Diary of a Conjurer (22 page)

Ivar’s feet slid, submerging him under
water. He reached out to grab the driftwood that was embedded in
the bank of the reef but the weight of his body broke it loose and
he fell with it. Ivar swam to the surface.

When he opened his eyes, the collapse of the
bank revealed another object that intrigued him. With a forceful
tug, he was able to free another black case from its grave, this
one larger and heavier than the first. With the item tucked under
his arm, Ivar swam to dry ground and pulled himself out of the
pool. He set the case next to him, shook the water from his hair,
and wiped his face with his hands.

No longer did the clouds hug the coast and
chill his body, but instead a turquoise sky and hot sun baked his
back. Ivar welcomed the heat as he sat cross-legged in the sand,
the surf slapping the jetty’s shore both in front and behind him.
Ivar set his newfound treasure on his lap.

Small silver hinges were embedded on one
side, sealing it shut tight. He turned it over and found a clasp.
Once unfastened, the lid separated easily.

Ivar had expected to find the box filled
with jewels or gold coins. He was disappointed to discover there
was nothing shiny or intriguing inside. In fact, there were no
contents at all.

The inside of the lid was flat and smooth.
The bottom of the case consisted of black buttons, like the one on
the smaller item he had found. Buttons that he could push and they
sprang back up, buttons with some kind of odd symbols imprinted on
them. He let his fingers run over the different shapes for a while,
moving every part he could like a child at play, and then he folded
the case back up and sealed the clasp.

The sun had reached its zenith a good while
ago; it was time to move on. Ivar gathered everything; his coin,
and the two odd rectangular objects. Even if he didn’t know what
they were, bringing such curious treasures home to Amleth and Aren
would warrant some congratulations.

Ivar walked slowly down toward shore, the sun
at his back, the cool breeze drying his hair. He paid the wind
little mind until he heard the bells. Odd that they just start
tolling this time of day, he looked up. Still a good mile from
shore, his heart quickened. The tide was coming in. He hadn’t
notice on his walk that the point of the jetty where he had been
diving stood higher above the sea than the section of the jetty
near shore. Waves were already rolling across the sand in front of
him. Ivar dropped the black case and ran. His glass baubles flew
from the ties around his waist and bounced to the ground. Grabbed
by the tide, they bobbed into the rolling surf.

Breakers were already beating against cliffs
over a nonexistent beach, tossing white foamy spray into the air.
The ocean closed in around him, stirring angrily at either side of
the sandy trail until there was no ground in sight left. He
splashed through the water, but his pace slowed the deeper his feet
sank into the slimy bottom. Soon the sea came to his knees, and
when the water reached his waist it churned so violently over the
reef that it knocked him off his feet and the only way he could
move forward was to swim.

As he propelled his body toward shore, the
violent sea crashed over his head. Ivar’s efforts no longer worked
for him as the currents were fighting each other, one from the east
and one from the west. They tossing Ivar as they do a piece of
driftwood. Whenever he surfaced to catch his breath, the ocean
pounded over him, dragged him under, churned him in a spiral of
rushing sea and spat him out again. Back and forth the waves
commanded him, until panic stricken, Ivar could no longer keep his
senses. Salt burned his eyes when he opened them. A sudden wave
swallowed him. He couldn’t surface to breathe. The might of the sea
crushed him against the rocks. He lost consciousness.

Green Dust

It felt good to be free. Silvio could always
count on the little people, loving creatures that they were,
fussing over him as he lay on the beach at their old camp spot near
Bandene Forest. He was exhausted, though, and the nursing of the
Xylonites comforted him more than he could express. They put
poultices on his rope burns and combed the sand, seaweed and knots
out of his hair. He laid perfectly still, his eyes wide open,
enjoying every minute of their nurturing. Xylepher, the army chief
sat at his side and told him their story.

“And then we saw the witch’s cronies drag you
to the woods. They were going to leave you for dead, but you know
what I think?”

Silvio only batted an eye, unable to
move.

Xylepher didn’t wait for an answer. “I think
Hacatine saw us and thought better of it. Yes, that’s what she did.
She changed her mind, just like that! On account of us, mind you.
And she worried about leaving tracks, too, because one of those
monster warriors of hers threw you over their shoulder and they
carried you to the beach.” The little soldier shuddered and
scratched his beard. “Just the thought of sorceresses touching our
King makes my tummy ill. And we could do nothing, really sir. Not
then. They’re too big.” He growled and shuddered again, but when
Silvio looked at him Xylepher stopped and sniveled. “We’re sorry we
didn’t save you then.”

“No need to be sorry. You saved me in the
end. But,” Silvio’s voice tapered. “But not all of me.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Silvio struggled for words. He had hoped
they would know about his magic by intuition so he wouldn’t have to
tell them. His lower lip quivered and a tear bubbled at the corner
of his eye, and then rolled down his cheek in a little stream. One
of the Xylonite women quickly raced over and wiped his face
dry.

“We’re doomed anyway. It’s the end for all of
us.” Silvio muttered.

“No, no don’t say that,” they chorused. More
of the little people gathered to hear the news.

“It’s my magic. It’s gone.”

The Xylonites gasped in unison. Xylepher was
the first to speak. “Gone? Lost? Oh, no! Hacatine got your
magic?”

“No. Not Hacatine. You can be thankful for
that. Oh we would be baberstashed if she took it, that’s for sure.
No, you had better hope she never gets possession of my power?”

“What would happen, sir?”

As the Xylonites do whenever there’s a tale
brewing, all the little people gathered around Silvio, folded their
hands on their laps, and bent their ears.

“Long ago there was a time when a wizard and
a sorceress could mix their powers together. Many did willingly I’m
told, and they made families, had offspring. They say a power
mightier than the North Wind fell upon Taikus when the couples
united.” He popped open one of his eyes and stared at the
Xylonites.

They twitched on their logs. None of them
knew anything about Taikus, but they had heard the songs of the
North Wind.

“Mightier,” he repeated and then nestled his
head back onto the sandy bed. “In the old days, before the
rebellion, our people were strong. We used our glory for good.”
Silvio nodded and then shrugged. “Love. That’s what they called it,
and yes, it happened. Long time ago it was, though. I wouldn’t
know. I was too young. My mother knew. She remembered. That’s where
I came from, she told me. I never had the chance to experience
love.” He frowned, wishing things had turned out differently. “But
it all grew dark I tell you. Evil took over. Rumors were spread,
that’s how it started. Hacatine resented the policies of the
Elders. She raised up a rebellion and soon the Sect used its powers
against the council. Hacatine was the cause of it all. Evil she
was, and evil she is.” He picked his head up again. “Don’t you
forget it! None of you.”

A timid “Yes, sir,” came from his audience
and Silvio grunted approval.

“She stole the magic, the wizard’s magic and
it made her strong. Gave her more control. ‘More,’ she kept
thinking, rubbing her hands together in greed. Oh she wanted it bad
and she got it from every wizard and conjurer on the island. Until
there were only a few of us left.”

“What was she going to do with all that
magic?” One of the Xylonites asked, rubbing his brow.

“Once she had power from every Taikan wizard,
she planned on using it against the Songs of Wisdom. That’s where
her black heart is set. Bah. She thinks she can conquer the Wind.”
The Xylonites mumbled astonishment and horror, shaking their silky
heads in disapproval. “To conquer the Wind and rule all the lands,
everywhere. Alisubbo.” His eyes opened wide. “Bandene. Deception
Peak, even.”

The Xylonites gasped.

“Don’t forget it.” Silvio turned pale as his
thoughts turned to the future. “She can’t take my power from me.
Not now.” He left off his tale in a whisper, which the Xylonites
must not have heard. “But she might get it, nonetheless.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. Where is it?”

“The boy. The Kaempern youth, the dark-haired
one.”

Silence.

Xylepher cleared his throat. “If I may ask,
sir, how did he get our great king’s magic?”

“I gave it to him.”

Silence again, and exchange of many
glances.

“Your Highness, is he to be our King
then?”

Silvio sighed. Their little
minds didn’t comprehend that Hacatine could still get the magic
from Ivar.
Oh that must not happen. She
mustn’t. Never.
But Silvio refused to put
that burden on the little people. They were so frail. No, he
wouldn’t worry them.

“I suppose, unless he wants to give the magic
back, when it’s safe to do so, that is.”

“Well, surely if he’s Kaempern, he would give
it back. We’ll ask him. We’ll march right up to him and ask
him.”

“I don’t think he knows how to use it,”
Silvio whispered and shut his eyes. “I don’t think he even knows he
has it, yet. He surely wouldn’t know how to give it back.”

The rolling of the tide hummed a song for
them as they all sat quietly by the campfire. Some of the women
still combed Silvio’s hair, but more as a ritual now, because it
didn’t need to be combed anymore. Xylepher threw sticks on the fire
while three of his friends blew on the embers to make a flame. The
women tossed bits of seaweed into the pot that towered over their
heads, and men had formed an assembly line passing little cups of
fresh water from the spring to pour into the soup.

“Look,” a child, who’d been playing hide and
seek with his friends called out from the brush. “Look, its
magic.”

Xylepher, Silvio and the other Xylonites
looked at him.

“It’s green dust. It’s Silvio’s magic.”

It must have been the dust he used the night
he had turned Promise to stone, the dust that flew when he
evaporated the sword. The cluster of remnants had landed in the
bushes.

Silvio sat up, about to say something
hopeless, but the Xylonites rushed to the site where the children
found the magic. They quickly constructed brooms from sagebrush
leaves, and raked the dust into a neat little pile that they then
gathered in their hands.

“It’s not much, granted.” Silvio said, his
face downcast as the Xylonites presented it to him. “But it’s worth
a sword. And maybe, if I’m lucky, maybe it will grow?” He looked up
at the little eyes around him, all filled with hope, and want, and
need. The Xylonites held out the dust to him as an offering. He
reached out; palms up as the Xylonites shook tiny fragments of
green dust into his pale crooked hands. When the last particle
fell, Silvio’s hands turned pink, and he watched the dust
disappear, melting into his body. A bit of energy flowed through
him sending a tingle down his spine.

No, it wasn’t much, but it was enough to
bring a smile to Silvio’s face, and then a laugh, and then tears.
Soon the Xylonites were laughing and dancing and patting him on the
knee. They stoked the fire until it was blazing hot and cooked the
best pot of seaweed soup they had ever tasted.

Beginnings

A gust of hot wind took him home to what
seemed like an empty village. Roads were bare; dust blew in
whirlwinds through the lazy streets. Dirt had settled on the boy’s
dark skin and the hot sun baked it like a clay pot in an adobe
oven. A dog barked, but besides the occasional buzz of a mosquito
around his head, all was silent. He swatted at the insect, knowing
if it bit him he’d suffer the disease. The village doctor had done
all he could to save people from the plague, but there were too
many bodies, too much death for even modern medicine to defeat.

The boy followed the steps he had always
taken. Urgent, his bare feet, calloused and cracked from treading
on rocky seashores and clay roads, moved in rhythm as he ran past
the closed shutters of wooden houses that lined the street. Sealed
up tight like tombs. He knew what was inside of them. The plague
was everywhere. No one talked to his or her neighbors anymore, fear
and grief kept everyone stifled.

The boy turned the corner and passed the
stump where the apple tree once grew, a sorrowful reminder that the
village once had been alive.

He skipped over the stairs. Jumping to the
porch, he pounded on the door, panting, but no one answered. He
knocked again but no sounds came from inside. “Mother,” he cried,
but he choked on his words. Fear kidnapped his breath. He gasped,
his lungs burned…

When Ivar came conscious, his head was pulled
back, a finger pushed on his tongue and someone was breathing into
his mouth. A wave of fluid gushed from his stomach. He coughed,
rolled to his side, and let the salty water pour out of his body.
He coughed again and gasped for air, panicked he opened his eyes,
struggling to breathe.

Promise had moved away from him only
slightly, her hands on her knees, eyes anxious.

As he gained his senses he looked around the
cove. Waves broke against the rocks, spraying him with foam. He
shivered, wet and cold, not wanting to admit even to himself that
he was afraid. When his teeth began to chatter, Promise came to him
and helped him stand. Wrapping her furs around his shoulders, she
led him away from the water, up the beach, and out from the shadows
of the cliffs into the sun. Her body pressed against his under the
hide. She was warm and alive and caring.