The Last Enchanter (2 page)

Marcus considered the discovery that he was of royal blood, something he had thought a lot about since his return. Sometimes he could hardly believe it was true. Now Kelvin was in Dokur learning the ways of court with Fredric, and Jayson was on the far side of the Isle of Imaness in the marshlands of Taktani preparing the Agoran people to return to their homelands, a promise Fredric had made as a reward for their bravery during the battle with the Hestorian invaders.

“And here I am with you,” said Marcus, tossing a
dandelion to Agnes. “So much for having royal blood. I'm nothing more than the king of goats.”

Marcus reached for another dandelion, when something stung his neck.

“Ow!” he said, rubbing the spot with his hand.

A second later, a small pebble pelted him in the back of the head. Marcus spun around to see someone running across the field, an empty sling in hand. Marcus took out after the culprit.

“Come back here!” he shouted. “Come back, you coward!”

Marcus soon caught up. He grabbed anything he could reach—belt, hand, hair, leg—and both of their bodies toppled to the ground. Marcus had his attacker pinned in an instant.

“Thought you could get away with it, eh?” said Marcus, his chest heaving for breath.

The girl struggled to break free, but to no avail. She was Marcus's age, fourteen, and just as tall. She wore a simple tunic and trousers, and her long, yellow hair was kept in a tight braid.

“You're a pest, Lael,” Marcus said. “You should be home playing with dolls.”

“I prefer weapons to dolls,” snapped Lael.

“And what does your papa say to that?” asked Marcus, a wry grin on his face.

Lael frowned, her face turning red. “My father is a farmer,” she said. “What does he know of weapons?”

“More than you, most likely,” Marcus said, laughing.
“You'll hurt yourself with that thing.”

“I could have hurt you, Marcus Frye, if I'd wanted to.”

Marcus snatched the sling from Lael.

Her arms now free, she jumped up, furious. “Give that back!”

“How does this work again?” teased Marcus. “You put a stone here . . .”

He picked up a rock from the ground and placed it in the small leather hammock. Then he began to spin the four long, leather straps in a circle over his head.

“And you swing it around like this . . .”

“Marcus, don't!” shouted Lael.

Marcus released two of the straps, but instead of sending the rock flying, it snapped back, hitting him square in the forehead. He dropped to the ground as still as the stone that had struck him.

Two

M
arcus!” shouted Lael. “Are you all right?”

Marcus blinked. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was, but as he gazed up into the face that stared down at him, he realized he was lying on the ground.

“Let me help you up,” offered Lael, holding out her hand.

Ignoring her, Marcus struggled to his feet. He felt a little dizzy and lightheaded. “I'm fine,” he said gruffly. He touched the tender spot on his forehead and found a swollen lump there.

“Are you sure you're all right?” asked Lael.

Marcus took up Agnes's lead. “I'm going home,” he said. He didn't get far, however, before he felt a twinge of
guilt. Lael had only been teasing him, after all. He had been the stupid one, using a weapon on which he was untrained. And then when she tried to help him, he'd been rude to her.

Marcus stopped. He could see a plume of smoke rising from the chimney of his cottage, which meant Zyll was awake and preparing breakfast. If Marcus hurried, he might reach home while the food was still hot.

He glanced over his shoulder at Lael walking slowly toward the village. By the slump in her shoulder, he knew he had hurt her feelings. He would have to go back and apologize.

He called to her. “Lael, hold on!”

At hearing her name, Lael turned around.

Marcus patted Agnes's rump. “Go on home, girl,” he told her. The goat obeyed and scampered off in the direction of the cottage, while Marcus started back across the field.

The pain struck without warning, an invisible fist thrust into his chest. As he fell, he saw Lael running toward him. A moment later he was on the ground, no longer aware of anything beyond his own suffering. His body shook, his fingers clutching at the soft soil. He wanted to scream, but no sound escaped through his clenched teeth.

At the very moment that Marcus was sure he would die, a strange warmth filled his body. It rose up from the earth and rained down from the sky. His muscles relaxed, and his arms fell limp beside him. He opened his eyes and saw a woman with golden hair and skin as bright as the sun.

He knew this woman. He had seen her before in his dreams and thought she was an angel, but now he knew her true identity. She was Ivanore, his mother.

Ivanore held out her hand toward Marcus as though she wished to grasp his hand in hers. Her lips moved, but Marcus heard no sound. Then, with despair in her eyes, Ivanore's image began to fade. Marcus wanted to reach for her, to feel his mother's touch for the first time, but his arms were like lead, lying useless beside him on the ground.

Ivanore vanished, leaving a dark void behind. The blackness swirled above Marcus, threatening to pull him in. Again he clutched at the soil, but the force was too strong. He felt his body lifting from the earth. Marcus opened his jaw and screamed.

Three

T
here now, you are in good hands.”

A familiar voice broke through the blackness. Marcus slowly opened his eyes. He lay on his own cot, a damp rag across his forehead and a blanket pulled up to his chin. He tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain forced him back to his pillow. Master Zyll leaned over him, examining him through a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.

“Better now?” he asked, removing the rag and dipping it into a bowl of water on the floor beside him. He wrung out the rag and replaced it on Marcus's forehead. Marcus felt its soothing coolness against his skin.

“The pain hit so suddenly,” he said, “I couldn't scream.”

“Oh, you screamed all right,” remarked Zyll with a
chuckle. “Half the village heard you and came running. And as you can see,” he added, “some of them are still here.”

Marcus looked toward the doorway and saw two boys standing there. Both were about his age, though one was short and rather plump, while the other was a good head taller and very thin.

“Clovis, Tristan,” said Marcus. “It's good to see you.”

“You, too,” replied Clovis, the plump one. “We didn't know who had screamed until we reached the field.”

Tristan reached over his shoulder for a scratch. “Thought it was a girl,” he said, chuckling.

Clovis jabbed Tristan in the side with his elbow. “Well, naturally, we would think that, wouldn't we—when we saw Lael,” he said. “That is, until she told us you were hurt.”

“Lael?” asked Marcus.

“That's right,” said Tristan. “She led us to you. The three of us carried you home.”

Marcus glanced around the room. “Where is she?”

“She left once she saw you were safe,” explained Zyll. “She seemed upset, though. Said something about a sling?”

Marcus touched his forehead. The lump was still there. He groaned.

“I was fooling around with her sling and hit myself on the head with it,” said Marcus. “She probably feels responsible.”

Clovis fidgeted with the crossbow. He had surprised himself and everyone else with his skill during the battle with the Hestorians. Now he carried it with him wherever
he went. “We had better get back, Tristan,” he said. “My father will be wondering where I am.”

Tristan nodded. “And I was supposed to be at work an hour ago.”

“That's right,” replied Marcus, cracking a smile. “You two have responsibilities now. Clovis Dungham, the bow maker and Tristan Tether the cow slayer. So how are things at the tanner's?”

“Fine, just fine,” answered Tristan.

“Can't you tell by the smell?” added Clovis.

Tristan glared at Clovis and then sniffed at his sleeve.

“Don't make me laugh,” Marcus said. “It hurts!”

Marcus said goodbye to his friends, though he longed to go with them. As they turned to leave, Marcus heard Tristan ask, “Smell's not that bad, is it?”

Four

O
nce Tristan and Clovis had gone, Marcus carefully rolled onto his side and adjusted the pillow beneath his neck. Even that small amount of effort caused him pain, and he moaned.

Zyll stroked the white stubble on his chin. “The pain still persists?”

Marcus nodded. “The stab wound I got from Arik healed months ago. But just when I'm feeling strong again, the pain comes back.”

“Your wound has healed,” said Zyll. He rose from the stool at Marcus's bedside and reached for Xerxes, his walking stick carved with an eagle's head. Crossing the cottage to the hearth where a pot of broth was warming, he lifted the ladle to his lips and tasted it.

Marcus adjusted himself on his cot again, trying not to worsen the pain. “I haven't healed,” he told Zyll. “I hurt more now than I did when that traitor stuck a dagger in my back.”

As Zyll leaned on his walking stick, its wooden face moved. Eyelids flickered open, and Xerxes yawned.

“Well, well,” said Zyll. “It's about time you awoke. Had you intended to sleep
all
day?”

Xerxes yawned again, a faint squawk escaping from his beak. “Sleep?” he said groggily. “How can anyone sleep with so much racket? All you humans do is talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!”

When Xerxes caught sight of Marcus on the cot, he ground his beak furiously. “And you complain
I
sleep too much! Up! Up, lazy boy! The day's half gone!”

“Now, now, Xerxes,” said Zyll. “The boy's not well. He's had another attack.”

Xerxes gasped, though Marcus sensed a hint of mockery in it. “Another attack? How convenient.”

Zyll leaned Xerxes against the hearth and laughed lightly. “If you will excuse us a moment, my old companion,” he said. “Marcus and I were just discussing the situation and would like to continue our conversation.”

Xerxes rolled his eyes and clicked his beak impatiently.

Zyll lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “In private,” he added.

Xerxes closed his eyes, and just before he returned to his still form he said, “I'll expect no more complaints about
my
sleeping in after this.”

Zyll carried a bowl of broth to Marcus who accepted it gratefully. The steaming liquid satisfied his hunger and took the edge off his pain.

“I saw her again,” he said, setting the empty bowl aside. “I saw Ivanore.”

“Oh?” replied Zyll.

“The vision was clearer than ever before. She looked so real, and she was trying to speak to me.”

Zyll held out his hand. “A little more?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” Marcus handed him the bowl, and Zyll returned to the hearth and filled it again. He filled another for himself. “I wish I knew more about my mother,” Marcus continued. “I know she died when I was born, but sometimes, like when I have those visions, I feel her close to me. Silly, isn't it?”

The enchanter paused, staring at the bricks of the hearth. Marcus recognized that look. It meant Zyll's thoughts had gone someplace else for a moment. Then Zyll blinked and finished filling Marcus's bowl.

“No, of course not,” answered Zyll, setting the ladle aside. “It is only natural for a boy to wish to know his mother.” He turned to Marcus. “How are you feeling now?”

“A little better,” Marcus confessed, “though I still hurt a lot.”

“Earlier you were speaking of the wound in your back,” said Zyll. “Is that the source of your pain?”

Marcus considered his question. “Come to think of it,” he said, “the pain is mostly in my chest, as though my bones were being crushed.”

Zyll set one bowl of broth on the table before returning to the cot. He handed Marcus his bowl, his expression serious. The steam rose into Marcus's face.

“Think back to that day in Dokur,” he said. “Your brother Kelvin was mortally wounded from a fall. Using magic, you revived him by exchanging your life force for his.”

Outside the cottage, the wind beat against the thatched roof. It reminded Marcus of that terrible day months earlier—the loud flapping of dragons' wings, waves crashing against the shore, and the screams of people dying. These were memories he had tried—yet failed—to forget.

“I don't understand,” said Marcus.

“Magic comes with a price,” said Zyll. “Greater magic demands greater sacrifice. Look at me. I limp when I walk, and my eyes grow dim. Magic has taken its toll on me one spell at a time. Do you ever feel spent after using magic?”