Puck jumped off his horse, narrowly missing the flame. The crowd cheered.
And Epik had won.
The door locked with a click behind him as Kavya shut him in for the night, a somber end to a rather conflicted evening, some parts exhilarating—the dancing and the food—and some parts doubtful like the words of the other knights. Were they friends or foes? They all seemed to like Epik now that he’d won a match. All except Sir Puckett.
Epik was a prisoner again. Kavya wasn’t speaking to him, still mad about the moonstone conversation. And Epik couldn’t find Gerdy at the feast. Maybe she was mad at him, too. He had blown her off for two days now.
The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the room. Shadow, Epik thought.
“You can come out now,” he said to the empty room. “Seriously, you can come out. I’ve put it all together… I think.”
Hesitantly, a small Shadow stepped into the open wall. It glided across the room opposite the candle. It didn’t say anything, though Epik was sure now that it could.
“You never died,” Epik continued. “Gabby never died. None of that really happened.”
“Oh, but it did happen,” the Shadow said in a shrill voice reminiscent of both Gabby’s… and Epiman’s. “All of it happened. Just not in the way you thought it had.”
“But why?” Epik asked. “I don’t get it. Why not tell me? Use your words.”
“Words do not a magician make,” the Shadow said in strange doublespeak.
Epik struggled. He had wanted to be a wizard his whole life. But now he wasn’t sure if that desire was his or planted in his head. Planted there by his father. And he knew now exactly who that was.
What was Epik’s own true desire? And what was his father’s dream for him?
“Can we start over?” Epik asked. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. How can I be part human? Part wizard? How did all of this start?”
“I can’t truly answer your questions. I am but a shade—your father’s Shadow. I think as your father thinks, but I am not complete without him. He prepared a response for me to give should you seek answers.”
“Go on,” Epik almost shouted, throwing his hands in the air.
“In my youth,” the Shadow began, the voice more distinctly Gabby’s—Epiman’s, “I rebelled against my father. His only son. Like you, my birth was shrouded in mystery, for Tenebris Epiman wasn’t supposed to have children. He was cursed by a witch. I spent the better part of my youth in search of a mother just as you spent yours in search of a father.
“Finally, in my teens, I was fed up with my father’s treatment of the commoners, and his use of dark magic to keep them at heel. You see, he tricked them with trinkets and theater but never allowed them a step up in life—no education, no real jobs. The best of the lot were allowed to be soldiers and died on a battlefield in his name.
“So I left. I stole a good portion of my father’s wealth. I had just enough magic to make my way out of King’s Way undetected. But my father did not let my absence go. He sent servants to search the realm for me. Some were just that, servants. Others were dark beings, demons—wraiths, I think. They had otherworldly senses. Things I still don’t understand completely.
“I panicked. I found a spell that would conceal me as a halfling, and I lived in the Bog for several years. The price of that concealment, of that spell, is before you now. My Shadow will be forevermore a halfling. But I made another reminder: I made you.
“It was selfish. Honestly, I did not love your mother—no one in the Bog did, which made her available. I wanted an ally, someone I could trust to help me against my father. And I knew, that like me, you’d be a wizard. Why you’re a halfling and not partially man? Well, I believe that too comes down to the same spell that curses my Shadow.”
“So I’m an ally, not a son?” Epik said coldly.
“Oh, Epik, you’re much more than that,” the Shadow said in his own squeaky voice. “Gabriel thinks you are the key to saving the entire realm.”
“Saving the realm? From what?” Epik looked out the window. “The Grand Sovereign, Epiman, they’re the same. Epiman, Gabby, my father, whoever he thinks he is, h
e’s the one who tricked me.”
“Search your feelings,” the Shadow said. “You know neither thing is true. The Grand Sovereign hides his darkness. Find it. I can help you. That’s what Gabriel sent me here for.”
“How do you even work?” Epik asked. “I don’t understand this magic. I read the book, but I don’t understand it.” Epik waved his hand and sent his own shadow across the other. It struck the Shadow’s face.
“Ouch,” the Shadow said.
“Did that really hurt?”
“No, only kidding. The answers to your questions are in the books under your bed.”
“But I’ve read them.”
“No,” the Shadow said sternly. “Skimming and reading aren’t the same thing. Just because a book has no story, no beginning, middle, or end, doesn’t mean you can’t read it as such.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Epik said. But the Shadow was gone, lost among the others in the room.
“Fine,” Epik said.
He pulled a faded volume from under the bed—the first one. The Shadow was right. He had skimmed the better part of all three in search of spells and magic that suited him best, but Epik’s eyes had never really focused on many of the words.
This wasn’t like the books he loved from his youth. There was no ‘once upon a time’ and probably not a ‘the end’ either.
Epik began on page one, and he read late into the night.
Part III
To the adept wizard, magic cannot be taken by force. However, a young mage’s magic is vulnerable to tricks. While magic changes hand reluctantly, it does prefer to serve those who know it best. And it can be given away, either in small doses or gifted as a whole.
When stolen, however, the transferal of magic may prove to be greatly detriment to both the victim and the thief.
- On Transferring Magic
The Art of Sorcery, Vol. 1: Fundamental Magicks, 2nd Edition
Doland Knuth
28
It
Brendan studied the name on the parchment. Then he studied the name on the shop window. They were one and the same. But he wasn’t ready to go inside, not yet.
He hated Sprite Island. Brendan wondered if hate might be too strong a word. But then an elf glided over his toe, stepping so close that wisps of golden hair brushed against Brendan’s cheek.
“Excuse me,” Brendan said shortly.
The elf looked back at him crossly. “You’re excused.”
Hate was most definitely the right word. Brendan hated elves—the airs they put on, the smugness. Just because they were prettier than everyone else and lived to be a thousand years old didn’t give them the right to treat others in such a way. He gritted his teeth and walked into the shop.
The bell on the door jingled. The shop was small and brimming with merchandise, most of it the type of knickknacks found at a child’s birthday party—hats, and masks, toys, and decorations. Immediately, it gave Brendan the prickly feeling that something was about to fall from a shelf or brush up against him, not unlike the elf outside.
“Hello?” he called out. There was a faint hissing sound but no one in the shop that he could see. The hissing stopped and started then stopped and started again.
Hsss.
Hsss.
Hsss.
“Hello? Ann-Hog?”
“It’s An-Og,” Anhog said. “The h is silent.”
“Oh,” Brendan replied. He stepped toward the void where the voice had materialized. Instantly, he wished he hadn’t. A bunch of balloons parted, and in the midst of them, standing atop the counter, was a dour-looking goblin. It bared its fangs.
No, Brendan thought. And he was sure of it. The goblin was smiling—or, it was trying to.
“Throwing a party?” Anhog said. “I specialize in children under ten. After that, they don’t much like clowns anymore. They’ll say I’m scary.”
You are scary, Brendan thought.
“You dress like a clown?” he questioned while suppressing the more pertinent question on his mind—you mean, you don’t eat children?
“Sure I do. Anhog the Clown. Says it on the door. Didn’t you read the sign?”
“I was kind of wondering about it.” Brendan reached to scratch the hair on the back of his head, but his elbow glanced off a shelf and sent bubble wands tumbling to the floor.
“Leave it,” Anhog said tersely. “If you’re not throwing a party then what are you here for?”
The goblin’s eyes glinted red. Its long nose shook testily.
“The king, he, uh, he sent me here for your help. I need a balloon.”
“Well, here you go.” Anhog reached spindly fingers out and picked from the balloons bobbing around him.
“It’s a bit different than that.”
Brendan edged forward, pulling another piece of parchment from his back pocket. He had racked his brain for several nights to find the right approach. Finally, he thought it best just to draw what he had in his mind. The picture was of a boat carried on the wind by a large stomach shaped balloon in place of sails. There was a sailed rudder in the back to help guide the ship along. He handed the drawing over to the goblin.
“What do you have here?” Anhog hissed. The goblin looked it over with critical red eyes then took a pen and made changes, drawing chains, rigging, and framing, around the balloon. “Here we go,” the goblin said in an oily voice. “Are you familiar with how hot air works?”
Brendan shook his head.
“No matter. In theory, I can make this part.” Anhog pointed to the rigging and the balloon. “I’m not sure where you’d get a boat like that though. Anyway, the balloon itself would cost a fortune.”
Hesitantly, Brendan put a sack of gold on the counter. “King Epiman said this should be enough. The rest, he said, you owe him.”
“And the boat?” The goblin grabbed the sack of gold as greedily as a goblin—which seemed apropos.
“It’ll be taken care of,” Brendan said carefully.
“Deal,” the goblin said.
29
The Fault in Our Shadows
A day’s reprieve from the tournament, a day of rest, was just what everyone needed. The whole kingdom was so caught up in it all, reveling each day and each night, that there was scarcely a soul out and about on the streets that morning as Todder stared out his window.
A faint scuff on the floor roused him from his thoughts. He turned and searched the room for the producer of the sound. He found a note slipped through the crack under his door—the locked door. He shook it for the fifteenth time that morning. Still locked.
A note? he wondered, retrieving it from the floor. Why did that jar something in his memory?
Todder examined it. It was a small piece of thick parchment, folded over three times. It was small in his large hands.
When Todder was a boy, he never saw the point of learning his letters. None of his friends knew them. Most of the men on his street were as illiterate as mail couriers—who were always illiterate for fear they would read the mail they carried7.
That all changed when Todder moved in with his granny; she said he was to learn his letters, or she’d grind him up in a stew. And he knew deep down that she was only half joking—she was one of the meanest witches in the east.
He read the note.
I would be honored if you dined at my table tonight.
- Rebekkah
Todder had a brief recollection of the beautiful woman he had swept across the dance floor the previous evening. But it wasn’t right. She didn’t send his heart aflutter, not like that woman he had made himself a fool over. Ashah, he thought, his heart thundering in his chest at the name.
A moment later, his heart hammering still, someone knocked on his door. It opened, and the stern face of an assigned servant peered inside—Gerdy’s assigned servant. Her orange eyes darted around the room through slits in her headdress.
“You decent?” she said thickly.
Todder looked down. He was. “I am,
” he said.
“Shame,” she said. “The Grand Sovereign will see you now.”
“Just me?”
“No,” she said. “The entire delegation. Tut. Tut.” She motioned him forward, her eyes looking him over him once more.
The Grand Sovereign’s parlor, or his sitting room, or whatever it was, had an unused atmosphere. The air was stale, the chairs uncomfortable, and Todder would have preferred to hang back against the wall, unnoticed, or as unnoticed as an almost six-and-a-half-foot tall man could be.
But he was part of the delegation. King Epiman had called his name. And the king had given him a scroll.
The scroll, Todder thought. That’s what he was forgetting.
They had all received scrolls: Myra, Gerdy, Epik, and him. And they were all here except they weren’t. Gerdy was missing; her seat unoccupied.
Myra was watching the door expectantly; occasionally she glared at Gerdy’s empty chair. The door burst open with a thud.
“Finally,” Sir Wallack boomed. He entered the room with enthusiasm and without Gerdy, to Myra’s dismay. “We’re going to get down to brass tacks, are we?”
“Do you know much about brass tacks?” the Grand Sovereign chided. He was looking casual in a linen shirt and finely tailored black pants. A green stripe was piped down the side of his trousers like a Bloodstripe. “What I mean is,” he said to Wallack, “is how much experience do you have in matters of state?”
Sir Wallack stroked his slick beard. “Well, in matters of court I—”
“Not matters of court,” the Grand Sovereign said bluntly. “Matters of state.” He turned to Myra. “Now, I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But this delegation, this meeting, all of it, is a mere formality. Your king, that is, your father, my son. He knew what he was getting this delegation into. He knows me well.”
Well of course he does, Todder thought, he’s your son.
Knowing is Halfling the Battle_An Arthurian Fantasy Romp Page 14
