David Grace - The Accidental Magician

So this was the great Greyhorn. What an excellent disguise he had chosen. He looked just like a moderately attractive but soft, lazy, and ineffectual youth. And to think that she had almost been so foolish as to attempt to enchant him with a simple spell That would have been disaster indeed. I've done as much as I can, Mara told herself, and was possessed of an overwhelming desire to flee. She turned her back on Grantin, breathed a sign of relief, and walked out into the Street of the Artisans.

"Wait! Just a moment-there's no need to hurry off," Grantin shouted. He sprinted up to Mara's side. She ignored him and continued her brisk pace to the end of the lane.

"Our business is done," she said without turning.

"We may have new business. You're an absolutely enchanting woman. I'm sure that we have many things in common."

"You have your mission, wizard, and I have mine. My job is completed. I have a long way to go. Surely you realize that I am but a small part of this plan. Besides, we both know it is not good for such as us to become involved with each other."

"Such as us? What do you mean?" Grantin trotted now to keep up with the girl's pace. He ran beside her with his head turned so that he might catch yet another glimpse of her lovely features. Suddenly he collided with an old woman who had been carrying a sack of meal. Both went sprawling into the street. Amid curses and demands for payment for the spilled grain Grantin struggled to his feet. Even as he rose he saw that Mara had disappeared.

Unconsciously he looked down at the ring. He fingered the band and sought to adjust it a little higher on his finger but was unsuccessful. For some reason the metal seemed welded to his flesh. Grantin strained, but despite his efforts the ring would not come off.

Seedbirds trilled their undulating call. Hopping from branch to branch, they followed Grantin's progress on the trail below. The beauty of the day had lost its edge. In his mouth was the subtle taste of ashes. Pyra's rays no longer dappled the grass with warm ale-colored light. Instead, to Grantin the beams appeared as harsh orange blotches against a sickly pea-green lawn. The seedbirds' song became strident. The road itself seemed more than usually filled with rocks and roots.

Sweat dribbled down Grantin's brow and cheeks. One by one drops of perspiration leaked from his fingers and dripped to the road. He tried to dry his hands against his trousers but without success. The palms remained slippery and damp. Every few yards, almost by reflex action, he grasped the bloodstone with the tips of his fingers. Perspiration coated the band. Despite repeated attempts he was unable to obtain a firm purchase.

As Grantin labored up the hill toward the manor house a slight breeze swept across the trail. He shivered in the wind, as though it carried a penetrating chill. Perhaps he had caught some disease in Dobbs's stable. He cursed himself for his magnanimity in accepting Greyhorn's assignment without sufficient recompense. His generous nature had obviously played him false again. Nothing to be done for it now, however, except crawl into bed and sleep until the fever passed.

Grantin plodded on the last few feet, lifted the latch, and pushed back the massive front door. To his right, stone steps marched upward to the second floor. No mountain crag could have presented a more imposing sight. He doggedly attacked the stairs one by one. When he had climbed halfway up a voice called from the sitting room on the first floor beyond the stairs.

"Grantin, is that you? Come in here at once and bring me the ring!"

Grantin halted his ascent, panted, and leaned against the wall. His left hand waved feebly in an attempt to dissipate the subtle tingling which had begun to creep up the arm. Had the ring pinched off the flow of blood? In a fit of pique Grantin grasped the bauble and tried to wrench it from his finger. Instantly his arm numbed. Small white dots swam in blackness before his eyes. His left hand slipped unnoticed from his grip and dangled limply at his side. Kaleidoscopic fragments of color glittered in his mind.

Slowly his vision cleared. Again Greyhorn's summons echoed from below: "Grantin, stop dillydallying! If you want to remain my factotum you must learn to perform your duties promptly. Now, come in here!"

Deciding that it was easier to go down than up, Grantin descended to the entranceway, then turned along the passage to Greyhorn's parlor. The wizard sat in the center of the room, reclining in a massive leather chair, a tablet of paper and a stylus across his lap. As Grantin entered Greyhorn turned and stared at him peevishly. Sickly yellow light from the room's only window toned the tip of Greyhorn's nose, the jut of his chin, and the left half of his visage. In harsh contrast bluish-gray shadows filled the sockets of his eyes.

"So you decided to return at last, did you?"

"No stories. Tell me just one thing: do you have the ring?"

"Yes, I…"

Grantin's answer caused the tenseness to leak a bit from Greyhorn's muscles. His features softened ever so slightly and he exhaled with a low whoosh, as if he had been holding his breath.

"Well, perhaps there is hope for you yet, Grantin. I confess no small degree of amazement that you've avoided making a botch of the whole thing. But you have the ring, you say?"

Grantin nodded his head vigorously. He opened his mouth to speak, but Greyhorn continued along with hardly a pause.

"No money left, I suppose?"

"No, you see…"

"Not surprising. I suppose one should not expect miracles. Well, we're just going to have to count that against your allowance. Very well, let's conclude the business." With surprising energy Greyhorn maneuvered his lanky frame out of the chair, turned sharply on his heel, and approached Grantin. He extended his right arm.

"Give me the ring."

Grantin shuffled his feet slightly, his earlier discomfort now all but forgotten.

"Come, come now, Grantin, I'm a busy man. I don't want to spend all day listening to your exploits in the village. A simple errand, a simple answer, a simple delivery of the object, and the matter is closed. Now, put the ring right here." Greyhorn tapped the center of his palm with his left index finger.

"Well, uncle, you see there is a problem with…"

"All right, Grantin, let's take this in order. Firstly, you met the courier?"

"Yes, but-"

"-No buts, just answer my questions. You met the courier and she gave you the ring? True or false?"

"True."

"You brought the ring back here with you, correct?"

"Yes."

"You have the ring with you at this very instant, then?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then I see no difficulty. Just put the ring in my hand and get out."

"I can put the ring in your hand, uncle, but if I do so then I can't get out"

"Grantin, have you been drinking? You know how I feel about indulgence. Here, let me smell your breath."

Grantin obligingly exhaled a large waft of air into his uncle's face. Greyhorn winced as he was enveloped in the remnants of the steak dinner, the throttleberry wine, oat gruel, and the fragrance of Dobbs's stable, but he could detect no present intoxication.

"Perhaps I expect too much of you. Could it be that you're not my nephew at all, just an addlebrained idiot who was slipped into the family over the back wall? Give me the ring!"

Grantin turned his head a bit left, then right, seeking to avoid his uncle's gaze. His fingers entwined themselves like a mass of hypertensive worms. Finally, with a shrug of resignation, he lifted his trembling arm and dropped his left hand into his uncle's waiting palm.

Greyhorn stared at the member for a moment, nonplused by Grantin's action. Then, in the dimness of the sitting room, he detected the scarlet gleam of the bloodstone and the deep golden highlights of the band where it sat fixed upon Grantin's finger.