Mercury Mind (The Downfall Saga Book 1)

by Chris Mccready

  They heaved again and a sharp crack pierced the air.

  Arms and legs tightly wrapped around the trunk, Donovan waited for the inevitable.

  Four more shoves and the tree began to ponderously fall, starting to fall slowly, but rapidly gaining speed as it fell. The tree sheared limbs off the trees in its path. At the last moment, Donovan managed to dive free from the tree, deep snow breaking his fall.

  Reorienting himself after the plunge, he frantically dug himself free from the snow. Swimming out of its depth, he started wading towards the road. He risked a single glance behind him and saw the Clachwards following behind.

  Nearing the road, he tripped in a shallow ditch, his right leg becoming tangled in something beneath the snow, causing him to fall face first into the snow. Panicking, he thrashed about thinking that a Clachward had grabbed his foot. Feeling some give in whatever held his leg, which doesn’t exist in the Clachwards indomitable grip, he twisted around and saw that the Clachwards were still ten yards away and slowly closing in.

  Calming himself, he dug away the snow surrounding his foot to reveal a bundle of brown weeds twisted around his foot. Resolutely he continued his attempt to free his foot, frequently glancing up at the approaching Clachwards. They were less than five yards away when his foot came free. Backpedaling until he reached the road, he got to his feet and headed towards Kendra. Worn out from chasing Eamon and still feeling half frozen, he could barely manage a stumbling walk, barely outpacing the Clachwards.

  Thankfully different guards were on duty at the gate, and seeing the pursuing Clachwards, they allowed him inside the walls with only a cursory glance.

  Asking the gate guard for directions to the closest inn with rooms that were, at least, somewhat clean, he headed to the inn, too tired to even bother reading the sign, he asked for a room and fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

  Waking late, he headed back to the music shop. Jaslynn was waiting behind the counter when he entered.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Donovan, right?”

  “Yeah. Do you have a package for me?”

  She took a minute to look him up and down before responding, “I’ll go get it.” She disappeared into the back room and came back a moment later carrying a coffin shaped case, which she gently set down on the counter. “He asked for a new case which I just finished this morning.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Eamon.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Nothing, really. He was all business. He dropped it off in an old, worn case and asked me to fit it to a new case. I recognized his description of you from when you were here earlier and was worried that you’d come back before I was finished.”

  She stood there expectantly, the case laying between them.

  Donovan reached out and slid the case towards him. The case was shaped like a coffin, long and slender, and covered in smooth black leather, which was freshly oiled and waxed. He gently ran a finger over the leather before unhooking the clasps and swinging the lid open. The inside was covered in rich blue velvet, soft but resilient. A lute was firmly nestled inside.

  He gently removed the lute, turning it over lovingly in his hands. It was old, but well cared for. It had a spruce soundboard and a polished ebony back. Donovan just stood there staring at it, listening as if it was singing to him.

  “The case is banded in metal to keep it light, yet strong,” she said. “You could stand on it in a pinch, but I wouldn’t recommend it. The lid fits tight enough that it should keep out the rain, but I wouldn’t drop it in water.

  Donovan gently stroked a string, and the lute whispered back.

  “You know where to find me if you have any problems. Before I forget, he left you a letter in the bottom of the case.”

  “Thank you for your help. What do I owe you?” Lute cradled in one arm, he withdrew the envelope and slipped it into a pocket on his cloak.

  “Eamon took care of everything. Well, aren’t you going to play something?”

  “Maybe later,” he said, laying the lute back in the case and shutting the lid. “You did a fine job on the case with so little time.”

  “Think of me every time you see it,” she said with a wink.

  “I’ll treat it right. Don’t you worry.”

  He walked out of the shop, case firmly in hand.

  With nothing to keep him in Kendra, he stopped by the bakery to buy cookies for his roommates, then started his journey back to Haven while it was early enough that he didn’t have to worry about being accosted by Clachwards.

  He waited until he was well out of the city before digging the envelope out of his pocket. Ripping it open, he withdrew and unfolded a letter, written in the same language by the same hand as before.

  Donovan,

  I hope that everything is well with you. I am sorry that I cannot talk to you in person, but I fear that I’m being followed by a powerful man and my life will be in danger if he knew that I was in communication with you.

  I cannot risk another trip to come see you, so you will have to come find me. After so many years together, I need to talk to you again, despite what I promised your father. I have given an oath to keep certain information from you, but I can answer many questions, which I’m sure you have about your childhood. I have business in Lornell this summer. Ask for Silk at the Drinking Duck anytime during August and they will put you in contact with me.

  I hope that you enjoy the gift that I left for you. So much has been taken from you and I wish that I could fill in the voids. I gave you this lute when you were still a boy and you spent so many hours playing it in front of the fire. I hope that it brings you as much joy now as it used to.

  Eamon

  He carefully put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it away in a pocket. He thought about its contents the whole trip back to Haven. It was clear that Eamon cared about him, but he wasn’t free to do what he wanted. Thinking about the dark man in the woods, he worried that his rashness had put Eamon in danger. As much as he wanted to take Eamon up on his offer over the summer, he was afraid that the wrong kind of people could be waiting for him. He was starting to climb the winding path up to the gate when he finally made up his mind. It was time to be honest with Osmont and share the letters with him.

  It was early afternoon when he entered his room. Kort was sprawled out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and Delaney poked her head around the curtain to give him a smile when he entered.

  “I brought cookies,” said Donovan, setting the bag of cookies on the table.

  Delaney scampered over to the table and picked up a cookie in each hand. She gave him a quick hug before fleeing back to her bed.

  Donovan looked over at Kort who was heading over to the table, eyebrows raised in shock at the first sign of affection that any of them had received from Delaney.

  “What’s that,” he asked with a mouth full of cookie.

  “This. It’s a lute.” He opened the case on the table, and pulled it out.

  “Do you play?”

  “Apparently, but I don’t remember how.”

  “You don’t remember learning to read, but you still can. Maybe music’s the same.”

  “I can’t”

  “Come on. You might be really good.”

  “Or embarrassing.”

  “How can you talk to me about embarrassing after that dinner?”

  “I suppose that it couldn’t be any worse than that. Fine, you earned a performance after what happened with the Queen. A private performance.”

  Kort smiled broadly. After dwelling on the dinner for so long, he was glad for the distraction. “So, where are we going? Outside?”

  “It’s too cold out there. My fingers would freeze, and the cold can’t be good for it. Everyone should be done eating by now. Let’s go and see if the hall’s empty.”

  They each grabbed a cookie to eat on the way, and headed for the basement.

  “You know this is stupid?�
� said Donovan, as they were climbing down the stairs. “Even if I can miraculously play, I don’t know any songs.”

  “Quit making excuses.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Just because you’ve lost your memories doesn’t mean that you’ve lost your heart.”

  They cautiously looked in the hall and saw that all of the tables were empty and the doors to the kitchen closed. Shutting the door behind them, they sat down at a table and Donovan took his lute out of its case.

  “Distract me,” said Donovan.

  “What?” said Kort.

  “This will be easier if I’m not thinking about what I’m trying to do.”

  “Okay. What should we talk about?”

  “What are you going to do this summer when you return home as a powerful wizard?”

  “Me? Powerful?” Kort broke out into laughter while Donovan experimentally plucked a couple of strings. “I expect that I’ll head back to the farm and do what I always do. Tend the herd, fix what needs fixing and avoid as much work as possible.”

  “Have you thought about doing anything away from the farm?” asked Donovan, starting to tune the loot.

  “No. I always assumed that things would just go back to normal.”

  “No matter what happens, you’re going to return home with more knowledge than when you left. You can read and write, you know about numbers and can perform magic.”

  “Who would pay to watch me light up glass balls?”

  “Performers have done well with less. What about writing. From what you’ve told me, not many people there can read or write. Maybe you could write letters for them that they send to friends that they haven’t seen in a while.”

  “Most of the people were born there and plan on dying there, so they won’t have much need to send letters to old friends, but I like the idea. Head over to someone’s house, chat with them for a while, write a page or two, and go home with a purse full of coins.”

  “There,” said Donovan, with a final turn of a knob, he finished tuning his lute. He began plucking strings at random. “Know any songs?”

  “A few. Dad loves singing around the campfire.”

  Kort hummed the tune to Tom Came Home, a song about a vagrant who headed off on many adventures but always came home to sleep under a mulberry tree which he called home. It was a fast, simple tune which Donovan picked up after several minutes. His fingers glided over the strings and music began to envelop him.

  Kort started singing the words. His voice was raw and rustic, but singing the song brought him to a happier place. By the end of the song, he had forgotten all about the disastrous dinner at the keep, and even his homesickness dissipated as he sung the familiar song.

  They played Tom Came Home a second time before Kort started teaching him Polly Come Over, a raunchy song about a woman with questionable morals that he and his brothers weren’t allowed to sing in front of his mom.

  Donovan closed his eyes and lost himself in the tune. When he opened his eyes, he saw Mama B sitting at the next table, facing them and tapping her toe to the music.

  “I’m sorry,” said Donovan, abruptly ending the song. “I didn’t mean to offend you. We’ll find another place to play.”

  “Offend me,” she laughed. “You can’t become a mama without doing a few of the things in the song.”

  Kort turned bright red and started gasping for air, like a fish caught on dry land.

  “It is a welcome distraction,” said Mama B. “You both sound pretty good to these old ears of mine. Feel free to play down here whenever you wish. Now play another song.”

  “Thank you,” said Donovan, “but I don’t know any others. If you can teach me the tune, I’ll try to play whatever you want.”

  Mama B tried to teach him a song from her youth, a slow ballad about a princess’ hardships at home while her prince is away fighting a war in a place called Deirdra. It took him many tries to get the tune just right to her demanding ear, but she finally declared it adequate and accompanied his playing with her surprisingly strong, husky voice.

  She had tears in her eyes when they finished the song and quickly excused herself to the kitchen.

  They played for a while longer before Donovan decided that he had put off talking to Osmont for long enough. Returning to their room, he carefully stowed his lute, before heading over to the teacher’s building to find Osmont.

  He’d never actually seen Osmont’s office before. He walked down the hallway, skimming the names on the doors on either side until he found the door labelled Osmont Wyatt, etched into a simple plaque. He knocked on the door.

  A few moments later he heard a familiar voice, “Who’s there?”

  “Donovan.”

  Osmont opened the door just far enough to slide through, before locking it behind him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to you ... in private.”

  “Let’s go for a walk.” Osmont started walking away.

  “Wait. Why can’t we talk in your office?”

  Osmont kept walking. Donovan stood there with an incredulous look on his face, before hurrying to catch up.

  Leaving by the rear door, they began walking along one of the paths around the quad, which had been scraped free of snow that morning.

  “So, what can I do for you?” asked Osmont.

  “Well,” said Donovan, looking side to side to make sure that they were alone. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.” He dug out the note that Eamon had left for him before classes had started, and handed it to Osmont.

  “What’s this?” asked Osmont, turning the note around, trying to make out the writing.

  “Remember the trip we took into Kendra before the start of class? Eamon left this note for me with Aine at that pub.” Seeing the confusion on Osmont’s face, he continued, “I think it’s written in the Shem language.”

  “Is this some kind of joke? Did Professor Cleary put you up to this?”

  “I can read it.”

  “I can pretend to read gibberish as well as the next guy.” He handed the note back to Donovan.

  “I’m not lying. I saw a piece of paper on Professor Cleary’s desk when we first met written in the same language. I could read it. It said something about the blood of the Brother running true.”

  Osmont looked taken aback, clearly something he had said hit a nerve.

  Donovan read the entire note to Osmont. “With everything that I heard about the Shem I didn’t want to admit any connection to them,” said Donovan dejectedly.

  “Don’t worry about ancient tales, worry about today’s actions.”

  They walked in silence, their cloaks fluttering in the biting wind. “So what happened?” asked Osmont.

  “I went to see Eamon yesterday,” started Donovan. He went on to tell Osmont about chasing Eamon through the city and out into the thicket of trees. The second man who surprised him, and the strange sensations when the figure grabbed him, before falling unconscious. Waking up and seeing the four Clachwards, and how they chased him up a tree. His escape to Kendra where he got the lute and note from Eamon. Osmont stopped and stared at Donovan as he read this note as well.

  “Let’s show those notes to Professor Cleary.”

  Osmont flew down the path, cloak trailing behind him. He took the steps two at a time and Donovan struggled to keep up. Hastening down the hallway, he burst into Cleary’s office without knocking. He waited at the door to usher Donovan in, before shutting the door behind him.

  “What’s—” started Cleary, rising from his desk.

  “Show him the notes,” ordered Osmont, forcefully guiding Donovan around the piles of books on the floor, over to the desk.

  Donovan carefully spread out the notes on a semi-flat spot on Professor Cleary’s desk.

  “What am I looking for?” asked Cleary.

  “Are they authentic? Is this written in Shem?” asked Osmont, stabbing his finger at the letters.

  Cleary carefully studied the letters while Osmo
nt watched, vibrating like a kettle about to boil. Finally Cleary looked up at Osmont and calmly said, “They have similar characteristics to other articles written in Shem.”

  “Do you have anything written in Shem with an accurate translation?”

  “I have a few snippets in an old book around here somewhere. Now where is it?”

  Cleary foraged around his office, scanning the spines of books haphazardly spread around the room. Osmont’s face transitioned to deeper and deeper shades of red, and it looked like he could blow up at any moment when Cleary triumphantly held up a faded leather book. He set it on the desk and gently began flipping through the brittle pages until he found the section that he was looking for.

  “It’s right here and the translation is on the next page,” he said, pointing at a section of text.

  Osmont eyed Donovan until he moved around the desk. Donovan translated the text while Osmont and Cleary carefully listened. Flipping the page, they read the translation which was shockingly similar to Donovan’s translation.

  Osmont’s irritation rapidly deflated, and he sunk into a chair, head in his hands. “What does this mean?” he muttered to himself.

  Cleary looked at Donovan in shock. “Where did you ...” he trailed off as he recalled what had happened to Donovan.

  “What does this mean?” asked Donovan. “Am I one of them? Am I a bad person?”

  Osmont snapped out of his despondency. “No, you’re not. There are many explanations of how you could have learnt it.”

  “Name one,” said Donovan firmly.

  Osmont opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out. Finally he shook his head. “This changes nothing. It merely highlights the importance of discovering a way to get your memory back.”

  “It does raise many questions,” said Cleary, shutting the book and returning it to a pile at the back of the room. “Why would the Shem teach a human boy their language, before blocking his memories and sending him to study at our only magical institution?”

  “Let’s not dwell on it,” said Osmont abruptly. “Donovan, I want you to write out a translation of the notes and give it to Professor Cleary.”