Kalab turned toward Jaraim and squawked again. The message was clear: Run while I hold him off.
“I’m sorry,” Jaraim shouted as he fled for the door.
Jaraim skidded on slippered feet as he bolted into the hallway. Behind him he heard a terrible shriek that could only have come from a giant crow. He put his head down and ran. There was only one hope.
The masters did not sleep in the dormitories, and none of the other students would be of any help. Below, in the basement of the school, there was a door. It was older than the building itself; the school had been built over it. The elder students were told of it, warned that it was only for use in dire emergencies. No one knew where it went, but if an experiment went badly enough, it was a sure escape.
Jaraim tore through the halls, bounded down stairways three steps at a time. He could hear the scrabbling claws as Alkax pursued. He did not spare the breath to scream or cry. Most of his fellow students would wake with no knowledge of what had befallen Jaraim. Except Faulyr. He would know. Would he cover his tracks, or expose Jaraim as a summoner who had met his end by his own vile art?
Jaraim reached the basement level with the sound of Alkax’s pursuit fading behind him. His longer legs and panic-stricken energy gave him an edge in speed over the chubby demon, but that only bought him a moment’s lead. It ought to have been enough.
When Jaraim rounded the final turn, he stopped short.
“I thought you might be down here tonight,” said Faulyr, leaning casually against the ancient door.
“You…you,” Jaraim said, short of breath and short of words as well.
“You have three options,” said Faulyr. “If you want, I’ll let you right through this door. You can send yourself off to who-knows-where, whether that’s any better than where Alkax wants to take you or not. Or…you can apologize for cheating me out of First Initiate, confess, and renounce your claim before the whole assembly. I can use the binding chant on Alkax if you tell it to me.”
“The third option?” Jaraim asked. Third options left lingering were usually the ones the speaker meant you to take.
“We fight one another right here, and even if you win, that demon will drag you off in servitude.”
Jaraim did not even bother with a response to that option. Alkax was growing closer by the second. He told Faulyr the chant.
Hearing the profane words spoken aloud by Faulyr made Jaraim’s teeth ache. He backed away, cringing. Alkax fared far worse. The pudgy little demon squealed, his mouth contorted to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth. His steps faltered and Alkax fell to his hands and feet, his belly too round for his knees to touch the floor.
Faulyr continued the chant, and Jaraim watched in admiration as the rightful First Initiate took control of the demon’s body. Alkax drew slowly to his feet, but not of his own volition; he was a puppet, fighting his strings. The demon’s movements slowed, his body twitching and spasming under the strain of fighting the binding chant.
Sweat beaded on Faulyr’s face. The outstretched hand that pantomimed a crushing grip on Alkax began to quiver with fatigue. He took a quick glance over his shoulder at the shimmering light from the door. Jaraim smirked at the realization that Faulyr was considering jumping through if he lost control.
“Help me, or he’ll have us both!”
Faulyr instantly resumed his chant. Even in that brief interruption, Alkax had advanced a step and set his claws grasping at the air toward his captor. The demon’s attention had diverted away from Jaraim entirely.
Jaraim circled around, careful to keep out of the demon’s reach should Faulyr falter. Though he favored his roommate with a malicious grin, he offered his reassurance. “Keep him under control. We’ll get him from both sides. Can’t say I’m not enjoying seeing you sweat, though.”
“Hurry!”
Jaraim took a long breath and steadied his nerves. Alkax was aligned directly between the two student wizards, hanging mid-leap after his latest brief advance toward Faulyr as the chant was interrupted. The two treacherous creatures were devoting all their power toward each other’s destruction—instead of Jaraim’s, for once.
Jaraim began a chant of his own, using syllables of the Elementalists’ Codex and keeping his voice low. Commanding the four aspects of nature had never been his strongest talent, but he knew enough. Iogi had tutored him on all manner of practical magic. He might not have been Faulyr’s equal in history or magical theory, but if Faulyr were as well-versed in demonology as Jaraim, he wouldn’t have needed aid to destroy a bound demon.
As Jaraim finished his spell, a gale blew through the basement corridor, more focused and determined than any mundane wind. It caught both traitors in its grasp and hurtled them toward the open door. Faulyr, fool that he was, continued the chant as a scream even as he left first his feet, then the world. Alkax broke free of the binding almost instantly, but it was too late for the demon. Though he managed to twist in mid-air and spit a vile curse, he was swept through to who-knows-where, just as Faulyr had been.
With a flourish of his fingers, Jaraim diverted the last of his gust to catch the door and blow it shut. It slammed with booming finality. His heart pounded in his chest and a giddy laugh escaped him. Slumping against the wall, he found his limbs trembling. Soon there would be questions, demands for answers, a formal inquiry. He didn’t have much time to compose himself, but for the moment, he savored the taste of freedom.
***
The following evening, Jaraim sat alone in his room, his desk gone. The masters let Jaraim have Faulyr’s, since his unfortunate roommate would no longer require it. There was an emptiness deeper than just the dust-free spot where the desk had been. The masters had ordered it carted away and burned. Jaraim had lost two friends last night—one true and one false. The only tears he shed were for brave, loyal Kalab.
In a contemplative mood, he wandered down to the basement level, spotting Zenisha in the halls. She saw Jaraim and sought him out. “Tell me it isn’t true,” she said, sniffling. Her eyes were red and swollen.
Jaraim hung his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it is. It’s not your fault. If I had known, I’d have stopped him. Please believe me; I’d never condone using love charms.” With no one to gainsay him, Jaraim could spread whatever tales he liked about Faulyr. For all he knew, Faulyr had used the charm that Alkax bartered for his name.
Zenisha broke down crying and hurried away. Much as he wished to comfort her, Jaraim knew she did not need him right then. Someday, perhaps, he could be that kind of comfort to her. Not today.
When Jaraim reached the door in the basement level, he found it open. Master Orryn stood before it, lost in thought as he gazed into the iridescent light that poured from it. “Where do you think he ended up?” Jaraim asked.
Master Orryn sighed. “One of the great mysteries. Alas, First Initiate, for all that you may ever learn, you will never find the answers to every question.”
Jaraim hid his smirk from Master Orryn. “Poor Faulyr. He should have known better than to trifle with forces he didn’t understand.”
About The Author
J.S. Morin is a creator of worlds and a destroyer of words. As a fantasy writer, his works range from traditional epics to futuristic fantasy with starships. He has worked as an unpaid Little League pitcher, a cashier, a student library aide, a factory grunt, a cubicle drone, and an engineer—there is some overlap in the last two. Through it all, though, he has always been a storyteller. Eventually he started writing books based on the stray stories in his head, and people kept telling him to write more of them. Now that’s all he does for a living.
For more information, visit http://www.jsmorin.com/.
Rolling the Bones
Richard Levesque
Editor’s Note: If science fiction explores the implications of new technology, then this one might better be called science fiction, despite its magical trappings. Not the darkest story in the collection, but quite possibly the creepiest.
The sedan c
hair came to a stop, and the bearers lowered it to the ground. It was meant to hold one person only, but today it held two. Inside, Roderick tried his best not to touch the king’s body, which was easier now that the chair had stopped rocking with the bearers’ gait. Even so, he had pressed himself as far into a corner of the conveyance as was possible. Not for the first time in the last twelve hours he wished himself invisible or far, far away, but his wishes got him nowhere. Without intending it, he had gotten himself into this situation; there was nothing for it now but to let it play out. Old Windhover had rolled the bones, and Roderick realized he was nothing more than one of the pieces the wizard was manipulating on a game board that only he could see.
Old Windhover had pulled the curtains down before sending Roderick and the king on their way. Now, anxious and impatient, Roderick pulled the richly-embroidered fabric aside to peek out. As he had guessed, they were in the marketplace—a bustling cluster of tents and stalls in the castle’s main courtyard that was filled with jugglers and minstrels milling about among the shoppers, gawkers, and cutpurses. Everything was brightly colored, lavish, and loud. Roderick stared as a bearded man led a harnessed bear cub past three bawdy women near the castle gate. So busy had Old Windhover kept Roderick since the start of his employment three weeks before that the magician’s helper had had little opportunity to visit the marketplace during his time at the castle; now he could not help staring at the people and their behavior.
His eyes were drawn from this bounty when he noticed Old Windhover standing near the gate through which the sedan chair must have just passed. He was speaking with an old woman, her back hunched and gray whiskers sprouting from her chin. Roderick had known her type in the Nevergreen forest where he had grown up—a midwife and healer, a knower of herbs and a whisperer of spells for the times when herbs wouldn’t do. The pair approached the palanquin after a few moments, and Old Windhover leaned in through the window, a bony hand pulling back the curtain.
“Help the king out, Roderick,” he said. “You’re to lead him along behind Lorentia here. She will pass among the stalls and talk to some of the women. When she finds the one she wants, you’re to read this to her, loudly enough for all nearby to hear.”
He thrust a rolled and sealed parchment through the window, and Roderick took it without thinking.
“How will I know she’s found the one she wants?”
“She’ll tell you.”
Moments later, Roderick had managed to climb over the king and exit the sedan chair. The monarch, gray haired and doddering, allowed himself to be led out into the sunshine, his pale face tipped up toward the light and a vacant smile on his lips—as though he were a child who had just been allowed outside after a long period indoors. Roderick cringed when he had to touch the king, but there was nothing for it now. The old man would have wandered off without being guided, so Roderick took a deep breath and put his hand on the king’s arm so that he could lead His Majesty through the marketplace after Lorentia. Shoppers, merchants, entertainers, and ne’er-do-wells parted for them without a word, and the murmur of the crowd hushed to silence as they passed.
Roderick watched, confused, as Lorentia went into the first stall. She seemed interested only in the women, and the young ones at that. She spoke not a word but checked their fingers. If she found a wedding ring, she moved on to the next. The unmarried women she considered carefully, walking three full circles around each before leaning in to sniff their hair.
Whatever the witch woman was doing, Roderick thought, it couldn’t be good for the woman who ended up being the one Old Windhover had described as “the one she wants.” Not for the first time since this bizarre affair had begun the night before he thought about bolting, about leaving the king on his own and running for his life. He wouldn’t look back until he was in the Nevergreen again.
Appealing as the fantasy was though, his feet stayed right where they were, and his hand did not stray from its place on the king’s arm. Old Windhover was powerful. He might appear avuncular and even absentminded at times, but Roderick had heard plenty of stories about the wizard’s wrath and the part he had played in the king’s court over the years. Stories of palace mice who had once been difficult ministers, and thunderclouds that followed intractable gentry for weeks on end before they acquiesced to the king’s wishes. No, Roderick thought. If he ran now, he wouldn’t make it to the castle walls, at least not in human form.
He remembered one of his first conversations with Old Windhover, the wizard having just hired Roderick as his assistant. “Power,” Old Windhover had said then. “It’s not in strength, you know. Not always. It’s in how you roll the bones.” Then the magician had given his new assistant a secret smile and shook the little leather bag full of finger bones that he always kept looped onto his wrist. “Make sure you roll the bones well, boy. Roll ‘em well. And always keep your eyes open so you know when someone else is rolling theirs.”
It had been both advice and admonition. So he stood still, doing as the wizard had commanded—tending to the king and watching for the old witch woman’s signal. After sniffing each woman’s hair, Lorentia wrinkled her nose in disgust and started the process all over again. In this way, she examined every woman—merchant and patron alike—in eight different stalls before she found what she was after.
The woman in question was young and comely, with dark hair and wide blue eyes. She appeared to be the daughter of a potato seller, and her mother at first objected to her daughter being so roughly examined. When Lorentia gave her a piercing look, the protest died on the woman’s lips. Once she had finished sniffing the daughter’s hair, the witch woman said, “Are you betrothed?”
“No,” came the meek reply.
“Had a lover in the last two days?”
“No!” said the shop maid, her reply no longer meek and her cheeks red with embarrassment.
Then Lorentia turned toward Roderick and gave a clear nod. She had found the one she wanted.
Nervously, Roderick advanced, keeping hold of one of the king’s sleeves. When he had gotten as close as he dared, he stopped. Roderick took a deep breath, fearful that the monarch would flee once his sleeve was released, and then he let the fabric go. The king seemed not to have noticed. Roderick let his breath out and broke the seal on the rolled parchment Old Windhover had given him.
“Be it hereby proclaimed,” he said, his voice shaking and barely audible.
“Louder!” he heard Old Windhover say from the edge of the crowd, but when Roderick looked around, the magician was nowhere to be seen. Had he taken a new shape? Or was his voice somehow in Roderick’s head? He began again, louder this time so that all who had gathered around the spectacle of the old king and the witch woman could hear.
“Be it hereby proclaimed that His Majesty, King Runnelstone the Grievous of Melincar, having found this woman to be most desirable, fitting of her station, and an example to all, does here in the presence of these witnesses and before any of the gods who may deign to observe such mortal trifles, make known his intention to wed her this very day in the high chapel in the castle of his ancestors.”
Another murmur rose up among the onlookers. The young woman’s mother gasped, while the king’s intended looked taken aback, both frightened and amazed. And Roderick, realizing the import of the words he had just read, felt his cheeks grow red at the lies Old Windhover had just compelled him to read in public. The king hadn’t “found” the woman at all. He had no idea what her qualities were, and Roderick well knew that everyone standing in the marketplace had seen the witch woman make her selection for the king. None standing in earshot would dare call it a lie, but Roderick knew they were all thinking it.
Roderick’s humiliation was not at an end, however. There was one more sentence, and he read it just as loudly and clearly, despite his consternation. “Let it furthermore be proclaimed that any issue of their union, whether male or female, shall be His Majesty’s sole heir and the future ruler of this sovereign land, and that the futur
e monarch’s mother shall henceforth be treated with all the respect and dignity as is befitting the mother of such a royal personage.”
Amid the further hubbub, he heard the prospective bride’s reaction. “Our union?” She looked as though she had just opened a packet of spoiled beef and was now expected to eat of it with glee. Fear and disbelief played across her face; even so, when her gaze shifted from the king’s visage to Roderick’s, the magician’s helper couldn’t help but feel drawn to her. Frightened or not, her eyes were blue pools that he felt he had just fallen into.
“Your name, m’lady?” the witch woman asked.
“Jillian,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
“Do you accept your liege’s offer of matrimony?”
The potato seller’s daughter hesitated. Roderick saw her look at the king, horror in her eyes.
“I cannot,” she offered, fear causing her voice to slip out in the tiniest of whispers.
“You can,” said the witch woman.
A spark came into the young woman’s eyes, and with a bit of hope in her voice, she said, “I am betroth—”
Lorentia cut her off. “To a king?”
“No.”
“Then His Majesty’s betrothal takes precedence.” The old woman leaned in closer and spoke quietly, so quietly that Roderick may have been the only other one in the potato stall to hear. “You lie, girl. Accept the king’s proposal. It will go hard for you and your mother if you don’t.”
Further horror played across the young woman’s face as she considered the witch woman’s cruel smile. For her part, the old midwife merely nodded encouragement.
Finally, the young woman whispered, “I accept.”
“Louder.”
“I accept.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she spoke the words loud enough for all to hear, and Roderick had to blink back his own tears at the sight of her ruin.
All These Shiny Worlds Page 4
