by Jeff Wheeler
By the time the sun began to rise, she was cried out. Her body was sore, her head was pounding, and her face was plastered with crusty snot and the salt of dried tears. But she was finally calm enough to know what she had to do.
Her grandfather was going to try to create a peace ward; she clearly couldn’t talk him out of it. But if he botched a spell of that magnitude, who knew what it would do. It wouldn’t just put him in danger—the effects could cover all of Europe, perhaps more. She would have to warn the king, to let him know that her grandfather wasn’t as capable as he’d once been. Maybe . . . maybe the king would keep it from getting around.
Dwyn stood, stiff and aching, and began to pack a small bag with a change of clothing and her toiletries. She would try to send a telegram to the king from the Cardiff station, of course; but she doubted that he would be taking messages from young dropout wizards at such a time of crisis, no matter who her grandfather had once been. She would have to go to London.
And then what? She paused her packing, thinking. Would her grandfather even want her around after she’d gone to the king? He had ignored her for days and even weeks over minor disagreements—it wasn’t hard to believe that he wouldn’t ever forgive her for ruining his reputation with the king.
Maybe Mrs. Reilly had been right—maybe she needed to find an elderly home for her grandfather. She certainly wouldn’t mind having time for her studies; there was even the chance that she’d be able to get back into the academy, if she reapplied soon enough.
She sighed and shook her head, resuming her packing. Even after their argument, her stomach knotted up at the thought of sending her grandfather away, of taking away the last vestiges of his pride. But then, if he remained angry with her, it might be best for both of them.
With the bag over her shoulder, she left the cottage and began following the gravel path to the road. When she reached the gate, she glanced up at her grandfather’s tower. The faint glow of his lamp still shone in the windows, only slightly washed out by the gray dawn.
Dwyn hesitated. If she did it, she wouldn’t be able to take it back. For several minutes, she stood there on the path debating. She didn’t want to face him again right then, but . . . maybe he would listen to reason. Maybe. At the very least, she felt like her mother would have tried again. Finally, she sighed and walked to the tower.
She climbed the stairs slowly and then paused in the doorway at the top. The table was still overturned, and the newspapers and other junk still cluttered the narrow pathway. But she was surprised to see that a new path had been cleared through the center of the room to the far wall.
The path led to a bookcase that she hadn’t even known was there. Her grandfather sat beside it in a sturdy old rocking chair—her grandmother’s, some distant part of Dwyn remembered. There was a pile of books beside the chair, and her grandfather held one open in his lap.
Hesitantly, Dwyn stepped forward to see what was in the book. She’d thought that maybe, somehow, he’d managed to find the spellbook that contained the peace ward. Instead, she was surprised to see that it was a dusty old photo album.
“You look so much like your mother, Dwyn,” her grandfather said. He rested his hand on one of the photographs. It was of her parents at their wedding. “Did your parents ever tell you the story of how they met?”
Dwyn looked down at her grandfather, but his head was lowered over the book and she couldn’t see his face. “Um . . . Dad was one of your students, wasn’t he?” she asked. “He met Mum when you had her help you carry some equipment to the classroom?”
“I made her help me so that she would meet him,” her grandfather said. She thought she could hear a faint smile in his voice. “He was one of my best students, so promising, but he was determined to remain a bachelor forever. I knew he’d change his mind when he met your mother.”
“I hadn’t heard that part.”
“I never told them about it.”
Dwyn smiled slightly. It wasn’t often her grandfather was so lucid anymore; she’d forgotten how pleasant talking to him could be. It was a much better reaction than she’d expected.
Her grandfather turned a few pages; Dwyn noticed that he’d already had the spot marked with one finger.
“Do you remember this?” he asked.
She peered at the picture he was indicating—her, as a baby, sitting in her grandfather’s lap and gnawing on a wooden charm.
“No,” she admitted.
“That was an old flavor charm, for improving food and the like. Your mother let you play with it after it stopped working.”
Dwyn squinted at the photo. “Wait, I do remember that. I carried that old thing around for years, didn’t I? I still had it when I started primary school.”
“Yes, you did.”
“What ever happened to it?”
“One day, after you’d left for school, your mother found it hanging in the kitchen. You’d repaired it and put it there yourself.”
Dwyn blinked. “Really? I don’t remember that. How old was I?”
“Six.” Her grandfather chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Your mother thought I had done it, at first. Then she thought I’d been teaching you behind her back, even though you were too young. But no . . . you had been sneaking peeks at our spellbooks, and had figured out on your own what the flavor charm was supposed to look like and what it did. So you fixed it and hung it up in the kitchen.”
He lifted his left hand, and she saw that he was holding the flavor charm itself.
“You still have it?” she asked.
He snorted. “Of course I do. It didn’t work for too long, but for a child your age to manage that, without any instruction . . . we were so proud. Even your mother wanted to keep it, for the memory. We weren’t surprised at how well you did when you went to the academy—you already knew most of the curriculum, by that point.”
Dwyn blushed. “It’s in our blood, I guess.”
Her grandfather nodded. He looked up at her, and she was surprised at how . . . present his eyes were. She’d never realized just how distant his gaze tended to be lately. There was water in his eyes and faint tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Yes, that’s the point I’m trying to make,” he said. “The magic is in our family’s blood. It’s strong. You’re strong, Dwyn.” He set the charm on the photo album and then reached down beside the rocking chair, lifting a thick, leather-bound book from the floor. “You’re probably the strongest wizard alive these days.”
With a sad, slightly pained smile, he handed her the book. It was the spellbook that held the peace ward.
“You can perform it,” he whispered. He leaned back in his chair, visibly exhausted. “I looked at the wards you have on the tower—they’re excellent. A peace ward will be difficult, even agonizing . . . but you can manage it.”
Dwyn stared at her grandfather. She looked at the book, then back at her grandfather, and frowned. Something was wrong.
“Grandda, what’s going on?”
Her grandfather had begun to doze. He started and looked up at her, his eyes half closed. “You were right,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “I can’t . . . can’t manage it. S’why you have to go . . .” He began to nod off again.
“Grandda?” Dwyn stepped around the rocking chair to look him in the face, and her foot bumped something on the floor. She looked down—it was an almost-empty glass flask. One of her flasks from her workshop, not one of the old, stained bottles her grandfather used. And it held a few spoonfuls of pale blue liquid.
Dwyn went cold. “Clearthought?” she asked. “You . . . you drank the whole flask?”
“Was too much,” her grandfather slurred.
“Grandda!” she shouted, jolting him awake for a moment. She grabbed his head and turned him to face her. “You can’t . . . you have to stay awake! I’m going to get you some monkshroom, but you have to stay awake!”
“No,” he replied, his voice faint. “Rubellum and some fae dust—should counteract the effect
.” He blinked, his eyes becoming alert for a moment. “I think. Double . . . double-check in that book there.” He pointed weakly at the bookcase.
Dwyn scrambled for the book and tore through the pages, finally finding a list of overdose countermeasures scribbled in her grandfather’s shaky handwriting. She squinted, trying to decipher the words. He’d been right—rubellum and fae dust, boiled in moonwater.
“Grandda, stay awake!” she shouted, shaking him. “Tell me more stories!”
“I was the lord wizard, once,” he murmured, his head lolling back against the chair’s headrest. “Did you know that?”
“Tell me all about it!” She stumbled across the room to his workbench and dug through his cupboards until she found the ingredients. When she hurried back to her grandfather, his eyes were closed again. “Grandda!” She forced some of the rubellum into his mouth, the yellow chunks crumbling across his lips. “Just a little rubellum should keep you alert without being poisonous, right? Right? Just chew that while I brew the rest!”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, just when she was about to burst from holding her breath, he began to chew and swallow. It wouldn’t be enough. Dwyn looked around for something that could buy her time. After a moment, she remembered her suspension powder. She pulled the bag from her waist and dumped some of the powder on her grandfather, whispering the words to freeze him in time. It would buy him twenty to thirty extra minutes.
The next half hour was a haze of lantern light and dust. She dug madly through the room until she found the cauldrons she’d given him for his birthday, still in the gift box. While the potion boiled, she lifted her frozen grandfather—he was frighteningly light—and moved him to his bed, clearing enough space with kicks and plentiful curses. He coughed as she set him down; the suspension was wearing off.
When the potion was ready, she spoon-fed it to him with his head in her lap. He had trouble swallowing, occasionally coughing it back up. She mopped his face with shaking hands and kept feeding him. He had to pull through—he was all she had.
When the potion was gone, she sat and held him, waiting for his eyes to open.
* * *
Her grandfather finally awoke around ten o’clock, when the sun through the window reached his face. Dwyn had moved to a chair beside the bed, and she sat forward and squeezed his hand.
“Grandda? Can you hear me?”
“Dwyn?” He turned his head, and his eyes slowly focused on her. “You need to go,” he coughed. “I’ll . . . I’ll be fine with a little more rest.”
“I know,” she replied. She held his spellbook in her lap and had been studying the peace ward. As he’d said, it was enormously difficult, but . . . she did think she could do it. “Grandda . . . they’re going to ask why you sent me to do it instead of coming yourself.”
He looked at her, his expression confused and frightened. “Well . . . just . . . just . . .” After a moment, his face calmed and he forced a weak smile. “Just tell them the truth.”
Dwyn tried not to cry. The clearthought was wearing off. Beneath the smile, she could see that he was sad, confused, and broken. She looked back at the spellbook, not wanting to watch him slip away again.
If she managed to create a peace ward and stop the coming war, she would be a hero. Her name would go down in history, just as her grandfather’s had. The academy would probably welcome her back with open arms, if she decided to go, and it would be an easy path to being ordained a wizard of the realm and even a high wizard. Everything she’d wanted would all be within reach.
But things wouldn’t suddenly be better between her and her grandfather; she had no illusions about that. He would forget, would argue and mishear, would be just as paranoid as before. Word would get around about his condition, and petitioners would stop coming. He would putter around the tower and wander the market, lonely and confused, upset by all the knowing looks that people gave him that he didn’t understand. People would respect and honor the man he had been, but they would pity the man he had become.
“I saved the world once,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I think . . . now it’s your turn.”
Dwyn sat watching him as he dozed off to sleep again. She had years ahead of her to do what she wanted, but it was suddenly painfully clear to her that she didn’t have years with her grandfather. She didn’t care about saving the world—she just wanted to save him.
* * *
Dwyn spent the afternoon making potions. Most were for Mrs. Reilly to give her grandfather over the next few days—a little bit of fortitude each day, and some wellrest for the nights. She also made one other, an earthy-brown potion, which she took with her.
Her train ride was quiet, even grim. She only left her compartment once; as she moved through the passenger car, she saw newspapers bearing the grim announcement of invasion on the continent. She heard fearful, worried whispers of war.
Her train arrived in London late that night. Before she left the train, she drank the brown potion of shapechange she’d made that afternoon. The conductor seemed confused when the old man stepped out of the compartment that had held a young woman only a few hours before.
People pointed at her as she left the train station, whispering in awe and hope. “High Wizard,” greeted the coachman that had been sent to pick her up. Dwyn nodded to him with a smile and climbed into the carriage. As the coach pulled away from the station, she clutched her grandfather’s spellbook to her chest with gnarled, shaking hands.
High Wizard Arliss Bobydd would save the world one more time.
Christopher Baxter
Christopher Baxter got in trouble for reading novels in class from kindergarten through high school. He began writing stories in class to stop his teachers from getting upset (since it looked like he was taking notes). He works as an editor and a writer, and he gives tips on common writing errors and composing better prose on his blog, The Story Polisher: storypolisher.blogspot.com. He is blessed with the best wife and two adorable little boys.
December 2016
Science Fiction
A Hundred Lifetimes
By Walter Dinjos | 8,000 words
My life’s an irony. An unfortunate one at that.
The lightwall glows like a blue ember, monotonic and hypnotic, as if to emphasize that irony, as if to remind and assure me that, even with my gifts, I can’t escape its efficiency in compromising the identity of intruders. I sense it scanning me. I know it’s scanning me, but I haven’t the slightest idea the crest on which it has locked.
I quickly shoulder my leather backpack, which contains the matter compressor I retrieved and the unconscious inventor whom I had to shoot with it, and pull at my sleeves to make sure my crests are veiled.
I usually don’t worry about the scanners in the walls, and that’s probably because I’ve never broken into a tier-one corporation until now. Every criminal in the city knows that venturing into corporations like Muna Bio-Tech and Poi Security is the only thing worse than a suicide mission. There’s a reason intruders apprehended inside these companies are often sentenced to memory-rooting sessions instead of years in induced coma, and it has to do with the scanners.
While smaller companies only have licenses to install biocrest scanners on their walls, these big corporations have access to soul crest scanning technology.
Most criminals are afraid of the side effects of scanning the soul crest. The ringing of the ears. Disorientation. Amnesia. Madness. They are afraid of the rumour that it could open doors into one’s past lives and flood the mind with memories from those lives; hence the need for memory rooting. But my concern with the scanners is tied to something much worse than memory rooting.
I’m inside one of Muna Bio-Tech’s labs and, so far, I don’t feel disorientated or mad. The building, however, begins to blare my name, my present name. And that can only imply one thing—the lightwalls have read my biocrest, despite my being swathed in leather. At once, a hectic rhythm awakes in the hallway. I stumble to the glowing blue doo
r in dismay, put one ear on its vibrating body, and ascertain that the guards are already on their way.
Fortunately, the lab isn’t clean enough. Its scrubber appears to be faulty, if not offline, for there are tiny bits of transit rays floating all over the place like translucent blue eels. I could touch one and it would carry me to a random location within a quarter-mile radius of its position. But with the intruder alert resonating, the police may have set up a wider perimeter.
So I resort to painting—or rather, summoning—the anchor I left on the city’s occidental outskirts. With any luck, he will have moved away from the spot where I fastened myself to him with a touch. As I sketch with thoughts on a canvas that is my mind, I ensure that I render first and correctly his most distinguishing features—his elegant stature and fitted jacket, his olive skin and hairless jaw, and his slim nose and grey eyes set in a triangular face. Then I rip off the glove on my right hand, and, just as the door before me dissipates and lets in three guards wielding limb-disabling freeze guns, I reach out with a finger and touch a ray.
I can’t say I’ve been shocked by electricity or struck by lightning before, but I always feel like one assaulted by the latter whenever I absorb a transit ray and dematerialise. The evidence of this feeling manifests when I materialise before my anchor and his menacing glider and drop to the asphalt, bleeding from my pores and coughing out blood as if afflicted by killer nanorobots.
When he discerns that it’s me on the ground, his hand abandons his sidearm, but his unnerving poise doesn’t falter and he doesn’t offer me even one iota of empathy. Instead, he towers over me under a sky crisscrossed by transit rays and, in a voice tinged with suspicion, says, “What was your anchor?”
I give out a tentative chuckle that conjures more blood from my mouth. “You were. Emergency extraction.”
He doesn’t flinch or submit to anger. “Anchor only on inanimates. That’s the rule. What if I hadn’t moved?”