The Games of Ganthrea

by Andy Adams

  “Windelm!” a hearty voice cried out from a throng of people.

  Brenner and Windelm turned their gaze toward the call, and a large, ruddy-faced man with a tousle of red hair waved from the side of a stall and strode over to them.

  “Ah, Rimpley!” Windelm said. “Good to see you!” He clasped the man’s outstretched hand and then motioned to Brenner, “Rimpley, this is Brenner, my great-nephew. Brenner, this is Rimpley Cagginton.”

  Rimpley nodded genially and stuck out his hand to Brenner as well. When Brenner gripped it, Rimpley shook his whole arm so vigorously it was like shaking hands with a polar bear.

  “I can see the resemblance already, Windelm!” Rimpley boomed, letting go of Brenner, who rubbed the feeling back into his squashed hand. “He’s got your strong shoulders, and a confident chin, too. Going to teach him to become a steward sorcerer then? How’s he liking Valoria? I still remember those gutsy Zabrani plays of yours—‘full tilt, never back off!’—you were a great flyer, I always said.”

  Windelm smiled, clearly flattered, and said, “Thank you, Rimpley. I haven’t pushed him into my vocation. That’s for him to decide. And, actually, he hasn’t started at Valoria yet, we were going to take him to the academy—”

  “Hasn’t started yet?” Rimpley cut in. “Don’t they still start young spellcasters around nine or ten? That’s when we went.”

  “He grew up with his parents in Cormith—they wanted him to be a farmer like them. But the harvest has been light in recent years, and there’s enough talent in him that they couldn’t pretend not to notice anymore. So, they finally allowed him to study at the academy, and live with us between terms.”

  “He’ll be far behind his peers, then, won’t he?” Rimpley said, crossing his burly arms together.

  Windelm looked at Brenner, shaking a carefree face, “No, I’ve seen him in action already. He’s a quick learner and a natural on his feet. I wouldn’t be surprised if he advances to a conjurer’s rank in a year’s time.”

  “Hmm,” Rimpley said, thoughtfully. “How old are you, son?”

  “Sixteen,” Brenner said, feeling pleased with himself after Windelm’s compliments.

  “Well there’s odds I’d bet against,” said Rimpley bluntly. “I was stuck at the apprentice level for the better part of my schooling. I didn’t move up to the conjurer rank till I was seventeen, and that was with full schooling.”

  “Rimpley,” Windelm criticized, “some of us were already mages by his age, and you didn’t exactly help yourself by pulling pranks and picking fights in school. You hardly applied yourself to your studies—”

  “Ah, didn’t need ‘em, did I?” Rimpley cut in. “Still landed where I wanted to be—got my own Pegasus freight business in Arborio, and set my own hours—couldn’t be happier. Sure, I’m not a full-blown sorcerer like you, Windelm,” he said with what sounded like a touch of envy, “but being a solid mage suits me fine. And now I get to sample all the imports first!”

  He stopped and put his hand into one of the many leather pouches tied to his waist, pulling something out. “Here, Brenner. Doubt you’ve had one of these before, I just got a shipment of ‘em—came all the way from an Aquaperni island—Lotropius, I believe.”

  He dropped some colorful balls the size of olives into Brenner’s hand. Brenner nearly dropped them when, by their own power, they started rolling around his palm.

  “Go on, have a bite of the moltifrutes,” Rimpley urged him. “Somehow those Aquaperni artisans can pack eight, nine or even ten fruit flavors into each ball, and a bit of wild plant temperament, too—they claim. But personally,” he leaned in to Brenner, “I think they just cast a Twitching Spell on ‘em.”

  Brenner popped one of the moltifrutes into his mouth, and a burst of sweet strawberry hit his tongue, followed quickly by other tangy fruits, as though an entire berry pie had been shrunk to the size of a marble and now pleasantly rolled around his mouth. He crushed it with his molars and immediately honeyed juices filled his mouth.

  “Thanks, Rimpley!” Brenner said, relishing the treat.

  “Ah, don’t mention it,” said Rimpley, grinning back at him. “But if you need to, put in a good word for my couriers.”

  The sound of loud, rhythmic flapping came from overhead—with more power than what Brenner thought could come from a bird, and he looked up in time to see a large, black-winged horse veering high overhead. He ducked, although neither Windelm nor Rimpley did, as the animal swooped down, following the boulevard, and Brenner noticed a rider guiding it, and a harness off the back connecting the winged-horse to its barge: a large, decorated chariot the size of a sportscar. Brenner straightened back up.

  “Ah, that would be the next shipment from Aquaperni then!” said Rimpley excitedly. “I better go supervise the unloading. Windelm, great to see ya.”

  “You too, old friend.”

  “And Brenner,” Rimpley said, backpedaling into the crowd, “If you ever want to get away from that old bat sometime, or just want an up-close view of a Pegasus, come over to my shop—Rimpley’s Sky-Couriers.” With that he gave a final wave, then turned and walked up the busy street.

  Windelm motioned them onward, and the two continued down the avenue. Brenner looked past the bustling crowds, fruit stalls and tents to the regal stone buildings with strange symbols printed above the doorways, and was surprised when his brain translated them readily. Above one doorway read, “STERLING & GOULD’S, MAKERS of AMULETS, MIRCONDUITS, & FINE MAGICAL TALISMANS since 4771 A.E.” A group of children emerged laughing from the next store—“Dandilop’s Sweet Eats, Treats and Confectionaries”—carrying orange drinks that foamed and fizzed over their hands. One of them bit into a giant hunk of brown candy bar that Brenner guessed was chocolate, until it shimmered magenta and changed into a long, wriggling tube, spinning like a windmill in the boy’s hand.

  Across the street, Brenner saw a wide building made out of slab stones, emblazoned with the large title: “OBERFELD’S HOME DESIGN, CREATION, and OBFUSCATION.”

  He turned to Windelm, “What does that mean, obfuscation?”

  “The art of concealment,” Windelm replied. “Oberfeld and his architects can hide a residence so well you could walk face-first into the chains on the drawbridge before you realized a castle was there.”

  As they passed by a glass window, Brenner looked inside and nearly fell backward as a red rug whipped through the air like a banshee toward him, the last second changing course and careening up out of sight. He put his hand cautiously on the cool glass, leaned his face in closer, and another orange carpet zipped through the air inside the long shop, carrying a smiling family of six, with the two youngest children happily tugging the tassels on the edges. Looking at the doorway, Brenner read, “LINCOMBS & LEAVITZ, LEVITATORS & AIRBORNE SPECIALISTS.”

  Brenner tugged Windelm’s sleeve. “Windelm,” he said. “Are those magic carpets in there?”

  “Indeed,” Windelm replied casually, “A carrier carpet is an easier way to transport large groups and families. They don’t have as much power as winged-horses, but they offer more space, less mess, and limited behavioral problems.”

  Brenner gave the shop a final look: a boy was punching a roll of carpet standing on end, when suddenly the carpet uncurled itself and wrapped around the boy, who let out a muffled shriek. Immediately, a clerk appeared, wrestling with the rug and trying to pry the boy loose from the mischievous carpet.

  They came to a corner boutique shop with a carved wooden sign hanging from the side of the second story: “Potions in Motion” it said. The exterior glass further read: Bewitched Ingredients, Botanical Solutions, and Potions-a-Plenty.

  Windelm held the door for Brenner. As he walked inside, a familiar face with deep mahogany hair came around a shelf filled with purple vials.

  “Brenner! So nice of you to visit.”

  “Hi, Sherry,” said Brenner, feeling at ease despite the assortment of ghoulish containers on either side of the aisle, one of which housed a writh
ing mass of tarantulas.

  “How’s business this morning?” Windelm said, striding up and giving Sherry a quick peck on her cheek.

  “I sold three cases of Security Tendrils to the Laddocks this morning. Said they are getting too many Needlewing Bats and a Poison-Coat Python around their place.”

  “What are Security Tendrils?” Brenner asked.

  “Oh, they’re quite useful,” Sherry said animatedly, “Simply plant a few around a house perimeter, or at the base of trees, and within a few days, they will have perched themselves high in the boughs or up on the rooftop and be ready to ward off intrusive creatures.”

  Brenner tried imagining just how they could subdue the yellow python he saw yesterday. “How would a plant move fast enough to stop a snake?”

  “That’s part of what makes them so dangerous,” said Sherry, “they appear quite docile, but when they’re really hungry, they can shoot at you as fast as a chameleon’s tongue. They would be quite noxious themselves if they didn’t have certain altruistic properties. You see, the tendrils naturally protect the tree or house they live on. They want the organism they’re rooted on to grow stronger and taller in order to attract larger bugs, birds, and creatures, so whenever a pest comes within range of them, they ensnare it, and after a day or two, digest it.”

  “Wouldn’t they attack humans?” Brenner asked.

  “Yes, but if you harvest them young enough, or use an Entrapment Charm, you can transplant them to another home. When you do, you mix a small part of yourself—a piece of hair or drop of blood—with Rathflower petals and feed it to the plant. The Security Tendrils associate the Rath-flower with dragon-fire, and will recoil at the touch of you from then on.”

  “Oh,” said Brenner, fascinated. He looked on the back shelves and saw a few snakelike vines wrapping themselves around a bug that had wandered too close.

  “Sherry!” someone shouted anxiously from the back store room. “Sherry, it won’t stay still!”

  “Coming, Margery!” Sherry said. “Boys, please excuse me.”

  “Do you want any help?” Windelm asked.

  At the back hallway Sherry called over her shoulder, “We’ll be fine, just a new arrival of a Seven-Silk Spider.”

  Brenner looked at Windelm with wide eyes, thankful that he wasn’t the one tasked with holding down a magic spider. As they browsed around the store, the frequency of Margery’s shrieks died down.

  Something nagged at Brenner. “Windelm,” he said. “Rimpley made it seem that going to Valoria wasn’t the only way to succeed here. Couldn’t I just learn with you?”

  Windelm let out a knowing sigh. “I wish it were that simple, but I’ve already used much of my yearly time-off with you on Earth, and if I want to hold on to my job, I’m needed back at my work as steward sorcerer.”

  “I see.”

  “Rimpley is a good man, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t let his average experience guide your decision. Every young person in the greater vicinity of Arborio is allowed a chance to try out for the academy, but not everyone has the desire or means. It’s considered a supreme honor among spellcasters to learn at an academy—every biome in Ganthrea boasts several competitive schools. Your amulet is only part of what you can do, Brenner, but a mircon, which in time you’ll get at Valoria, transforms everything.”

  “So, what do I need to bring to the academy?”

  “Once you pass the Agilis entrance examination at Valoria, they’ll provide you with the appropriately-colored tunic, plus room and board. But you’ll need extra clothes, walking boots, books, a toothbrush—”

  “I have that at least.”

  “Ah, good. That just leaves an amulet, which you have, and once you pass the first three levels, a mircon.”

  “How many people don’t pass the examination?”

  “No need to dwell on it, Brenner. You’ll do fine,” Windelm said, picking up some vials of potion.

  While he wanted to gain entrance to a place Windelm held in such high esteem, he still had some doubts…

  “But say I don’t pass?”

  “You will,” Windelm said firmly, looking into Brenner’s eyes. “You have what it takes. And as your peers have already been in school for seven years, the sooner you gain admittance to Valoria Academy, the better.”

  Brenner looked away; he still felt uneasy.

  “Tell you what,” said Windelm, “I’ll give you three extra weeks to train on the Mindscape course. I’ll check on you during my lunch break.”

  Brenner felt a knot in his stomach loosen. “Thanks.”

  Windelm reached for something on the shelf, “Hey, this potion might help, too.” He held up a green-yellow vial. “Alacritus – for nerves.”

  “Ugh!”

  Sherry had returned from the storeroom, putting a large glass jar filled with glimmering white strands onto a shelf, and wiping a hand across her forehead, “Getting silk from those beasts these days—there must be some mutation among them, I’ve never had so much of a struggle.”

  “What do you use the spiders for?” Brenner asked.

  “The silk of course,” Sherry said. “The Seven-Silk Spider has different types of silk: web-building, digestive, radiant, invisible, attraction, hardened, and of course,” she tapped the jar, “regenerative silk. Great for bandaging open wounds—can sanitize and heal them in just a couple of hours.” She strode over to them, then produced from her front apron a vial. “For your apprenticeship at Valoria,” she said, putting the blue vial of swirling liquid into Brenner’s hand. Like a firefly, it flickered yellow. “Essence of Spungelite—an uncommon extract that will allow your mind to behave like a rare organism that stores sunlight during the day and radiates light at night. But you may not even need it,” Sherry added, winking, “I can tell you absorb ideas quickly.”

  Brenner examined the vial in his hand, smiling at her kindness. “Thank you, Sherry,” he said, touched by how in only a few days he had received more hospitality and warmth from the Crestwoods than from his parents during his entire childhood.

  “I’d like to buy this too, honey,” said Windelm, holding up the Alacritus potion and attempting to give Sherry some coins.

  “Put that back,” she said, pushing his hand away. “We’re never going to make any money if you keep buying everything in my shop. And I can make Brenner a vial of Alacritus from our home supplies.

  “Now, I have to help some customers and assist Margery in bottling the rest of the spider-silk while it’s fresh. I should be home later this afternoon.”

  There was a clinking of glass bottles behind them. A severe-looking lady with a large waist and a hooked, parrot-like nose approached the counter, her basket full of fragrant magenta bottles that jostled together. She gave Windelm a flirtatious look.

  “The potions won’t work on him, dear,” Sherry said to the lady, noticing the contents of her basket and giving her a wink. “That one’s mine.”

  “Oh—I uh—sorry,” the woman said, blushing.

  “Boys, you get along now. I need to help a customer.”

  Sherry shooed them off, and Windelm blew her a kiss as they departed the store.

  Back on the boulevard, Windelm said to Brenner, “We should pick up a few supplies for Valoria.”

  The two walked back through the throngs of people. Soon the sounds of stringed instruments filled the air. A small gathering of teenagers and adults clustered around a couple men in bright costumes strumming two-necked guitars, while behind them an assortment of drums were played rhythmically by floating drumsticks—striking the taut drumheads by themselves.

  They strode past a prominent bank made of marble, then a boisterous tavern called “The Surly Spellcaster,” when a tall, black-bearded man with sinewy arms exited the door, saw Windelm and gave them a pleasant look of surprise.

  “Oh—hullo, Windelm,” he said affably.

  “Patrick,” said Windelm, “Fine seeing you. This is my great-nephew, Brenner.”

  “Nice ta meet you,” Patr
ick nodded and smiled.

  “You too,” said Brenner.

  “Haven’t seen you round here a’fore,” said Patrick, “First time in our Vale?”

  “Yeah,” said Brenner.

  “Figured so. Been neighbors with Windelm for’s long as I can remember, we go way back. You lucked out, Brenner, as far as sorcerer’s go, he’s one of the saner one’s we got in our village, but not by much—” he jabbed Windelm with his elbow good-naturedly.

  “And you’re one to talk?” said Windelm, smiling.

  “That’s different,” Patrick said, raising his hand in mock disdain. “I ain’t a sorcerer, am I? And spellcasters expect a bit o’ zest from me, since I remove pesky critters for a livin’. Hey, Windelm—”

  Patrick motioned them away from the tavern entrance to the side alley, and then asked, “Did you hear about the McRorins?”