The Magician

by Michael Scott

  The Comte de Saint-Germain had brought Sophie up to the house’s tiny roof garden. The view of Paris was spectacular, and she leaned on the balustrade to look down onto the Champs-Elysées. Traffic had finally faded to little more than a sparse trickle, and the city was still and silent. She breathed deeply; the air was cool and damp, the slightly sour smell of the river masked by the herbal scents coming from the dozens of overflowing pots and fancy containers scattered across the roof. Sophie wrapped her arms around her body, vigorously rubbed her forearms and shivered.

  “Cold?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “A little,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if she was cold or nervous. She knew Saint-Germain had brought her up here to teach her Fire magic.

  “After tonight, you will never feel the chill again,” Saint-Germain promised. “You could walk across Antarctica wearing shorts and a T-shirt and feel nothing.” Brushing his long hair off his forehead, he plucked a leaf from a pot and curled it between the palms of his hands, then rubbed them together. The crisp odor of spearmint filled the air. “Joan loves to cook. She grows all her herbs up here,” he explained, breathing deeply. “There are a dozen different types of mint, oregano, thyme, sage and basil. And of course lavender. She loves lavender; it reminds her of her youth.”

  “Where did you meet Joan? Here, in France?”

  “I finally got together with her here, but believe it or not, I first met her in California. It was 1849; I was making a little gold and Joan was working as a missionary, running a soup kitchen and hospital for those who’d gone west in search of gold.”

  Sophie frowned. “You were making gold during the Gold Rush? Why?”

  Saint-Germain shrugged and looked vaguely embarrassed. “Like just about everyone else in America in ’48 and ’49, I went west in search of gold.”

  “I thought you could make gold. Nicholas said he can.”

  “Making gold is a long, laborious process. I thought it would be far easier to dig it up out of the ground. And once an alchemist has a little gold, he can use that to grow more. That’s what I thought I’d do. But the land I bought turned out to be useless. So I started planting a few fragments of gold on the land and then I’d sell the property to those people who had just arrived.”

  “But that’s just wrong,” Sophie said, shocked.

  “I was young then,” Saint-Germain said. “And hungry. But that’s no excuse,” he added. “Anyway, Joan was working in Sacramento, and she kept meeting people who had bought useless land from me. She thought I was a charlatan—which I was—and I took her for one of those dreadful do-gooders. Neither of us knew the other was immortal, of course, and we hated one another on sight. We kept bumping into one another over the years, and then, during the Second World War, we met again, here in Paris. She was fighting with the Resistance and I was spying for the Americans. That’s when we realized that we were different. We survived the war, and we’ve been inseparable ever since, though Joan keeps very much to the background. None of my fan blogs or the gossip magazines even know we’re married. We could probably have sold the wedding pictures for a fortune, but Joan prefers to keep a very low profile.”

  “Why?” Sophie knew that celebrities valued their privacy, but to remain completely invisible seemed just strange.

  “Well…you have to remember that the last time she was famous, people tried to burn her at the stake.”

  Sophie nodded. Suddenly, remaining invisible sounded perfectly reasonable. “How long have you known Scathach?” she asked.

  “Centuries. When Joan and I got together, we discovered that we knew a lot of people in common. All immortal, of course. Joan’s known her a lot longer than I have. Though I’m not sure if anyone really knows the Shadow,” he added with a wry smile. “She always seems so…” He paused, hunting for the right word.

  “Lonely?” she suggested.

  “Yes. Lonely.” He gazed out across the city and then shook his head sadly and looked back over his shoulder at Sophie. “Do you know how often she has stood alone against the Dark Elders, how many times she has put herself in terrible danger to keep this world safe from them?”

  Even as Sophie started to shake her head, a series of images flashed through her consciousness, fragments from the Witch’s memories:

  Scathach, wearing leather and chain mail, standing alone on a bridge, two blazing swords in her hands, waiting as enormous sluglike monsters gathered at one end.

  Scathach in full armor, standing in the door of a great castle, arms folded across her chest, her swords stuck into the ground at her feet. Facing her was an army of huge lizardlike creatures.

  Scathach, clad in sealskin and furs, balanced on a shifting ice floe as creatures that looked as if they had been carved out of the ice itself surrounded her.

  Sophie licked her lips. “Why…why does she do it?”

  “Because that is who she is. That is what she is.” The count looked at the girl and smiled sadly. “And because it is all she knows. Now,” he said briskly, rubbing his hands together again, sparks and cinders spiraling up into the night air. “Nicholas wants you to learn the Magic of Fire. Nervous?” he asked.

  “A little. Have you ever taught anyone else?” Sophie asked hesitantly.

  Saint-Germain grinned, showing his uneven teeth. “No one. You will be my first student…and probably my last.”

  She felt her stomach flip-flop, and suddenly this didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, the chances of coming across another person whose magical abilities have been Awakened are very slight, and those of finding someone with as pure an aura as yours, next to impossible. A silver aura is incredibly rare. Joan was the last humani to have one, and she was born in 1412. You are very special indeed, Sophie Newman.”

  Sophie swallowed hard; she wasn’t feeling very special.

  Saint-Germain sat down on a simple wooden bench set back against the chimney breast. “Sit here beside me, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Sophie sat beside the Comte de Saint-Germain and looked across the roof, out over the city. Memories that were not hers flickered at the edge of her consciousness, hinting at a city with a different skyline, a city of low buildings clustered around a massive fortress, thousands of smoke trails rising into the night. She deliberately shied away from the thoughts, realizing she was seeing Paris as the Witch of Endor remembered it, sometime in the past.

  Saint-Germain shifted to look at the girl. “Give me your hand,” he said softly. Sophie put her right hand in his, and immediately a feeling of warmth coursed through her body, wiping out the chill. “Let me tell you what my own teacher taught me about fire.” As he was speaking, the count moved his glowing index finger across the girl’s palm, following the lines and ridges in the flesh, tracing a pattern on her skin. “My teacher said that there are those who will say that the Magic of Air or Water or even Earth is the most powerful magic of all. They are wrong. The Magic of Fire surpasses all others.”

  As he was speaking, the air directly in front of them began to glow, then shimmer. As if through a heat haze, Sophie watched the smoke twist and dance with the count’s words, creating images, symbols, pictures. She wanted to reach out and touch them, but she remained still. Then the rooftop faded and Paris vanished; the only sound she could hear was Saint-Germain’s softly insistent voice, and all she could see were the burning cinders. But as he spoke, images started to form in the fire.

  “Fire consumes air. It can heat water to mist and can crack open the earth.”

  She watched as a volcano spewed molten rock high into the air. Red-black lava and white-hot cinders rained down on a town of mud and stone….

  “Fire destroys, but it also creates. A forest needs fire to thrive. Certain seeds depend on it to germinate.”

  Flames twisted like leaves and Sophie saw a forest blackened and battered, the trees scarred with the evidence of a terrible fire. But at the base of the trees, brilliant green shoots poke
d through the cinders….

  “In ages past, fire warmed the humani, allowed them to survive in harsh climates.”

  The fire revealed a desolate landscape, rocky and snow-covered, but she could see that the cave-dotted cliff face was lit up with warm yellow-red flames….

  There was a sudden crack and a pencil-thin finger of flame shot up into the night sky. She craned her neck, following it up, up, up, until it disappeared amongst the stars.

  “This is the Magic of Fire.”

  Sophie nodded. Her skin tingled and she looked down to see tiny yellow-green flames curl off Saint-Germain’s fingers. They flickered across her skin, coiling around her wrist, feather-soft and cool, leaving faint black traces on her flesh. “I know how important fire is. My mother is an archaeologist,” she said dreamily. “She told me once that man didn’t begin on the road to civilization until he started cooking his meat.”

  Saint-Germain flashed a smile. “You have Prometheus and the Witch to thank for that. They brought fire to the first primitive humani. Cooking made it easier for mankind to digest the meat they hunted, allowed them to absorb the nutrients more easily. It kept them warm and safe in their caves, and Prometheus showed them how to use the same fire to harden their tools and weapons.” The count gripped Sophie’s wrist with his hand, holding it as if he were taking her pulse. “Fire has driven every great civilization, from the ancient world right up to the present day. Without the heat of the sun, this planet would be nothing more than rock and ice.”

  As he was speaking, images crackled into existence before Sophie’s face again, formed from smoke drifting off his hands. They hung undulating in the still air.

  …A gray-brown planet turning in space, a single moon spinning around it. There were no white clouds, no blue water, no green continents or golden deserts. Only gray. And the faintest outlines of land masses cut into the solid rock. Sophie abruptly realized that she was looking at the earth, perhaps far, far in the future. She gasped in shock and her breath blew the smoke away, taking the image with it.

  “The Magic of Fire is strongest in sunlight.” Saint-Germain moved his right hand and traced a symbol with his index finger. It hung glowing in the air, a circle with spikes radiating from it like a sunburst. The count blew on it and it dissolved into sparkles. “Without fire, we are nothing.”

  Saint-Germain’s left hand was now completely wrapped in flame, but he still clutched Sophie’s wrist. Red-white ribbons of fire curled around the girl’s fingers and puddled in the palm of her hand. Each finger burned like a miniature candle—red, yellow, green, blue and white—yet she felt no pain and no fear.

  “Fire can heal; it can seal a wound, can cut out disease,” Saint-Germain continued earnestly. Golden cinders of fire burned in his pale blue eyes. “It is unlike any other magic, because it is the only one directly linked to the purity and strength of your aura. Almost anyone can learn the basics of Earth, Air or Water magic. Spells and incantations can be memorized and written down in books, but the power to ignite fire comes from within. The purer the aura, the stronger the fire, and that means, Sophie, that you must be very careful, because your aura is so pure. When you unleash the Magic of Fire, it will be incredibly potent. Has Flamel warned you not to overuse your powers, lest you burst into flame?”

  “Scatty told me what might happen,” Sophie said.

  Saint-Germain nodded. “Never create fire when you are tired or weakened. If you lose control of this element, it will snap back on you and burn you to a crisp in a heartbeat.”

  A solid ball of flame now burned steadily in Sophie’s right hand. She became aware that her left hand was tingling and quickly lifted it off the bench. It left the smoking, blackened impression of a hand burned into the wood. With a dull pop, a puddle of blue flame appeared in her left hand and each finger sparked alight.

  “Why can’t I feel it?” Sophie wondered aloud.

  “You are protected by your aura,” Saint-Germain explained. “You can shape the fire, in the same way that Joan showed you how to shape your aura into silver objects. You can create globes and spears of fire.” He snapped his fingers and a scattering of thick round sparks bounced across the roof. He then pointed his index finger and a little jagged spearlike flame darted toward the nearest spark, striking it with deadly accuracy. “When you are in full control of your powers, you will be able to draw upon the Magic of Fire at will, but until then you will need a trigger.”

  “A trigger?”

  “Normally it would take hours of meditation to focus your aura to the point at which you could bring it alight. But sometime in the very distant past, someone discovered how to create a trigger. A shortcut. You’ve seen my butterflies?”

  Sophie nodded, remembering the dozens of tiny tattooed butterflies that wrapped around the count’s wrists and coiled up his arm.

  “They are my trigger.” Saint-Germain lifted the girl’s hands. “And now you have yours.”

  Sophie looked down at her hands. The fire had gone out, leaving black sooty streaks on her flesh and around her wrists. She brushed her hands together, but succeeded only in smearing the dust.

  “Allow me.” Saint-Germain lifted a watering can and shook it. Liquid sloshed inside. “Hold out your hands.” He poured water over her palms—it sizzled as it touched her flesh—washing away the black streaks. The count pulled a spotless white handkerchief from his back pocket, dipped it into the watering can and carefully wiped off the remainder of the soot. But around her right wrist, where Saint-Germain had held it, the soot refused to wash away. A thick black band encircled her wrist like a bracelet.

  Saint-Germain snapped his fingers and his index and little finger lit up. He brought the light close to Sophie’s hand.

  She looked down to discover that a tattoo was burned into her skin.

  Silently lifting her arm, she twisted her wrist to examine the ornate band twisted around it. Two strands, gold and silver, entwined and curled around one another to form an intricate, almost Celtic-looking pattern. On the underside of her wrist, where Saint-Germain had pressed his thumb, was a perfect gold circle with a red dot in the center.

  “When you wish to trigger the Magic of Fire, press your thumb against the circle and focus your aura,” Saint-Germain explained. “That will bring the fire alive instantly.”

  “And that’s it?” Sophie asked, sounding surprised. “That’s all?”

  Saint-Germain nodded. “That’s it. Why, what were you expecting?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know, but when the Witch of Endor taught me Air magic, she wrapped me in bandages like a mummy.”

  Saint-Germain smiled shyly. “Well, I’m not the Witch of Endor, of course. Joan tells me the Witch imbued you with all of her memories and knowledge. I’ve no idea why she did that; it certainly wasn’t necessary. But no doubt she had her reasons. Besides, I don’t know how to do that—and I’m not sure I’d want you knowing all my thoughts and memories,” he added with a grin. “Some of them are not very nice.”

  Sophie smiled. “I’m relieved—another batch of memories wouldn’t be that great to deal with.” Holding up her hand, she pressed the circle on her wrist and her little finger smoked; then the nail glowed dull orange for a moment before it popped alight with a slender, wavering flame. “How did you know what to do?”

  “Well, I was first and foremost an alchemist. I suppose you’d call me a scientist today. When Nicholas asked me to train you in the Magic of Fire, I’d no idea how to do it, so I just approached this like any other experiment.”

  “An experiment?” Sophie blinked. “Could it have gone wrong?”

  “The real danger was that it simply would not have worked.”

  “Thank you,” she said finally, and then she grinned. “I was expecting the process to be a lot more dramatic. I’m really glad it was so”—she paused, looking for the right word—“ordinary.”

  “Well, maybe not that ordinary. It’s not every day you learn how to master fire. How about extraordi
nary?” Saint-Germain suggested.

  “Well, that too.”

  “That’s all. Oh, there are tricks I can—and will—teach you. Tomorrow, I’ll show you how to create globes, donuts and rings of fire. But once you have the trigger, you can call upon fire at any time.”

  “But do I need to say anything?” Sophie asked. “Do I need to learn any words?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, when you lit up the Eiffel Tower, you said something that sounded like eggness.”

  “Ignis,” the count said. “Latin for fire. No, you don’t need to say anything.”

  “Why did you do it, then?”

  Saint-Germain grinned. “I just thought it sounded cool.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Perenelle Flamel was puzzled.

  Creeping along the dimly lit corridors, she’d discovered that all the lower cells of the island prison were filled with creatures from the darker edges of myth. The Sorceress had encountered a dozen different vampire breeds and various werebeasts, as well as boggarts, trolls and cluricauns. One cell held nothing but a sleeping child minotaur, while in the cell opposite, two cannibal Windigo lay unconscious alongside a trio of oni. An entire corridor of cells was given over to dragon-kin, wyverns and firedrakes.

  Perenelle didn’t think they were prisoners—none of the cells were locked—yet they were all asleep, and they were secured behind the shining silver spider’s web. Still, she wasn’t sure whether that was to keep the creatures prisoners or keep them apart. None of the creatures she’d discovered were allies. She passed one cell where the web hung in ragged tatters. The cell was empty, but the web and floor were clogged with bones, none of them even vaguely human.

  These were creatures from a dozen lands and as many mythologies. Some—like the Windigo—she had only heard of, but at least they were native to the American continent. Others, as far as she knew, had never traveled to the New World and had remained safe and secure in their homelands or in Shadowrealms that bordered those lands. Japanese oni should not coexist alongside Celtic peists.