Journeyman (A Wizard's Life) (18 page)

It’s just like Oster to pass on before I have the chance to succeed! Now I can never prove to him that I’m not useless.

Benen sank to his knees and cried. Not one tear was for Oster.

Later, when he had composed himself once again, he healed his hands with lunar magic and then contacted Mellen. He used the regular spell, he did not want to intrude upon the man’s thoughts uninvited, as he had before.

“Yes, Benen?” The reply came soon after Benen’s call.

“Master Mellen, what am I to do if Master Oster cannot judge my master piece?”

“If Master Oster refuses to judge it, then you may ask another, willing, master to do so. Is Oster threatening to do this?”

“No, I think he has passed on.”

Mellen asked Benen where he was, which Benen then had to go find out by asking a local farmer some distance away. With this information, Mellen made his way to the fallen tower of Oster to verify the man’s passing.

While he waited, Benen wondered at the lack of a body. When Mellen arrived the next day, after their greeting, Benen asked him if this meant Oster was alive after all.

“No. It is still likely he has passed on. The wizards who pass on this way leave no bodies behind.”

Mellen did his own examination of the wreckage of the tower and then tried a variety of spells, many of which Benen did not know, to try to locate Oster or to communicate with him. None of them worked. Oster was not to be found. Mellen provisionally declared him dead.

“You had best come back with me,” Mellen told Benen.

They travelled together in their preferred forms: Benen as a giant eagle and Mellen as a dragon. Once in the capital, Mellen brought Benen with him to his quarters in the royal palace. It was a truly opulent place; almost gaudy.

“You live like a king,” Benen commented.

Mellen shrugged. “I have little need for all this ornamentation. I’d give it all up for some peace and quiet some times.”

When they were seated in comfortable chairs in Mellen’s study, he fished out a letter from a filing cabinet he kept there. He opened the letter and read it to Benen. It was Oster’s will.

“To Benen I give all that I have. His are the tithes of the villages of Osteria, his are the the books I have filled with all my knowledge, his is my tower and all that it contains. He was my only apprentice and is my only heir.”

Benen could only think of one thing and he said it aloud: “I don’t want anything from him.”

“Don’t be hasty Benen,” Mellen counselled.

Benen could not discard the old wizard’s advice easily, he respected him too much. “Very well, I refuse nothing for the moment,” he said it grudgingly. Mellen moved on to other business.

“With Oster gone, you will have to choose a new master to judge your master piece. This is also an opportunity for you to rid yourself of the hopeless task you previously had and to choose a new goal.”

Benen was surprised for a moment until he realized that he had not had the chance to tell Mellen of his success.

“Master Mellen, would you agree to judge my master piece?” Benen asked him then, a grin playing on his lips.

Mellen agreed. “I’d be honoured to do so. What do you choose as your goal for your master piece?”

“Teleportation, still.”

“But Benen . . .” Mellen had gotten up and was about to say more, but Benen had held up a hand to stop him. Benen motioned for him to follow and brought the old wizard to a large stand-up mirror he had seen as they had walked through Mellen’s quarters.

Benen cast his enhanced scrying spell using the mirror as its focus. Within seconds, an image of the interior of Benen’s own tower could be seen through the looking glass. Benen looked at Mellen and swept his hand toward the portal.

“After you,” he said.

Mellen looked at him suspiciously. “This is a scrying window Benen, I am not easily fooled.”

“Very well,” Benen agreed with a smile. “I will go first.”

Benen strode through the portal and found himself back in his own tower. He could see Mellen’s shocked expression when he looked back through the portal. Seconds later, Mellen followed him and was transported to Benen’s tower.

“This . . . this . . .” Mellen had difficulty finding words.

“I will tell you the details over supper. You will stay for supper, won’t you?”

“I will. Most definitely. But Benen, there is something else I must do first.” Mellen composed himself and became very serious.

He spoke with uncommon formality: “Journeyman Benen, I recognize your achievement of a most impressive master piece. Henceforth you are to be considered a master of the art of magic and accorded all respect due that rank. It is my pleasure to name you now.” The old man paused and looked at Benen with pride.

“I name you now:
Master
Benen.”

EPILOGUE

A week later, the rocky red surface of the planet Mithran was disturbed by the sudden appearance of a rectangular portal. Through it, a theoretical native of Mithran — there were none — could have seen a man with long white hair and matching beard peer at them through the open gateway. The man hesitated on his side of the portal.

It doesn’t look very welcoming
, was his first thought.

Taking a deep breath and gathering his resolve, the man who looked to be in his fifties, but was really over a century old, crossed the threshold of the portal and stepped onto the surface of Mithran.

Immediately, he laboured to draw breath. Unfortunately for the man, Mithran did not have the same atmospheric composition as his native planet did. He did not know what specifically was wrong, but he knew that he could not breathe.

As he searched in his head for a spell to save his life, the man known as Benen saw his vision dim and narrow. He knew he was losing consciousness and that next he would lose his life.

He felt very foolish for not having sent an animal first or otherwise asserting that the planet’s surface was hospitable to his kind.

I might die here, but I’m still the first man to stand on another planet
, he though as his vision finally faded completely to black. Benen felt himself falling to meet the ground; he was inanely puzzled at how slowly he fell.

Next thing he knew, he was back in his laboratory, his golden friend standing over him with a worried expression on his face.

“Are you all right, Benen?” Timmon asked the man.

Benen smiled, thankful to still be alive.

“I’m alive and life is wonderful, Timmon,” he tried to say, but his lungs were still recovering, all he managed was a croak and a wheeze.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eric is an IT professional who has always loved reading fiction, especially science-fiction and fantasy. His love of reading is only exceeded by his desire to write as good of fiction as he has read.

Born in Sudbury, Ontario, he spent most of his childhood in Quebec before returning to Ontario in his teens. Now living in Ottawa, Eric shares his life with his wife Kathryn and daughter Zoé -- not to mention a host of pets, including his dog, Thor, and three cats.

Working up to writing his first novel wasn't easy for Eric. Although he had written short fiction over the years, he had never felt he could compose a full-length novel. He attributes his success in breaking through this barrier to the Nanowrimo challenge. Through this he showed himself capable of crafting long-form fiction. His first novel, The Reluctant Messiah, is a product of his participation in the challenge.

He now spends much of his time working on multiple projects. He has re-written two of his short stories and made them available for free. You can also find some of his ramblings on his blog, http://chimericwhimsey.com.

Favourite literary quotations:

"Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is."

-Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

"God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time."

-- Terry Pratchett, Good Omens

Don’t forget to join the facebook fan page - http://facebook.com/reluctantmessiahbook

Eric welcomes your comments at [email protected]

THE RELUCTANT MESSIAH PREVIEW

Chapter 1:
Bernard

Bernard was nervous about the meeting.

He didn’t know what these people were like, but he’d seen the ad on the bulletin board at a Starbucks and had been curious enough to check it out.

The ad had read:

“The Apocalypse is Nigh!!! The messiah is already among us! We must prepare for the great works he will bring!!! He will break us and remake us!!! Join now and prepare for the rapturous times ahead!!!”

There followed some contact information which Bernard had written down. The ad had used too many exclamation marks to be taken seriously, but it
had
intrigued him.

Things weren’t good at home with Bernard’s parents; they had an approach to parenting that bordered on criminal indifference and he desperately wanted to do something that might get them to pay attention to him.

He had found out this was a tall order through previous attempts. He had tried staying out all night without letting them know where he had been, but the next morning they greeted him casually over breakfast as if nothing had happened. He later realized they hadn’t even noticed he had not been home. Next he had tried absenting himself for longer periods, a weekend here and there, all without eliciting a single raised eyebrow.

Before seeing the ad for the meeting, he had been considering hiding at a friend’s house for a week just to see if either of his parents would even notice his absence.

He knew that going to the meeting was taking his life in his own hands. The nut bars at the meeting might abduct or kill him, but he was a little bit desperate and he didn’t seriously think there was a high probability of danger. The probability was definitely higher than zero, but he didn’t judge it to be significantly so. To him it felt like living on the edge, like doing something risky. He hoped it would be something that might even get his parents to take notice.

It would serve them right if these people turn out to be Satanists and they sacrifice me tonight
, he thought as he got off the bus near the address he’d gotten when he’d called the number from the ad. That call had been strange.

The phone had rung and a woman had answered, but he could barely hear her over the background sounds of young children playing and screaming.

“WHAT?!” the woman pretty much shouted into the phone to be heard above the noise.

“Er, hello?” he’d said hesitantly.

“Speak up! What do you want?” she didn’t seem to have a lot of patience. He hadn’t expected the contact number to be answered by someone so . . . belligerent. He thought he might have dialled the wrong number.

“Um, I might have the wrong number, I’m calling about the,” he hesitated there because he didn’t want to say words like
cult
or
apocalypse
to some random woman. It was one thing to call up the people who had put up the ad, but talking like that to someone else would be embarrassing.

He was beginning to think this was all a ridiculous idea and that he should not have called, when the woman’s tone brightened up.

“Oh! You’re calling about the ad!” she’d sounded rather surprised and excited.

She proceeded to give him the address, making sure he got it right and then telling him how excited she was that the group would have some new blood. Bernard wasn’t sure if he could imagine this woman as some Satanist or murderer, but the new blood reference gave him chills; it brought the wrong sort of imagery to mind.

He’d spent the hours between the call and the meeting debating with himself whether he should go or not. In the pros column he had such entries as: it will piss off the parents, meet interesting people, find out about apocalypse and/or messiah. In the cons column he had: get killed by crazy people, meet stupid people, hear boring stuff about a supposed apocalypse and related bogus messiah. In the end, pissing off his parents won the toss up and Bernard headed out to the meeting, but not without some trepidation.

When he arrived at the address, his fears about being killed by the cultists were put to rest along with any hopes he had that the evening was going to be filled with any real revelations or any content that would be upsetting to his parents: the meeting place was a community hall in the basement of a church. No Satanists met in the basements of churches. No one possessing interesting occult secrets would be caught dead meeting in a church. He sighed and resigned himself to an evening of social awkwardness and boredom.

The basement had multiple meeting rooms, and he found his way by following signs indicating “Second Dawn, Room 6”. The signs had arrows drawn on them showing the correct direction to the room. These were very helpful signs, but also one more indication that he was in for a boring evening: Satanists didn’t draw helpful direction arrows; the cool Satanists didn’t anyway.