Timothy glanced around at the wispy white silhouettes that flitted up toward the ceiling, drifting out through the walls.
Leander coughed, and when he spoke his voice was a rasp. “When you touched me, whatever it is in you that cancels out magic … it freed them … freed their spirits from Nicodemus’s control.”
Timothy shook his head in horror. Stolen magic, he thought. Nicodemus survived on stolen magic, kept himself young, made himself powerful. But that kind of power doesn’t mean anything to me. Carefully he touched Leander’s face, frowning, so many questions on his mind.
Yet in spite of his horror, he was also elated. He was an abomination to the mages of this world. Without magic, they thought of him as useless at best. A freak at worst. But un-magic could be a useful power of its own. I did it! The thought raced through his mind, over and over. I did it! I saved Leander. And all of those poor mages …I stopped Nicodemus.
Guess I’m not so useless after all.
He smiled, feeling better than he ever had since leaving the Island of Patience. Then he heard Ivar shout his name.
Timothy spun in time to see Nicodemus crouched over Sheridan’s shattered remains. The pieces of the mechanical man were scattered on the floor. He had seen this when he entered the room and his heart had ached at the sight, but he had tried to tell himself that Sheridan might be rebuilt, that Leander was the one in danger at the moment.
Now the Grandmaster reached into the pile of metal parts and shot to his feet, clutching one of the tools that Timothy had built into Sheridan’s chest cavity. It was a metal prong, and upon its end was a razor-sharp circular saw. Nicodemus smiled, his weathered, papery skin wrinkling hideously as he started toward Timothy.
It wasn’t over yet.
Ivar raced across the room, his footfalls silent upon the floor. His skin coloring shifted to try to match his surroundings, but he called out Timothy’s name again, and he drew Nicodemus’s attention. The archmage raised an arm and with an effortless flick of his wrist he struck the Asura warrior with a hex that sent him spinning across the chamber to crash into the wall.
Edgar cawed and swooped down at him, but the Grandmaster used magic to lift some of the still-smoldering stones from the floor and throw them at the rook. Timothy’s familiar was caught in the left wing by a piece of smoking debris, and it singed his feathers, causing him to crash to the ground with a panicked caw.
“Timothy!” Verlis roared. But the Wurm could do nothing. One of the hooded mystics was still standing, and it was all Verlis could do to shield himself from the mage’s magical attacks on the other side of the room. His wings were folded tight against his back and he vomited fire at the mage, whose robe and hood had been scorched and whose face was charred and blistered. Yet the mage battled on.
Timothy faced Nicodemus alone.
“You think because magic cannot harm you that you cannot be harmed?” the Grandmaster snarled, marching toward him. “This won’t be the first time I have killed with my bare hands, boy. And I’ll wager it won’t be the last.”
Timothy waited for Nicodemus to reach him. “I’ll take that wager,” he said.
The saw blade glinted in the chamber light. The Grandmaster lunged. But Timothy had been trained for combat by Ivar, and without magic Nicodemus was nothing but a vicious old man. Tim did not dodge out of the way. Instead he simply turned his body to one side and grabbed hold of Nicodemus’s wrist. The Grandmaster fought against his grip, and Timothy grasped the other wrist as well.
Lord Nicodemus gasped, his eyes wide, and his lips peeled back from his teeth. His jaws gaped and he began to shudder. Timothy tried to pull his hands away, to draw back, but he could not. He could only stare into the horrifying grimace on the Grandmaster’s face as a sudden fountain of silver light erupted from inside the archmage.
“What … what is it?” Timothy whispered.
But even before the words were out of his mouth he knew the answer. It was magic. All the magic that Nicodemus had leeched from other mages. Just as his touch had disrupted the control that the Grandmaster had over those poor shadow creatures, it had now shut down the old man’s power over the magic he had stolen.
The blast of silver light blew a massive hole in the ceiling of the chamber. Cracks spiderwebbed along the walls, and fissures opened in the floor with a thunderous tumult.
“No … no, it’s mine,” the archmage whispered, eyes sinking into his skull, voice becoming little more than a whisper.
Then Lord Nicodemus, the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred, withered away to dry, papery skin and brittle bones, and then even those crumbled to ash.
It was true after all.
Without magic he was nothing.
Epilogue
Alastor slunk through the inky darkness of SkyHaven’s lower levels, ever so careful not to be seen. They were searching for him, and he was not about to allow himself to be discovered. The familiar missed the fine meals provided by the Grandmaster, but would make do with the simple pleasures of SkyHaven’s vermin population.
The cat moved deeper into the bowels of the fortress, darting from one pool of darkness to the next, and soon arrived at the enormous engines that thrummed with the magical energies that kept the castle in the sky afloat. The space behind the engines was cramped, but well hidden, and the magic emanating from them would make it difficult for any spell to locate him here. During the day he rested, but after dark he emerged to prowl the empty halls.
Outside the sun was rising. Alastor slid into his place behind the engines, surrounded by the bones of vermin he had caught. He did not know how long his life would be this way, how long he would need to remain hidden, but he was not concerned. The cat closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that he would know when it was time. He would wait patiently for a sign that would bring him out of the shadows, and then he would exact horrible vengeance upon those who had wronged his master.
Alastor began to purr as he drifted off to sleep.
It is only a matter of time.
Timothy wanted to go home. He would have felt far more comfortable at his father’s estate—his estate, now—and with the portal his father had created he could go back and forth to the Island of Patience. That was what he felt he needed now more than anything else, a few days on the island, beneath the warm sun. The way it used to be, just Timothy, Ivar, and Sheridan. And now Edgar.
But it wasn’t to be. Not yet.
It had been four days since the Grandmaster’s evil had been discovered, four days since Timothy had faced Nicodemus and destroyed him. Chaos had prevailed in that time. The Parliament of Mages was investigating, of course, and Leander was still among its agents. The Order of Alhazred was being controlled, for the moment, by a tribunal of other guild masters, whose responsibility was to root out those who had been aware of Nicodemus’s crimes, even taken part in them. Those loyal to the Parliament and to the order, but not part of the Grandmaster’s inner circle, were being restructured as a new ruling body for the Alhazred guild.
It was a time-consuming process. Timothy was bored with politics, but as SkyHaven was the site for the tribunal and the investigation, and Leander had to remain on the floating fortress, Timothy had decided to remain with him. When Leander could leave, they would leave together.
Though he had bragged to Nicodemus that he could take care of himself, and he knew it was mostly true, Timothy wanted to keep his friends around him. A simple spell from a healing mage had repaired Edgar’s burnt wing. Though Ivar still had to deal with disdain and shabby treatment from most of the mages he met, he had his own room right beside Timothy’s now. Leander had insisted.
Yet there was another reason why Timothy had wanted to remain at SkyHaven for the time being. His workshop was there.
The sun shone brightly outside the windows and bathed the workshop in the warm golden glow of late afternoon. A cool breeze rushed through the room and the sound of the surf far below was a comfort to Timothy as he bent over one of his worktables, in
tent upon his task. Despite all the other things he had created, he had never been so consumed by his work.
Timothy let out a long breath and wiped his face with a rag. Before him on the table lay the silent, unmoving form of Sheridan. For days Timothy had been repairing him, rebuilding him, using both original and new parts. In some ways he had been improving Sheridan. The new gyros in his legs and lower torso would give him better balance and reduce the noise he made. His upper body would be stronger now. The steam engine inside him would pump more smoothly.
The only thing Timothy had left untouched was Sheridan’s head. He had not even attempted to start the mechanical man’s steam pump. Timothy knew that it was possible, even likely, that Sheridan had suffered enough damage that he would have lost all of his memory, all of his personality. For days he had pushed such thoughts away and continued at his work.
When Sheridan was done, when Timothy had finished with his repairs and upgrades, only then would he turn the steam pump on and wait to see if the light would go on in Sheridan’s eyes.
He took a long drink from a glass of water and glanced out the window at the ocean and the distant shore. Then he picked up the last of the new gyros he had to install and bent to fit it into place.
There was a knock at the door.
Timothy turned around quickly, the events of previous days still fresh in his mind. It would be some time before he was willing to give his trust to strangers again.
“Yes,” he called.
The door opened and Leander stepped into the room, his massive frame filling the doorway.
“Still at work?” the burly mage asked, nodding his great head toward the worktable.
“Until he’s done.” Timothy smiled tiredly. “I know, I know, you want me to rest. And I will. He’s almost ready.”
Leander cast a sad glance at Sheridan’s still form and walked farther into the workshop. He rested one huge hand on the mechanical man’s chest and turned to Timothy.
“He saved my life, Tim. I hope you can save his.”
Timothy gave a curt nod but he did not want to discuss it, so he changed the subject. “What’s happening upstairs? Have they sorted things out at last, disbanded the tribunal?”
A grave expression passed across Leander’s face. “They aren’t going to disband the tribunal. Not for a while. The Order of Alhazred has its new Grandmaster, but the tribunal will still be overseeing our Guild for some time, just to make certain there aren’t any other schemes that Nicodemus set in motion before he … before his evil was discovered.”
Timothy let his gaze drop, but only for a moment. “You said they chose a new Grandmaster?” he asked, looking up. “Who is it?”
Leander raised a hand and pushed his fingers through his shaggy red beard, gaze shifting around the room as though the question made him uncomfortable. Timothy understood immediately. He grinned and poked the big man in the stomach.
“It’s you, isn’t it? That’s wonderful, Leander. That’s … wait a moment.” His smile faded. They had made plans, and now those plans were being dismantled. “It means you can’t come back and live at the house, doesn’t it?”
Leander nodded slowly. “The Parliament and the tribunal have decided it would be best for the Grandmaster to continue to oversee the guild from SkyHaven. If there are still those who are loyal to Nicodemus, any schemes they have planned would likely originate here. There are dozens of hidden rooms and passages. We’ve only begun to unearth the secrets of this place. So, yes, I’m afraid I have to stay.”
Timothy felt a tiny ache in his heart as he thought of his father’s house and of the Island of Patience. He would visit them both, and soon, but for now …
“Then I will stay with you. We all will.”
The new Grandmaster smiled. “I’m pleased. I will worry about you less if you’re close by.”
“Don’t forget, though,” Timothy said. “I promised Verlis I would return to his world with him, that I’d help him save his family.”
Leander nodded. “And I know you will honor that promise. I will offer you what help I can. When will you leave?”
Timothy glanced down at Sheridan’s lifeless form. “Just as soon as I can. The day after tomorrow, perhaps. Or the next day at the latest.”
Several moments of silence passed between them as Timothy and his friend considered all of the changes that were taking place in their lives. Then Timothy frowned.
“Has the investigation turned up anything about Nicodemus’s master?”
“Nothing yet,” Leander said gravely. “I know I heard him speaking to someone, someone to whom he deferred. That is one of the main reasons why the Parliament wants me to remain at SkyHaven. With all of its secrets, it’s possible that whoever was giving Nicodemus orders may still be here somewhere.” His brow furrowed with concern. “There may be certain dangers for you here, Timothy, but I’ve given it a great deal of thought. I don’t think you’d be any safer at home. At least here, we’re all together.”
Timothy nodded slowly in agreement.
“And what of your own search?” Leander went on. “Any sign of the mysterious girl in the green dress?”
Timothy felt himself flush a little and he smiled. “Nothing yet. But I saw her, Leander. I did. If she hadn’t guided us, shown me where to land, we never would have reached you in time.”
“The tribunal has kept track of all the comings and goings at SkyHaven, and there’s been no report of a girl fitting the description you gave. The guards and groundskeepers and mages have all been spoken to, and no one remembers her.”
“But they would,” Timothy said firmly. “She was remarkable. It’s possible she lived in a part of the fortress that was hidden away, but Ivar has been searching for days and has found no trace of her. It’s almost as though she was a ghost.”
“Or a very powerful mage in her own right, to hide her trail from an Asura warrior,” Leander suggested.
Timothy nodded, remembering the girl’s sad, green eyes. “True, but not in league with Nicodemus. I don’t think so, at any rate. There was just something about her.”
Leander smiled knowingly. “I’m sure there was. Now then, I’ve got things to attend to. I’ll see you at supper?”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
The red-haired mage—the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred—turned and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Timothy watched him go and then returned his attention to the metal man on the worktable. Unmoving. Silent as though dead.
And suddenly Timothy could not wait anymore. Sheridan was not completely repaired, but he had to know. His chest felt tight and he gnawed his lower lip as he set aside the final gyro he had been about to install. The steam engine was ready to go. There was water in place. There was chaktury coal, which would burn for years if properly ventilated. All he needed was a match.
Timothy reached for the lamp on the table and opened it, Hungry Fire flickering brightly in the ocean breeze. He lit the tip of a small piece of kindling, then lowered it and slid the burning tip carefully inside Sheridan’s chest cavity. He touched it to the chaktury coal, and the small stone began to burn.
He shook out the match and quickly closed the engine, snapping the furnace into place and then closing the chest cavity as well. There were noises inside Sheridan’s metal body as the coal heated the water and the steam pump slowly began to come to life. Timothy held his breath and waited. There was a rattle and a hiss and he could hear the whir of the pump as it started up. He stared expectantly at Sheridan’s face.
A full minute went by and his heart sank.
Timothy lowered his eyes and let out a shuddering breath.
And a gasp of steam answered in reply.
He looked up to see that the red lights of Sheridan’s eyes were looking at him.
“Timothy … what happened?” the mechanical man asked. “Was I sleeping?”
“Yes,” Timothy said. “Yes, Sheridan, you were sleeping. Time to wake up now.”
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The Un-Magician Page 21
