David Grace - The Accidental Magician

The waitress, one Flourice by name, soon returned with a clear crystal goblet of plum-colored wine. Grantin examined the rays of the dying sun through the fluid, then treated himself to a healthy swallow. Bittersweet, with a sharp, full, fruity flavor, it slid down his throat in thin, burning rivulets. In its wake the wine left the spicy warmness for which it was so renowned.

Grantin finished the beverage just as the innkeeper ignited the torches which surrounded the patio. New sounds now textured the twilight-the sputtering snap of the flames, the sizzles and tiny squeals of the night moths who flung themselves into the fires, there to be incinerated and fall to the earth in broiled husks. At the end of the evening, Grantin knew the innkeeper would salvage mounds of the little bodies and add them to his larder as a protein extender for the gruel.

Grantin turned back to the steaming sliced steak and side dishes which Flourice had now set before him. He popped a small morsel into his mouth. It was excellent- hot, rich, juicy, and full-bodied. Grantin reached for his goblet and, to his dismay, found it empty. Detecting Flourice at a table a few feet away, he waved his hand, then pointed to his glass. In a moment she set another portion of wine to hand.

Four coppers for the dinner, two more for the wine, perhaps one more for Flourice herself… but what matter, he had more than that in his pouch. Where would he sleep that night? A worry for a later time. No doubt something suitable would suggest itself.

Grantin speared another forkful of meat, washed it down with a heavy swallow of the tart, sweet wine, and reflected that his life was not so unpleasant after all.

Though Pyra had long since fled the sky Castor still sat at his window and gazed at the moon-tinted crooked shadows below. An unseen ghost-storm was building, gathering its energies like a dirty psychic wind. Castor could feel its power barely held in check. The forces derived from the Gogol city of Cicero half a league away. If something were not done, and soon, the maelstrom would sweep up everyone, humans and Ajaj like. What could he, one lone Ajaj, do to prevent the catastrophe?

Reluctantly he rose, swung the window grate into place, fastened it, then pushed the granite slab across the narrow door. He set out his warning bells and pronounced his spell of protection. Convinced that all was secure, he crawled into his sleep niche and slid closed the curtain.

Castor lay on his back, hands crossed at his shoulders where they could be quickly moved to guard his throat in case of attack. Tonight, sleep eluded him. Perhaps it was tension brought on by the decision maker's warning. The fur along his neck rippled as if in a static field. Castor twisted uneasily on his thin mattress. His arms and legs distracted him with sudden itches. With conscious effort he ceased his movements and willed his breathing to a regular steady beat. At last a heavy suffocating sleep seemed ready to descend. Castor welcomed it, concentrating his attention on counting the purple-black star bursts which sparkled in the gloom of his inner eye.

Involuntarily he watched these flickerings. Almost against his will, he strained his pupils to focus upon their shape and distance. What were these strange lights within his brain? His body now heavy and constricted, Castor kept alive a spark of consciousness for the sole purpose of pondering that question. With a start the answer came to him. The itches, the tingles, the chills, the points of light behind his lids could have but one explanation: he was the victim of a powerful and deadly spell.

Fighting silken bonds, Castor struggled back to a state of full awareness. With great effort he found that he could still move his arms and legs, although they felt as if they were made of lead. He rolled to his left and tumbled from his sleeping niche in an ungainly sprawl. He lay on the stone floor for a moment, then, gathering his strength, struggled to his feet. Using the wall for support, moving only a few inches at a time. Castor managed to reach his strongbox hidden beneath the flagstones of his parlor. For ten minutes his clumsy, blunt-edged fingers struggled with the inlaid bits of stone until at last the key piece came loose. Awkwardly Castor pulled up the metal box, mumbled his spell of release, and opened the lid.

Inside were his papers of heritage listing all of his ancestors back to the founding of Fane and beyond. Beneath them lay two golds, six silvers, and three coppers, his entire life's savings. A prayer band saved against such time as he might form his triad and conceive an heir, and lastly, in a carved wooden box on a pillow of satin and silk a round-cornered cube of milky, green-hued emerald.

This was his source stone, his inheritance, passed down from generation to generation of master empathers, the gem originally having been found, cut, and blessed by his remote ancestor Marmet, a crewman on the Lillith and an original slave of Gogol himself.

Castor clasped his hands together, the stone in the hollows of his palms. He felt the psychic warmth spread through his hands. This was the source stone, the concentrator and amplifier of those energies normally controlled by the mind alone. Its particular shape, color, and lattice structure when brought into contact with Ajaj flesh enormously increased the user's ability to use the power of Fane.

Now Castor squatted on his parlor floor, legs tucked beneath him, hands joined in front of him as if in prayer. He concentrated his attention first on freeing his body from the immediate effects of the spell. In a few minutes the power of the stone enveloped him. Urging his consciousness through the lattice of the gem, he reached outward in ever increasing circles until he located the source of the hex that sought to envelop him. Castor detected the huddled, chanting figure of the Gogol assassin on the ridge above the Ajaj city.

Emboldened by the power of the stone, he focused all his energies upon Rupert's form. In spite of the chill night air sweat had begun to bead the killer's forehead. Tendons strained in his arms, wrists, and legs. Clearly Rupert was aware that his power was insufficient to achieve his goal.

As long as Castor held the stone he would be safe, but how long could he do so? A few hours? Perhaps a day or two? Even if he survived he could not spend his days in hiding with the stone always within easy reach. If nothing else it was dangerous to experience too long a contact with the gem. Its powers were great. Like fire it could burn as well as warm.

Perhaps a fast and sudden bolt of energy at the base of Rupert's skull or the muscles of his heart. Quick death and another deacon of evil down the well. Castor steeled himself to form the killing bolt, but in vain. His teachings were too strong, his empathy with life too great. He could not take a life, even one as corrupted as Rupert's. Instead he constructed a softer blow, one which would stun the sweating Gogol but no more.

From his crevice Rupert struggled, calling forth every particle of energy which his skill could attract, but all his talents were unable to breach the shield which had suddenly enclosed his victim. Rupert readied himself for another straining attack but was unable to complete his chant. Without warning a numbing daze overtook his mind, and he fell over like a stone.

With great care Castor assured himself that the assassin was truly unconscious. He then replaced the source stone, secreted all his treasures, and unbarred his door. Navigation was easy by the light of Dolos' full moon. He retraced his steps to the decision maker's home. It took several minutes for his calls and raps to bring a response from within.'

"Who is it? Who calls at this time of night?'

"It's Castor on an urgent mission. I must speak with Obron at once."