My father looked me straight in the eyes. “Sometimes people have to get cut. You’re alright, though?”
I nodded slowly.
“Use it well, and be careful,” he said softly, his eyes flitting down to the blade at my side.
“Father,” I said. “Why didn’t you take the sword?”
“That’s a long story.” He paused. He looked down at his desk, then. I got the feeling he wanted to tell me more, but if so, he never got a chance.
When he looked back at me, his face looked stressed. “I’m sorry, son. We’re going to have to lock you in. I’m going to be very busy tonight. We won’t return until late.”
“A lock down?” I asked, feeling angry for not the first time today. “I’m sixteen.”
My father shrugged. “Tomorrow you will have a banquet, if your work is done tonight.”
“I don’t even want a banquet,” I said. I was tired of all this mystery about where he went and why, but mostly I was tired of being locked in. I turned to leave the room but my father spoke softly, just a single word: Warte.
How could he freeze me there, just by saying a word? I’d always thought my father was weak in magic, a powerless diplomat, someone who’d chosen to live his life through reason instead of actions. But he stopped me without raising a finger, without even raising his voice. I tried to move but the word held me. Waiting. Staring at the door I had been about to walk through and slam.
“Your mother wants you to have clear skin, tomorrow,” my father said, from behind me. “You can visit the herbalist, or we can cover you with make-up.”
“I’m not a girl,” I said, feeling silly talking to the door, but relieved that at least the magic had not frozen my tongue. “I won’t wear make-up. Can’t you just put a glamour on me?”
I felt his magic loosen as I turned around.
My father frowned. “That’s a subtle spell, if it’s to last, and we have no time. If you don’t want to cover those bumps with makeup, go find some witch to hide them for you. Or see the herbalist and see what she can do.”
My father looked back at his papers. Our conversation was over.
“Father?” I said.
Instead of answering, he held up his hand. There was power again, there. Somehow he stopped me, with just a gesture, without even saying a word.
“Your tutor is waiting for you,” he said, without looking up.
“Have a nice trip,” I said, finally, when he released me — holding it all in, my fingers forming into fists. It was pointless to even ask where he was going. He never told me anything.
“Thanks, son,” my father said, standing up now. “Happy birthday.”
For a moment I thought he was going to hug me. He took a step towards me, even reached out his arms. His face changed — he looked loving, warm, like he had when I was little, before the magic, before the big move.
Was I still angry or just surprised?
It had been so long since my father had touched me.
I turned away, and he let his arms drop.
“Sorry, Anders,” he said, then. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
I found Ana, Giancarlo’s wife, down in the lower depths of the castle. She knew what I needed as soon as she saw my face.
She wrapped me up in her arms, and squeezed me. I felt all the anger melt then, all the frustration, and blubbered like a baby. Talk about embarrassing, but Ana is like family to me. She took care of me when I was a little boy, even before we moved here, way before I knew her husband the blademaster.
When I finally pulled myself together, Ana pressed a jar of green clay into my hands. She gave me careful instructions, making me repeat them until I understood everything.
“It won’t get rid of your problems,” she said, “But it will help.”
She looked me in the eyes then, and kissed my forehead. I’ll always remember that kiss, and her smell: patchouli and orange.
“I am not sure if you will really need this clay,” she said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Be careful what you wish for.”
I wanted to ask her what she meant. Ana could see things that other people couldn’t. She knew about things sometimes too, even before they happened. But when I opened my lips to ask her, she only pressed my hand down over the jar and shook her head.
“I’ve said too much already,” she said. “Your tutor is waiting. I can feel his impatience.”
I could smell Ana’s scent on my clothes as I sat through eight hours of ancient tongues, geography of the low-lands and high-lands, military strategy, mathematics and astrology. Only the ancient tongues and military strategy were interesting.
The rest was a bunch of nonsense. The books said there was once a kingdom of people who lived under the sea. I didn’t believe it, but it was in the books. There were battles in there, too, great struggles for power, people flying around on dragon back and swinging magical swords. It was all a pack of lies. I knew what real life was. Real life was my father. He had to leave from time to time to meet people, and talk to them. He had lots of papers to read and lots of letters to send. He was tired a lot of the time. There was nothing else. When I was older, I wouldn’t be a guard in an underwater city; I wouldn’t even be a wizard in King Lowen’s glass castle. I would be a paper-pusher like my father, a poor excuse for a sword fighter, and an even sorrier excuse for a wizard.
My lessons were the same as always, just longer than usual. If I had expected anything different now that I was sixteen, I was disappointed. My tutor waved at me finally from the door. He had left me a huge stack of homework.
“Happy Birthday, Anders,” he said, and locked me in.
After studying for a few more hours, and snacking on some dried fruit, I figured I might as well try the jar. My face hurt and I just wanted to scratch and squeeze. I showed some self-control instead and slathered the green paste all over my face.
The mask was unbearably itchy but Ana had given me clear instructions: no touching my face, if I wanted my skin to relax, release and smoothen.
Don’t expect miracles, she’d said. Just put it on in the evening, and leave it on until it was time for bed.
So I kept my hands off my face and sighed.
My parents should have been back hours ago. They had never left me locked in overnight. Someone had always come to check on me. I was tired of being a prisoner. Where were my parents? I fingered the sword at my waist.
At this rate my face would be covered with green gunk until the early morning. My supper would soon be cold and tasteless. My stomach grumbled.
If only I had learned the art of sending. Even though I was mad at my father, I wanted to send a message to him. I had this strange feeling something was terribly wrong, but it was hard to pin down. What could be wrong? I must have been reading too many books. Really, why was I worried?
Usually the cold didn’t bother me, but that night was colder than usual. Or maybe I felt a chill from whatever was going on. In any case I shivered. I tried to concentrate on my father, his bald head and big green eyes. Father. Where are you?
Nothing. Or maybe just a little something. I concentrated once again. Father?
A blood red flash made my head reel.
Whoa. I knew from my studies that headaches could be a sign that something was wrong. But this was worse than a headache — it was like a red hot poker to my eyes, and the redness still burned in my vision as the pain faded. What had that all meant?
Maybe nothing. Maybe I just shouldn’t fool with unfamiliar magic.
Or was my father in danger?
Everything about magic was so complicated.
There were so many types of magic that I’d read about, but never practiced. It was dangerous to attempt things, when you didn’t know what to do, exactly. But I didn’t have a choice, most of the time. My tutor had shown me so little practical magic, I wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t experimented myself.
But blood red? What could that mean?
I tried to stop wor
rying. I needed to calm down and finish my homework.
But as soon as I stopped thinking about my dad, I felt the horrible itch of the drying green gunk on my face.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a stick of long brown incense.
A few weeks ago Ana had told me burning spice freed the mind from distractions and fear. That was why witches and wizards burned so much incense, she had said. I’d just figured they burnt it to make them smell magical.
Ana had recommended a specific kind of incense, and I’d gone straight out to buy it. I probably would have done anything that promised to help me finish my homework faster.
The place had smelled so good. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and other spices burned on sticks. Everything was covered with a warm red light. The shopkeeper, Gerard, was larger than life, almost crackling with magical energy. He scared me more than a little. I could tell he did more than sell spices. But most of all, the smells struck me. I could almost taste them.
Now I sipped tea from a tiny cup. The tea, too, was spiced. Ana had told me that tea cleared the mind. If it helped me think clearly and get out of this room any faster, I was all for it.
The homework stared at me, unfinished. Even though it was late, I still wasn’t done. I wondered if that was my birthday present from my tutor: extra homework.
But what did it matter, anyhow? Even if I finished my work, I was locked in until my mom showed up to check it. And I had this horrible feeling she wouldn’t be showing up anytime soon.
What if something had happened to them? Would I have to stay locked in the room until someone called a lockbreaker?
And if my parents were in danger? No, that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? My father had never experienced any danger, had he?
I hated being locked in. It made me feel so powerless and insecure, even with the sword at my side.
It had not always been this way. I was born sixteen years ago, on the winter solstice, in the far North not far from King Lowen’s castle. My great grandfather whispered magical words in my ear just after I was born. All I can remember is a great burning flash. Then they had let me grow. They had let me learn to use my hands and feet and mouth, learn to toddle along, learn to use my first non-magical words.
I’d played in the streets with other kids from the castle and the village. I dimly remember running around like a wild animal until my parents snatched me up.
Things started to change when I turned eight. The second imprinting. That one I remembered all too well: the sting of the words whispered in my ear; the burning energy that made me want to cry out to my mother, as she stood there watching and waiting.
Then, two years later, my grandfather had died. I still remembered the pain as he passed away. It’s one of my few clear memories of the time spent in King Lowen’s glass castle. And then, suddenly, we had moved south to Tuscany, taking Giancarlo and Ana with us.
I lit the incense now, took another sip of the tea, and sat up in my chair.
If my head was going to get any clearer, I would feel it now. I tried to empty my mind. I took several deep breaths, looked around. Nothing. I felt nothing at all.
Maybe it was all just flim flam, just an excuse to burn expensive spice and drink brown tea.
I let the cardamon, nutmeg and cinnamon linger on my tongue. My tutor had given me tea tasting lessons once — we’d met in the kitchen, and worked until I could identify not only the spices but the type of tea.
I stared at the wall and wished for a change, took in a deep breath and tasted the incense in the air. I still felt nothing. Nothing but the itchy green clay on my face.
Was I going to spend my whole life locked in this room doing this pointless homework? I’d had enough. I felt anger surge up in me, anger at the years I’d spent stuck here doing nothing.
I took a deep breath and held it. I stood up and picked up my homework. My hands tingled as I crushed all the paper together in a ball. Without thinking about what I was doing, I walked over to the narrow window and stuffed all the paper through.
I sat back down at my empty desk, letting out my breath in a long sigh.
And then the wall fell away.
Chapter III
A bright circle of light blinded me. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the circle was still there, around four feet wide. But now my eyes must have adjusted to the light. I could see a spice shop, and, in the background, a bright summer day shining through an open window.
It was Spice, the shop I had just been thinking about.
I blinked, tried to turn away, but my eyes were drawn back to the circle.
I squinted my eyes and looked at the edges.
You could see a little jagged edge where the dark wall of my room in the tower met the circle of the brightly lit spice shop.
I stood up and shook my head, to see if the image wavered. But it all stayed rock solid. Now, standing up, I saw something in the shop. Something, or rather, someone, was crouched towards the back.
In the corner, underneath a table.
It was a girl, maybe my age. She was beautiful. Her perfect skin seemed to glow in the bright golden light. Her hair, too, was golden like corn silk.
She seemed to be waiting silently for something, her eyes wide open, her body tensed, as if she was ready to run, or to strike.
She moved her head silently from side to side, and then, suddenly, she froze.
She was staring right at me.
At my face covered with green clay.
She raised a finger to her full lips. She winked her beautiful emerald eyes, and she smiled.
I started to say something. I wanted to explain why my face was covered in green gunk. I wanted to ask her who she was, how come her ears were slightly pointed, why she was crouched in the corner of the shop. But she shook her head, and put her finger to her lips again.
I nodded, hypnotized by her beautiful skin, her full lips.
She must have been my age, give or take a year, but she was beautiful.
What was going on?
This was clear thinking?
Putting holes in reality, creating circular gateways in the walls of my small stone room? Looking at beautiful girls?
Perhaps I had burnt the wrong incense, or drank the wrong tea? Had it been the tea, then? Or the incense and the tea together? I stopped asking myself questions.
Something was happening in the circle.
The girl was staring at something to her right. I took a step to the right to see what she was looking at. There was someone at the door of the shop, peering out through the stained wizard glass of the door.
I knew that glass well; I had once lived in a castle made of it, and my tutor had shown me how it was formed and shaped. It was incredibly hard, yet perfectly transparent. While the spell was still fresh, you could pour it like melted sugar, and form it into all kinds of complicated and intricate shapes. But once the spell’s effect was over, it was hard forever — at that point only a wizard of the 9th level could break it, and after a lot of time and effort.
The shopkeeper stayed at the door, and then there was movement: a blur out of the corner of my eye. I turned and the circle moved with me this time.
It was the beautiful girl with perfect skin. She had jumped out from under the table and now she was running towards the door.
She reached out and grabbed something off a shelf.
Was it a bag of spice?
A spellbook? An artifact? I couldn’t see.
I heard nothing either. Either she was really quiet, or no sound came through the circle.
Then the shopkeeper turned, in alarm, it looked like, and shouted, his hands up, “What the hell?”
Well, I guess I could hear through the gateway.
No one I knew was so quiet or so fast. The girl must have been a thief, or an elf, or an elf thief. But Gerard, the shopkeeper, was quick too. And he was a powerful wizard. I’d heard rumors about him selling other things besides spices. People said he dealt in knowledge and power, as well.
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Anyhow, Gerard was a trained and practicing magician — not a “failed” magician like my tutor, and he looked furious.
His mouth moved now, his face contorted, and words flew out in a buzzing whine. His hands fell to his waist, and then he was holding a wand in his hand, and I heard the words: ... alam kazhi nikim.
Words of power from some dead language I didn’t know and hadn’t really believed in. I still hadn’t got past Germanic and Romance.
My ears buzzed and my chest vibrated. There was a roar in my head. Heat blasted everything, hitting my face.
The girl turned and spat out a word. Just one word.
But what a word! Í wouldn’t be able to wrap my lips around it. It was like a slap in the face with a wooden paddle.
I staggered back, realizing that in my room, I must only be feeling the aftershocks, some ripple that made it through the barrier.
Gerard would be hit with the full force.
The lights in my room dimmed. In Gerard’s shop they went out completely. I shivered. I smelled damp earth, as if the whole shop had been buried in cold wet soil.
I crouched, shivering, staring at a black circular disk. I thought for a moment that I’d lost contact completely with the shop. I couldn’t see anything.
But then I heard cursing: coarse and deep, as though the curser had lost part of his voice, was coughing out the syllables.
Nothing magical about it, I thought at first. Just terrible anger. I could feel the rough menace all the same.
A moment later I realized there was magic after all. Just of a kind completely alien to me. It was darker and more elemental than anything I had ever seen or imagined.
The words scorched the dark air, an angry fire that hungered after its enemies. I felt a familiar buzzing in my ears. This must be an old Germanic language, or some old Anglo Saxon low tongue, some ancient language of hate, that now made my teeth ache and my face sweat.
The cursing grew more rhythmic and louder, and the heat grew. And though I could feel sweat on my forehead, I shivered.
I didn’t want to believe, but I couldn’t doubt anymore — this was the darkest of elemental magic, the magic of hate, of destruction and revenge.
Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons) Page 2