Diary of a Conjurer

by D. L. Gardner

  A timid “Yes, sir,” came from his audience and Silvio grunted approval.

  “She stole the magic, the wizard’s magic and it made her strong. Gave her more control. ‘More,’ she kept thinking, rubbing her hands together in greed. Oh she wanted it bad and she got it from every wizard and conjurer on the island. Until there were only a few of us left.”

  “What was she going to do with all that magic?” One of the Xylonites asked, rubbing his brow.

  “Once she had power from every Taikan wizard, she planned on using it against the Songs of Wisdom. That’s where her black heart is set. Bah. She thinks she can conquer the Wind.” The Xylonites mumbled astonishment and horror, shaking their silky heads in disapproval. “To conquer the Wind and rule all the lands, everywhere. Alisubbo.” His eyes opened wide. “Bandene. Deception Peak, even.”

  The Xylonites gasped.

  “Don’t forget it.” Silvio turned pale as his thoughts turned to the future. “She can’t take my power from me. Not now.” He left off his tale in a whisper, which the Xylonites must not have heard. “But she might get it, nonetheless.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing. Where is it?”

  “The boy. The Kaempern youth, the dark-haired one.”

  Silence.

  Xylepher cleared his throat. “If I may ask, sir, how did he get our great king’s magic?”

  “I gave it to him.”

  Silence again, and exchange of many glances.

  “Your Highness, is he to be our King then?”

  Silvio sighed. Their little minds didn’t comprehend that Hacatine could still get the magic from Ivar. Oh that must not happen. She mustn’t. Never. But Silvio refused to put that burden on the little people. They were so frail. No, he wouldn’t worry them.

  “I suppose, unless he wants to give the magic back, when it’s safe to do so, that is.”

  “Well, surely if he’s Kaempern, he would give it back. We’ll ask him. We’ll march right up to him and ask him.”

  “I don’t think he knows how to use it,” Silvio whispered and shut his eyes. “I don’t think he even knows he has it, yet. He surely wouldn’t know how to give it back.”

  The rolling of the tide hummed a song for them as they all sat quietly by the campfire. Some of the women still combed Silvio’s hair, but more as a ritual now, because it didn’t need to be combed anymore. Xylepher threw sticks on the fire while three of his friends blew on the embers to make a flame. The women tossed bits of seaweed into the pot that towered over their heads, and men had formed an assembly line passing little cups of fresh water from the spring to pour into the soup.

  “Look,” a child, who’d been playing hide and seek with his friends called out from the brush. “Look, its magic.”

  Xylepher, Silvio and the other Xylonites looked at him.

  “It’s green dust. It’s Silvio’s magic.”

  It must have been the dust he used the night he had turned Promise to stone, the dust that flew when he evaporated the sword. The cluster of remnants had landed in the bushes.

  Silvio sat up, about to say something hopeless, but the Xylonites rushed to the site where the children found the magic. They quickly constructed brooms from sagebrush leaves, and raked the dust into a neat little pile that they then gathered in their hands.

  “It’s not much, granted.” Silvio said, his face downcast as the Xylonites presented it to him. “But it’s worth a sword. And maybe, if I’m lucky, maybe it will grow?” He looked up at the little eyes around him, all filled with hope, and want, and need. The Xylonites held out the dust to him as an offering. He reached out; palms up as the Xylonites shook tiny fragments of green dust into his pale crooked hands. When the last particle fell, Silvio’s hands turned pink, and he watched the dust disappear, melting into his body. A bit of energy flowed through him sending a tingle down his spine.

  No, it wasn’t much, but it was enough to bring a smile to Silvio’s face, and then a laugh, and then tears. Soon the Xylonites were laughing and dancing and patting him on the knee. They stoked the fire until it was blazing hot and cooked the best pot of seaweed soup they had ever tasted.

  Beginnings

  A gust of hot wind took him home to what seemed like an empty village. Roads were bare; dust blew in whirlwinds through the lazy streets. Dirt had settled on the boy’s dark skin and the hot sun baked it like a clay pot in an adobe oven. A dog barked, but besides the occasional buzz of a mosquito around his head, all was silent. He swatted at the insect, knowing if it bit him he’d suffer the disease. The village doctor had done all he could to save people from the plague, but there were too many bodies, too much death for even modern medicine to defeat.

  The boy followed the steps he had always taken. Urgent, his bare feet, calloused and cracked from treading on rocky seashores and clay roads, moved in rhythm as he ran past the closed shutters of wooden houses that lined the street. Sealed up tight like tombs. He knew what was inside of them. The plague was everywhere. No one talked to his or her neighbors anymore, fear and grief kept everyone stifled.

  The boy turned the corner and passed the stump where the apple tree once grew, a sorrowful reminder that the village once had been alive.

  He skipped over the stairs. Jumping to the porch, he pounded on the door, panting, but no one answered. He knocked again but no sounds came from inside. “Mother,” he cried, but he choked on his words. Fear kidnapped his breath. He gasped, his lungs burned…

  When Ivar came conscious, his head was pulled back, a finger pushed on his tongue and someone was breathing into his mouth. A wave of fluid gushed from his stomach. He coughed, rolled to his side, and let the salty water pour out of his body. He coughed again and gasped for air, panicked he opened his eyes, struggling to breathe.

  Promise had moved away from him only slightly, her hands on her knees, eyes anxious.

  As he gained his senses he looked around the cove. Waves broke against the rocks, spraying him with foam. He shivered, wet and cold, not wanting to admit even to himself that he was afraid. When his teeth began to chatter, Promise came to him and helped him stand. Wrapping her furs around his shoulders, she led him away from the water, up the beach, and out from the shadows of the cliffs into the sun. Her body pressed against his under the hide. She was warm and alive and caring.

  Ivar wiped the sand and salt from his face and shook his hair, and then his feet crumbled underneath him and he fell. He wasn’t sure what had traumatized him the most. Almost drowning, or the dream? The dusty village? The apple tree stump? The files, the sickness, the boarded houses? He sat cross-legged and covered his face.

  The thunder of the rolling surf hypnotized him. He looked up and watched the breakers, numb until Promise finally spoke.

  “I saw it too,” she said softly. “And I thought you had died.” She stood and walked away.

  Ivar rose to his feet. Taking a moment to gain his balance, he followed her. “You saw it? The dream?”

  “It wasn’t a dream. I can’t see your dreams.”

  “What was it?” he asked.

  “A memory.”

  His pace slowed. A damp wind blew and moisture clouded the rays of the sun. It would be foggy again soon. Promise climbed the cliffs ahead of him. He felt an urgent need to stay with her.

  “Wait,” he called out.

  She stopped.

  “Tell me more.”

  “I can’t tell you more.”

  “You can. You can look into me again, like you did on the ship.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “You’re on a quest. What good is it if I give you all your answers? Would that make you a man?”

  “I think the Wind brought me to you. I think you’re my only hope.”

  “You think.” She snickered and leapt onto another boulder.

  Her grace and strength amazed Ivar and he found himself wishing he’d already finished his quest. He wished he weren’t skinny and youthful but that he was confident and strong, like she was.

  Sh
e led him to the top of the bank, a grassy cliff that overlooked Skerry Point, though the sea drowned the jetty now; white caps speckled the shimmering waters. Mist disguised the horizon morphing into thick gray clouds. From there the bells could be heard harmonizing with the thundering waves.

  She turned and walked inland. Nothing but wind torn pine grew here. Oddly shaped, with mutated arms branching out against the gray. An eagle roosted on one of them.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You need water, don’t you?”

  Ivar's water skin had fallen from his shoulder when the surf took him. He was thirsty.

  “There’s a spring up here.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Once.”

  The grass at their feet grew thick and the scent of mint broke loose as Ivar stepped through it.

  “Here.” She knelt, next to a spring that seeped out from a cover or watercress and trickled over the rocks. “It’s good water.”

  Ivar fell on his knees next to her, and cupped his hands, pulling the water to his lips. He had a sudden awareness she was watching him, not just watching what he was doing, but watching his spirit, his soul. He sensed her thoughts, though he wasn’t able to interpret them. As he drank a strange tingling sensation overwhelmed him. For some odd reason he felt he had crawled into Silvio’s body. He heard the wizard’s word in his head. “You don’t know what her motive is. She might have saved your life to torture you. Those sorceresses, they do that. They’re evil.”

  Ivar shook his head. He shouldn’t entertain such notions. She’d been nothing but good to him, having saved his life twice. But when he felt the cold barrel of a gun next to his cheek, his mind went blank. He looked up to where Promise had been but she was gone and in her place was a stranger.

  “Get up,” the man said. Ivar obeyed. The abductor’s dreadlocks hung past his shoulders, his breath smelled foul, and his eyes were as deep as night. Two other men were leaving the spring. They pushed Promise down a trail through the woods. Dreadlocks shoved his gun into Ivar' ribs prompting him to follow the others.

  They walked through a green meadow that overlooked the western side of Skerry, and then descended gradually toward a wide-open beach. The sun was low on the horizon as they approached a camp. Ivar smelled the fire before he saw it, the scent of fish being smoked on open coals. His stomach growled and he looked anxiously at his captor, who merely nudged him on.

  The man was dark. His skin was brown, his hair was black, and his eyes were deep as night. No one in this world was that dark skinned, save Ivar. Could they be ancestors? Is this a chance meeting? Is it fate?

  Maybe something important was about to happen.

  Promise had already arrived at the campfire by the time Ivar was coached out of the woods. She sat on a blanket, watching him. Their three captors spoke loudly to each other. Their language was foreign. A fourth man, lighter haired, sat near the fire with his back to them holding something on his lap. Ivar couldn’t tell what it was but it held the man’s interest until Dreadlocks shouted at him. The blond turned toward his friends.

  “Stop arguing.” A sour sneer parted the blond man’s lips. He looked directly at Dreadlocks, combed Ivar with a gaze, and glanced briefly at Promise. “Just stop all that bickering. Good grief you’re going to force me to tie you all up. We’ll settle the matter as soon as I figure this out. Sit down and eat your dinner.” Cross-legged, he shuffled his body around to face the others.

  “When are you going to get us out of here, Lyle?” the shorter of the men asked, shoving his pistol in his belt and grabbing the hot pan from the coals. He flinched, dropped the skillet and blew on his fingers.

  “Watch it, Ray. Those fish weren’t easy catching.”

  “Dimwit.”

  The three scooted closer to the pan and picked at their dinner with their hands, spitting bones and charcoal onto the sand next to them. Ivar’ mouth watered, and his stomach growled. He glanced at Promise, wondering if she were as hungry. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of him, nor had her glower disappeared. He turned away from her stare, not knowing if she were dissecting him with her mind, if she were angry, or if she blamed him for their abduction, or all three.

  They weren’t really kidnapped, though. Aside from the guns the men were waving carelessly about, neither he nor Promise had been tied. Intrigued by the device on the man’s lap, Ivar scooted closer to Lyle to get a better look. The instrument was lit brighter than the fire itself, blue light and colorful circles rotated like stars on the flat surface. Hypnotized by the patterns, they seemed familiar. So enchanted by them, Ivar didn’t notice Lyle looking at him.

  “Who are these people?” Lyle asked shaking his hair away from his eyes. He was a young man, Amleth’s age; though his skin was pitted he seemed cleaner, and more intelligent than the three that had dragged them out of the hills.

  “We found them at the spring,” Dreadlocks answered, smiling a toothless smile. “I say we kill them.”

  “Why? What would be the benefit in that?”

  Ivar liked Lyle’s logic.

  “What’s the benefit of keeping them around? We’ll just have to feed them?”

  “Just let them go,” Lyle set his case on the ground and stood. “They’re just natives, youngsters at that.” He rubbed his chin, looking down at Ivar and then at Promise. “Kids in a mystery world. Who are they, I wonder?” He laughed. “Maybe they do know something. You,” he addressed Ivar and signaled with his thumb for him to stand.

  “Look, kid, we’re lost. Do you have any idea how to get out of here?” Lyle’s eyes had a twinkle to them, and his smile was catching.

  Ivar grinned back, though it was his nerves taking control of his facial muscles. There was nothing particularly happy about this moment. His tongue slipped into its crack between his teeth. “To where?”

  The man laughed. “To where? That’s funny.” He chuckled. This time his laugh sent an eerie sensation down Ivar' spine. Lyle was laughing at him. “Yeah, you probably don’t know anything about who we are or where we come from, do you? Are you one of those sea villagers? The ones with the gold?”

  The way the firelight danced on Lyle’s face, the peculiarities of the night, the shipwrecked crew, gave Ivar an odd feeling, as though he had been here before, or somewhere like it.

  Ivar glanced at Promise. Promise shook her head.

  “No. No, I’m not.”

  Dreadlocks grabbed his collar, “I saw you looking at the miss. You’re lying, aren’t you?” Ivar’s heart jumped when the man raised his pistol to his face. Dreadlocks shoved him back and Ivar lost his balance, stumbling over Promise. Startled, and hoping he hadn’t hurt her he caught her stare. She was looking at his hands and then Ivar noticed why. They were glowing green.

  “Let’s just get rid of them, Lyle. I don’t trust anyone from this place.” The whites of Dreadlock’s eyes sparkled in the firelight.

  “I say we keep the girl, kill the boy.” Ray chimed in, his mouth full of food. He stood.

  Lyle held his hands up. “No. Calm down. They haven’t done anything wrong. I say you give me enough time to open the portal to get us out of here, and leave them alone.” Lyle spoke with authority but the others laughed.

  “You’re a fraud, Lyle. We’ve waited long enough,” Ray said.

  “It’s your navigating that got us shipwrecked in the first place.” The third man chimed in. “Why should we wait for you to do anything?”

  “Shipwrecked and out half a million euros.” Dreadlocks added.

  “The arsenal was only worth that if we came back with gold.” Lyle defended himself with flair, tossing his hair and setting his jaw.

  “Which we’re not going to do without a ship, are we?” Ray put his gun at Lyle’s chest.

  “Kill me and you’ll all be doomed.” Lyle turned serious. “We’re not getting out of here at all without my skills. We might not need a ship if I can find the right portal.” Lyle stood a few inches taller than Ray, and remained
amazingly calm considering the situation he was in.

  Ray pushed him and the sudden impact sent Lyle tumbling into the sand. He quickly scrambled for his device, closed the case and tucked it under his arm.

  “It’s impossible to navigate waters that aren’t on the charts,” he added, catching his breath. “You have no right blaming me for any of this.”

  Ray drew his gun and discharged it into the air, for what reason Ivar couldn’t figure. Dreadlocks drew his gun as well and pointed it at Promise, at Lyle, and then at Promise again. Ivar’ heart beat wildly and he looked for an exit, some means of escape that wouldn’t land a bullet in his back. But he couldn’t run, not while the gun was pointed at Promise. He had enough Kaempern honor compelling him to protect her, though it surprised him she hadn’t used any magic against the miscreants. She stood, fearless, yet motionless.

  “Leave her alone,” Ivar cried out and raced in-between Promise and the gun. Proud of his act of valor, a wide smile crept over Ivar’ face, his tongue slid into its crack, his eyes beamed sure of the daring image he portrayed.

  Dreadlocks raised his pistol at both of them but Ivar stood even taller. Though Ivar meant to grab Promise and run as fast as he could, when he moved his arms, green dust flew from his hands and landed on Dreadlocks. The man fell backwards with his clothes on fire. The campfire exploded, flames flew high into the sky and embers drifted onto the beach.

  What happened?

  Ivar caught the surprised look on Promise’s face. Eyes wide, he swung his arms back the other way. Ray screamed in pain as his pants ignited. Lyle dodged the flame by jumping and the others raced toward the ocean.

  Confident in his newly found power, Ivar took Promise by her shoulders and moved her a few steps away. Pivoting back around, he rolled up his sleeves, pulled his elbows back and shot his arms out at the four men, fingers extended, eyes closed. In his mind he heard Silvio’s hiss, and saw that one green eye popping out at him. Green dust scattered everywhere, spiraling into the heavens with a wind so forceful he lost his balance and fell to the ground.