The Magician 39

He stared down at the history book that fell off of his lap when he nodded off. Picking it up, Orison remembered that there was a book in the alchemy room that he wanted to look at. When he got up the nerve to break that particular rule Droya had set, he realized that the book he remembered seeing wasn't there.

Oddly, he started feeling drowsy again. Realizing that something was wrong, he made his way out of the room but not before something caught his eye. Before Bauldur, his adopted father, left to go slay a dragon, he had mixed some arrow and sword coating poison but hadn't cleaned up the workbench. The resulting concoction had dried and poor Orison had been breathing it in small doses for days.

Not knowing how he knew, the boy had not only been able to identify the ingredients used to make the poison but also the ones needed to neutralize them. Concoctions and cleanup ran into early evening. During that time, he also found a couple of hedge mage grimoires that his adopted father had obtained during adventures but hadn't cared much for other than as trophies.

Excited, Orison sat down and began pouring over them. Although most of it was gibberish the boy couldn't make sense of, there were a couple that he could understand right away. Strangely, it was more like a hazy remembering than a newly studied topic.

Eyes tired from reading in gradually poorer lighting conditions, he set a fire in the fireplace to dispel the slight chill of mid spring that lingered in the northern country. While he was at it, he grabbed one of the smaller cook pots to warm some water for a bath instead of fiddling with the large cauldron that could be swung in and out. Although he'd never done such things before, it hadn't been difficult to figure out with some patience and common sense.

Clean and gnawing on a rubbery carrot, Orison looked over the back balcony into the night sky. It was a beautiful, clear view. That's when he noticed a small light on the ground, in the distance near the lake. He immediately went to lock all the windows and shutters. Feeling uneasy but tired again, he went to bed but only slept for a handful of hours before he was up and pacing.

In the early pre-dawn light, he grabbed the practice bow and a decent knife from the kitchen, then made his way to the lake to check out the spot he'd seen before. About halfway, he started feeling a little itchy. In the dim light, it looked as if some of the misty tendrils of lake fog were snaking around, even drawing near him. Shaking it off as nerves, he started moving more cautiously and with a great deal more silence than he thought himself capable of.

Peering through a patch of dense foliage, he saw a man slumped over a slightly squarish boulder. Nearby, a wood elf was calling out in a hoarse voice to get someone's attention while an ill looking Mashlander girl was curled up into his arms. They had been chained to a metal ring buried in the boulder fairly thoroughly.

Whispering just loud enough for the wood elf to hear, Orison said, "Are there any more weirdos nearby.

The wood elf locked onto the direction of the voice and said in a dry, abused voice, "We are alone."

With disgust and a little fear, the boy sifted through the comatose Summerland elf's robes, looking for a key. In the process, the body slid from it's slumped position over the 'alter' and onto the ground. A bowl that was on the natural alter, tipped over and spilled an oily looking mist that snaked unnaturally up Orison's legs, congregating to the back of his neck.

Shrieking in terror, he clawed at it to get it off but it was as if it wasn't really there, an illusion. As if reacting to his fear and feelings of being in danger, an over robe as light as the mist itself and colored like an artists interpretation of an oil slick rainbow, settled over him. He wanted to forget everything and run back home after ripping the strange garment off but a trickle of cool logic mingled with stubborn refusal to give in to fear held him in place.

After realizing that the over robe 'listened' to his commands to some degree, he turned back to the task of freeing the two people from the boulder. Then it dawned on him. The gold elf man wasn't dead, just vacant. He wondered if the novice spell for giving false life to small things like bugs and birds could be used to make the comatose man move and follow simple directions.

He had no way of knowing that the cultist was soulless and dying filled with grudge. Any mage could have told him that such a small spell couldn't animate a corpse the size of a person and wouldn't work on a living person at all. What successful actions done in ignorance proved was that a wise man can never know everything or all possibilities.

Casting the false life spell, Orison ordered the comatose elf to release them. Seeing the man shuffle over and start yanking on the chains mindlessly, the wood elf politely reminded the boy about the key. Nodding, the young novice mage reinforced his mental image with a key of his own imagining undoing all the locks and setting them free.

Trying to imagine it as clearly as he could, Orison bent a hazy will to the task. A surge of magic drained from him into the controlled gold elf. Instead of reaching for the key in his pocket, the cultist touched his chest. And with the last bit of life left in him, compelled by Orison to do so, the scraps of spirit remaining within the cultist released their hold on the magic in the slave collars around the wood elf and Marshlander's necks before that control could pass to another.

Task performed, the gold elf slumped lifelessly to the ground as the last of his magic reserve was sucked away, adding force to the small cluster of magic Orison had sent through him. Combined, that magic undid all the locks on the chains. The more knowledgeable wood elf was completely baffled by what had happened.

"The words and actions of a child may reveal what the elder cannot see... I am Morrel, boy. I cannot thank you enough but my... my daughter is in need of a healer or a place to rest for a time while I seek what she needs," the wood elf said, ears burning.

The young mage nodded. "My house is up the way a bit. What's wrong with her?"

"Many small things have added up to weaken her into illness," Morrel said as he picked up the Marshlander girl.

On the way back, Orison managed to barely pick off a squirrel with his practice bow under Morrel's slightly amused but mostly disapproving gaze.

Picking up on judgmental appraisal, the boy said in annoyance, "Sorry if I didn't pop out of the belly fully trained. This is the first time I've used a bow to shoot something other than a straw target a couple days ago."

"Who trained you?" the wood elf said.

"Nobody. Droya... Mamma Yaya, doesn't want me to be a soldier. She said that since I like reading so much and I was born with the gift, my father would put me in the Academy at Fort Winter when I was old enough.

The wood elf grunted. "No safer but more privilege and wealth for certain. Still, if you've the hand and eye for it, why not know some defense out of dusty books? A sword can be swung and an arrow shot hundreds of times a day."

Orison shook his practice bow and dead squirrel at Morrel. "Obviously not disagreeing!"

Once they got back to the lake house, the young mage showed them to the guest bedroom and let them settle in. While Morrel got a stew going with the remaining carrots and potatoes, Orison went to the back yard to look for a few herbs Morrel hadn't found along the way. By the time Morrel was dipping some broth out for his daughter, Lithus, the boy was offering an herb packet to steep in it.

The wood elf had been watching the boy work and found no advice to add. Orison even had to explain a few of the herbs and how they added to wellness in one way or another. Morrel may not have been impressed with the boy's bowmanship but was nearly floored by his apothecary skills.

"There's a couple of Mama Yaya's old dresses in the guestroom cabinet... You know, after her fever breaks," the boy said.

Morrel smiled faintly. "We should probably wait for your mother to get home before you start giving her things to strangers to wear."

Dully, the boy said, "They're in the guest bedroom cabinet for a reason. That goes for you too. It might be harder to find something that fits right. But, just about anything's better than an oversized pillow case and sewed up burlap."

Morrel didn't argue after that. The truth was, showing up in a village with obvious slave clothes would cause unwanted attention and possible trouble. Northlanders might not think highly of slavery but people would still judge others by how they appeared.

While the wood elf was changing clothes, there was a knock at the door. When the young mage partially opened it, he saw a Marshlander with the darkest scale coloring he'd ever seen. Pitch black faded to charcoal gray with the faintest hint of reddish-brown tint at the edges of subtle pattern marks. One hand was busy wiping blood splatter off his leathers while the other dragged a bound and gagged bastet with dull, grayish-black fur.

"Found this one and two others casing your house. Is Mrs. Rettr available? I'm carrying a message from her husband." The dark Marshlander asked.

Orison said, "Hand the letter through the door. I'll run it up to her. It might take her a few but she should be ready to see you soon. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable on the porch."

As the boy hurried up the stairs, checking the writing against his memory for things signed by his adopted father, Morrel speed dressed in the best he had managed to find at that point. Somewhere when Orison stopped paying attention, the wood elf had cleaned up and even had the practice bow on hand.

"I'm not a babysitter. What should I do with this thief? I had originally spared him because he walked away the moment he realized it wouldn't be a smash and grab where no one had to get hurt. Seeing a WOOD ELF man in the house spooked him good, I think," the darkly marked Marshlander shouted into the house.

Morrel, who was about to climb through the window, froze in his tracks. "I'll stand on the stair case, young man. I won't let him hurt you if I can help it but I won't leave my daughter defenseless either."

Grimly and more than a little afraid, Orison walked back to the door and pulled it open. Right after that, he positioned himself so that Morrel had a clear shot if the stranger made a move towards him.

The young mage looked at the bastet that was being used as a meat shield. "Not everyone gets second chances but if you can afford to GIVE one, why not? Nobody's perfect."

The gagged bastet flashed the boy a look of wet eyed gratitude.

The dark Marshlander gave a smile of naturally needle pointed teeth and replied, "Take this dagger and draw a spot of blood on your finger, boy. After the hedge witch's test, this little thief can be a meeting present to you."

Orison took the mostly clean dagger and walked over to the fireplace. After burying it in the cooking coals for a few seconds, he wiped it down with a linseed oiled cloth and dried it with a touch of magic. The dagger was sharp as a razor and managed to draw more blood than was probably needed from his sliced thumb but the deed was done.

An old obsidian elf woman that had walked up to the porch with some help from the boy beside her, cast a spell on a small wooden bowl. "I need a drop of your blood too, stone hearted bone head. You trying to scare the boy to death?"

With a little sleight of hand trick, the Marshlander pricked his finger and sheathed the dagger after wiping it, all one handed. He didn't even so much as jiggle the welling drop of blood until it was over the bowl where it belonged. The old woman nodded and showed the Marshlander the results.

"Beware an elf bearing gifts, they say. In this case, I guess it's an elf baring her gifts but close enough. Your father greets you, b*****d." the dark Marshlander said with toothy grin.

"An easily forged letter and a little magic over a bowl is supposed to convince me-" Orison began but was interrupted.

With urgency in his voice, Morrel spoke sharply, "A Deep Marshlander says you're his get, you're his get. He probably knew the moment he stepped up to the door. The rest was for your benefit.

"Scholars don't write much about their culture because the ones who study it, rarely live long enough to pen it down. But those who do survive, they know not to. I'll tell you this, young man. If you deny him in front of witnesses after he has claimed you, he'll kill you... He'll kill you to bury the humiliation and he'll probably kill us because we witnessed it."

The dark Marshlander laughed. "His mother wasn't a Marshlander, wood elf. I wouldn't have killed him. I should have beaten him nearly to death and gave him to the Silence like all the unwanted but I DO want him... You did save him from the beating, though."

The old woman stepped past him. "Come to me wood elf. My gifts of magic may be poor but it is not my calling's gift. An honorable man deserved to be honored and the best reward I can offer may only be given in a whisper."

Wary and ready for treachery, Morrel walked up to her. insuring that she stood between himself and the Marshlander. The old woman's eyes clouded over as if she had experienced years worth of cataracts in seconds. The wood elf staggered back away and stared at her in wonder. Afterwards, she blindly reached out for the guiding hand of the boy who had helped her up the stairs earlier.

"Are you bent on making our journey as difficult as possible, weaving witch?" the dark Marshlander said in annoyance.

The old woman smiled mysteriously. "What an interesting proposition. Should I?"

Ignoring the provocation, he turned back to Orison. "Well, come on."

"I'll pack my bags, then," the young mage said, attempting to buy some time to figure out the best course of action.

"Get... outside... now," his self-proclaimed father said, patience used up.

Distraught, he added, "At least let me say goodbye to the lady who took care of me for the last few months. She'll be-"

A dagger pommel, moving faster than the eye could follow, smacked into his temple. Whatever thoughts he could have put to words were replaced with darkness.