Slowly, Rufus raised his face, but his eyes remained clenched slits. ‘Darrig,’ he croaked—a word that held no meaning. ‘Your son is here with us now. Finally ... he is returned upon the world.’
‘I know,’ the magician responded. ‘That is why I need you. We must stop him. Come with me, Salu.’
But the old man squirmed from Lord Samuel’s grip and lost his focus, returning his attention to the floor and muttering once again. The magician was baffled.
A tugging at his robes gained his attention; the boy Toby was pulling on his hem.
‘What is this?’ the magician asked, looking to the barman for answers. He noticed that the patrons in the room were again pressed against the walls to be as far from him as possible, feverishly attempting to remain unnoticed.
‘The half-blind old fool babbles occasionally, but doesn’t understand anything I say,’ Omer explained, being the unfortunate one Lord Samuel singled out for an answer. ‘The boy can comprehend at times, but doesn’t talk. He was taken by a fever as a babe and never awoke. He was alive, but only just, swallowing whatever was put in his mouth, but doing precious little apart from that. His parents died and he had only his aunt to take care of him. Then, a few months ago he just stood up for the first time in his life and wandered over here. I asked him, “Simon, what do you want?” and he corrected me, saying, “Toby”. That reply is all I ever heard from him. He has stayed here ever since. His name was Simon but we call him Toby now. It seems to get his attention. His aunt says it’s a miracle, and she’s not about to question his lack of sense, considering how he was before. He and Rufus get on well together. If you want one, you may have to take the other.’
The magician scrutinised the both of them reluctantly, scowling. ‘Very well. Toby, tell him he is coming with me.’
The boy tugged on the old man’s clothes and pointed to Lord Samuel, laughing gleefully as he did so.
Old Rufus stopped his mumbling and raised his quivering chin. ‘Ah,’ was his gasping response. He nodded solemnly, as if in understanding.
Toby then clasped the old man by the wrist and led him shuffling towards the door, leaving Lord Samuel to draw up his hood and follow them.
Everyone there watched them depart into the blustery night—the magician, the fool and the mute—silent and in disbelief at the turn of unexpected events. Omer shook his head; to think it commenced as one of the most enjoyable and unremarkable of nights, sheltered away from the cold.
CHAPTER ONE
Son of Thann
A BROWN-HAIRED man, barely into his seventeenth year, sat on a rock by the edge of the sea. He scratched at the few, sparse whiskers on his chin and sighed, enveloped in complete mind-numbing boredom.
The waves lacked passion and ventured onto the beach timidly—creeping fingers of foam exploring the sand before scuttling back to safety. Even they seemed tired of the island today.
He dragged his gaze along the horizon, pausing momentarily on the familiar specks of sail in the distance, naming their owners in his head one by one. Not taking his eye from the scene, he pulled his hands over each other and scraped his net onto the shore. Two gasping fish flapped about, trapped within the twine. It took a moment to untangle them and drop them in the bucket at his side.
With the task complete, he sighed once again.
Everything on the island was wet or salty or smelled of fish, including him. He was sick of it. Throwing out his arms, he flung his net far, watching it spread in the air and drop back into the sea with rapid plops from its weighted edges.
‘Leopold!’ sounded a cry from behind, and he turned to see his mother tramping over the dunes, holding her skirt hems high out of the sand. ‘Leopold, come home. Dinner’s ready.’
Leopold sighed for the third time in as many minutes, for her voice conveyed her regard for him: still a boy. His father thought the same and Leopold could not blame them; he had done little to prove them wrong.
His mother was a noble woman, beautiful and proud, her long dark hair carefully braided, falling down the centre of her back. The local fishermen mentioned how well aged and beautiful she was. She was more attractive than any of their wives and daughters, and more civilised, which accounted for their lingering stares. He had nothing against the other families; it was not their fault they were ill-mannered and unkempt. They displayed nothing of the decorum and proper behaviour his parents had instilled into him, but then again, what need did he have for such things out here? What use were civilities to salt and fish? What good were manners to the wind?
He barely remembered his life before coming to the island—a few flashes of objects, events and places impossibly far away. Mother reminded him often they may one day go back to the mainland, and then all his lessons would be vital to him. However, it was becoming ever more apparent that such a time would never arrive.
‘I’ll be a moment,’ he called back to his mother as he reeled in his net once more—just cast as it was—letting her turn back home without him.
He rolled up the dripping net, folding it over until it was a neat bundle, and tucked it into the top of the bucket. It infuriated him, always getting knotted and tangled—far too much trouble—another of the dreary chores he was expected to complete. He was a man with a mind and a destiny, but his parents kept him here, trapped on the island, a hermit with only a few other families on the entire god-forsaken rock. He had tried to make his chores less bothersome; however, it only proved to cause more trouble. He had once left his net on the beach to save him packing and unpacking it, but the gulls had flown down and entangled themselves in it, resulting in hours of work freeing them and unknotting the mess. The birds had pecked and beaten him with their wings all the while.
Five small fish now squirmed beneath his net—five fish that would tomorrow be their breakfast—and he readied to return home. Even the fish were disinterested on this tiresome afternoon. Only five had made the effort of blundering into his net. Why his parents insisted on such trivial tasks he would never know. Father could wave his finger and have a hundred fish leaping from the sea and onto their dinner plates, but of course, Father never did. He instead preferred to keep Leopold busy with endless mundane tasks.
Leopold had learned of his father’s power as a child, and even back then he would use his magic sparsely. These days he used it even less.
Now he was grown, Leopold questioned his parents about magic and his father answered openly but curtly, making it clear that it was never to be discussed with others or where those outside their family could hear. In that, Leopold had followed his father’s instructions precisely. He had never divulged their secret to any of the fishermen or their families—seldom as they met.
Magic was a loathsome word to them. The fishermen cursed magicians when the fish were not biting, when the wind was foul, or when their wives were champing at their heels. They blamed magic and spells when their children were sick or when they suffered a splinter under their skin. To everyone else in the world, magic was a curse. Leopold considered it to be exciting—imagine the possibilities!—yet he was alone with that thought.
Father was undoubtedly a magician, and had been disappearing for days on end these recent months, never saying where he was going. Mother and Leopold were left to fend for themselves, and Leopold was sure it was to do with magic. What else could it be?
Father did not take a boat when he left—he slipped out the door and was gone, departing the island mysteriously. Leopold often thought about following him out the door or spying upon him, but the thoughts left him quickly. Father would know. He always did. He knew everything that happened within the confines of their tiny, windswept world.
As if hearing his thoughts, the wind gusted up, shifting about to blow in from the east.
If only there were something else to life, Leopold thought. He longed for more than this unbearable island and the abominable schooling he tolerated from Mother. He would escape at the first opportunity to investigate the lands beyond the horizon, wher
e rumour told of great wrongs that needed righting, of unnatural beasts that required slaying, of dark armies that had risen against the common man, of many changes that had arrived spontaneously with a shadow in the sky.
Instead, Mother taught him things he would never have any reason to use—lectures of wars and battles that had happened long before he was born, lessons on keeping stock of goods and tally of taxes, on diplomacy and negotiation and tact. What good would such things do him here? He retold his lessons to the sand, and spoke his wisdom to the stones; but they were not interested, and remained steadfast and silent.
Finished with his thoughts, Leopold was about to turn for home, when something caught his attention—a strange red sail in the distance—and his senses became alive. It had been weeks since he had spied such a visitor. Whenever he did, Father appeared shortly after, knowing when such a wayward craft was near. He would come and stand on the dunes, peering out into the ocean beneath his dark brows, sometimes waiting until the ship had passed, other times getting in one of their boats and going out to meet it. More often than not he told his son to go home and lock the door, and Leopold did not get to see what followed.
On those rare occasions when Leopold was defiant and hid in the bushes nearby, he saw his father go out to meet the other craft. The crew usually turned around once he neared, headed back to wherever they had come from. Once, a long rowing ship had disappeared as Father met it, swallowed by the sea. Upon his return he refused to speak of it, scolding Leopold instead for disobedience.
This time, however, Father did not appear. Leopold waited and watched the vessel as it slowly approached, hoping to see what kind of people it would bring. He dropped his bucket and stood high on his rock jutting from the sand, peering out into the distance with the briny wind in his eyes.
He was sure he had never seen it before—a small square sail, red as Autumn sunset. He waited, anxious and excited as the squarish and awkward looking craft drew nigh, elated to note that rather than pass them by, the tiny boat was heading directly towards him.
Soon, the vessel was near enough to glimpse its occupants. A man stood beside the mast in the middle of the boat. He wore a black cloak, the hood pulled up around his head to shield him from the weather. Someone else sat huddled beside him, and it was only as the vessel hissed onto the sand that Leopold realised it was an old man, miserable and desperate to keep out of the wind and spray. His hands rested upon a long box of midnight black that took up the front half of the boat, holding it to steady himself, rather than from any fear of letting it fall out. It looked a hefty thing.
With the bow of the craft resting upon the sand, the black-clothed man stepped over the box and alighted at the prow, wetting his boots and the hem of his cloak. The older, white haired fellow scrambled to follow. He leapt directly over the side halfway along the boat, not realising it was much deeper, and he disappeared up to his middle. Much muttering and cursing followed as he struggled to shore.
A boy also bound from the vessel, springing from where he was sitting unseen. He landed with a splash of his bare feet and skipped ashore before he was barely wet, stamping his feet in the shallow water, looking very pleased with the sensation indeed.
The first fellow strode directly up to Leopold, his face partially hidden in the shadows of his hood. Only his mirthless mouth and chin were visible.
‘Where is your father, Leopold?’ he asked.
Leopold was astounded. ‘How do you know who I am?’
The old man shambled onto the soft sand. He was in a simple set of trousers and a worn, lace-up shirt. He cocked his head to one side, his ear aimed into the wind, as if funnelling it into his head to gather its secrets. A long straight stick that had washed ashore with the morning tide lay at his feet, and the old fellow bent and picked it up. His hands wandered over every bump and contour until he smiled, satisfied with his find. He then roamed about, poking the sand with his newfound prize, leaning upon it to aid his movement. From his behaviour, Leopold had the feeling the man was blind or frail or both. Certainly, he was strange, muttering away in a constant hoarse whisper.
The young boy had finished with his splashing and ran, diving headfirst into the dry sand higher up the beach. He rolled about, smothering himself with the powdery grit and laughing hysterically. It was bizarre behaviour, even for such a small child, and Leopold wondered who this strange trio could possibly be.
The cloaked fellow had waited unperturbed while Leopold gawked at his companions. Remembering him, Leopold dragged his eyes from the other two to see what the cloaked visitor wanted.
As Leopold stood there, peering into the shadow of his hood, the stranger spoke.
‘I know who you are, Leopold. You are the son of Edmond Calais. Your mother is Lillith Trallevan. I know them well. I have not seen you since you were a tot, but I have come now to meet your father and discuss important deeds that need his attention.’
Leopold decided he had not been so wise to let this person land upon the island, and he should creep away and inform his father. ‘What you say is nonsense,’ he told the newcomer, for although he knew his own surname, his mother and father had told him strictly never to mention it. They always introduced themselves as ‘the Greens’, never revealing the truth—although why they kept it secret was unknown to him. ‘Go away from here!’
The hooded one did not smile or frown—he did not show any emotion, shadowed inside his cowl.
Yet, as intimidating as the man might be, Leopold could not stop himself from being distracted by the boy, on his knees, shoving sand into his mouth, coughing and spluttering it out again. He waved his sandy tongue about vigorously and grasped at it with his fingers, giggling with glee.
‘They were right not to tell you any of this, Leopold,’ the man continued. ‘Still, I will speak with your father momentarily.’
Leopold was torn between his desire to discover more about this mysterious stranger and his impulse to run. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I am the saviour of this world, or its destroyer,’ the man said, as if that was a reasonable answer.
‘Which is it?’ Leopold asked, annoyed at such a nonsensical response.
‘That has yet to be seen,’ came the reply.
A sudden roar of wind at his back made Leopold instinctively duck, and a dark shape flew overhead. The four upon the beach followed its path as it passed out over the ocean, roaring like thunder. The flickering streak circled around and shot back towards the shore, sending up spray on either side as it licked along the sea. Leopold had never seen anything like it and he gawked at it, astounded.
A person could be seen at its core, covered in shimmering vapour and spawning a glimmering trail of air behind. He did not slow and collided into the beach, sending up a shower of sand that had Leopold ducking once again and shielding his face. When the heavy powder had fallen back to earth, standing there was his father.
‘How dare you come to my home uninvited, Magician!’ he bellowed, striding towards the stranger furiously. ‘Leopold! Step away.’
Leopold did as told, retreating hurriedly from the cloaked man. The magical air had vanished from around his father, but the sand was dancing at his feet, excited by an unseen force. He knew his father was capable of extraordinary things—lighting the stove fire with a gesture, calling the goats with a whisper—but he never imagined this. He can fly?
‘I will give you one chance to leave,’ his father continued, standing his ground and pointing his finger at the black-clothed newcomer. ‘Never return. Never speak of me or my family. Never come here again.’
The other stood silent, unmoving. His posture lacked any trace of fear or apprehension. Indeed, the man did nothing at all except wait.
In that moment of expectation, Leopold’s father noticed the old fellow wandering the beach and it was his father who—for an instant—looked fearful.
‘Why have you brought him here?’ he asked, breaking the tension. ‘If you are hoping to kill me, Magician, you will b
e bitterly disappointed. I am not the same man that I was. You know that already.’
‘I am looking for my son,’ the cloaked visitor replied.
‘I told you what would happen. You should have left with his mother when you had the chance. I am sorry about what happened, but that does not change anything. Coming here will cause no good. We do not want you here. Leave us be!’
‘Did you hear that, Salu?’ the stranger called to the old man. ‘How strange it is to be scolded by a devil. The master’s servant wants nothing of our company.’
The old man glanced between the two speakers, his eyes restrained to narrow cracks as if to keep the sand from blowing into them, before returning to his wandering.
‘Who are you to call me a devil?’ Leopold’s father asked accusingly. ‘I have turned my back on the past, while you are obsessed with it.’
‘But your past has not turned its back on you, Edmond. You cannot hide here forever. The world will find you eventually; probably very soon. Fifteen years I have scoured the earth and all I have to show for my efforts is this lunatic, plus the idiot boy that accompanies him. I avoided coming here for as long as I could. Would you not take us in and see what I have to say?’
Leopold’s father balled his fists with rage, and Leopold had no time to register what happened next. His father and the cloaked magician disappeared, launching upwards simultaneously, trailing wind and sand, flying over the sea amidst ribbons of twisting fire. Light flashed between them and the sound of thunder followed. The shimmering tails filled with water as clouds of spray were sucked up from the sea and followed the men, growing longer by the moment.
Leopold ran to the edge of the ocean to see, while the old man faced them with his mouth dangling open. The boy contentedly ignored it all, mounding up the sand into castles beside the old man, setting shells upon the walls and cheering at his efforts.
The Ancient Ones (The Legacy Trilogy Book 3) Page 2