A Touch of Magic

by Gregory Mahan

  “Master Erliand was no country hack!” Randall shot back hotly. “He taught me plenty!”

  “Issat so?” Shawncy taunted. “So, then, lets quiz you. Tell me, boy, where does magic come from?”

  “Llandra,” Randall answered. “Master Erliand says it’s another world that sits up next to ours, and that’s where the elves and stuff came from.”

  “That’s one right. A hedge-mage doesn’t care where magic comes from. To them, it simply is,” Shawncy nodded. “Now, tell me the types of magic.”

  “Well, there’s runes, words, and will,” Randall answered, quickly falling into the question-and-answer cadence of a pupil answering his master.

  Shawncy sat, as if expecting more.

  “What?” Randall asked. “runes, words and will! You know, runes are those little pictures you draw that mean something. Words are things you say, and will is a kind of magic only the fae can use. Oh, and elemental magic. I almost forgot!” He knew he had it right.

  “You forgot one more,” Shawncy said. “But if you really are Erliand’s apprentice, I’m not surprised he didn’t mention it to you. Summoning. It’s a forbidden art.”

  “Summoning?” Randall asked. “Like calling up ghosts?”

  “Something like that,” Shawncy said. “But more like calling up demons. Things live in Llandra, and for some reason, they aren’t happy there. They yearn to come over here. With the right ceremony, a powerful enough Mage can bring them here and strike a bargain for power.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” Randall said, wondering why Master Erliand had never mentioned it.

  “It is,” Shawncy said. “It’s easy to think that demons are like you and me. Easy to believe that you can appeal to their self-interest and work out a mutual accord. But they’re not. Demons have their own agenda, and they always corrupt a Mage. Always. In every recorded instance, such a pact goes bad, leading the Mage down a dark path.”

  “Why would anyone make a pact with a demon, then?” Randall asked. It seemed like an easy choice. No amount of power was worth it if your soul was corrupted in the process.

  “Temptation,” Shawncy answered. “People are flawed. We have weaknesses of character, and demons are masters of exploiting weakness. Perhaps a young Mage is jealous because he can’t wield as much power as his peers. Perhaps a Mage is in a bit of trouble, and he thinks he can make a deal with a lesser demon to get out of it.

  “It always starts small and innocently. But once they’ve got their hooks in you, it’s hard to escape.”

  “Do you think that’s why Master Erliand never told me about summoning magic, then? He was trying to protect me?” Randall asked.

  “Not likely,” Shawncy answered. “More likely, he didn’t trust you. You see, Erliand’s last apprentice betrayed him. After a couple of years, he ran away from his apprenticeship. He had learned just enough magic to allow him to experiment with summoning magic on his own. In time, the boy was twisted beyond redemption. Erliand never gave up hope that the boy would come back to him, though.”

  “He never did?” Randall asked.

  “No, boy,” Shawncy answered. “He never did. You see, Erliand’s apprentice was Aidan. And now he’s head of the secret police.”

  Chapter 12

  Randall spent the next several hours relating his story to Shawncy. He tried not to leave out many details, but he instinctively avoided bringing up Berry, especially after Shawncy’s lecture on summoning magic. He knew that Berry wasn’t some evil force bent on corrupting his soul, but he wasn’t sure he could convince Shawncy of that.

  Randall didn’t know if Berry was still hitching a ride hidden from view, but he doubted it. He hadn’t heard a peep from the sprite, or felt his movements, since he first entered the apothecary shop. And it might be a bad idea to stare at his shoulder to try and see if his friend were there. He wasn’t too worried about it; he knew the little imp could take care of himself.

  Berry wasn’t the only secret he kept from Shawncy. Randall also purposefully left out any mention of Master Erliand’s healing talisman. He barely even thought about it lately, but he remembered how anxious Master Erliand was about it not being found. He had said elves and dwarves would kill for it. After witnessing its power first-hand, Randall was sure that men would kill for it, too.

  Shawncy listened to the tale intently, interrupting here or there to ask a question or to clarify a point. But for the most part, he let Randall tell the story unabated. When he was finished, Shawncy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. He looked wary, but satisfied.

  “I’m not so sure that story of yours is one-hundred-percent true,” he said, looking deeply into Randall’s eyes, as if trying to read what was behind them. “You’ve told me enough about Erliand that I believe that you know him, or even studied under him. You have enough magic theory that I know you weren’t trained by some illiterate hedge-mage.

  “But much of your story? Pah! It just don’t add up.”

  Randall’s eyes shifted down slightly out of guilt. “Everything I said was the honest truth,” he said. And it was. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

  “Oh come on!” Shawncy barked. “You fought two armed men on horseback, and the only weapon you had was a dagger. And you won?”

  Randall rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I told you, Master Erliand told me how to fight a man on a horse.”

  Shawncy snorted at the answer. “Being told how to fight a man on horseback, and doing it are two different things, boy. Slidin’ down below the reach of a sword and sticking a horse in the rump is not as easy as you make it sound.”

  “Well, it was easy for me,” Randall argued adamantly, crossing his arms and pressing his lips together.

  “I’m telling you, that’s a load of cowplop!” Shawncy exclaimed. “Even if you’d trained for years, you’d only have a tiny chance of pulling a fool move like that off. But after that much training, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to even try it, knowing the risks. And yet you pull it off, unharmed, and you didn’t have any kind of magical help?”

  “I told you I killed the second man with lightning,” Randall said. His voice grew small and his lips began quivering.

  “Right,” Shawncy said, sarcastically. “And you do it using a demonic word that you’ve only ever heard once.” Shawncy threw up his hands in irritation. “There’s no shame in just telling me you ran from them, boy.”

  “I didn’t run! I killed them, all right! I killed them!” Randall cried out angrily.

  Randall tried to blink back the tears that were forming in his eyes, but the flood of emotion would not be abated. He had managed to keep the awful memory of that day tucked far back into a corner of his mind where he hadn’t had to think about it. But Shawncy’s relentless interrogation forced him to confront his actions squarely. Even though he felt like he had no choice, Randall deeply regretted having to kill the soldiers.

  Even worse, he had to admit that there was a part of him that had reveled in his power. Some sick part of himself had enjoyed killing those men, and he hated himself for it.

  “I killed them,” Randall choked out in a whisper as the grief overcame him.

  Randall pushed his face into the crook of his arm as remorse tore through him. Shawncy sat silently as Randall hunched over, racked with sobs. Eventually his crying slowed as he got himself under control. He looked up at Shawncy, a look of anguished desperation on his face.

  “I didn’t want to kill them. I didn’t know what else to do!” he cried plaintively, searching Shawncy’s eyes for absolution.

  Shawncy’s expression softened considerably. “It’s okay, boy. I believe you now. Killing a man is a hard thing,” he said. “You can bet that anyone who brags about killing a man as if it were as easy as buying a loaf of bread is a liar.”

  For some reason, Shawncy’s acceptance caused another wave of grief to wash over Randall, and he broke down into a fresh round of sobs. His body shook and he pressed his face into his hands as his
tears rained down onto floor.

  When he finally pulled himself back together, Shawncy gave him a stern look.

  “I believe you, but you have to help me out here. Your story just sounds too fantastic to be true,” he said. “You said your mother gave you a travel sack. You sure she didn’t slip you a talisman or something? You said she knew Erliand.”

  “No. There was just some food, a blanket, and my knife. And there’s nothing special about my knife,” Randall said, pulling the blade from the sheath at his belt and handing it over to Shawncy.

  Shawncy turned the blade this way and that in his hands, looking at it from all angles. It was a simple fighting knife. There was nothing exceptional or noteworthy about it. The blade was only about six inches long, and the handle was wrapped in well-oiled leather. It was the kind of knife you might expect to see by the dozen in the market.

  “Well, you’re right. It doesn’t look like anything special,” he said as he began picking at the leather binding at the base of the handle.

  “Hey!” Randall cried. “What are you doing?”

  “Shut up,” Shawncy commanded, focused on his task. “I’m checking to see if there’s a rune or two carved up under here. It’s about the only thing I can think of that makes your story add up.”

  Shawncy finally pulled the leather binding free and began unwrapping the hilt of the dagger. After a few turns, his eyes widened, and he hastened to finish the job. Soon, the leather wrappings were on the floor between his feet, and Shawncy was holding the dagger in his hands, with a look of utter disbelief on his face. There was more than just a rune or two underneath the wrappings. There entire handle was carved in a long, flowing script which spiraled around the hilt from one end to the other. It vaguely reminded Randall of the healing talisman he wore underneath his tunic.

  “Whoa,” Shawncy breathed. “That definitely is the real deal.”

  Randall, too, was mesmerized by the dagger. “Do you think Master Erliand did that?” he asked.

  “No,” Shawncy drawled out, slowly, as he rotated the dagger, inspecting the runes. “No, he didn’t. Nobody I know has enough knowledge of elven script to have written this. Nobody but the elves, that is.

  “This here is a bona-fide elven blade,” Shawncy continued, his voice still filled with awe and disbelief. “Only a high-ranking noble would have a blade like this. And it’s not some ceremonial bit of foppery, either. This is a war blade. This script is probably some epic poem celebrating some noble’s great feat of heroism. And you’d better believe there’s plenty of magic wrapped up in there.”

  Suspicion clouded Shawncy’s face. “What was your mother doing with something like this? No elf would give this up willingly! If the elves knew something like this had fallen into our hands, they wouldn’t rest until they got it back.”

  Randall’s mind immediately flashed to the healing talisman he wore. He knew it had elven healing runes on it. Now he began to wonder how his master had acquired them. He didn’t get a chance to wonder long before Shawncy pushed the dagger back into his hands.

  “I don’t want any part of this, boy,” Shawncy said, his voice rising in panic. “It’s over my head. Why’d Erliand have to send you to me and ruin my life?”

  “What do you mean? Master Erliand didn’t send me to you.” Randall said, confused.

  “What?” Shawncy said, looking even more confused than Randall. “Erliand didn’t send you for us to smuggle off the continent?”

  “No!” Randall said. “He just said to run. He didn’t say anything about you!”

  “If no one told you about me, then how in the devil did you find me, boy!” Shawncy snarled, grabbing Randall roughly by the arm.

  “I felt you!” Randall said, his own emotions rising to match the old shopkeepers. “You were drawing power, and I followed you from the market!”

  “Impossible!” Shawncy barked. “I was careful! You couldn’t have felt me from the market. You shouldn’t have even felt me from across the street!”

  “Well, I did!” Randall snapped. “How else would I have known you were a Mage?”

  The two glared at each other for long moments before Randall’s argument got the better of Shawncy’s paranoia. Shawncy let go of Randall’s arm and blew out a long stream of breath, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Well, if that’s true, then you’re more sensitive than anyone I know.” Shawncy said, appraising Randall carefully. “And I already know you can draw a respectable amount of power. It’s no wonder that Erliand took you on.”

  Randall looked down at his feet, trying to suppress a grin. Master Erliand almost never complimented him while he was studying. It was nice to hear someone lavish him with such praise. He always knew he could be more than just a second-rate farm boy. He was beginning to believe he could be more than just a second-rate Mage, too! But he’d never manage that without training. The thought reminded him of what Brody had said about “Old Earl”. He might actually be in town!

  “I just made it into town yesterday. I was thinking that maybe if Master Erliand had beaten Aiden that he would be here waiting for me, and I could find him. I think I half-hoped you would be him when I first felt you.” Randall said.

  “Well, Erliand’s not in town. I’m pretty sure I’d know it if he were.” Shawncy informed him. “He hasn’t come to visit me in my shop, and there’s no news on the street about him. Or about you, either, which is surprising, considering what you’ve claimed to have been through.”

  Randall could see that Shawncy still didn’t believe his entire story.

  “Do you think you could help me while I wait for him, then? You said something about smuggling me off the continent?” he asked as he picked up the discarded leather wrappings and began binding the hilt of his dagger, covering the runes.

  Shawncy’s face took on a calculating expression as he looked from Randall’s eyes to the enchanted dagger and back again. “Listen, Randall. The reason that many of us stayed on the continent was because we feel that what the king is doing isn’t right. Magic’s only been illegal a little over twenty years or so. For you, it’s been that way your whole life. It’s a fact of life. For us, it was genocide. It’s an atrocity. If you’ve got the Talent, and you aren’t working for the king, you’re put to the sword. It doesn’t matter if you’re six or sixty years old.

  “So, some of us stayed behind to help those who couldn’t help themselves. Part of what we do is smuggle Mages off the continent and to Salianca, where it’s safe. Kids, mostly,” he said.

  “But I can’t help you,” Shawncy continued, quashing the hope that had been rising in Randall’s chest. “I’m sure my cover here is already blown, so it’s best if I get myself out of the city. You should do the same. I’ll take you back to your caravaner friends, and you can continue to travel with them and hopefully make it to Port Medlin.”

  “What do you mean you can’t help me?” Randall asked angrily. “You said that it’s part of what you do!”

  “Sorry boy,” he said, sounding truly apologetic. “I have to look after my own skin, too. But I’ll give you a name. If you pass through Ninove, look up Edwin. He’s a cobbler. He can probably help you out.”

  “A cobbler? You’re passing me off to a cobbler?” Randall asked, incredulously.

  “Don’t be dense,” Shawncy snapped. “He’s more than just a cobbler, same as I was more than just an apothecary. He can give you some advice about how to get to the next stop.”

  “Some advice? That’s it? I’m running for my life, and you’re going to give me some advice?” Randall asked, his voice rising with each question.

  “Don’t be ungrateful, boy,” Shawncy snapped back. “And you watch your tone. Would you rather get put back on the street with nothing at all?”

  Randall fumed sullenly, but said nothing.

  “Let me explain how things work to you,” Shawncy said, growing annoyed at Randall’s selfish behavior. “Every now and then, a young Mage, usually your age, sometimes youn
ger, is placed in my care. I look after them for a couple of days, give them a cover story, and then arrange for them to move on to the next stop. “If they’re lucky, they make it to one of the port cities, and off the continent.”

  Shawncy paused, a pained expression on his face. “If they’re not lucky,” he continued after a moment, “they’re caught and killed. We do what we can, and we save several children every year, and more make it than don’t.”

  “But you could do so much more! You’re a Mage!” Randall argued. In the grand scheme of things, he didn’t feel like Shawncy and his cohorts were doing very much at all to improve the lives on Mages on Tallia.

  “What would you have us do?” Shawncy asked. “We are already exposed as much as we dare be. If one of us is caught and killed, who would be there to save the next child that comes along, huh? Answer me that.”

  Randall didn’t have an answer. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the underground Mages on Tallia should do more than hide and try to smuggle children. Anyone could do that. These were Mages! They should be able to do so much more. He didn’t know what, though, so he continued to say nothing.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Shawncy said, assuming he had won the argument. “You, on the other hand, already have a good cover story. And it will last you all the way to the coast, if you’re lucky. You’ve already done better for yourself than we could ever do for you. You don’t need our help. But we’ll give you what help we can anyway. If your cover’s blown before you reach Ninove, Edwin will know. He’ll know who is on the roads looking for you, and if Erliand is still alive. He’s far better connected to the happenings of the court than I will ever be out here in the country.”

  Randall had an idea. “You could come with us!” he said, excitedly. “Surely, between the two of us, we could handle any danger along the way! And you could teach me a bit more about magic!”