Illusion's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 1)

by D J Salisbury

  The story might make more sense after the writer got around to telling him what a mindbender was. Maybe in the next chapter? He leafed ahead, searching for any explanation.

  A hideous bellow echoed through the house, followed by the slam of the front door.

  A rogue bahtdor! Inside the parlor! He thrust the book off his lap and scuttled under the kitchen table before his mind registered the voice as human.

  “Trevor!” the voice roared again.

  Viper scrambled to extract himself from beneath the table before the voice decided to look into the kitchen. Nobody needed to see him hiding under a table. Again. With careful dignity, he retrieved his book and seated himself next to the fire.

  “TRE-vor!” The visitor tramped into the kitchen.

  He glanced up at the stout newcomer before returning his attention to the book. It would have to be old Bahtdor Nose. He still couldn’t remember the lard lizard’s proper name.

  Bahtdor Nose stalked closer to the hearth and glared down at him. “Boy, where is Trevor?”

  “How should I know?” Viper lifted his chin and scowled at the intruder. If only he could think of a snappy line. He’d love to throw the revolting old man out in a sandstorm.

  The old sorcerer stepped back and glared down at him as if he’d stepped in a steamy pile of horse manure. His thin lips worked convulsively, but no sound came forth. He took a deep breath and began to roar.

  “Frujeur, why are you making such a dreadful noise in my kitchen?” Trevor asked.

  Frujeur yelped, spun, and clapped both hands to his chest. “Where did you come from?” He threw back his head and glared up at Trevor. “Never mind. I have an Important Question.”

  Trevor closed his eyes and shook his head. “Viper, fetch some wine.”

  And play the servant? Well, why not? He’d pour himself a drop of the forbidden wine while he was at it.

  He wrenched the cork out of the bottle and sniffed at the contents. Mist tickled his nose, as sweet and tangy as wild apples. Could it possibly taste that good?

  “Why in the seven moons of Menajr did you buy every grain of Hreshith bone dust in the entire thread fraying city?” Frujeur bellowed.

  He nearly dropped the fragile bottle. The crazy old man actually sounded like a rogue bahtdor. He needed all his concentration to fill two goblets without spilling any wine.

  Trevor shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. “I need every bit of it.”

  “Why?” Frujeur bawled.

  Viper shoved a goblet into Frujeur’s hand. He respectfully handed Trevor a goblet, to Trevor’s obvious amazement, and strolled back to the bottle to pour a himself a full flagon before shoving the cork back into the bottle’s mouth.

  He carried the tall glass mug to the fireside, sat down on the hearth, and sipped the clear wine. Amazing. Sweeter than honey, with a tangy aftertaste. He licked his lips and sipped again. Why hadn’t he tried the stuff lunars ago? Wine tasted even better than cider. Probably shouldn’t admit to liking it though. Trevor always forbade him to tinker with anything interesting. He picked up his book and pretended to concentrate.

  Both sorcerers stared at him as if he’d hatched from a dragon’s egg.

  “What on Altrada’s grave is that?” Frujeur pointed a blunt finger directly at him. “That creature is far too highhanded to be a servant and too pale to be any kin of yours. Have you taken a bed warmer?”

  A what? It couldn’t mean the insult it sounded like. He’d heard whispers that warriors took slaves to warm their beds, but most of the year the Setoyan plains were scorched. Who needed a slave to warm them up? Mama had cuffed him the only time he’d asked about it. He swigged a mouthful of sweet wine to wash away how angry she’d been.

  “Shuttle and Loom, no.” Trevor blushed and stood up straight. “I am evaluating him as a candidate to be my apprentice.”

  A candidate? Apprentice? Since when?

  “That?” Frujeur contrived a short, sneering laugh. “That stunted Setoyan half caste? He couldn’t make it past the first level. You’re not a good enough teacher for the likes of that.”

  Stunted, yes, but half caste, never. He gulped more wine to keep from replying to the insult. All those insults. Whatever the first level was.

  “First, you frayed old nit,” Trevor shouted, “he is not a half caste. His linage is purer than yours could ever be. Second, you piss-brained old lecher, I’m a better teacher in my old age than you were at your prime.”

  “You think so, do you?” Frujeur screamed. “You worthless old liar. You couldn’t teach a bird to fly.”

  “You rubbishy dotard.”

  He felt his jaw drop open. Sorcerers played insult games? He gulped from his flagon to keep himself from joining in. He had lots of insults saved up to use on Bahtdor Nose.

  “I dare you to get that brat past the first level!” Frujeur shrieked. “I wager my best mandrake root against your biggest map!”

  “Done!” Trevor pounded his fists on the table. “You’re on. Get out of here.”

  Frujeur yowled like a nercat and stomped out of the house.

  Viper sipped from his heavy glass mug and watched Trevor warily. The poor old man had gone rabid-hyena insane. Old Bahtdor Nose had pushed him off the cliff.

  Trevor drained his goblet in a single draught. Thunderer. The old man never downed his wine that fast.

  What should he do to ease the tension? What could he do? The old man never listened to him.

  Another swig of wine chased away his worries. He should’ve tried drinking wine ages ago. Its sweet tanginess made him feel all warm inside.

  Trevor glared at his half-empty flagon. “That tankard is bigger than you are.” The old man snatched the glass out of his hand, poured half its contents into his own goblet, and plunked the flagon down on the hearth. “Next time you want to impress someone, water your wine. You’ll regret getting drunk.” Trevor paused in the hall doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll ensure you regret getting drunk.”

  “I’ve never been drunk in my life.” Before today, he’d never had more than a sip of his oldest sister’s wine, and that hadn’t tasted nearly as good as Trevor’s.

  Blast the grumpy old man for stealing his wine. There was hardly an inch left. Well, he’d enjoy it while it lasted. He swung the mug toward his mouth.

  His knuckles grazed the sizzling stewpot.

  “Aiyeeeeeee!” He jumped away from the blistering pot and tried to stand up. His head thudded against the mantle. His brain rattled inside his skull like treble bones in a wooden box.

  Tears blurred his eyes.

  He yanked the flagon against his chest and danced away from the savage fireplace. His foot slipped on slimy rock and he tripped off the hearth.

  And fell flat on his back onto the hard stone floor. His head clunked against the flagstone. Sparks shot through his vision.

  The traitorous flagon flew free of his hand, hammered his breastbone, and knocked the breath out of his lungs.

  He was under attack! How could he escape?

  The mug vaulted toward his face. Acid splashed into his eyes and spurted up his nose.

  Help! He was drowning!

  Heavy glass thudded against his forehead before it clattered to the floor beside his head.

  The room whirled around him. He curled onto his side and clutched his blistered fingers.

  He’d been cursed. There was no other explanation. Trevor had cursed him.

  Sour wine crept up his throat. His eyes burned like he’d hiked through a sandstorm. Wine dripped through his hair, into his ears.

  How could Trevor throw such an awful curse on him? How did Trevor throw that curse on him?

  He pushed the blasted glass flagon away from his nose, out of sight. It hadn’t even cracked. His head felt like it was about to explode.

  Was this the sort of thing a sorcerer’s apprentice would learn? It had to be. That’s why the old turybird showed him.

  When would the old man to teach him that spell?
Could he use it on Bahtdor Nose? On Jorjan?

  But before he blasted his enemies, he wanted to practice on someone who’d appreciate it. Someone with a goofy sense of humor.

  He couldn’t wait use this magic on Lorel.

  Chapter 18.

  Gloomy dawn light peeped through the parlor windows. Rain pattered against the glass, paused, and tapped again.

  Why hadn’t he stayed in bed? His head pounded like all the Cantor’s apprentices were competing for the honor of War Drummer. His gut was as queasy as the day the Kerovi trader kissed him. Hadn’t the blasted spell worn off yet?

  The headache wasn’t going away any time soon. Faye and Lorel would be waiting for him. He might as well give up and go meet them.

  Viper was buttoning his oversized coat when he noticed he had company. How long had the old man been there? “Master Trevor, what are you doing out of bed this early?”

  Trevor leaned against the hallway door and blinked at him.

  “Are you all right? The sun isn’t halfway up.” He’d never seen Trevor up before he went to the market, and sometimes not even by noon. What was the occasion?

  The old sorcerer ran his fingers through sleep-tousled hair and stared down at him.

  “I’m off to the market now?”

  The old man acted like he couldn’t decide exactly what he was looking at. He seemed puzzled, as if a mushroom had grown up through the floor, sprouted lips, and babbled in fungus. Though the old sorcerer probably spoke excellent fungus…

  What had he done now? He hadn’t seen that look since the first few days after he’d moved in. Was something wrong?

  Oh, thunderdrums. Trevor was going to send him away. The quarrel last night meant the old man felt trapped by the wager to make a sorcerer out of him, and he’d told Gandar he didn’t want an apprentice. What would the old turybird do when his word had been forced?

  He’d be sent to some other sorcerer for training. Or sent far away on the hope Bahtdor Nose was too drunk to remember.

  The old man mumbled something, shook his head.

  Viper twitched inside the heavy coat. His knees began to bog. Where else could he go? Nowhere in Zedista; all the sorcerers knew each other. Besides, he liked this crazy old man. Couldn’t he stay?

  Trevor focused on him, and shook his head more vigorously. “Don’t look at me as if I’m stealing all your playtime.”

  His what? He hadn’t played since he started his apprenticeship with the bone carver. Not much, anyway.

  “You’re not to go into the market today. Go ask your friend, the older girl, if she’ll cook for us from now on. Faye, is that her name? Good. Give her these coins and ask her to shop first, and to come to me this afternoon to discuss a price for her services. You will not negotiate for me. Do you understand?”

  Ask Faye? To work as a servant? Not likely, given the respect Lorel gave her. But maybe sorcerers were allowed to ask things like that.

  Viper nodded and held his breath.

  “Good.” Trevor turned toward the hall. Halfway out the door, he looked back. “You start your apprenticeship today. Come back immediately. Move.”

  Oh, yes, he’d move. He sprang out of the room, avoided the treacherous front steps with a wild leap, and raced into the wet street. Moving as fast as the wind, he danced between raindrops (well, most of the raindrops). He chanted a victory hymn to the clouds, singing loud enough to wake the Thunderer in his distant bed.

  Faye and Lorel waited for him at the corner. Faye watched his victory dance with raised eyebrows.

  Lorel simply glared. “You’re late, kid. And yowling like a lynx in heat. Who stepped on your toes?”

  Viper laughed breathlessly and danced a full circle around the pair. What a glorious day! He tried to start another chant.

  Lorel poked him in the ribs.

  He wheeled his arms and danced all the harder to avoid falling into a puddle. Sandblast her. He must look like a one-legged prairie chicken wiggling through a blackberry thicket.

  Faye sighed and brushed raindrops off her cheek. “Tell us what happened. I’m tired of standing in the rain.”

  “He did it!” On a gorgeous day like today he couldn’t stay mad, not even at Lorel. Viper threw his arms out wide and crowed like a yellow-legged gull attacking a choice hunk of dead fish. “No more marketing for me. Today I become Trevor’s apprentice.”

  “That’s nice, dear,” Faye said gently. “I’m very glad for you. I’m going to miss you.” She pulled her hood forward and started to walk away.

  “Miss me? What do you mean?” Where was she going? She hadn’t agreed to– “Wait! Trevor wants you to cook for us. He wants you to shop for us today and this afternoon he’ll negotiate.” He held out his hand to her, the copper coins and his heart in his palm. “Will you?”

  Lorel snorted and turned away.

  Faye smiled and accepted the coins. “I can’t cook for you, but I can certainly find someone to bring you meals. I’ll talk to Trevor later.”

  “Praise the Thunderer.” Viper spun in another tight circle. He’d love to dance all day, but now he had something important to look forward to. A real apprenticeship. “I need to get back.”

  Lorel shoved her hands in her tunic pockets and slouched toward the market.

  That wasn’t the least like her. Wasn’t she happy for him? “Lorel, what’s wrong?” He stopped dancing and trotted over to her.

  “Ain’t nothing wrong. Luck, kid. You’d better get home.”

  “Something is wrong. You look like you’re going to cry. Talk to me, war-child.”

  “Some warrior I’ll be.” Lorel kicked a pile of horse dung. “You’re getting the chance to learn the stuff you wanted, and I never will.” Soggy manure flew across the road so fast it looked like it was fleeing from a Kerovi demon. “I got swords and I ain’t never gonna learn how to use them. I ain’t never gonna be a real warrior.”

  He wasn’t a warrior, but he had some training. The old bone carver’d shown him everything he remembered, in a couple of styles of fighting. Could he train this turybird?

  Would teaching her sword work redeem some of his honor?

  Was trying to pound new thoughts into her hard head be worth the effort? He’d never met anybody so stubborn.

  But there were hoards of honor in teaching young warriors to fight. That was the only reason he’d gotten any training. Showing her the basics might give him standing as a man in his own right.

  He glanced up and down the lane. Good, no witnesses. “I know a little about sword work,” he whispered. “Not much, but enough to get you started. When Trevor gives me some time off, I’ll teach you whatever I can.”

  “Sing to the Weaver!” Lorel grabbed him by the ribs, hoisted him over her head, and swung him in circles. Once, twice, three times. Thunderer’s drums, this was better than dancing. It felt like flying.

  Faye clutched at her hair. “You’re going to get us all hung.”

  “I don’t know very much,” he whispered as Lorel lowered him to his feet.

  “It’ll be enough. I just need a start. The rest I can figure out.”

  “I’ve got to get to the market.” Faye turned and walked away. “Viper, you had best get home before Trevor changes his mind. You two can find a place to meet later.”

  “Lorel can join us this afternoon.” Viper grinned and bounced on his toes. “Trevor wouldn’t notice one extra person, anyway.”

  He waved and trotted back toward the house. What a wonderful day, such a perfect day. Life was arranging itself quite to his satisfaction, and not even the rain pelting on his head could spoil it.

  He wobbled up the treacherous steps and dashed into the parlor, tugged off Trevor’s coat, and hung it on the peg.

  Water dripped down his shoulders.

  Even Trevor would notice that. He paused to wring out his hair. He ought to get a hood. Or keep a towel here in the parlor.

  “What a mess.” The old man leaned against the doorjamb and grinned. “You look like a bow
l of over-stewed chrysanthemum tea.”

  Of all times for Trevor to appear. He hadn’t been there when Viper came in. And now he was laughing at him.

  He did not look like any kind of flower. Much less some scruffy weed.

  Trevor chuckled and turned into the hallway. “Come along.”

  Wait a minute. The old man was going the wrong way. There was nothing down the left end of the hall, only a waste of space that should have been converted to a closet. Maybe not even that. The area was so dark he needed to squint to tell Trevor’s black frockcoat from the walnut paneling.

  The old man stopped at the blank end of the hall and waved one hand over the wall.

  Dim light appeared, shaping the outline of a door. How had Trevor done that? Or was it there all the time, and he’d simply never noticed it? But he’d dusted the area every few days. He’d even hauled in the ladder to polish the woodwork floor to ceiling.

  Could it be magic? A magical doorway?

  Trevor pulled a key out of his coat pocket and shook it under Viper’s nose. “This door will remain locked. You are not to enter this room without me. Ever. Moreover, you will speak to no one about anything you see or learn on the other side of this door. Do you understand?”

  Viper nodded. What else could he do? The doorway led to his dreams, to all the wishes he’d never dared admit to, even to himself. Becoming a sorcerer would be as important as becoming a shaman. Far more important than a weapons carver. Almost as important as a warrior.

  No one would call him nameless or Outcast if he became a sorcerer.

  But Trevor didn’t open the door.

  Carrion flies scuttled inside his belly. He shifted his feet, forced them to be still. The old sorcerer didn’t need to know how nervous he felt.

  Maybe he did know. Trevor’s green eyes bored into his, seeming to peer into his innermost thoughts.

  He’s seen me sneak out when I was supposed to be studying. Why didn’t I study harder? He never wanted an apprentice. Frujeur made him do it. He’s going to put me in a caravan to sell me as a slave in Shi, and old Bahtdor Nose will never know what happened to me. I won’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Faye, and –