“Son, it’s me, Grandcawk. Don't be confused regarding everything that just happened. It’s all my doing, for maintaining secrecy is a must.”
“You did magic, didn’t you?” said Viven, and stopped dead as the realisation struck him hard—he had just spoken without opening his mouth at all.
“I-I,” he stammered, his mouth shut, and his tongue might as well have been in sleep.
“No, son,” said Grandcawk, hastening to reassure. “You cannot move any part of your body, but there is nothing wrong with you. I used some of my magical powers to freeze time itself.”
Viven was horrified.
“To freeze what?”
“Time. In this room, you are the only one who can communicate to me, even if it’s through your mind and not mouth. Tonkeytus and the other three are frozen along with time.”
“But it can’t be possible, can it?”
“It is, as of now.”
“How?” Viven asked, astonishment refusing to quit him. Crazy events had been raining down on him ever since the night they were taken to Nascat. Freezing time, though, was the king of them all. Also, Viven observed, not everything he thought got communicated to Grandcawk, only those that he would have otherwise spoken with his mouth.
“Well,” said Grandcawk, “it came as a surprise to me too, when I first realised that I could do all these magical wonders. We Macacawks are a non-magical people, and performing magic is not one of our abilities.”
“Then how can Tonkeytus and Luidhor do magic, too?” Viven said, remembering his shock when he had nearly dashed into Tonkeytus, who had appeared in front of him out of thin air.
“Luidhor is a wizard,” Grandcawk answered. “He is a good friend of ours, but not a Macacawk. As for Tonkeytus, he must have stolen some of Luidhor’s hocus focus powders to appear anywhere he liked by magic so he could get you in the forest.
“Hmmm, I had no business with magic myself. It was only after the Potion Makers presented me with this ring”—he indicated toward the ring in his other body’s hand that lay on the bed immobile as a stone statue, from which his translucent form had emerged—“that I found myself capable of magic.”
“Is it sort of a magic ring?” Viven asked. He had heard old people tell stories of magical rings of power, and they had always attracted him.
Grandcawk nodded briskly, a briskness that Viven did not think was possible for his other body.
“You can say that. It’s made of a special powder called Beaxtonix, which only the nimble-fingered Potion Makers can concoct. It has got both mysterious and wondrous properties. And this”—he gestured a skinny, wrinkled thumb at himself—“is one of the greatest.”
“Because it can make you double?”
“Very much. And this is only a fraction of my soul.” He patted his other body’s shoulder, or rather, the bone. “Here is where the greater portion of my soul is, but frozen along with the flow of time right now.”
“What?” said Viven, blown. Fraction of soul, greater portion! This was bizarre!
“Yes.” Grandcawk smiled at Viven’s astonishment. “So, I can use magic solely being a sub soul.” He was then silent for a moment—considering there was any as regarding the stopped time—lingering and staring brightly at Viven. Eventually, the brightness faded from his eyes and he looked rather sore, his wrinkles deepening.
“It’s time your family knows it . . .” He sighed, the words vibrating the way out of his toothy mouth.
“Knows what?” said Viven, wishing Grandcawk let time flow again.
Grandcawk drew back the corners of his mouth.
“That . . . There is a slight possibility of, uh . . .”
“Of?”
Grandcawk clicked his tongue determinedly,
“You see, son, your grandfather, Algrad Bezon, maybe is still alive.” He finished the sentence as quickly as he could and looked up at Viven, his grey brows coming together as if scared Viven would consider him stupid.
Viven did, in fact, consider him stupid.
“No,” said Viven, not caring to hide the offended tone. “My grandfather is dead. He was murdered thirty years ago.”
“Yes, but even Mai Canniola never realised she killed only the part of his soul that was in his body at the time.”
“Now who is Mai Canniola?”
“She is the foul witch who believes herself to be reigning over Tropagia and who leads the dark creatures. We owe her all the troubles we have ever had. Tropagia is a dangerous regime due to her.”
“A witch killed my grandfather?”
“A follower of her did, anyway, as far as it is known.”
So Sezia had been telling the truth, Viven pondered; she had been convicted her whole life for something she was guiltless of.
“Then,” said Viven, a strange warmth engulfing his insides. “How do you surmise that my grandfather is still alive?”
Grandcawk turned and took off a golden chain from the neck of his still form.
“This tells me so.”
“A necklace?” It was a peculiar necklace, especially the golden, glittering locket that was a man’s head.
“A Soul-Splitter,” Grandcawk corrected.
“A what?” Viven asked, unable to catch.
“A Soul-Splitter, like my ring. It is made of pure Beaxtonix, not gold as you might think; and here.” He opened the locket, splitting the head into two halves. There was a lock of black hair inside.
“See the hair?” he said. “It’s your grandfather’s; were he dead, it would have burnt up and turned to ash, but it hasn’t. It singularly points at one thing: that a portion of Algrad’s soul exists!”
Viewing the lock of hair, which had every possibility of belonging to his grandfather, was substitute to getting smacked flat on the face for Viven. It was somewhat eerie too; however, Viven found himself able to piece up everything together, except—
“You say that my grandfather’s soul was divided into two at the time of his death, and in that way, a portion of his soul could have escaped from getting killed. But can you explain why, in all these years, his sub soul never tried to contact us, his family?”
“No,” said Grandcawk. He shook his head in an obvious manner. “It’s not something I can explain, because I am enthralled by it too. What’s more, I am not in a position to investigate the matter either. It was not more than half a year ago that I discovered myself in possession of this Soul Splitter necklace of Algrad’s. My memory is getting dusty, and I don’t have any knowledge why it should be with me.”
“How, then, are you sure it’s my grandfather’s anyway?”
“Well,” Grandcawk replied, “it was the Potion Makers who made Algrad this necklace, and they announced it to everyone. Your grandfather had won their admiration fast with his talents and was the first non-Potion Maker and non-Macacawk to be given a Soul Splitter. Although they were disappointed and horror-stricken at the end— something I’ve never blamed Algrad for but the Potion Makers themselves.”
Grandcawk sighed, his face contorting into a rueful expression. He then came over to Viven, who was taken by surprise when he put the necklace around his neck and tugged at the collar to conceal it from view.
“Why did you do that?” Viven asked.
“It’s yours. You are Algrad’s grandson.”
“But—”
“I’m not sure if your grandfather is still there or not, but it is better if his belonging is with someone of his family than me.”
“So, this was the purpose for which you got Tonkeytus to bring us here,” said Viven. “To hand over grandfather’s necklace to me?”
Grandcawk blinked his eyes.“Yes, son, this was the purpose. But always remember never to let anyone know you have Algrad’s Soul Splitter. And when I say never, I mean never—and to nobody, whoever it be. This is just between you and me. Even Tonkeytus does not know I have the necklace, or that I meant to give it to you. He thinks it is some other something.”
“But isn’t Tonkeytu
s your faithful follower?” Viven asked, quizzical. “And why do you want me to keep quiet about this necklace?”
“Because I want your grandfather’s soul to be safe. The chance leakage of information to the wrong ears can be catastrophic to Algrad’s sub soul.”
“Assuming he exists,” said Viven.
Grandcawk nodded in approval. “Assuming he exists,” he echoed. He walked back to his non-see-through, more fragile body.
“I love to be in this sub soul form of mine, but only I myself know how attached I am to my real body. It feels whole being in it, although it’s much weaker.”
“Hey,” said Viven, “isn’t your greater portion of soul in that body?” Viven betted at doubting his mental health had this been a question he had asked to someone yesterday. “Can’t you be two at the same time?”
“Well,” said Grandcawk, spreading his arms as if Viven was being ridiculous. “I am two!”
“I mean your consciousness,” Viven hastened to add. “Can’t you be like two persons at the same time?”
“I can, actually,” Grandcawk replied, more understandably this time. “But it’s horrid you know, the overall experience. It is similar to controlling two bodies with the same brain. One can bear, rather relish, a divided soul, however, not a divided mind. It is exhausting, and people conceive you as awkward.”
Focusing his large beady eyes at the ceiling, he mused for a while.
“Hmmm, so let’s end our little talk here. I request you, do not tell about it to anybody.” He nodded at Viven, who was joyous that he would be released from the stationary position.
A moment later, Grandcawk’s sub soul vaporised into the omniscient light and streamed back to the ring in the real Grandcawk’s shrivelled hand.
The ancient Macacawk jerked his head when the process finished.
Viven heard a loud noise, like a mass falling to the floor, followed by Manu’s terrified scream. He whirled around—it was Aunt Gina! She was down in a heap, all limp and unconscious.
***
Attacked and Out
“Aunt Gina!” he yelled, scrambling to her.
“What’s happened to her?” Tonkeytus asked, eyes bulging.
“Fan her!”Viven ordered a stricken Manu, while he tapped her on the cheeks.
It was a few lengthy, anxious seconds before Aunt Gina stirred, the colour returning to her.
“Aunt!” said Viven, giving her a light shake. Rather with much effort, she opened her eyelids. She looked at Viven, transfixed and, in a queer way for a moment, not seeming to recognise.
“What is this place?” she said.
“The House of the Macacawks,” Viven replied, careful to keep his voice low and tender.
“The House of—oh-oh—Viven!” She smiled wearily.
“What happened to you, Mum?” Manu said. “You kind of fainted!”
“You . . .” Aunt Gina lingered for a while, like trying to solve something difficult. “O-oh, Manu!” Manu narrowed his eyes at Viven, sceptical.
“’Course it’s me, mum! You’ve forgotten or what?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she shook her head, “it’s nothing.”
Tonkeytus fetched a stool, and Viven and Manu helped her onto it.
“You okay, Aunt?” Viven asked her, observing the tensed lines that had appeared on her forehead and around her eyes. She seemed like a sudden concern had occupied her as she recovered from her breakdown.
“I dunno. I felt like I didn’t have any energy at all and lost sense.”
“I think it is rest she needs,” Grandcawk suggested from his bed, his liveliness long gone, replaced by a dragging fragility.
“Maybe,” Aunt Gina said. Viven didn’t think so; in his two years of stay with her, he had never known her to require much rest or to be lazy at anything. Although recent circumstances had been a different business altogether, hadn’t they just had food sometime ago? And hadn’t they practically rested for hours on end after being taken by Tonkeytus?
Grandcawk, convinced that Aunt Gina required rest and apparently wanting sometime alone for himself, said, “Tonkeytus, do escort them back to their room. I fear Algrad’s niece is rather weak presently.”
Tonkeytus assumed an understanding face that was a tad confused at the same time.
“But, Grandcawk, didn’t you mean to hand over something of Algrad’s to Viven?”
“It’s already done,” Grandcawk replied in a low, unimportant voice.
“Already done?” Tonkeytus asked. The latter nodded, and Tonkeytus, seemingly considering it not his moral right to question Grandcawk further, gave up without insisting. Instead he told Viven and Manu to help Aunt Gina onto her feet and, after asking Grandcawk for leave, opened the oak door. They left the Macacawk head’s chamber for the night.
***
“One thing I’m sure of . . . grrrr . . . He is dead by now, no doubt.” The Bheria’s feeble voice faltered away, and he fell quiet, as were his ninety-nine brothers present in the large clearing. He was wounded, but his sheer astonishment at the miraculous escape he had made helped him stifle any moans from the stinging pain. Besides, his master Luidhor’s feelings were a way greater deal than his own distress.
“Are ye sure, Blario?” Luidhor’s words were near whispers. “That ye aren’t mistaken?”
Blario nodded his huge conical head with much effort. “Grrr . . . I can swear there was no sign of tattoos on Armando’s skin. Besides . . . grrr . . . I saw him days back.”
“Then he is dead,” Luidhor stated. “Ye are right; he can never survive such injuries.”
He cracked his neck bones and exhaled. Then he sat down upon a tree stump. Blario had been captured by the Assurs a long time ago. For some reason, they hadn’t eaten him, and he had managed an escape after so many days. In his imprisonment, Blario had seen Armando fleeing from Mai Canniola’s territory.
Gargling, Luidhor spat mucus onto the grass.
“Bastard,” he said. “He deserved it. Everyone knows it’s the way Canniola repays her followers—by killin’ them.” Memories of himself and his brother together flooded his mind. Agonizing memories, ones he would do better without. He wished there was some special magic that would help him permanently abort them from his brain.
Their parents had been Potion Makers, wealthy ones, who had always provided them with all they could ever ask for. Luidhor could never decide whether he and Armando had paid them back well by running away and removing the badge of Potion Maker from their names. They had been too intrigued by magic. They had learnt of the existence of dark magic and had sought to transform and reshape it into good magic, which they intended to utilise together with the potions. What’s more, they had even gone to the extent of stealing the ancient scrolls on magic authored by the unknown, pre-Potion Maker people. And further, upon realisation they couldn’t decipher the script used in the scrolls, tried to return them back to the Potion Makers’ library. They were caught while doing so.
And then Armando had cheated him and joined Mai Canniola. There had never been a time when Luidhor was more heartbroken, his sentiments pierced by Armando’s dagger of treachery.
“It’s good he’s dead,” Luidhor snarled in disgust. “He joined Canniola, licked her feet, killed Bezon by her orders before he was tried, and finally turned obsolete in Canniola’s eyes and—” He caught his breath, his temper at its peak. “The dog deserved dyin’. I hope it’s a slow death he received if he escaped those Assurs. He deserved all the agony and sufferin’ . . . The weed of betrayal bears bitter fruits. It doesn’t pay . . . A scoundrel he was. He cheated me; it’s little wonder he was fated to face the same.”
Spitting away his hatred for Armando that he knew would only ever reap him a hot head, he looked at Blario. The Bheria was sombre due to all the tortures those blasted Assurs had tormented him with in captivity, but uncomplaining in spite of all that.
Luidhor cursed himself for showering his plight upon Armando’s bleak memories instead of tending to his b
rother first.
“Gyepik,” he commanded the head of the Bherias, who was by his side, and who, wagging his tail, became attentive. “Go, dig up the yellow powder by the Z’romin tree. Your brother here needs it.”
Gyepik promptly got up and went out of the clearing, disappearing into the canopy of woods that were thicker and blacker than the clouded night itself.
Yes, the Bherias were his brothers. Though blood-brothers they might not be, they were his brothers in every other sense of the word.
He had met their pack of one hundred after Armando’s betrayal of him, by an absolute coincidence that Luidhor would always be grateful for. At a time when he was all in dismay and devoid of hope, the Bherias had lifted his dwindling spirits. They had helped him to believe he didn’t really require anyone else to achieve his cause. When loyal beasts would do, why should anyone go for some deceiving scum of a blood-brother?
From then on, the Bherias had been his everything. The forest folks, both good and bad, now recognised him for their name and them for his name. After so many years together, they fulfilled him now, made him whole . . .
Gyepik returned, his ghastly canines holding a delicate clay goblet. He came over, and Luidhor plucked it from his mouth.
The goblet was empty, but after Luidhor put his hand inside it and mumbled a complicated spell, it produced a fiery blue light that gave off wispy vapours. Luidhor’s hand came out full with a yellowish sparkling powder.
He sprinkled the magical powder over the Bheria Blario. At once, the wounds, and bruises of the beast healed within the blink of an eyelid, rendering him as if he had undergone no injuries at all.
Blario, gleeful beyond everything for the sudden relief from suffering, showered his gratitude, praising Luidhor with all heart and volleying innumerable “thank yous” upon him.
Despite himself, Luidhor smiled.
Armando might be dead, but the love and respect of the Bherias was everything worth living for.
***
It was a very violent shake. Viven woke up bold upright, nearly falling off from the edge of Manu’s bed that had been joined to Dirita’s so that there was space for the three of them.
The Sword of Tropagia (The Advisor Trilogy Book 1) Page 7