by J.B. Hickock
Time passed as it always did in Garoo: slowly.
Across the hot summer Amaldea learned more magic on Sundays and late in the night-time: at times it proved maddeningly complex, with peculiar mental exercizes Howard said were required to entrap the tides of magic to one’s will.
Howard said that she should be able to see the tides and winds of magic, to be able to manipulate them as easily as she might ordinary tools, but the only sign Amaldea ever saw of magic was when she made something move without touching it.
The fateful day dawned red as blood: a hot late summer day that was yet tinged with the scent of oncoming winter.
On that day, as on any other, Amaldea slaved in the kitchen, helping to cook, washing the dishes, dodging the Mrs. Gadsby’s offhand slaps when she thought the girl was not moving fast enough.
After a long time of that on a particularly bad day after a frustrating night of magic, Amaldea’s patience was wearing thin. Then a wicked thought occurred to her.
She slipped away to the kitchern door and glanced out at the Mrs. Gadsby, deep in conversation with a few of her cronies.
Amaldea quickly glanced about; no-one was watching. She pointed toward the Mrs. Darby’s skirt. “Rise,” she whispered.
The Mrs. Darby screamed, pandemonium ensued, and Amaldea ducked away from the door, giggling to herself.
After the sun had set and Amaldea finished in the kitchen, the Mrs. Darby sent her to her room, and she promptly slipped out the window, Howard perched on her shoulder.
Howard did not speak until they were under the trees far from Garoo. “Your skill is much improved,” he said, hopping onto a branch so he could look at her properly. “But such pranks have a way of causing more trouble for the mage than their target.”
“What does that mean?” Amaldea asked.
“All magic has a cost. If one thing goes up, another must go down; when you first moved a thing with your magic, it put a strain on you; it still does, but you have grown accustomed to it. But the cost is not always so simple, especially when you use your magic on another person: sometimes, there is no telling what the cost might be.”
Amaldea listened to all this in silence, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll be careful.”
Howard nodded with satisfaction. “Good.” He said. “Now, let’s begin.”
But before they could actually begin, they heard someone walking through the trees.
It was Gal: in the dim light, he was recognizable only by his outline. But he was tense, standing angrily with his hands in fists. Of a sudden, Amaldea realized how big he was; the town fool was as tall as her, but heavier, with broad shoulders and long, muscular arms.
“I saw what you did,” he said hoarsely, his voice shaking. “I saw.”
“Saw what?” Amaldea asked, her breath catching in her breast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw you!” Gal insisted. “In the inn!” he stormed toward her and and Amaldea took a frightened step back.
He loomed over her; his face twisted with roiling emotion, his hands clenched in fists, for a moment he looked like he would hit her.
“Gal,” Amaldea said carefully, realizing she was treading on dangerous ground. “Please don’t tell anyone what you saw.”
“It was witchcraft!” he cried. “The parson says we must tell of witchcraft!”
“Then why are you here and not there?” Amaldea snapped. Then a strange thought occured to her. “Gal, why were you watching me in the inn?”
Gal didn’t say anything, but glanced away.
“Gal,” said Amaldea, taking a step toward him. “you mustn’t tell anyone about what you saw.”
“I must!” he cried.
“No,” she insisted. “You mustn’t. I didn’t hurt anyone, it was only prank. You wouldn’t want me to be hurt because of a prank, would you?”
Gal turned away again, pressing his hands to his ears. “Don’t cozen me, witch!” he snapped.
“I’m not a witch, Gal,” she said. “If you tell the Parson he’ll burn me, Gal; do you want that?”
“Stop!” he shouted. “Leave me be!”
She took another step toward him. Howard grasped at Amaldea’s ear, hissing at her to stop, but she pressed on. “Gal, do you want to see me burned?”
“Quiet!” he cried, his whole body shaking with tension.
“Gal. . .” she said, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.
With an inarticulate cry he whirled on her, left hand raised to strike; Amaldea stumbled back. “Don’t!” she cried. She felt a terrible pain in her head, then a great branch fell and struck Gal.
Epilogue
When Amaldea came to, her head ached like the branch had hit her head instead of. . . “Gal!” she cried, sitting up and looking around: Gal lay where he had fallen, the branch lying atop him. Amaldea knelt beside him, but even in the dim light she could see the pooled blood pouring from his head where the limb had struck. “Oh, no,” she gasped. “What have I done?”
“You protected yourself,” Howard said. “He was about to strike you.”
“He wouldn’t have,” Amaldea moaned, dropping her head in her hands. “If I hadn’t-”
“If you hadn’t pushed him,” Howard finished for her. “It was stupid, but that’s not a sin.” He hopped on her leg and pulled at her arm. “It’s too late; you can’t help him now,” he said authoritatively. “Now you have to take care of yourself; we must leave here, tonight.”
Amaldea didn’t move.
“Come on!” Howard snapped, shoving at her. “Move!”
Reluctantly, Amaldea rose to her feet; she started walking, and never looked back.
The Tales of the Last Valais continue in Blitz of Spira #3: Amaldea’s Vengeance
What is Blitz of Spira?
Blitz of Spira means swords-and-sorcery; it means good fantasy: it means roaring adventures filled with giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, magic and miracles. It means a fun quick read without preachy messages or pretentious writings.
Blitz of Spira does not mean long-winded tales that take eighteen novels to tell; it does not mean cliffhanger endings that don’t end so you have to wait a year to buy the next book to find out what happens next.