“Randall!” she cried, and rushed out to grasp him in a tight embrace.
“Oh Momma!” he cried into her shoulder, as if he were still a child. “I thought you were dead. I thought you all were dead!”
“We thought you were dead too,” she said softly, pulling back to look at him as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I have so much to tell all of you,” he said, voice raw with emotion.
“Why don’t you come inside,” she said, dabbing at her tears with her apron and leaving streaks of flour on her cheeks. “I’m baking a pie.”
Randall never noticed Berry flit from his shoulder as his mother pulled him through the front door of his home and to the shouts of surprise from the rest of his family.
Epilogue
Life at home seemed strange, because Eric and Joshua still acted like kids. Not a day went by without one or the other receiving a scolding from Momma for fighting and teasing each other. Randall felt so much older than either of them, even though Eric was technically a grown man. His parents treated him differently, too. Gone was the chiding tone of voice that they often took with their children—when they spoke to him at all, it was with a tone of mutual respect. It felt more like he were an adult cousin or uncle staying for a visit, instead of their son.
For weeks, he was content to work at the mill, doing what little he could with his lingering injuries. His family could sense that he had come home changed, and left him alone for the most part. Randall slept on a bedroll in the living room, while Eric and Joshua continued to share their tiny bedroom. Taken as a whole, the entire house seemed so much smaller than he remembered.
It was Randall’s mother that broke the wall of silence first. She approached him one afternoon, while the other Miller children were helping Pa at the mill. Randall’s shoulder had ached fiercely that morning, and so he begged off. He would have never gotten away with shirking his responsibilities when he was younger, but these days his father gave him a lot more latitude. Randall sat on the porch, scanning the surrounding land idly. He had seen neither hide nor hair of Berry since he had returned home, and he found that he missed the donnan’s company greatly.
“You’re going to have to talk about it sometime, Randall,” his mother said gently as she laid out a picnic lunch for them.
“I know, Momma,” he replied. He didn’t know where to take the conversation from there. So much had happened to him, and he had gotten used to keeping his secrets to himself. A thought occurred to him.
“Why aren’t you all dead?” he asked, matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing nothing more serious than the weather.
“Oh, baby,” she said. “That spell you cast that day...it was powerful! Nobody even remembers exactly what happened at Frank’s. Aiden only had time to gather up the few guardsmen that hadn’t been at the fight to chase after you. He never even came here.”
Hearing Aiden’s name seemed to break down some of Randall’s reluctance. He had nearly allowed himself to forget that his mother was a Seer, and probably knew more about what was going on than anyone else he knew.
“But I heard that I supposedly burned everyone to death! I just assumed Aiden had done it and blamed it on me.” Randall protested.
“Pshaw,” his mother answered. “Go into town, and you’ll hear fifty different rumors about what happened that day. Almost none of them even have your name in them. Most folks have come to the conclusion that Old Earl turned out to be a devil touched magicker, and that he attacked the town before being killed by the militia. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s an easier story to swallow than most.”
Randall nodded. He knew how the gossip network could whip up any exciting event into a handful of wild rumors, and Erliand’s fight with Aiden had to have been the most dramatic thing to happen in generations. Thinking about all of the events that he had experienced caused a swell of emotion of wash over Randall.
“I miss him,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“I miss him too, Randall,” she replied, putting her arm gently around his shoulders. “You didn’t know it, but he was an old friend.”
It took Randall a moment to realize that she was talking about Erliand. He considered keeping his mouth shut, but he was tired of keeping secrets. This was his mother, and a Seer to boot. If he couldn’t trust her with his story, then he couldn’t trust anyone.
“Not Master Erliand, Momma. Berry. I miss my friend,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes.
With that admission, it was if a dam had burst within Randall. He found himself telling his mother the entire story of his journey to Ninove, from beginning to end, leaving nothing out.
There were many times in his story when tears welled up in his mother’s eyes, and she gasped in terror when Randall related to her the fight with the bog-wights, but her biggest reaction came when Randall first described Berry to her.
When he described meeting the little imp, her mouth widened in horror, and her knuckles whitened where she tightly gripped the hem of her apron.
“Randall! That was a donnan!” she gasped.
“Why does everyone act like that?” Randall snapped in frustration. “He was just a little imp!”
“No, Randall, he wasn’t,” his mother replied, deadly seriously. “Do you know what else we call a donnan? We call it the Harbinger. Donnans have only been seen a handful of times in all of recorded history. We don’t even know if there’s more than one of them. But every time it shows up, it bodes ill. They’re creatures of unspeakable evil.”
“Berry’s not like that!” Randall protested hotly. “He was my friend! He hasn’t done anything bad!”
“Oh, Randall,” his mother said sadly. “How can you say that? It may be quiet here, but the country is still at war! Think of how many people that have been killed? Think of how many people you’ve killed. And the Harbinger was there, every step of the way, leading you into danger. And look what has become of Tallia! Look at what it has made you do.” Tears of pity welled up in her eyes as she spoke.
“That wasn’t Berry’s fault! And it wasn’t mine either! That was all Aiden’s doing!” Randall yelled. “You wouldn’t understand. You didn’t know him! It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s gone,” he finished, breaking into fresh tears.
His mother didn’t say anything further, but only held him close and let him cry out his anguish. Afterwards, she left the picnic lunch and quietly went back inside the house.
If Randall thought unburdening his soul would bring him closer to his family, he was mistaken. Over the next few weeks, he felt himself growing more distant from them—especially his mother. He simply couldn’t forgive her for not hearing what he had to say and blaming everything that had happened on him and Berry. She hadn’t told Papa or his brothers about the conversation, but still a gulf between them grew.
Erliand’s talisman continued doing its work, slowly but surely, and each day Randall felt a little stronger and though he was able to help more around the family business, he found himself begging off more often in order to spend time out wandering around the open fields. With each passing week, the itch to go back out on the open road grew stronger. He often daydreamed about his prospects for the future.
He had long since given up becoming a Mage—he had made numerous attempts to gather magic from Llandra since his fight with Aiden, and each time caused searing pain to burn him to the core of his being. He hadn’t even bothered to try in months.
But even if he couldn’t be a Mage, he could be so much more than a simple miller. He could still be a perfectly acceptable caravan guard. In fact, with Brody, Tobsen and Declan dead, there was an open market for the goods that the trio brought from Dyffryn every year. He could start his own caravan business. It seemed like as good an idea as any.
Official word had finally begun trickling down to the small towns in the far-flung reaches of Tallia: King Priess was dead. The Mages of the rebellion had set up a council to try to keep the country from
falling apart, but their grip on power was tenuous at best. Without a strong central authority to keep banditry and petty criminals in check, the roads were dangerous and travel was at a minimum. It seemed like an exciting time to be out on the open road, and a good opportunity for an enterprising young man to make a profit.
Randall realized one day that he was seriously considering the idea. His father and brothers were working at the mill, as usual, and his mother was out delivering flour. He realized that he could leave today, and not miss this place.
Now’s as good a time as any, he said to himself. He was as fit as he would ever be, and he was sure no one here would really miss him once he had gone. They might even be relieved to not have the constant tension of his presence.
Making his mind up, he quickly packed a travel sack, strapped his dagger at his side, and left his family’s home. He didn’t leave a note, and he didn’t look back. But he felt as if a large burden had been lifted from him. He wasn’t ever meant to be a miller, this much he was sure of. He wasn’t sure what the future would hold for him, but starting today, his fate would be in his own hands.
He had only gone a half-dozen paces from his family’s front gate when a familiar weight landed on his shoulder.
“Berry!” Randall cried in amazement. “Where have you been? I thought you were gone for good!”
Berry chittered merrily, as if no time at all had passed since the last time the pair had traveled together and Randall laughed, rubbing the little sprite on his head. With Berry at his side, there was nothing that the two couldn’t accomplish! He started the journey with a spring in his step, and as he began walking down the path, he began whistling a jaunty folk tune.
About the Author
Gregory L. Mahan was born in 1969 and grew up in Pasadena, Texas. Gregory taught himself to read at the age of four, and began reading anything he could get his hands on. In kindergarten, he was so dissatisfied with the small selection of “kids’ books” that he was allowed to choose from that he made a deal with his teacher: if he could read a more difficult book, and prove that he understood it, he would earn a note that would give him permission to read anything in the library. After submitting a book report on Beverly Cleary’s The Mouse and the Motorcycle, the note was his.
He soon discovered the works of Andre Norton and fell in love with the science fiction and fantasy genres. By the end of the school year, he had devoured all of her books that the library had to offer.
From an early age, Gregory knew that he wanted to be a writer. At the age of eight, he even asked for (and received!) a manual typewriter as a Christmas gift. Soon he was pounding out short stories for his friends and family to read. His dream of becoming an author persisted throughout high school, but then life got in the way, as it so often does. Still, throughout his life, he continued to write short stories and story fragments for himself and his circle of friends.
When he showed some of his old writing samples to his wife, Lucinda, she encouraged him to expand on and finish one story in particular—the story of Randall Miller. And so, after much hard work, A Touch of Magic was born.
Connect with Me Online
My blog: http://www.llandra.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/gregory.mahan
Amazon: http://amazon.com/author/gregorymahan
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