The Other Side of Magic

by Ester Manzini

  “There… there’s little to understand,” Da said. “We lost everything.”

  The house. His tools. Her tools, and her toys. Every last memento of her mom. That damned book, now but ashes under the crumbled roof. A lump of tears swelled in her throat, and she promptly swallowed it back.

  She was never going to be a mage.

  “Oh, stop it, you,” Clio snapped. “We’re alive, and that’s what matters!”

  “Yes, alive, and for how long? With my lungs I can’t build another house, and most of my medicines are gone, if…”

  “Luckily, your daughter is brighter than you, Folco!” Clio shot him a dirty look, but her eyes softened as she turned to Leo. “You did good, child: the salves you brought will be enough to sustain your father until fall.”

  Leo opened her mouth to speak, but her father interrupted her.

  “And then what? You speak as if we could build everything back, but look at us! We’re too few, too old or sick to work, and…”

  “We have three full months of summer, Folco! We can rebuild!”

  “With what money? Because that’s what we need: money to buy tools, to pay workers, to…”

  His voice dragged on in a long list of bare necessities, and his picture blurred in Leo’s eyes.

  He was right, of course. Their current situation gave “broke” a brand new meaning. All they had were the clothes on their bodies, some stinky salve that might or might not be enough to sustain his father until the first cold, and the food she’d brought back from the market. At that moment no one was hungry enough to eat.

  They needed money. Lots of money, and her pockets were as empty as her stomach.

  If only she hadn’t squandered it all buying unnecessary mince pies…

  “... and in case you’re wondering, Clio, money don’t just fall from the sky and in your lap! Either you earn it, or you steal it, but I won’t tolerate it, or…”

  “... or you collect a bounty.”

  The words rolled off her tongue before she could think about them.

  Clio and her father stopped bickering and turned to stare at her.

  “What?”

  “Oh? Sorry, Da, I wasn’t…”

  “No, repeat what you just said. Bounty?”

  The apathy protecting her from the vastity of her loss relented for a bit, showing a glimpse of shock and, behind it, the faintest blossom of an idea.

  Leo blinked and got up, rubbing her hands on her knees.

  “I mean… what if I knew a way to find money? Lots of money?”

  “Leo, if it means getting you into trouble…”

  “Da, no, listen. I knew about the soldiers. About the princess. I knew it before you even told me…”

  She quickly briefed them on her chat at the market, mentioning the impressive amount of money on the princess’ head.

  “They want her dead?” Clio gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Of course not! They just want her back, and… well, I thought that maybe…”

  Her father slowly stood up. The shawl that Clio had wrapped around his shoulders slid down, and he loomed over Leo.

  “I don’t like where that little head of yours is going…”

  “I tell you, fifty thousand talers. Fifty thousand! There’s enough to pay for a new home, far from this damned bog, and…”

  “Girl, are you really considering helping the same soldiers who ransacked your hometown?”

  Clio objection made sense, but not enough to cover the clinking of coin in Leo’s mind.

  She jumped to her feet, exhaustion gone, and paced back and forth. Her neighbours, the elderly couple who tended to Toad, glared at her.

  “Listen, I know. The Asares stink, and it’s an understatement, they’re criminals and everything but… think of the money! We may never have to worry again!”

  Clio crossed her arms and snorted.

  “Nonsense. That princess is Spirits-know-where, and you…”

  “I know the land. Better than any soldier. I can take care of myself, I can follow a track, and they said they suspected the princess went this way, didn’t they?” She raised her eyes to her father, almost begging. “Da, you know I could do it. And it’s a good idea.”

  A long silence, interrupted here and there by the crackling of the fires. Clio eventually sighed, returning to her herbs, and Leo waited for her father’s reprimand.

  It didn’t come.

  He just sat back on the ground, shaking lightly, and took her hand.

  “I shouldn’t let you go. You know, all that dad discourse like it’s too dangerous, I won’t tolerate this madness and such.”

  Leo crouched at his side. Her heart raced, and despite the late hour and the long journey, she felt a spike of energy through her.

  “You won’t though, will you?”

  “No. I can’t, because you’re right.” He let out a shuddering breath and patted her hand. “Like your mother, she was always right, but I don’t want to lose you too.”

  “I’ll be back! I just need to… pack up? I have food already. Clio, can I borrow a blanket? And some rope.”

  She let go of her father’s hand and jumped all around.

  Excitement slurred her words, the chaotic request for a mug, maybe a pocket knife? No, she had that already. And no, Toad was better with his family, and she would be safer on foot anyway.

  It was nearly dawn when she set off, after many kisses and hugs and “be careful” “No, you be careful.”

  She didn’t turn around as she left the Mill, because she knew that all her resolve was just a bubble ready to burst.

  Still, it sustained her for the first miles. It was near midday when weariness got the best of her: her legs ached, her back was stiff, and tears pricked in her eyes.

  Sitting under the low branches of an alder tree, she let the sleepless night and the trauma of her lost home slap her in the face.

  Was it really a good idea as she’d claimed? The princess could’ve been anywhere, and who was Leo to find her before troops upon troops of trained soldiers? And what if she failed? Da needed a safer place and his medicines, he needed her by his side.

  She buried her face in her arms, hugging her legs against her chest, and stifled a sob.

  Maybe I’m not enough for this.

  But then, in the darkness of her closed, burning eyes, the heart-shaped face of the lost princess flashed at her. Leo snarled and clenched her teeth.

  It was all her fault. That snotty brat, leaving a life of luxury and comfort for a taste of adventure, was behind this tragedy. She deserved to be tossed back to her family, with nothing but cold remarks and the knowledge that she was but a means to an end. A way to get all that money.

  Anger replaced fear and frustration, and when Leo lifted her head her cheeks were dry, her jaws set.

  Stretching her legs out reminded her how tired she was, but resting some more might mean wasting precious time. She got up slowly, wiping her eyes on her shoulder, and adjusted the sling of her satchel across her chest. Her brain started to work at the reassuring, familiar rhythm of gears and projects.

  She had food. Not much, but enough to sustain her for a couple of days far from any city. All she needed for now was to map the territory and check the troops’ movements. If they insisted on investigating the area, they probably had a lead.

  Daylight seeped through the trees.

  First thing: find a high point to control her surroundings. It was something she could do, an appreciated company that kept guilt at bay.

  She ruffled her hair and looked up the hills around her.

  It made sense. Elertha’s Mill was--had been--the closest settlement to the Zafirian border. If the soldiers were so determined to turn Epidalio upside-down to find their blasted princess, the Mill was a predictable starting point.

  Leo clenched her teeth and marched uphill and mentally retraced her previous day.

  Word of the patrols and their quest had reached Tarini, but the city was still in one
piece. Of course, it was a bigger place than her hometown, with a stable garrison of Zafirian guards. Using the same brutal methods in such a place would have resulted in a riot, and perhaps those beasts preferred to avoid it.

  For now.

  Words formed too quickly in her brain, overlapping and bouncing all around. The same as when she tried to read, but here she could grasp their meaning and try to put some order to the mess.

  As she made her way to the top of the hill, her satchel rubbed against her collarbones in a burning line. She snarled and went on with stubborn determination.

  Once she emerged on the crest, she blotted sweat from her forehead and looked around.

  If she squinted, she could still see the Mill, far to the north by the river. If she squinted, she could see the black halo of where her home used to be.

  Or maybe it was just her imagination.

  If they haven’t found her yet, how many more people will suffer from this madness?

  She frowned under the sun, and her eyes went back to the Mill.

  I should go back. Da needs me, and I could find a way to build us a new home from scratch.

  She pictured herself walking back to the scene of the tragedy, rummaging through the debris of her house. Salvaging what she could, forcing her family to live in a hut in the woods, unhealthy, full of draughts in the winter…

  No. They deserved better. She could provide better.

  She needed to believe that, and she repeated it in her mind until the words stopped making sense and her hands were steady again.

  She searched the horizon but found no more fires. Only there, in the distance, a pale spike poked through the mist.

  Zafirian’s royal palace. The day was clear enough to see it from here, even if in the South, over the mountains that marked the border with Hirdsland, white clouds were converging into the sky.

  That palace. It had all started from there, hadn’t it? Because of course a princess would live in a castle, pampered and coddled. And why in the name of the Mother would someone want to leave a life of comfort like that?

  A stupid girl no doubt.

  Leo couldn’t quite see herself dragging that brat back to the Queen, but if that was what she needed to save her people, then be it. Fifty thousand tallers were more than enough to erase any form of embarrassment.

  A bitter smile tilted her lips.

  I’ll have to learn how to drop a curtsy.

  By dusk, though, her good intentions had dulled a little. Fragments of hypothesis troubled her plan: what if the princess had been kidnapped? No easy task, since she doubted such a valuable asset could be an easy target, but not an impossible one either. This could’ve explained the fury of the searching squads. And if brigands were involved, how could Leo fight them?

  These doubts left room for gloomier thoughts, and she had to shut them out. It was too easy to let despair haunt her, and right now she had no time for bawling her eyes out like a little girl.

  She squeezed her eyes and pushed back tears, focusing on the sky. A nice sky, deep blue and purple, with pennants of darker clouds covering the first stars.

  The red blaze in one of the farthest valleys turned her breathing into a squawk. Her first reaction was to cover her head and run, but the tragedy of her own house paralyzed her into place. after a moment she recollected herself enough to peek through her arms, ready to see flames paint the forest again.

  But there was nothing. The twilight shrouded the land with grey, and of the flash of light was gone.

  Leo’s jaw fell open as she blinked stupor away. She could almost feel it--the prickling of magic on her skin, making the hair on her arms stand up as if after a thunderstorm.

  That was not the making of a group of soldiers demanding answers on the tip of their swords.

  The princess is a mage. Those two guys at the market said it--the manifest warned about her power. And I know what I’ve just seen.

  Something small and fierce came to life in her chest. She tightened the straps of her satchel, pulled her boots up to her knees and run down the slope.

  The princess was there, and she wouldn’t let her escape.

  Chapter 7

  Pain cracked through his bones. It clamped his neck and spine like a vine of fire--white and red and burning deep.

  With every breath he took, his skull swelled and twitched, and behind his closed eyelids everything was blots of crimson and black. His jaws were tingling, nausea gripped his throat, his mouth full of spit and the faint aftertaste of something salty and metallic.

  Blood. His blood.

  Evandro let out a grunt and tried to open his eyes. He failed--or was he blind? Under his cheek was something rough and mouldy-smelling. Voices all around him, the low huff of a horse.

  Was he moving? Who moved him? Why was the ground wincing beneath him?

  Where am I?

  Consciousness slowly flickered back in his head. Frowning, he tried to swallow, but his tongue felt so swollen, his lips so dry they cracked and bled. A low moan escaped his throat as a new set of unexpected sores added up to the already known ones. As he weakly squirmed on the damp boards rattling under his body, his wrists hurt, his hands stung with countless needles over the numbness.

  He was alive, and right now it didn’t look like the best of deals. Something crawled its way up his beard, and he resisted the urge to slap his face. The bug took flight, and he could indulge some more in his perplexed misery.

  Not dead yet. It meant more suffering, and he already felt too sick to live; he’d experienced the sensation too often in his past life, he wasn’t really into a new round.

  It meant more fight, too.

  To this, Evandro held on with his faltering senses. There were worse ways to die, but he couldn’t think of one at the moment.

  The voices surrounding him gained definition. He knew the words, rough Epidalian dialect spoken in hisses and sharp tones, but he couldn’t make out their meaning.

  Another bump in the road, another jolt of the carriage. His grunt was louder now, and someone slammed the cart.

  “Shut up you there,” said a stranger with a deep voice.

  “Let him be,” said a different, angry voice. “Can’t you see he’s wounded?”

  A woman. The captain of the patrol, Evandro thought. She sounded clogged, but very much alive nonetheless.

  Fully awake, he gingerly tried to move. His feet and legs first, and despite being stiff and heavy they seemed to be all in one piece.

  The hushed voices around him were still chatting in nervous undertones. Someone was singing under his breath, a wordless melody that was hushed by a barking order.

  Evandro rolled onto his back and lifted his arms. His hands were swollen, and the tight rope wrapped around his wrists was digging into his skin in an angry, bruised line.

  Outlaws, for sure. He couldn’t think of any other category desperate enough to ambush a group of fully armed people.

  But why are we still alive, then? Where are they taking us?

  Scrunching his nose, he tentatively brushed his head with his fingertips. The throbbing lump was as big as an egg, and still wet with blood. When he dropped his arms, his elbow hit something equally alive and rather pissed, because his other companion muttered a very detailed curse in his direction.

  A different accent--Zafirian. Yes, the soldiers were on his same cart, and not just their captain.

  Why kidnap a whole patrol?

  Evandro blinked. After some more effort, he cracked his eyes open, and he didn’t like it one bit. The blade of golden light exaggerated his headache and doubled his nausea, but slowly that, too, relented.

  He could see, after all, even if there wasn’t much to enjoy around him. He was lying flat on the bottom of the cart, and the trees above him framed the rest of the cargo.

  The captain was sitting at his left, her face bruised and her nose crooked to the side; her mouth and chin were caked with blood, and her thin brown hair was plastered to the side of her head. A second
soldier was at his right, and the remaining two were crammed behind the driver’s seat. All of them had been stripped of their armor, their wrists and ankles tied.

  Evandro kicked the boards to sit up, but the captain held him down with her boot.

  She shook her head, and he couldn’t find the energy to protest.

  Alright then. We’re currently trapped and I better behave. For now.

  Craning his neck to the side he made out some details of their captors. The driver was a balding man with freckles on his shimmering scalp and a yellow tunic; at his side, a scrawny kid in his late teens was leading the Zafirian horses, mounting the captain’s steed.

  Evandro focused on the voices. Two more horses pulling the cart, and at least ten, if not a dozen people marching in silence.

  The quiet lasted until the late afternoon. Evandro lay still for what felt like an eternity, and in the meantime his body recovered enough to make him restless.

  In the stretching shadows, the bandits were starting to chat. One of them was particularly vocal, and Evandro recognized the singing voice of earlier.

  “... so I think we should search for him, too.”

  A cough, a spat, and a second voice replied in exhausted patience. Young, too, but harsher.

  “He’s dead, kid. Otherwise he’d have done something in the last, you know, eight years of…”

  “Ah! But you’re mistaken, my good friend!” Whoever the so called kid was, his voice was too spry for Evandro's headache. When he spoke again the sound came from a different angle, as if the stranger had jumped to approach his partner from a better position. “Tell me, when can you call a man dead?”

  “Dunno. I’ve never seen anyone survive without their head. Or with a sword through his chest, too.”

  “Wrong again!”

  Spirits, why was that guy so energetic? Evandro threw his arm across his face, but apart from shutting the light out he was still plagued with those enthusiastic tones.

  “You can call a man dead when you can see their body. And they never found his corpse after the Slaughter!”

  “Yeah, the world is full of people who survived the collapse of half a castle,” grumbled the second man. “And they found his sword. His armor, too. Of course that man’s dead!”