Michael Foster - The Young Magician

‘Go on, have a dance,’ Lomar urged. ‘You’re too young to give in to bitterness just yet.’

Samuel nodded and took a few breaths in preparation, for he felt his friend was quite right. He latched onto the hand of a passing young lady, who was red-faced and panting, and dragged her back into the dance from which she had just barely escaped. His melancholy began to shed with each moment as he lost himself in the merriment and shook loose his woes. He spun, danced and laughed with the young lady, and each step felt lighter than the last. He could barely believe he had done it. He had finally killed Ash-the man who had stood by and watched as his men had murdered Samuel’s entire family; the monster who had killed Leila; the man who had filled his nightmares for all these years. Finally, Samuel realised he did feel better. A weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders and he felt the ghosts of his past could finally be at peace.

‘We did it!’ Samuel cried out with joy, as Grand Master Anthem came into view, skipping past him with a maiden on either arm. ‘He’s gone!’

The old Grand Master looked equally happy and carried on merrily by. ‘I know, lad! I know! Wonderful, isn’t it! After all these years, we’ve done it!’ But perhaps the old man was thinking about something else altogether.

After all the dancing, Samuel finally had to stop and catch his breath and he let his partner stagger off to rest. Despite his merriment, an uneasiness still nagged at him. His magic had not yet returned and he was beginning to think that something within him may have been damaged beyond repair.

Forget all that , he finally told himself, feeling the reassuring presence of the ancient ring tucked firmly into his pocket. With this, he could destroy a mountain if he chose to. Tonight is for celebration!

‘Come on, lad!’ cried old Master Sanctus, swinging past Samuel with a young lass in his arms. ‘What have you got to be so sour about? Kick up your heels!’

Samuel could not help but laugh at the sight and, with that, the old magician cackled with glee and continued spinning off through the crowd. All the while, the girl was giggling herself to tears in his wiry, old arms and making a great show of trying to escape him.

A moment had barely passed before Samuel’s hand was grabbed by another flushed-cheeked young lady and he, too, was pulled away to rejoin the dance, lost in the music, laughter and fun.

The entire city celebrated that night, and the music and singing and the booms of rockets floated over the great city walls and echoed far out into the waiting harbour. Flashes of light lit up the bobbing wave-tops as each rocket burst into bloom above the palace. The resulting pops and crackles, muted by the distance, took their time ambling out over the battered rocks-still cluttered with the broken splinters of the Merry Widow from years before. The sea might have fallen back into complete darkness between those explosions, if not for the constant, many-coloured glows of magic emanating from the city. From here, the docks and the city walls and the palace towers themselves seemed to be shining jewels set into the blackness, surrounded by the lilting music that rose and fell as it twirled upon the wind. For the time being at least, Cintar was a beacon in the void, separated from the dark of night by little more than mirth, and the gentle caress of the magicians’ lights.