The Last Wizard

by Jane M. R.

  “Might I indulge ye with an exploration of the castle?” I look pointedly at him. He looks away. “Forgive me. Tis just… thou shalt leave this place if ye hath all the answers. And I understandeth that tis terribly self-serving of meself…” He trails off. I fill in the blank.

  “I promise to come back and see you again. Will that satisfy?” I say it just so he will tell me. Then I feel bad because I know I can never come back. Is this it, then? Durain dies, I go through the trouble of piecing together what he started, open a vault to release a boy who thinks he’s been down there for a long time, and then go home and forget about it? What am I supposed to do with Zadicayn? What would Durain have done with him?

  He shifts the apple around in his sleeved hands to bit another angle. “Yea… yea it shall.” He takes a breath, too deep to be normal. “So the Faewraith wert upon the consumption of humans and ten honest families wert chosen to be the keepers of the magic to bar the way of the Faewraith. Dost ye hath any questions before I continue?”

  He’s egressing from my language instruction. I suppose there is no help for it right now. “Why ten families? Does that number matter? How many wizards do you need to keep the Faewraith away?”

  “The number of ten tis only specific to the ten regions in England, two wizards for each region. But as for the keeping of the Faewraith away, ye just needeth one. Huzzah for meself.”

  “So… how are you keeping them away?”

  “Faewraith consume magic, but art nary magical themselfs. So as much as a magical force tis present in the living, it keepeth them away.”

  “But if everyone has magic in us, in our dreams…”

  “Ye hath magic, howevermore it tis dormant. I shalt correct and say that active magic keepeth the Faewraith from this place. The Fae art always active magic. The wizards’ amulets harvest the magic from our third-eye and keepeth it active. And even though Faewraith eat magic, they art scared away by large quantities of it, just like a lion wouldst consume one human but scare away if there twas a pack of them. On this moment, me amulet is just enough, wherever upon yonder it sits.” He exhales. “Meself is thus thirsty. Mighten there still be water in that bucket?”

  I point to the cauldron above the fire in the hearth. “I’m boiling it. I’m still waiting for you to get sick from drinking river water.”

  He looks mournfully at the cauldron as if terribly inconvenienced. “So there wert twenty of us, so besides being the keepers of magic to bar the Faewraith away, we wert allowed to use magic to assist in the needs of the general populace, which is why honest and humble families wert chosen so they shouldst nary use the magic for things they wert nary supposed to. If the land suffered a drought, we couldst bring forth rain. We couldst assist in healing and discover gold ore in the lofty mountains. Things to help people live just a mite easier, a little healthier. Magic wast nary to be used in place of actual work.”

  He leans back into the creaking chair. I wait for the moment it would break. “Howevermore, some people decideth it shouldst be used in place of physical labor. And that tis whence the problem began.” He looks toward the kitchen door again, like he did earlier, looking like he wanted to leave and I start to understand that gesture means he wants escape, as if he was still inside a personal vault.

  “A handful of families; Borayen, Garfair, and Whaerin schemed together in want of their work made easier. Each of them worketh either in lumber, masonry, farming, or metal. Dost thou wit if they art still functioning upon those same labors?”

  “What does wit mean again?” I try, nitpicking his speech again to cover up the coldness surging through my chest at the mention of those names Zadicayn should know nothing about.

  He shakes his head and looks at his boots as if he’s the one to blame. He lifts his hands and curls his fingers as if to help him find an explanation. “Dost they still function upon those same labors?”

  “Yea. I mean, yes.”

  He spares me a quick grin at my slip into his dialect. “Thither wert a few families liketh that in every region. Those names of whom I hath just declared wert the ones in my region. Others nearest the ocean wert fisherman and glass blowers… but besides… basically each family worketh a major labor; the pinnacle of human necessity. So of course, those wert the ones that wanteth the magic for themselves, to lay trees without the need of physical labor, to harvest fish out of the ocean without a net… I shall be certain ye can figure out how each of them wouldst use magic for their own ends.

  “Of course, doing that would break our oaths we maketh to the Fae to nary use the magic to satisfy the heightened greed of lofty fellows. Thou shalt nary confuse the two; we helpeth each of them with each of their jobs. We nary used magic to pull the fish out of the ocean for them, but we didst show them from whence the biggest swarm of fish couldst be found that day. We nary useth magic to cut the trees but we didst use it to lower the trees to the ground thereupon they fell to waylay injury. Howevermore, these workers wanteth more. And we refuseth to provide it upon their hands. So…” He looks toward the door again. “Art thither anymore apples?” I stab another apple impatiently with Durain’s knife and hand it to him. “How comes about the water?”

  It is boiling now, so I scoop some in a wooden bowel I found and had cleaned as best I could and hand it to him. He huddles the bowel to him, watching his face ripple on the surface of the water. “So they demandeth it by force.” He takes a sip of water, even though it steams heavily. I wince for him but he appears unaffected by its heat. “Wherein threats didst nary work… and upon whence torture didst nary work… they starting killing us. Killing us to useth our amulets for themselves.”

  He bits into the apple. Once. Twice. Finished it. Gulped more water. “We supplicated them to hear us tell the honest truth that the amulets wouldst nary work for them, but they believed upon we wert bluffing, and killeth us anyway. But tis true… the amulets art attuned to each wizard by our life blood. Twas made so by the Fae so the amulets couldst nary be used by anyone else. The amulets literally became part of us, became our detachable third-eye. Literally. When they started killing wizards, they soon understandeth the amulet dieth too, becoming a useless dangle of cheap jewelry.

  “They stopped killing for that purpose, but while they wert thinking upon how to overcome it, the church heralded thereupon that all wizards wert evil because, like a temptress, they lure greedy fellows to do evil things.”

  I can’t look at him. Can’t see as well as hear everything connecting into place. The sermon in church about magic and wizards wasn’t random. Something happened for them to warn us about it. It can’t have been Zadicayn. Too clearly, the image of an orange flying dog thing and three men chasing it appear in my mind as clearly as its picture in the book of mythical creatures in my room.

  “’But a wizard tis only a wizard because of his amulet,’ the church hast declared, and the church, still empowered to be merciful under the face of their God…” He pauses for too long. I look up to see his green eyes have turned to gold and he is clenching his bony fingers into fists, “thinkest to purge the wizard of the source that wert making him evil, and began – instead – shattering the amulets. It purged the wizard, a’right. Purged him right out of his damned life.”

  His eyes fade away back to green and he relaxes his hands. “T’works both ways. Both die whence the other doeth. The church concluded the deaths as a sign that the wizards wert too evil to be purged, and so felt justified in their killings and decreed all amulets to be broken and if the wizard liveth, he wouldst be forgiven of all his ‘sins’. Howevermore, no wizard liveth.”

  He pauses and I wait, having just realized my hands are shaking. He sips at his bowl of hot water.

  “But you are still alive,” I say.

  He takes another bit of apple, as if not wanting to chance missing the opportunity to eat in favor of talking. “Those families killeth thirteen wizards. The church killeth six. Gandorlain Whaerin, Dendaryl Garfair, and Saulfur Borayen wert nary going to roll
over and show their bellies. They wrought a cheap version of me amulet and handed it to the church, who breaketh it. Heralding the world purged because all twenty amulets wert accounted for, those three people took the real amulet – me own – and hauled meself down into the chapel below the castle. They wert going to figure out how to harvest me amulet’s magic for themselfes. But they needed meself alive to keepeth the amulet alive.” He told the story boldly, without much care. But now I get to witness the break. “I… I shouldst hath killed meself to stop them, Brine.” He swallows. “But I wanted to live.” He looks up at me. His eyes glossy.

  He flees the kitchen.

  My knees are shaking so I sit on the floor, resting my head against my palm, trying to wait out the shock overwhelming me. I try clinging to the belief that he is mentally ill, but his facts mirror what I already know. Aklen Whaerin works in lumber… Brocen Garfair is a farmer. Corrana Borayen works as a dress maker now but they all had a piece of the key.

  This I can tell you, Durain whispers in my ear, the Fae are real.

  The key that opened up solid rock to reveal a tunnel and castle beyond, the key I fixed into the podium in front of the altar and Zadicayn crawling out of a vault I unlocked, a vault I had searched myself and found nothing but a tomb of stone. How the church preached that magic is forbidden…

  I swoon, dizzy, as everything from Durain’s death up until now slam into me, drowning me, screaming at me that I have just unhinged history.

  I lean against the leg of the table, closing my eyes, trying to stay afloat above the deluge of realization. Durain was murdered because he was trying to get the keys to set the wizard free. Aklen and Brocen and the dressmaker wanted to keep the wizard locked up so they could… Is Jaicom and Crisy part of this too? This is real.

  All of it.

  I look to where Zadicayn disappeared. I need to comfort him, let him know I’m on his side.

  I leave the kitchen, guessing where he might have gone. It’s not hard. He left the door open to the room. His room by looking at the blue rotted curtains hanging around his bed. He’s sitting there, staring mutely at the wall. I invite myself in. It’s not until I sit next to him that he flinches in acknowledgment to my presence. I put my arm around his thin shoulders. He stiffens.

  “Zadicayn,” I say, breathless and close to tears myself. “I am so sorry. I wish I could take all that away, I wish… I wish I could do something to make it all okay, I…” I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have to. He’s leaning into me to seek a comfort no words can balm, so I put my other arm around him. His body shudders against me, racking in sobs he tries to muffle in his arm.

  I just hold him, and let the damn of grief built up over three hundred years break against my shirt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ZADICAYN

  I wake up in my drool. Great. That’s dignified.

  I open my eyes but Brine is gone. I realize I only woke up because I’m on a bed and I can’t get comfortable.

  I sit up, staring at the wall and scrubbing my fingers through my hair. I have to do something to change her opinion of me. I’ve already fallen into the negatives with how much I burst out into uncontrollable tears. Pathetic. I hope I’m not subconsciously doing it just so she can touch me. I’m seriously messed up. Maybe I could have been smart and made the spell I put on my body to slowly disappear once I was out of the vault. Let one emotion at a time come back to life.

  She must be back in the kitchen. I smell something cooking. Lunch? The light outside my window bespeaks that it might be.

  I enter the kitchen to a fist of perfume punching me in the nose. Rosemary. My heart rate elevates as I look about for my mother. I see Brine instead, which is still a comforting sight. She’s cleaned the kitchen in my absence. She must have found the rosemary soap in my mother’s bed chamber, along with a dress of my mother’s which is on the kitchen floor and looks like the dirt of the kitchen is upon it. Oh well. It’s not like I was going to wear the dress. I can’t possibly keep every memento of hers.

  Brine is watching me. Waiting for me to burst into tears again. I can’t decide where to place my feet, how to position my arms. Despite that, I mount the saddle of my determination.

  “I used to be devilishly handsome,” I say, trying to make my earlier episode days old. “Tis still under all this…” I pull at my hair as if I can pluck it all off. “Somewhere…”

  “So maybe those families didn’t lock you away to discover your magical secrets,” she’s saying as she turns the dandelion roots above the fire, “but because they were jealous of your good looks?”

  She’s not smiling yet. I need to make her smile. If I can, maybe she will think differently upon her opinion of me. “Now that wouldst maketh sense. For the reason I thinketh I twas entrapped in the vault didst nary maketh sense to meself.” The scent of Rosemary won’t leave me. This alone finally convinces me that I am free from the vault. “You findeth me mother’s soap.”

  “Yes. I hope you don’t mind, but I used it to sanitize this kitchen for you.”

  I nod, breathing it in. “My mother wouldst only ever useth rosemary soap. She loveth the scent. I thank ye for the clean kitchen. I wouldst hate to finally escape the vault only to die upon dirty wood poisoning.” I try again to make her smile.

  She plucks the roots off the grate with a pair of metal tongs she must have found. Women are so thrifty. “Dirty wood poisoning?”

  “Certain. I hear it maketh thy body sprout a contagion of skinny black worms all overest. Methinks I hath it already.”

  “Oh dear. That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “Yea. But tis a cure. The touch of a beautious girl with hair of chocolate silk shall make them slither away.” Her body stiffens a little. Progress? I drum my fingers on the table. “I shall wait.”

  She lays a plate of salted dandelion roots in front of me. I’m surprised I can smell the salt. It seems my sense of smell has only heighted since my release. Along with two roasted apples, she also sets wooden tankard of water she’s certainly boiled, in front of me.

  “I’ve already touched you and it didn’t work.”

  “I meaneth a real touch. Like an embrace.” I think about winking at her, but when I did it earlier it only seemed to bother her. She likely compared it to a monkey winking at her.

  “I gave you a hug, and it still didn’t work.” She collects her own food and brings it to the second rickety stool at the table. I see her cheeks have warmed. Just smile for me. I need to know you don’t think me a total failure.

  “No, I meaneth… oh ne’er mind.” I am a total failure. My own cheeks are red. But I recover quickly. I won’t give up. I try another approach. “Ye looketh like a troll, anyway.”

  She snorts and pins me with a gaze as sharp as her dagger. “Excuse me? A troll?”

  “Yea. All that hair ye hath could stuff me mattress.”

  “Sure, because your hair looks so much better.”

  I nod. I don’t know where to go with that statement, so I start eating. “Ey! Tis so good!” I catch her looking around, as if hoping to see her reflection against something.

  “I thought you were one of the honest families.” She gives up her search and picks up her own food. “You’re not supposed to tell lies.”

  “I tis from a very noble family! This food tis certain to be found on the king’s own banquet table!”

  “These are dandelion roots. And I was talking about calling me a troll.”

  I really don’t know how to recover from my comment about calling her a troll. “Finest food I hath partaken in three hundred years!” I begin shoveling the dandelion roots into my mouth by the handful. It’s hard to tell, but my bony fingers seem just a little fuller with a little more color than it did yesterday. A side effect of eating.

  “Ye shall not leave,” I say. I realize too late my cheeks are bulging like a squirrel. “Who shall cook me food?”

  “I’m your servant now?”

  “Nay. Just a pretty
las who desires to do a devilishly handsome man the honorable service of cooking his maw-wallop.”

  “You just said I looked like a troll.”

  “Ye doth.” She doesn’t strike me as being the kind of girl who fawns over compliments. So I drive forward with my original plane and do the opposite. “Because only trolls find other trolls attractive.” I tap my chest. “I also be a troll.”

  “There is no way you find this blood splattered shirt and nest of hair appealing, even for a troll.” She reaches up and touches her hair. She must have found time to bath in the river because it is no longer in the braid but hanging down in unruly waves that she has not brushed.

  I squint at her as I chew. “Thou art right. The longer I assess, the more ye look like a real troll. An ugly troll.”

  “Wow, now I really want to cook for you!” She’s not looking at me. I still spy the smile growing from the corner of her mouth.

  I did it! “Ye dost? I thank thee.”

  Now she is looking at me. I see her fight a smile, but she loses and she laughs, though I know for certain it is only my goofy facial hair that makes me look like a monkey that is entertaining her. But because I am still the cause of her laughter, I win.

  I laugh too, hard things breaking inside of me. Laughter, it seems, is the last snake to rise its head. “Tis so good to finally hath company! And to laugh, and to eat dandelions. And this stool! I hath nary sat upon one for… forever! And the sun, and the rosemary…” I don’t know what I’m doing, but I continue to do it, rattling off everything I can see and smell in that kitchen, liberating myself, slowly beginning to heal from a theft of everything but life. At the moment, I don’t care what she thinks of me.

  I only stop to stuff my mouth with more dandelion roots and water. “Wouldst thou desire an exploration of my fortress now?”

  She presses her lips together. “Tell you what, we’ll savor that for my next visit.”