Healer

by Bonnie Watson

  Coughing from the dust still settling around him, the young man rolled over to pull himself up using a toppled chair. After righting the furniture, he continued picking up what was left of his notes.

  “You neglected to tell me there was another syllable in that one.”

  “Syllables have nothing to do with it.” Jenario grabbed a paper still curling over itself in midair and slapped it down impatiently on the table. “Most of them are silent when cast properly.”

  Abraham kept his gaze down, searching for smaller pieces. They had been at it all day. Jenario taught while his son listened and practiced. Yet practice was quickly becoming a drill, one that required detailed attention, more so for the whereabouts of the horn rather than magical outbursts.

  With a sigh, Abraham tried straightening out his notes as best he could. Every now and then his nose twitched at the smell of burnt cloth and parchment.

  “You’ve a warm spot on your robe,” came the surprisingly calm tone of his father.

  Abraham checked the hem of his dark, wine robe. He nearly fell over himself at a hint of smoke beginning to curl from underneath. Dropping the paper, he jerked the fabric up so he could smother it out.

  From behind, there came a dry chuckle.

  “All that from one word?” Abraham could tell his father was not amused. He brushed a few ashy spots from his clothing while Jenario thumbed through a few pages of a spell book.

  “You have to learn how to properly pronounce these things,” he heard his father say. “If you don’t, you’ll end up with curses – like an old friend of mine.”

  “You know, I’d go with that if I knew what the outcome would be.” Abraham reached down to collect his notes yet again. He examined the mixed and somewhat tarnished information. “I don’t suppose there’s a way to undo this, is there?”

  Jenario raised a dark eyebrow flecked with gray. “For that mishap, you’re lucky. Spell casting can be very rewarding, and very misleading.” He gestured to the opened book. “For the magic-user, there’s the ability to recognize words of power, and then there’s the ability to cast them. I like to call it Intake and Release.”

  “I take it I have the Release?”

  Jenario held up his index finger. “Ever heard of the slave owner Shafari?”

  A nod.

  “He was once a companion, and first pupil of mine. It was I who came up with the spells that he misused, turning them into curses to run a slave compound!”

  The same compound that Wisdom shut down? Abraham wanted to question, but instead asked, “Whatever happened to him?” He slid a chair up to join his father at the table and sat the notes between them.

  “Eventually, the use of curses wore down his talent. Now he’s about as useless as a street magician – illusion. Nowadays, it doesn’t amount to much but a few copper thrown at your feet.”

  Abraham sat for a moment, thinking back to the days when he only knew illusion. He remembered his chance meeting with the albino Healer, whose words came to him in sudden realization.

  “Illusion can be useful,” he said.

  “Illusion is weak!” Jenario slid the book toward his son “You’re better than that! Yes, you have the Release – the ability to use magic. Why settle for something lesser when you can do so much more?”

  To emphasis his words, Jenario held up the necklace containing his crimson stone. Its reflective surface captured his son’s inquisitive stare in the candlelight. Beneath the reflective ripples of crystal rested a piece of dark horn.

  “How do you think I managed to obtain this? Not with illusion.”

  As he waved a hand toward the pile of paper his son had stacked on the table, the necklace began to glow. The stronger the glow, the more the paper moved until they had lined themselves across the tabletop so their missing corners matched.

  Abraham stared in awe as the ends meshed back together. When complete, the papers stacked on top of each other in the exact position they had originally been placed. Hesitantly, the young man picked up a whole sheet and read the top line of his notes.

  “But you’re not using your own magic for this,” Abraham said softly.

  Jenario released the stone with a hint of anger in his expression. The stone swung over his breast a few times before settling squarely in Abraham’s view.

  “There’s a balance to everything,” Jenario said. “Even magic. But many who use it don’t understand this. As for me? I started as an alchemist; therefore, I knew the properties of magic long before anyone else.” He rose from his seat, sweeping a hand around the room to carry his point. “An alchemist’s job is to deconstruct, to weight truths, to learn how Nature balances.” He tapped the side of his head, then the stone. “I learned that balance and used it to gain the magic I have now. What difference does it make if it isn’t my own? It’s the same with staves, rings, or any other magical device. How do you think they were created? Not by magic-users, I assure you. By alchemists! We are few in number, but powerful in what we create.”

  “I haven’t heard of any other alchemists, even while in Lexington,” Abraham admitted.

  “More likely they dealt with medicine versus understanding magic. In that respect, I would be the only one. I alone have the Intake, you see.”

  While his father rambled on, pointing to various books he had written over time, Abraham could do little more than listen. With a sigh, he scanned over the opened page from the book in front of him, then flipped to different sections to see what else it contained. Yet growing boredom soon muddled his attention. Instead of researching, he sat flipping the pages to pass time.

  His father was still speaking, back turned to him, when he let the pages fall open as they willed and sat back with arms crossed. With sullen attitude, Abraham let his mind wander. He stared, unfocused, at the page before him. Thoughts dated back to different points in his life, to the meeting of the Healer and Black Wing. The last time he had attempted to visit, Corrigan had managed to speak.

  The spell must be weakening. Abraham glanced to Jenario and shook his head. He was still in deep conversation about the possibilities of being a magic-user. Might as well tune back in. Another sigh, and he looked to see what page lay before him.

  Abraham nearly choked on his own breath. Blinking several times, he leaned closer to read the spell’s requirements. At the top of the page it read, Living Sleep. At the bottom was the spell itself and pronunciation guide.

  This is it! Excitement welled within as he scanned over the different sleeping patterns and how to wake someone by the way the word was pronounced. At last, he had found a way to free Corrigan!

  He snapped his attention back to his father. Still in deep conversation, Abraham began prying the page carefully and quickly from its bindings. He kept the page in line with the rest, for every now and then Jenario would check over his shoulder to see if he was still listening.

  “Tell me more,” Abraham had to prompt when he thought his father was nearly done. It was just enough to rip the bottom clean, then fold and slip in a pocket. With a turn of the page, nothing seemed out of place.

  That’s when a chuckle came. It was a deep, raspy tone, marking the beginning of the horn’s presence.

  Abraham froze with a hand still on his pocket when it spoke.

  “You think you’re so ready to undo what I’ve done?” Jenario turned, but the red eyes marked the horn’s full attention. “You’ve barely just begun to understand the basics, and already you’re looking into casting spells more powerful than you know how to pronounce!”

  Abraham remained silent as the horn circled him at a slow, but scolding pace. It was all the young man could do to keep a blank expression when his father came back around to face him.

  “Your pocket will more likely burn with that spell hidden there, or did you not think I knew?”

  Abraham swallowed nervously. He could read my thoughts all along!

  “Quite,” the horn said without much enthusiasm. “Your thoughts were so loud it nearly drowned
out Jenario’s nonsense. Though...even his knowledge will end up saving you the grief of self-destruction.” It stepped back to the spot where Jenario last spoke. “Learn it well.”

  Then it was gone, leaving Jenario to pick up the conversation where he had last left off. He turned to check on his son.

  “Any questions?”

  He doesn’t even know the horn spoke! Abraham shook his head in response. “But...maybe a few more test spells wouldn’t hurt.” He nodded toward the door with a grin. “I think I smell spirits.”

  Jenario’s shoulders drooped at the hint of using his wasted assassin as target practice.

  “Very well.” Folding his hands together inside his sleeves, he watched his son make haste toward the door. “Least he’s improving.”

  “He’d improve more by ridding you of that fool drunkard!” the horn snapped.

  “True. I asked him to keep watch over Abraham in return for liquor. Now, if Abraham doesn’t use the sober spell on him, drinking is all he does.”

  “He’s dying. Even sober, Nathaniel’s skills wouldn’t outlast mere swordplay. His body has about breached its own limits, soon to be the responsibility of someone else’s clean-up.”

  “I’m assuming you have something in mind?” A thin smile spread across Jenario’s face.

  “Don’t I always.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Rusha spread his wings in landing position, allowing a glimpse of creamy underside. The clearing was empty, save for Chronicles and several clan members standing on the outskirts. The White Wing leader spread his talons upon contacting ground, landing on all fours in a thrash of flying dirt and grass. Rising to a standing position, he turned with the grace of a skilled warrior in order to block an oncoming attack.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see hand movements from the surrounding Healers. Knowing it was they who controlled the illusionistic humans popping up from the ground, he felt confident the exercise would help his people better handle humans in real combat.

  An explosion of dirt thrust upward, taking shape as it rose on two legs. None of the excess dirt thrown about had time to settle, for it quickly collected together to add form. More of these dirt humans surrounded the leader. A wing sliced through as he turned in a circle to decapitate from waist up. Dirt spewed everywhere, only to rejoin and create another body. The Lo-ans’rel were good, he realized. Too good.

  A pair of hands caught and held his wings, halting a spin attack. Another grabbed his arms. When a kick to the back of his knee forced him in a kneeling position, he began to reconsider their strength in numbers. Individuals could be dealt with, but a group could mean problems.

  Rusha pursed his lips together, letting a series of high-pitched whistles echo throughout the woods. Though the Wing’s vocal chords were designed for intense, territorial calls, he now used it to summon help.

  It was the moment his people had been waiting for. At his signal, they dived from the surrounding treetops over the group of earthen figures. Unlike humans, harpies needed no clothing. White feathers covered their tender areas, a protection against sharp bark while climbing trees, and now in training. Though usually dawning a golden robe, Rusha had thrown it off earlier in the heat of combat.

  A slash of talons cut through an arm holding him. With his wing free, he used it to knock another from the opposite side before signaling for his kind back to the skies.

  “Dive and fly!” had been the plan, devised by Chronicles himself. The Lo-ans’rel leader held Rusha’s garment patiently until the White Wing’s return to the outskirts. While he still gave orders to his people in training, he took back the robe and slipped it on.

  “Would you like for me to hold it during real combat?” Chronicles mused.

  “If you’re so sure humans will fight like this.”

  “This is only speculation.” Chronicles continued to watch the fray. He made a gesture that turned a few of the earthen beings toward a wave of oncoming harpies. “Speed is your ally. Be swift, and your attacks may garner no casualties. The key is keeping human eyes to the sky. That way they don’t anticipate anything striking from the ground.”

  “Or up from it, at least,” Rusha murmured. “I’m sure these could produce a fair amount of damage.”

  Chronicles held back a smile. “Don’t test me.” He leveled his hand, producing a javelin for one of the earth figures to hurl.

  “Watch it!” Rusha called. He held his breath as the javelin hit a harpy square in the chest, though it mostly broke apart rather than puncture. The surprised Wing lost momentum in the attack, hurtling into some of the others. Tangled wings slammed against ground, halting training until the group recovered and returned to the sky.

  “You want your people to be prepared against any attack,” Chronicles warned, seeing a look of disgust on the leader’s feathered face. “That’s the purpose of this.”

  “My purpose is to free my kind from human enslavement,” Rusha said with sullen attitude. “That is the only reason I’m agreeing to this.”

  “And a second reason would be your other son?”

  Rusha bit his tongue. He knew what the Healer meant by other. It had been some time since he had last seen Corrigan. The Black Wing had left to find his captured mother with the help of a human mage.

  Why a human?

  “It was foolish to trust,” Chronicles commented on Rusha’s thoughts. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t end up in slavery himself.”

  “He came back once.” Rusha sounded hopeful. “He may do so again.”

  “To what extent? He never appreciated being what he is, and you never admitted his blood-link to the clan. Most likely, you never will. So if he dies in the human realms, there’s not much to hide.”

  Rusha looked away to avoid that look of shame. He had never told Chanté he had a brother. On the flip side, Corrigan knew everything about his family heritage. Why have I not told Chanté?

  Chronicles signaled for the group to take a break. As the dust settled, White Wings rested with drooping wings and confident, but cheeky grins about the whole process. They chatted amongst themselves over correcting mistakes and countering moves while Rusha brought up the subject of the Healer’s own two sons still in the human realms.

  At first, Chronicles made no comment.

  “You haven’t heard anything of Shy. How can you be so sure even Jangus will return?” Rusha persisted.

  “Because unlike Shy, Jangus didn’t go in to interact with humans! He went alone, so there wouldn’t be any distractions, either.”

  At this, Rusha’s feathers puffed out with rising temper. Yet before he could say another word, Chronicles interjected.

  “You should be more concerned about Chanté. You’ve already lost one son to a human, and he went in specifically for interaction.”

  Slowly, Rusha drew back his feathers, though his wings still twitched in agitation. “He went in looking for his mother. Perhaps once this is over, I’ll have answers for both.”

  *****

  A fresh breeze whipped up the smell of salty ocean along the boardwalk. The thud of the prince’s ankle boots across its wooden plank only added to the activity served by the sea. He watched men toss fish from their morning sails onto the docks, then load into wooden carts and wheel away to individual prospects. Fishing equipment jingled together as they were cleaned, with tangled netting strewn about the way. It was hard not to come across a lone hook or loose line left by boatmen still out at sea. Keeping this in mind, Wisdom was careful where he stepped, as the docks were still slick from earlier catches.

  As he passed one of these loaded carts, Wisdom temporarily held his breath. The stench of fish guts was enough to churn anyone’s stomach. Yet the unfazed men pressed on, preoccupying themselves until the next batch of fish could come in.

  Up ahead, the tap of hammers from a nearby smithy pinpointed the Phine’s family business. Eager to clear the fishing docks and speak with Mr. Phine, the prince hastened his step. The idea of introducing dail
y catches seemed appropriate to generate more income for the harbor.

  A fishing vessel, docked a few yards from his destination, signaled for some extra hands. Wisdom eyed a handsome marlin clear the deck. It smacked the dock, sliding his way until finally stopping at his feet. Several gold stripes vertically marked its side, with a snow-white underbelly that rivaled his own hair color.

  Fine catch, indeed! He nodded to the men as he passed. A few laughing gulls pecked over severed fish parts, but cleared the prince’s path when he came close. With his eye on the line of row houses and shops along the docks, he envisioned their expansion to match the newly renovated town. So engrossed in the thought, he nearly walked past his destination.

  It was unusual not to hear Josephine’s chipper greeting. The young man was always close by, but the only greeting Wisdom received was a closed door and loud hammering coming from inside the shop. Mr. Phine was hard at work and would not hear the prince’s knock unless he either let himself in, or distracted the work in order to hear. At present, neither were in his favor.

  At the spread of his fingers, a soft blue glow slipped under the door.

  Wisdom waited for the illusion spell to mask the mighty blows of the shipbuilder’s hammer. It did not take long before the hammer stilled, soon replaced by a string of sailor’s swearing. A shuffle of feet approached the door, which swung open on creaking hinges.

  “Ye’ve some way of making yerself known!” Mr. Phine huffed, stepping outside to wash his hands in a bucket of water. As he wiped them on his smithy apron, he continued, “Heard you’d had some trouble a few days back.”

  “Nothing a little healing couldn’t cure.” The prince lifted his arm to show where the breakage had occurred.

  “Be glad you can, Healer. I’ve seen breaks like that cripple grown men for months!” Mr. Phine glanced toward the docks where the large marlin was being carted. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”