Spell Fade (3 page)

How old was he, Dartan wondered. It was hard determining his age since most of his face was covered in white hair. It spilled off his head, framed his face, and rested on his shoulders. His eyes, and the wrinkles around them, showed some age, but everything else was covered in a white beard that disappeared somewhere under the table. From what Dartan could see, he could be the same age as Mother, or over a hundred.

Dartan quickly realized he wasn’t the only one observing. The old man’s eyes looked him up and down before resting an unimpressed gaze on his eyes. Dartan stared back, attempting to look disinterested, but that quickly changed when the old man disappeared. It was only for a slit second, but it was enough to make Dartan recoil from the table in surprise, scratching the chair legs loudly against the floor.

“What has gotten in to you this morning, Dartan?” Mother asked.

“He … not there … and then,” Dartan struggled with the words, becoming increasingly frustrated. Mother’s face changed to a look of concern, while the old man went from one raised eyebrow of interest to two raised in shock. What was happening to him? The disappearing old man, the dream, the hooded figure – there was only one explanation for all of it, and now it was in their home.

“Magic!” he finally blurted out, finger pointed at the old man. That one word unloosed his tongue. “He’s a wizard, Mother!” She started to respond, but was cut short by the man.

“I’m
the
wizard, actually,” he corrected Dartan.

“You mean, they finally sent someone to help our village?” Dartan asked, unsure what this had to do with him.

“No, boy,” the wizard shook his head. “This village is all but dead. Think bigger.” This dead village was his home, and Dartan knew almost nothing of the world beyond its borders. ‘Bigger’ could mean anything, and he didn’t care for the wizard belittling his home.

“Oh, so you’re peddling potions and spells to desperate people in a dead village, who are looking for any help to just get through another day?” Mother dropped a pot hard against the stove, and Dartan didn’t blame her. Even he wondered from where such an outburst came.

“Dartan,” Mother whirled around from the stove, “that is not how we speak to guests in this house!”

“No, it’s quite alright,” the wizard said. “Considering his upbringing, I’m not the least bit surprised at his attitude towards wizards.” Compliment or insult wasn’t clear, but Mother simply waved her hands and returned to the stove. The wizard then turned to Dartan. “I’m not sure exactly how a door-to-door charlatan is supposed to be ‘bigger’ than your previous guess, but try again. This time think much, much bigger.”

Dartan swallowed hard. He didn’t know much about magic and wizards, but he did know who was at the top. He leaned forward and whispered, “The Great Wizard, Alain?” The wizard nodded his head slightly and Dartan leaned closer. “But you don’t look anything like him.” Alain almost laughed aloud as he looked down at himself.

“And here I thought I looked every bit the part of a wizard,” Alain said.

“Perhaps you do,” offered Dartan, who had only seen one wizard in his life, “but you don’t look anything like Alain as I’ve heard him described.”

“Really?” Alain leaned back, stroking his beard. “And where exactly,” he asked, casting a glance in Mother’s direction, “would you have heard someone describing me?”

The tray of food slammed loudly onto the table between the two. Before Dartan could say anything, Mother’s face was directly in front of his own.

“And that,” she explained, “is the reason I don’t like wizards.” Alain’s eyes grew wide in mock surprise, but it was obvious this argument had played out in various forms many times before. Mother continued her side without any prompting. “The only thing worse than their secrets or arrogance is their inability to be direct. They can’t just come right out and say something. No, they have to be mysterious and all-knowing about it.” She punctuated her rant with a wave of her hands and a “Bah!”

Alain simply shrugged his shoulders and asked, “So, has she told you anything about me, boy?”

“No,” Mother interrupted. “Of course I haven’t. I’ve done just as promised and have kept him as far from magic as possible.”

Alain’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward in his seat. “But that was only in his youth, right?” he insisted. “Surely by now he has grown curious. He has shown signs of talent,” he pleaded.

“Are you telling me, or asking?”

“Now who’s being indirect?” Alain scolded. “Does he have the gift or not?”

She waved her hands dismissively again as she moved away from the table. “How should I know? Can’t you tell one of your own?”

“Perhaps,” he pondered over Dartan a moment before adding, “if I were physically here.” His image flickered again as though to prove the point. “So, what about it, boy? Do you feel like you have the gift?”

Dartan didn’t even have to consider the question. He had never felt special. Orphaned by a dead mother and uncaring father, he had decided long ago he was lucky just to be where he was. There was no reason to expect or hope for anything more.

“Despite its grim beginning,” Dartan answered, “I have received many precious gifts in my life.” He glanced towards Mother as he spoke, but she pretended not to notice. “But do I feel magical?” He simply shook his head. “There have certainly been days when I wished I could have waved a hand and had my chores completed, but it’s never happened. The only thing keeping this farm going is hard, back-breaking work.” His eyes met the wizard’s, and he hoped the small shaking in his knees was not noticeable under the table. This was the only conversation he had ever held with a wizard, and he was daring to insult him, to mock his talents? Then again, Alain had come seeking him out, and to this point he felt he owed him nothing.

Alain, for his part, seemed to be barely listening. It wasn’t until Dartan mentioned the farm that any sort of life returned to the image of the old man. It suddenly grew clearer, more vibrant, and his eyes brightened. “Yes, the farm, of course,” he said absently to himself. “Why of all the farms in this village do you suppose yours has been the lone one unaffected by the passing of the wizard who lived here?” He didn’t pause or even look to them for an answer. Dartan wondered if he was really even speaking to them at all. “Its fortune must be due to some other source of magic, and I reason that source must be the boy.”

“Well, I reason that it’s due to nothing more than fortune itself,” Mother interjected. “With so much bad luck in the boy’s life, he was owed a bit of good.” Unable to stop herself, she continued, “Besides, we aren’t the only farm unaffected. Our neighbors have experienced the same good fortune as ourselves, which makes sense to me when you think about it. After all, we share some of the same soil and water.” She paused a moment and lowered her eyes before adding quietly, “I believe they may be owed some good due to their misfortune as well.” She let out a small sigh. “That poor man had to leave his own life, and practically raise his sister on his own.”

“Sister?” The wizard’s interest was piqued.

“Yes,” Mother answered. “She’s only a year younger than Dartan, and her parents died not long after we arrived here. I think that’s one of the reasons she and Dartan are so close.” Dartan gave her a warning grunt, followed by a stern but slight shake of his head. Mother feigned innocence, but stopped talking.

“Is she a short, nymph of a girl,” Alain asked, oblivious of the exchange between Dartan and his mother.

“I suppose so,” Mother ventured. “Why do you ask?”

“I think I gave the poor girl the scare of her life yesterday,” he said with a small chuckle, but may have reconsidered had he noticed Dartan’s stone face.

“Is she alright?” Dartan asked flatly.

“Well, of course she is,” he answered with the same laugh. Then he added a little more heartily, “Although, I wouldn’t expect to see her around here anytime soon. She probably thought she saw a ghost.” He stopped abruptly, finally recognizing the rising anger in Dartan’s face.

“So,” Dartan began, unflinching under the wizard’s gaze, “you think scaring young women is funny?” Had he been paying attention, he would have heard Mother choke on her drink.

“Not at all,” the wizard replied with a broad smile. “What I do find funny is how a young girl can scare an old man who should have been paying more attention.” Confusion slipped onto Dartan’s face for a moment, and the anger began to ebb. “We were both so focused on you, Dartan, she passed right through me before either of us even noticed the other.”

Still feeling some of the tension in the room, Mother sought to diffuse it. “You’ll have to forgive the boy,” she explained. “As you can tell, he has some strong feelings for the girl.”

“Mother!” Dartan reddened, but fixed an icy glare on her. His relationship with Aliet was a long standing disagreement between the two of them, and he had no intention of continuing it in front of a complete stranger. Mother simply shrugged her shoulders, her point made.

“Strong feelings, eh?” Alain repeated, stroking his beard. “And her farm has prospered as well as your own,” he mused. He stopped mid-stroke and pointed directly at Dartan. “You do have the gift,” he stated. There was a sense of relief in the smile on the wizard’s face, but it lasted only a moment. Suddenly his image grew dim and his eyes opened wide in surprise. “Damn,” he whispered before disappearing.

*
      
*
      
*

The loud rap on the door broke his concentration, and the image of the small farmhouse dissolved around him. Dartan and his mother faded, leaving Alain alone, seated behind his desk in his own chambers. The fire behind him had grown cold, and he wondered how long he had been gone.

He had significantly more grey hair and wrinkles than the man he had been twenty years ago, but he was still a very far cry from the wizard Dartan had seen. The boy was right, he looked little like himself, but the complaint from his stiff, unused muscles as he turned towards the fireplace made him feel every bit of his age. Perhaps that was why his mind projected such an image of himself. He felt old.

He waved a hand, simultaneously dismissing the thought and bringing the fire up to a roaring burn. Another tap at the door, more insistent this time, reminded him why he was back here. “I know I asked not to be disturbed for any reason,” he grumbled to himself, then stopped. The irritation slowly gave way to caution. If he was being disturbed, there must be a very grave reason for it. Still, if they were bothering to knock, then there was no reason to mask the irritation in his voice.

“Come!” he called out, and the door silently opened the tiniest bit. Alain would not have thought it possible, but Norrick, his servant, managed to squeeze his head through the opening. His face was pale and his eyes wide, but Alain had no illusions of being the reason. Alain may have been demanding, but he had never been harsh. More than cautious, now he was uneasy. The fire behind him dimmed as he gathered his focus.

“So sorry to bother you, sir,” Norrick began.

“Then why do it?” Alain interrupted.

“That would be my fault, wizard.” The door flew open hard enough to crash into the wall, if not for a pile of books and parchments. Norrick was left standing in the middle of the open doorway, neck extended and hand open, as if it were still holding the handle. He was roughly pushed aside by a thin, pale-skinned man. His hair was slicked back against his head, and his small, dark eyes darted over everything in the room as he entered.

“Roal,” Alain said without bothering to disguise the disgust. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, you are the Great Wizard,” he replied mockingly while waving his hand grandiosely through the air. “I would be worried if you
were
surprised,” he added, brushing a pile of papers from a chair, then settling in across from Alain.

“Please,” Alain said flatly through a forced smile, “have a seat.” Truthfully, he was a little surprised by Roal, or rather by the spell surrounding him. He knew Roal had talent, but it had never been so strong. Something about him had changed.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” Roal stated casually. He leaned forward and added in a loud, exaggerated whisper, “You weren’t napping, were you? I hear naps can be very helpful for people your age.”

“Of course it was important,” Alain said, ignoring the comment. “That’s why I asked not to be disturbed.” Alain looked up at Norrick, who hadn’t moved, but now had a face tinged with red.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Roal said, noticing the look. “I didn’t really give him a choice.”

“Why are you here?” Alain asked with a sigh. He had already grown tired of Roal.

“I bring a message from King Jarel.”

“Let’s have it then,
messenger
,” Alain taunted.

Roal merely sneered, too eager to deliver the message to be bothered by name calling. He leaned forward again, but didn’t whisper this time. “Name the heir to the throne … ack.” He stopped abruptly, his tongue suddenly too large for his mouth. Roal’s eyes grew wide as he reached for something hidden under his shirt. Alain watched him struggle for a moment, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, before releasing his hold. He had seen enough, and the small demonstration was more than sufficient to shake Roal’s confidence in his new found power.

“Or?” Alain prompted the gasping Roal.

“Or,” Roal croaked, then coughed and took several deep breaths, returning almost to his normal color. “Or King Jarel will claim it as his own.” He swallowed hard, his face contorted briefly in pain, then leaned back, one eye on the wizard.

The fire behind Alain raged up to a near inferno, casting blinding light and searing heat into the room. Roal raised one hand to shield his eyes, and grabbed at his chest with the other. Alain lowered his hands to the table, bringing the fire back to normal. Roal lowered his arm, but still held tight to his chest. Whatever it was Roal was hiding under his shirt, Alain was positive he had nothing to fear from it in Roal’s hands.

“Bold words,” Alain said, but Roal merely stared. “So, Jarel has a few good years, a few mild winters, and suddenly he’s fit to rule Pavlora? What was it – only 150 that died this winter?”