Diary of a Conjurer (12 page)

“Let's go.”

She staggered slowly toward him, balancing
her weight along the rock wall, holding a squirming baby with her
other arm.

“Give me the child.” He reached out his arms
as she approached the ray of moonlight where he stood. Though
weary, a sparkle still lit her auburn eyes, and she smiled. The
night sky cast its cool glow onto her silken hair.

“He has a name,” Lelanie said.

“You named him?”

“Abbott. He will be a father, and carry on
your heritage. My child will never meet Hacatine's death sentence.
I swear to the North Wind.”

“It's a good name, Lelanie. A good
name.”

Reuben took the little boy in his arms and
as he touched the child’s cheek, the baby grabbed onto his finger.
“Your mother has declared a life of promise for you, son,” he
whispered. “Let’s get you to safety.”

In familiar territory now, Reuben knew the
quickest way to the beach where the fishermen kept their boats.
Obtaining a dinghy from a watchman, or even borrowing one would not
be difficult.

As soon as they left the cover of the
forest, and approached the sand dunes on the southern shore of the
island, arrows raced at them. With Lelanie and the baby in his
arms, Reuben fell to the ground and rolled them both behind a lone
stump. The baby immediately began to cry. Reuben handed Abbott to
his mother and drew his bow. Before his arrow was strung, a spark
of light flashed from the woods behind them and gunshots rang out,
drawing the volley of arrows over Reuben and Lelanie’s head to the
dark of the woods behind them. He held his breathe, and refrained
from moving, knowing full well whom it was that was firing. Only a
moment passed and then all was quiet, even the child. Ruy and
Rosalind did not stir from their hiding place, nor did any warriors
appear from theirs.

Reuben couldn’t wait in the wet sand on the
beach forever. They needed to move. He caught sight of a small
rowboat tied to a piece of driftwood only a rock’s throw from the
breakers. If they moved quickly he could have his family safely out
to sea in a matter of minutes. Now was the test of Rosalind’s
allegiance. He turned to Lelanie.

“I’m going to run for that dinghy over
there. Follow in my steps. If you hear shooting or see arrows
flying, fall to the ground, keep the child close to you and crawl
to me.”

“Be careful,” she cautioned.

Reuben took a breath, looking first to the
woods, and then to the brush where the warriors had been shooting.
“Go!” He crouched low, his eyes set on the skiff. He heard Lelanie
breathing as she ran behind him. Just when his hands touched the
coarse hemp of the bowline a shot rang out. Lelanie screamed.
Reuben shot an arrow toward the woods and fell behind a piling of
driftwood. Lelanie was already low to the ground next to him.

“I’m hit,” she whispered.

He scrambled closer to her. Anger ravaged
through his veins when he saw the blood that seeped from her arm.
The baby whimpered and squirmed.

“Take a piece of my gown to wrap it with,”
she said.

Reuben tore a piece of cloth from her hem as
another round of shot came from the woods.

“Those are Alisubbo weapons? Who is shooting
at us?” Lelanie asked.

“Robbers,” Reuben answered, his jaw clenched
as he tied the wrap. “They followed me here. I think their intent
is to steal our child.” Their eyes locked.

“Why?”

“Something about needing more magic for
their people? I don’t know.”

Lelanie winced. When she laid her head back
on the ground the moonlight illuminated her tears. A deep remorse
swept through Reuben.

Reuben crawled to the edge of their cover,
looking into the deep of the woods. He could see nothing. “Ruy!” he
called. “Stop it!”

A shot ricocheted off a stone near his
head.

“Reuben, get down,” Lelanie said, but he
ignored her.

“Stop shooting. You’ll kill us all. I’ll
make a deal with you.”

“Reuben!” Lelanie repeated.

He turned to her. Seeing her in pain prodded
him on. “Ruy. You can have us all. Get us to safety and help us
raise our boy.”

His offer was met with the quiet of gentle
surf beating on the beach

“Stay there,” Ruy finally called. “Throw
down your bow.”

Reuben tossed his weapon into the sand
beyond the driftwood, looking once more at Lelanie. She didn’t
protest.

Ruy and Rosalind helped Reuben and Lelanie
escape to the Isle of Refuge with their child. The Taikan family
adopted the nomadic life of a gypsy and Abbott was raised by the
entire clan. Being the offspring of a wizard and a sorceress, the
boy wielded much magic. But with the careful instruction from both
his father and mother, and the soothsaying Rosalind, Abbott learned
to temper his powers for the purpose of wisdom and good. He became
the delight of the entire tribe, winning special favor with Paulino
and the elders. Indeed, this 'magic baby' was the tribe’s
treasure.

***

It was late fall. The wild salmon from the
ocean were making their journey up the creek to spawn when
eight-year-old Abbott shook his uncle Ruy's tent flap.

“It's time,” he said. “You remember the
creek in the birch grove? The big fish are swimming today. I know.
I've seen it in my mind's eye.”

“It's a long walk.” Ruy peeked out from his
tent and stretched, welcoming the brisk cold morning.

“But the leaves are golden and I hear the
creek calling my name!”

“And your Papa said you can go?”

“He did. But he wants you to go with me.
He's making hide for the winter yurt.”

Ruy yawned and ruffled the boy's thick
auburn hair. Very few people in camp said no to Abbott.

“Bundle up then.” Ruy pulled the woolen
cloak tight around Abbott's cheeks and tucked the hood against his
ears. “Wait a moment while I dress.”

The air was clean and smelled sweet. If the
morning hadn't been so bright, the air so invigorating, and the two
so

intent on what stirred beneath the surface
of the deep green waters, they may have seen the skiff that was
beached at the trailhead.

Shortly up the creek they caught sight of
the struggling fish fighting their way upstream. They sat on the
ground to watch. Abbott laughed at the red fins bobbing above the
surface. Ruy held him back as the boy tried to grab the fish
swimming next to the shore. “Steady there, boy. We can come back
later with our nets to catch one.”

“Let's catch them now!” Abbott said, as
bounced to his feet and ran back down the trail. “I’ll gather a
net.”

Ruy lifted himself off of the ground, and
headed after the child, his steps much slower than the
eight-year-old’s. When he came to the trailhead, he expected to see
the boy running along the beach.

“Abbott, where did you go? Hiding are
you?

Ruy searched through the woods, and called
out again. “Abbott, let's walk together, eh? No fair playing
tracking games. You worry me.”

But when he saw deep tracks in the sand,
tracks much heavier than an eight-year-old would make, his worry
turned to dread. It was then that he looked out at sea and froze. A
skiff rode the current away from the coast toward the island of
Taikus. In it were two warrior women rowing, a third faced him,
holding the struggling boy in her lap.

“Abbott!”

The child cried out, but his calls for help
were soon muffled by the sound of the breakers pounding the beach,
and by the hand that was held over his mouth. There was nothing Ruy
could do except run for help. Abbott was now a prisoner of the
wicked queen Hacatine, bound for the island of Taikus.

Diary of a Conjurer

Book 4 of Ian’s Realm Saga

The Crossing

“You are mine!”
Ivar didn’t speak the words, but his thoughts
seemed to have stunned the hare. He licked his parched lips, and
postured his body in a hunter’s pose.
With
bow arched, he nocked the arrow, brushed the fletching gently and
pointed the head meticulously at his target.

Sunlight sparkled on the meadow. Shadows
cast by the setting sun stretched over the grass. A welcome breeze
cooled his sweating torso as the earth inhaled the evening’s
breath. Ivar held his.

With his tongue resting comfortably in the
space between his teeth, he stood perfectly still. He didn’t even a
twitch an eyelid.

He waited.

The rabbit sprang out of the rushes. Ivar
exhaled, the bowstring snapped, hurling the missile through the
air. In a second the projectile pinned the hare to the ground, dead
instantly, shot in the eye.

Ivar the hunter skipped over the creek and
hurdled into the grass where his prey had fallen. “May the Spirit
of the wind take your soul,” he whispered as he quickly pried the
arrow from the dead hare and returned it to his quiver. He tucked
the animal’s hind legs through his belt where it dangled next to
his other kill.

The last of the sun sank below the horizon
pulling the warm hues of daylight with it. Ivar gasped. “I’m late!”
He broke into a run and headed for home.

Seldom was Ivar concerned about time. He was
carefree and wild-a boy turning into a man but not quite adult
enough to be laden with burdens. He rose with the sun and stayed
awake late enough to count the stars. Hunting, spearfishing,
tanning hides and racing his friends were a day’s work for him.

Tonight was different.

Tonight he was expected home before dark. An
easy feat if he hadn’t pursued that hare so far beyond the meadow.
Still, what Ivar lacked in height, he made up for in speed. He was
certain he’d make it back in time.

Ivar leapt over sagebrush, and flew through
the forest racing the shadows that would soon melt into dusk. As he
climbed the white boulders that surrounded the Kaempern village the
first stars appeared. He headed directly for home to deliver his
bounty to Britta, with plans to rush to the Sage’s yurt.

When he burst through the door, Britta jumped
in surprise.

“I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t mean to startle
you,” Ivar panted as he peeled the three conies from his belt and
laid them on the table. He caught his breath and smiled at her,
pride beaming across his face. “Look. Not one of them is ruined,
each a headshot, clean through.”

“That’s very good, Ivar,” Britta returned his
smile. “Aren will be proud of you.”

“I hope so,” Ivar adjusted his kill on the
table. “One for each of us. You, me, and Aren!” He met her gaze.
Unable to read whether she liked that idea, he shrugged. “Or for
stew if you prefer.”

“Ivar, it’s dusk already, and if you’re late
for the initiation your father won’t be happy no matter how much
meat you bring to the table.” She swept the rabbits into a basin,
scrubbed the table clean of the fresh blood that had been spilled
and washed her hands. “Being as you are the youngest in that group
you should be on time. The elders are making an exception to
include you. You probably shouldn’t even be part of the Crossing
ceremony.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Yes, and the other boys are eighteen, I’m
just saying you need to be on time.”

“I’m leaving right now.” Ivar pulled his bow
and quiver from his shoulders, and the knife sheath from his belt,
laying them against the wall. Before he could race out the door,
his foster mother caught his arm and pulled him back.

“Wash,” she nodded toward the wash table.

With a sigh, he poured the water into the
basin and quickly scrubbed his hands and splashed his face. After
giving Britta a youthful grin, he dodged out the door.

Last year two of his closest friends Miles
and Ryan, went through the same initiation ceremony with high
expectations and Ivar had waited impatiently for them to return
from their quest and tell him everything. However, when his friends
came back from their adventure they were different people. They
thought differently, they acted differently. They no longer took
part in games, or races, or idle talk. They had grown up. They were
men. Details of their transformation were never explained to Ivar
despite his countless questions. All they said was, “You’ll find
out.”

The path to the Sage’s dwelling took him
along the creek bed and through the Aspen glen. He arrived just as
five of his friends stepped into the yurt. With a nod, he returned
their smiles, brushed his silky hair out of his eyes, dusted his
elk hide shirt, and took a deep breath before he followed them. The
Sage, often addressed by his common name Alex, stood at the door to
greet him as he entered.

“Please be seated.” Amleth, the village
chief, ushered them to their seats as the Sage took a place in the
shadows behind him. The young men sat on benches that were arranged
in a half circle around the clay fire pit. No flames heated the
yurt, as they did that winter when the snow all but buried the
village. Though still early in the spring, the nights were warm
enough that the deer hide clothing and fur wraps kept the men
comfortable without the aid of a fire.

Ivar sat next to his best friend and hunting
partner, Tage, a tall, lanky, red-haired teenager. They
acknowledged one another as Amleth began his speech. Aren sat next
to Ivar.

“I’m sure you’re all aware that you’ve been
selected to participate in several traditional ceremonies this
year.”

Ivar looked around at his friends, but the
other youths sat solemnly, their attention fixed on Amleth. Ivar
caught Tage’s eye but the boy only nodded toward the speaker,
signaling him to pay attention.

“Each of these rituals is designed to ready
you for your tribal responsibilities. They also will prepare you to
be strong, faithful, and loyal husbands and fathers.” Amleth paced
the floor slowly as he spoke. His hands were clasped behind his
back.