by J. Gertori
Simon shared a moment with the giants who arrived in groupings. He thanked them for embracing him as one of their own. At Simon’s request, a mage cleared a space on the rock across him and placed the blue bird, who had been drinking from an elixir bowl.
“Shall we ride into the next chapter?” said Simon.
“Ready when you are,” Gaspare said. He looked at peace with his decision.
Simon gazed at Sam. “Before I go—what did you see after drinking from the fountain?”
Startled by the sudden curiosity, Sam looked away from Simon’s warm smile. He gazed through the room of allies collecting in silence and said, “I saw myself, and the moment I started leaving my childhood behind.”
The revelation didn’t alter Simon’s smile.
“No matter how short or long your life may be, it will have been squandered if you forget to live. I should know; I have carried a curse for two centuries.” Simon drank from the cauldron, the happiness in his demeanor unwavering.
His eyes became glossy as if a bulb ignited behind them. As Simon shrank, his features seemed to realign, but the onlooker’s gaze was split as the blue bird displayed the reverse motion. It grew and sprouted arms and legs. A mage nearby covered the transforming bird with a jacket. The two continued to morph until they settled at a similar size. From under the jacket, a woman brought her eyes forward.
“My sweet Emma,” said Simon. Tears welled in his brown eyes.
“Simon, my heart.”
They were young again; the age Sam had pictured when Rowen painted the story. Emma kept her large, blue eyes open as the lovers embraced and soaked each other’s presence. Her freckled, pinkish hue juxtaposed against Simon’s deep brown skin. They stayed close with their hands clasped together.
In stifled stages, Simon and Emma aged. Tears fell from Gaspare’s eyes, and his hands trembled. He did everything in his power to stave off the effects of time. The lovers hunched forward as wrinkles creased their smiles. As if each second was a decade, they sunk lower. Their contrasting hair became a matching tone of white. Gradually, they fell into an embrace and settled in their lover’s nape. Gaspare granted the reunited lovers a final gift: they stopped aging. The Artifec of healing and the Eternal Lovers had passed.
• • •
On Monday morning, Sam woke in a land teeming with magic. So filled to its brim, in fact, that it returned as rain. The thick pouring draped the nearby windows with a hue of purple swimming inside the raindrops.
“The color comes frem the sphere,” said Rowen, favoring his leg; his injuries would need more than an elixir.
“I like the purple,” said Ellis.
“So, you’re not gonna run the article?” said Sam.
“Not the version Mavis and I wrote. Chasing leads this weekend made me remember my parent’s motivation and drive. Guess that means I’ll go legit. I’m turning a new leaf, guys.”
“The end of tricks and rogue magic?”
“And no more gossip articles?” said Rowen.
“Get your heads out of your asses. I said I’m going legit, not that I’m applying for sainthood. Those other papers don’t stand a chance against me. And when I get more writers, those gossip columns will be better than ever.”
“I might know a few wizards that would join Tattersall Press,” said Sam.
A woman shimmied past him, and from under her emerald overcoat, she flaunted a dazzling red wand. She stiffened her stick toward the sky, but the rainfall muffled her incantation.
The color palette of emerald against her fiery red hair thrilled Sam. He’d forgotten about the stream of purple rain falling from the roof onto his shoulder. The woman stepped into the flurry, and not a single drop soiled her skin. A semi-transparent plume, the shape of an umbrella, hovered above the point of her wand. The purple storm bounced from it without a hitch.
“And how about you, Dara. Any idea what you’ll do next?” said Sam.
“Safe to say, my run as a Lekly guard ended before it started. I think I’d like to try a different division at the manor. I thought about your suggestion to work with Alice—might give it a try.”
“Hey, what ’bout that Enchantments Now letter?” Rowen said.
Sam’s excitement peaked. “Oh yeah! What did it say?”
Dara laughed as she pulled the envelope from her pocket. “I got a meeting. They like my Gobbleplum and wanna see what else I’ve got. But it’s just a meeting. I’m still gonna work.”
“That’s awesome! Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Lemme see the letter!” shouted Rowen.
“Guess I wanted to go at this on my own, in case things didn’t pan out.”
“I know what you mean,” said Sam, “but the support of others isn’t so bad.”
Rowen ripped open the envelope and flew back as a bouquet of flowers shot from the inside.
Laughter from a nearby alley stole Sam’s attention. There were a group of children leaping over puddles. One of the boys took his enchanted umbrella and swung at a smaller kid, who managed to shield his face. To Sam’s surprise, no tears followed. The umbrella passed through the child, and only the raindrops smacked the kid. An all-out umbrella war ensued. Sam shoved Rowen into the arena where he received not one, not two, but five watery hits.
“Sam, we’re ready for you,” Zubair said, propping a side door to the manor. Sam ran inside before Rowen could retaliate. He followed Zubair through the twists and turns of yet another area of Lekly Manor he hadn’t seen. They took the elevator to the third floor.
“Hey, about your office—”
“You’re forgiven. Although honeycomb wallpaper is obscure for my taste, you’ve given me a reason to redecorate. At least you didn’t mess with my PEZ.” Zubair smiled and tapped on the door at the end of the long corridor.
“Grand Mage Zubair Singh,” said a guard beside the door. He leaned sideways toward Sam.
“Oh, uh—Sam Imis.”
“And Samuel Imis,” the guard said.
Though not large, the interior of the committee quarters had enough detail that Sam knew there was more than meets the eye. The woman standing behind a raised podium wore a gold headband, much like Lady Oxnora’s.
“Hello, Sam. I am the Head of House Catherine May. I will lead today’s meeting.” Her curly, white hair danced below her ears as she presented her hand.
Sam had to reach upward to the high podium. Using the awkward angle, Sam touched the top of her hand to his forehead: a Filipino gesture to show respect for elders. Catherine May returned with a warm smile.
“Sir Otto Gilbeaux,” said the guard. The announcements for Sir Maynard Molting came next, followed by Lady Civy Oxnora.
Sam sat at the back as another committee member arrived: the Artifec of telepathy, Lady Isla Eriksson. She strolled into the room, taking a seat beside Sam; perhaps she hadn’t noticed him. On the contrary, Sam tried not to stare too long at her shallow dimples, round sunglasses, and the hues of pink across her cheeks. She carried herself with an indifferent poise and appeared to be the youngest of the present Artifecs.
The committee quieted. “Ample time has passed. We will consider the remaining members’ votes null. As each of you have been briefed, so have the absent few. I will now commence the casting of votes,” said Head of House Catherine May. “In the granting of pact status to the fleshling, Samuel Imis of New York, who has no biological ties to Trida, how do you vote?”
“No,” uttered Gilbeaux.
“No,” said a man near the door.
The guard sitting near the arched entrance jumped to his feet. “Sir Rusoph Capullum.”
“Rusoph—we weren’t expecting you to join us,” said Oxnora, rising.
“Clearly,” said Capullum, remaining at the door.
“Rarely do you stoop to our level for meetings or other matters.”
“And I’m certain you’d prefer it that way.”
Oxnora laughed; she was the only member brave enough to do so. “Tell me, who leads the C
hildren of Edmond in your absence? Or do they wait in a circle, testing hexes on one another?”
Capullum broke eye contact, and he glared at the other members. “I’ve stayed quiet as armies of pacts enter our gates. But in this matter, you will hear my voice. This man does not belong. His involvement in Trida has led to not one but two Artifec deaths. Lest you forget Brother Gaspare and Sister Abifa. This is not the way of Edmond Lekly.” He pounded against the door.
Sam shook as he arranged the items near his chair.
“Sir Gaspare relinquished his gift willingly, under his pretense. And the passing of Lady Abifa was a product of her misuse. Sam helped uncover the plans that she and Sir Monday’s descendants sought to complete. And for that reason, I vote yes,” said Zubair.
“Viola Abifa died for the gift you all treat like a curse. The Trida my wizards represent is that of magic and possibilities. In which Brother Gilbeaux can fill the sky with winged sea life. Where Sister Abifa’s replacement can give an elderly wizard the shell of a king lion to elongate his life. A land where wizards can conjure magic both inspiring and frightening if they so choose. Not a Trida under the eyes of scrutors. A place where the most powerful beings on Earth are kept in check by a scrudge-sympathizer,” said Capullum, pointing at Zubair.
“Premier Lekly divided his skill among us with the hope we would not abuse it,” said Oxnora, palms flat on the table. “But I digress—this meeting is to decide the status of this fleshling, and in that matter, you are of prime bias.”
Capullum’s face went red, but he didn’t blurt an immediate retort. He took quiet breaths, and his tone equalized. “You speak of Edmond Lekly’s wishes, yet we collect here to discuss the entrance of a fleshling. Need I remind you why he placed a sphere around Trida. Why we can’t conjure outside its boundaries? Or why he folded the ocean and erased us from this planet?”
Catherine May tapped on her podium, and the committee hushed. “Sir Capullum, I have heard your stance. I am thankful for your involvement in this decision. I ask that you pause so I may collect the remaining votes.” She opened her palm toward the individuals to her right.
“Yes,” said Oxnora, eyes locked on Capullum.
The vote went to the Artifec of enchantments, Maynard Molting. The rolled brim of his hat made his face appear rounder, and a fat cigar clung for dear life on the edge of his lip. “Dear boy,” he said, adjusting in his chair, “You’ve done more in a weekend than most pacts can claim. You helped stop a crime that would’ve changed the collection of us Artifecs, but in doing so, you did just that. As I am the overseer of Fizzawick’s Bazaar, I must take into account the state of Trida’s workforce.” His eyes shifted to the Head of House. “I vote no.”
Catherine May moved her hand to the woman at the back. “Your vote, Lady Eriksson.”
Isla Eriksson lowered her sunglasses and said, “Though I haven’t heard more than this man’s antics, I don’t believe he should be exempt from our opportunities.” Simon tried to capture her attention, but she repositioned her sunglasses. “I vote yes.”.
The parties in the room conversed in a quiet mumble until the Head of House spoke. “Attention—during the event of an even split, as in this case, and with no other Lekly committee members present, I am obligated to vote.” She adjusted her rigid scarf. “In weighing the actions of Sam, and his potential as a pact . . . I vote yes, and wish him the best.”
Civy Oxnora cheered, but Rusoph Capullum twisted his gaze and stormed from the room.
“Sam, you are released to Zubair Singh. You will be assigned a pact occupation before the week’s end,” said Catherine May, smiling.
Thanking the committee members on his way out, Sam managed to contain his excitement. Unlike the Monday’s, he had avoided Persolus Place and overcame all charges against him. In part, for his involvement in foiling the wicked schemes, but he also believed Ms. Ward felt guilty for her uncontrollable rage in the caverns. Had he known the floor plan better, Sam would’ve sprinted the extent the manor, if only to release the overfilling joy swelling within. He did, however, dance around the hall.
“You hide your emotions quite well, Sam,” Zubair said, chuckling. “Before we talk business, there’s something I’d like you to see.”
They breezed through the spacious third floor and descended the spiraling stairwell. A silver placard hung against the wall of the first-floor lobby. Sam hadn’t noticed this the night he arrived, granted the sensory overload might’ve been a factor.
He waited for the rippling placard to settle then saw the names of each Artifec and their skill. Beneath ARTIFEC OF ENVIRONMENT – RUSOPH OF CAPULLUM HOUSE was ARTIFEC OF HEALING, but Gaspare’s name wasn’t there. Neither was Abifa’s beside ARTIFEC OF SOULS, which now read GLEDA OF LANGLEY HOUSE. Sam’s eyes widened as he stared at the name in Gaspare’s place: MARTIN OF SINCLAIR HOUSE.
Sam struggled to get a word out, but Zubair spoke first: “Not many knew about Sir Gaspare’s son. Marty’s an excellent choice and has been under the tutelage of his father for years.”
“You know, some people thought you’d be the next Artifec,” said Sam.
Zubair laughed. “I’m happy with my current standing. Now, onto you. Do you have any occupation ideas?”
“I’ve got one in mind.”
• • •
On Tuesday morning, Sam finished packing and made for the front door. Per Ellis’ instructions, he purchased the following attire: casual, casual excursion, business casual, dangerous-business casual, fancy, and show-up-Octavius-Daily fancy. Most of these required a plain shirt. Sam figured Ellis would implant the Tattersall stripes himself.
Sam caught Jan at the stairs. “Hey!”
“Whoa, what are you still doing here? Jim left an hour ago. You’re gonna get fired.”
They walked past Gaspare’s apartment and out the front door. “Actually, I did get fired—but don’t worry, I’ve got another job.”
“I don’t underst—”
“I’ve gotta go, but about those hikes—I’m in. Just let me know when.”
“Okay, something’s up with you, but I like it.”
Sam waved her off, trotting backward toward the mailbox. He pulled a small envelope, addressed to his mom who lived across the country. As he sent the letter with the check floating inside, Sam thought of the opportunities awarded to him—a first-generation Filipino-American—thanks to his parent’s determination. They ventured into an unknown land without a familiar face around. They underwent discrimination both subtle and blatant. And they sent whatever money they made to family back home.
Heading back to his apartment, Sam stopped by the tuft of grass where he first met Raske. He reentered the building and knocked on Gaspare’s apartment. There were heavy footsteps inside, and the door opened.
“Hi Sam. I’m Marty.” Sam recognized him from the caves. Whitish hair topped Marty’s tall frame, but he had a baby-face behind his trimmed beard. Unlike his father, Marty wore his alumni cardigan instead of a robe.
After shaking hands, the new pact saw the broken shards of ceramic spread across the floor.
“Sam!” shrieked Rowen. He spared not a second longer to flash his repaired leg. “Good as new, ya see? Did ya brin’ the stuff?”
“Right here in my bag,” said Sam. “The stuff” being gloves, empty jars, and, for some reason unknown to him, two tins of hair product. Crissa planned a retreat to celebrate the rewards her fellow scrutors bestowed upon her, and Dara promised Rowen she’d brew Tantalizing Tongue Twisters, among a bevy of other concoctions.
“Rowen says you get your Commuter Brew today,” said Marty.
“Yeah, Alice got us a reduced price. This time tomorrow, I’ll rift from my apartment.”
“Well, cheers to that,” Marty said. He brandished a bulbous bottle of his Remeo Brew, which lay in the chest beside his father’s. He swirled the golden liquid, and the bubbles aligned into the shape of Lekly Manor.
“My dad spent his lifetime as the Artifec of healing. If I
can last a fourth of his term, I’ll be happy.” Marty drank the brew and placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder, while Rowen latched to his pant leg. “Here’s to each of our new adventures.”
Upon hearing these words, Sam became riddled with goosebumps. Soon he’d be back in Trida along with Rowen, the knowledgeable hudger with a brilliant drive to learn. They’d reunite with Dara, the creative heart, and spark of their circle. With Ellis, the cunning reporter who could be resourceful in even the bleakest circumstance. And with Crissa, the impervious-to-bullshit leader, and one of the bravest women he ever met.
Red orbs appeared before them, rising in a slow pattern. Soon, a glow enveloped them, changing from red to green to bright white. Sam tried to contain his smile as a breeze fluttered by his ear. With a puff of air, they disappeared.
The story continues in book two of The Trida Series
The Faceless Alchemist
For more books from The Trida Series as well as free ebook short stories (Tridan Tales) of characters in this novel, visit jgertori.com.