The Un-Magician

by Christopher Golden

  “Let me take you from this place to the world beyond, the world of your birth,” Leander said, grinning and smoothing down his beard. “I will show you there is more to a world than Patience.”

  Timothy leaped out of his chair, startling Edgar from his nap. His pulse raced, his skin prickling with sensations of heat and cold that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the fear and excitement that began to combat each other in his heart.

  “That’s impossible!” Timothy said, staring at Leander’s face, searching the massive mage’s eyes for the truth.

  “Caw!” the rook crowed, flapping his wings in surprise. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Timothy scratched at the back of his head, breathing evenly, forcing himself to calm down. He began to pace the floor as Leander looked on, eyes sparkling amid all that hair. The boy stopped short and gazed at the mage sitting at the table. “Can I leave Patience?” he asked, and the question felt strange upon his lips.

  “All you need do is follow me back through the door on the sand.”

  Edgar flapped his wings insistently and cawed loudly enough to forestall any further conversation until he was given their attention. “What’s going on? What did I miss? Who’s following who?”

  Timothy turned to look imploringly at the bird. “You heard him, Edgar. My father said I could never leave—that it wasn’t safe. He said that there were people in government and in the guilds who might wish me harm.”

  The bird’s feathers ruffled. “Well, that is what he said, but—”

  “Preposterous!” Leander dismissed those words with the wave of one of his massive hands. “Your condition would be looked upon as a handicap and be treated as such. You have nothing to fear from the world outside.”

  Timothy was terrified, and as he slowly walked to his window, gazing out at the only world he had ever known, he imagined for the very first time that he might step beyond it.

  “Just a moment,” Edgar cawed from his perch. “Maybe we’re moving too quickly.”

  “Nonsense,” Leander boomed. “The boy has been banished long enough.”

  Properly chagrined, the bird cocked his head pensively. “Well, maybe some day trips to start.” Edgar glanced at Timothy. “You won’t even know if you’re going to like it back there. It’s quite different from your little island, let me tell you.”

  Timothy turned from the window, tremors of excitement unlike anything he had ever known coursing through his body. This is what it must feel like to have magic inside you, he thought. And then he spoke the four words that would change his life forever.

  “I want to go.”

  Chapter Three

  It was the oddest sensation, stepping through that door on the beach and into a shadowy corridor. How many times had he hugged his father good-bye and watched him step through this very same door, only to have the door disappear from the sand as though it had never been there at all? Magic. That was magic.

  Timothy’s heart felt as though it might explode, and he held his breath until his chest hurt, just gazing around at his surroundings. Edgar had led the way, cawing loudly, excitedly, and Leander had followed next. Now the rook sat upon the shoulder of the red-maned sorcerer and watched expectantly as Timothy took several steps farther into his father’s house.

  “My father’s house,” he whispered, unconsciously putting voice to his thoughts.

  “Your house now,” Leander told him, a warm rumble in his voice and a twinkle of approval in his eye. “Welcome to the city of Arcanum, Timothy Cade. The city of your birth.”

  The boy froze. Ivar slipped silently past him, blending with the shadows so that he was barely visible, a chameleon, investigating the corridor ahead, sniffing the air. The aged warrior was on guard for anything that might threaten his friends. A moment later Timothy heard the clanking of metal as Sheridan entered this world, also for the first time. They had all passed through now, and suddenly the island of Patience seemed dreadfully far away.

  “Hukk! Hukk!” cried Edgar, black wings fluttering as he perched on Leander’s shoulder. “You all right, Tim?”

  Timothy forced himself to take a breath. He nodded slowly. “I think so.”

  But that was a lie. He was not all right. Not at all. Though he had sometimes been lonely on the island, Timothy had rarely been afraid. Now fear spread through him with a rush of heat in his veins, as though he had been stung by a cloudfish, its venom infecting him instantly. But that sort of infection was not deadly. In truth it passed quickly enough. And this … this fear … he wondered if it would ever pass.

  How many times had his father explained to him why he had to live alone? Dozens. Hundreds. Here, he was helpless, crippled. Here, he was in peril. People would not understand, his father had told him. And what people did not understand, they often mocked, and sometimes tried to destroy. An abomination, his father had said. People would think Timothy was an abomination. And though his father had never hinted anything of the kind, the boy had always sensed that, in a way, Argus agreed.

  The corridor was dimly lit by globular lanterns that hung at intervals along its length. It took him a moment to realize that they were not secured to the wall and instead floated in the air. The walls were of a dark wood, with intricate designs branded above each door and on the frames. The floorboards were lighter in color and had a sheen that reflected the flickering lantern light.

  A tremor went through him, but this time Timothy did not think what he was feeling was fear. A tiny smile creased the corners of his mouth and he stepped toward the wall. He felt the others all watching him as he gazed curiously up at the gleaming globe.

  “How does it work?” he asked.

  Leander did not answer at first, so Timothy turned to look at him. The big man ran a hand over his beard, smoothing its tangles, and shrugged. “I don’t think I can answer that question. It’s magic, Timothy. Everything in this world is magic. The lamps can be lit by command or by simply waving your hand beneath them. They sense your desire for light.”

  Timothy grunted in acceptance and gazed at the globe again. No oil. No actual fire. No anchor to attach it to the wall. His father had told him much of magic, but many things had been hard to imagine without firsthand knowledge. Magic, he knew, had no mechanism.

  Tentatively he waved his hand beneath the globe. It continued to shine.

  “It’s true, then,” Leander observed.

  The boy did not even acknowledge his statement. Of course it was true. His father had removed him from his home, hidden him away all of these years … he would never have done this unless he was certain. But Leander also seemed certain. Images of his father, whose kind eyes had always seemed out of place in the midst of such stern features, floated into the boy’s mind.

  Timothy’s chin drooped slightly. He missed his father.

  With a quiet hiss of steam, Sheridan placed a hand upon his shoulder. Timothy smiled and nodded. The metal man always seemed to know when Timothy was sad or lonely.

  Taking a deep breath, the boy looked at the globe again, then he started along the corridor. Edgar took flight, wings beating the air only long enough for him to move from Leander’s shoulder to Timothy’s. The boy glanced up at the rook and smiled, and though the usually loquacious bird said nothing, Timothy thought there was something in his bearing that approximated a smile in return. At least, as much as a bird could be said to have any facial expression at all.

  Of course, Edgar was no ordinary bird.

  With a courteous nod, Leander moved out of the way, and Timothy began to explore, moving down the corridor. There were places where the woodwork was intricate, where images had been seemingly carved into the wood—but of course they would not have been carved, but drawn there with magic. It was so difficult for him to imagine, for Timothy loved to do things with his hands, to create, to feel the texture and the workings of things beneath his touch.

  He stopped when he arrived at a door. Upon its wooden surface there danced a swirl of
color, violets and greens that flitted together like seabirds courting. With a raised eyebrow, he shot an inquisitive glance at Leander.

  “Ah, yes. You think it a symbol,” Leander noted. “Often there are such symbols on doors or around them, indicating what might lie beyond. Other times you might find symbols and colors that indicate the presence of a barrier spell. This is merely decoration, however. It is—”

  “Art?” Timothy asked.

  Leander nodded appreciatively. “Yes. In a manner of speaking, it is art.”

  The door had no visible latch or handle. Tentatively Timothy reached out and laid his hand upon it. The wood was warm to touch. The swirling colors of the art misted around his wrist.

  “You won’t be able to—,” Leander began.

  Timothy pushed and the door swung open. On the other side was a chamber swathed in near darkness. Only the illumination from the hall shed any light upon its contents, which included a rack of yellowed scrolls of varying lengths and thicknesses.

  “Caw!” Edgar cried, rustling wings and resettling his talons on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “What is?” Timothy asked.

  When he turned to glance at Leander again he found the mage staring at him. Timothy shifted uncomfortably. Sheridan’s joints creaked slightly as he bent to peer into the darkened room. Beyond him, Ivar was only partially visible, his eyes darting about in search of any potential threat, hand on the pommel of a knife he wore in a scabbard at his waist.

  Neither of his friends from the island seemed shocked the way Leander did. The mage shook his head in apparent disbelief, and then a low, humorless laugh escaped his lips.

  “It seems we may have to rethink what it means that you are bereft of magic,” Leander said thoughtfully. At Timothy’s puzzled expression, he nodded toward the door. “Close that.”

  Timothy did as he had instructed, pulling the door toward him and letting it swing back into place with a click. Leander motioned to Ivar.

  “Come, my friend. Your turn. Open this door, please.”

  The warrior emerged from the darkness, his body gaining definition as he came closer to the others, as though it was more difficult to remain unseen up close. The black tribal markings on his face and arms changed even as Timothy watched him, some fading, some stretching until they looked almost like claw marks upon his flesh, others swirling into strange symbols.

  Ivar glanced wordlessly at Timothy and then cautiously reached out for the door. He flattened his palm on the wood, fingers splayed, and pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  Ivar glanced at Timothy, the tribal marks receding, fading from his skin. The marks came and went. The boy had asked Ivar about them several times, but the warrior was the last of his kind and the marks were personal to him. He did not like to discuss their purpose or significance.

  “I don’t understand,” Timothy said, glancing at Leander.

  The mage loomed forward and waved a hand in front of the door, which swung open instantly.

  “Doors are ensorcelled to admit only those their master or mistress would welcome. This door does not recognize Ivar. It would not open for him. If it had recognized you, it would have opened of its own accord the moment you reached out toward it.”

  Timothy frowned. “But it did open for me.” He shook his head, gesturing toward the edge of the door. “This is silly, Leander. Look at it. There isn’t even a lock or bolt to keep it closed. Anyone should be able to push it open.”

  Leander stroked his beard again. “Not anyone, young Master Timothy. Not Ivar. Nor I, myself, if the door did not know me. You have no magic of your own, we knew that much. But it seems there’s more to it than that. If the door will open for you, it can only mean that the enchantment fused into the wood cannot sense your presence. I … well, I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”

  A spark ignited within Timothy in that moment. All his life, in those times when he allowed himself to think of himself in relation to his father’s world, he had known what he was. A freak. An abomination. Useless. Yet as he turned to look back at the door there was the tiniest glimmer of wonder inside him as he considered the idea that it might not be so terrible being a freak.

  The spark was extinguished a moment later, buried beneath years of darker expectations.

  Still, as Timothy glanced around at his friends once more—and at the magic door and the levitating lanterns—a wave of relief washed through him. He had been prepared to retreat immediately to Patience, had felt the fear bubbling up inside him. Yet suddenly the fear had been dispelled, and he saw before him only possibility.

  A grin spread across his features. The island was his home, but this mansion held within its walls his entire history, his father’s legacy. Timothy had no intention of staying permanently, but he wanted to explore. He glanced at the walls, at the doors, and thought how simple it would be to rig oil lamps to light the place.

  Ivar slid into the shadows. Sheridan watched Timothy expectantly, a tiny wisp of steam curling up from the spout on the side of his head, his eyes glowing brightly.

  The rook cawed, and Timothy glanced to his left, eye to eye with the bird.

  “You’re too quiet, kid. Talk to me. Whaddayathink?” Edgar asked.

  Timothy’s gaze shifted to Leander, then to Ivar, and came to rest on Sheridan. “I want to see it,” he said, feeling a prickle of excitement rush through him. “I want to see everything.”

  He started down the corridor again, much more swiftly this time, noting the presence of every door and every bit of art adorning any surface. There was a window at the far end but he never reached it. The hallway turned and Timothy followed, and soon enough he was practically running. Edgar cawed and took flight, soaring along above him, then turning back to circle his head.

  Timothy wanted to look in every room, to catalog in his mind everything he could learn about his father, about magic, about this world. Transforming this house so that a boy without any trace of sorcerous power could live here would be a fantastic undertaking.

  Yet, in a way, it thrilled him, for it would be his greatest project ever.

  Around another turn in the warren of corridors, he found himself at the top of a set of circular stairs that wound down into the heart of the house. Ivar was beside him, silently keeping pace without effort. Sheridan clanked along the floorboards, trying to keep sight of them, steam hissing from his metal skull. Leander strode quickly along, watching them all with an expression of wonder.

  Though there was much to explore, Timothy had a greater priority. The very first thing he wanted to see lay below. He started down the stairs, quickly descending toward the ground floor, gazing around at the grand chandeliers that glowed with magical incandescence and down the hallways of the floors that he passed. When he reached the foyer, he looked up and saw the others coming down as well. Leander seemed to be moving much more slowly.

  The burly mage leaned over the rail of the circular stair and gazed down at him.

  “Timothy? How did you get down all of these stairs so quickly?”

  The question puzzled the boy, and he frowned as he watched Leander continue slowly downward, still only halfway to the ground floor. Even Sheridan had made his way nearer the bottom of the stairs, gyros whirring and steam spitting.

  “There aren’t that many stairs,” Timothy said. “Why are you moving so slowly? Are you all right?”

  Leander paused on the steps and squinted down at Timothy as if trying to focus his vision. The big man swayed from side to side ever so slightly. Then he craned his head around, peering in every direction and at last gazing upward at the massive central crystal chandelier. At length his attention returned to Timothy.

  “I knew there was an enchantment on the stairs, but I never understood why,” Leander said. He tsked loudly and shook his head and a small chuckle escaped his lips. “There’s a glamour cast on the stairs. Argus must not have thought visitors would find it grand enough, so he … altered their
perception.”

  Timothy had no idea what the mage was talking about, but already the conversation was slipping away from him. The rhythm of his heart increased and his chest was tight with excitement and, yes, a little bit of fear. He had not banished it completely. Holding his breath, the hair rising on the back of his neck, a warm prickling running over his skin, Timothy turned toward the massive front door.

  Above him, Edgar cawed loudly, fluttered to a landing, and rested atop a large statue—a stone representation of a creature Timothy had never seen in all the scrolls his father had brought him.

  “Careful, kid,” the rook warned.

  Timothy stepped toward the front door, reached for it … and then took a step back as the wiry form of Ivar emerged from invisibility beside him. The warrior crouched slightly, so that his face would be level with the boy’s.

  “You are certain this is wise?” Ivar asked.

  With a deep breath, Timothy shook his head. “No. Not certain at all. But I’m not going to let that stop me.”

  For a long moment the warrior gazed at Timothy, golden eyes gleaming with their own inner light. Then, slowly, Ivar nodded and stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. Timothy reached for it, laid his hand upon the thick, dark, deeply grained wood.

  And he pushed.

  The door swung wide.

  Timothy felt his mouth opening, jaw dropping, but it was as if his entire body was behaving of its own volition. A whistle of breath escaped his throat, the tiniest sound.

  He saw it all: The broad, stone steps in front of the mansion ended in nothingness. Some kind of conveyance, a vehicle of sorts, floated in the air at the bottom of the steps. If he walked off the bottom stair he would plunge into a nighttime abyss that would tumble him down and down for hundreds of feet before he at last collided with the face of the mountain cliff upon which the mansion had been built. Timothy whipped his head to the side and noted the place where the corner of the house was rooted—anchored—to the mountainside, and wondered if that was to keep the structure from falling or from floating away. There was magic in every inch of architecture here.