David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"But you will come back and visit with me. We have been good comrades, all. This is no time to break up a fine friendship after what we have been through together."

"Of course we will come back. We have planned a great circular route, first south, then east, then north, and then back this way. In a few months we will return to Gist for the biannual fair."

And so they had left. Now the fair was only two days away, but Mara was proving obstinate.

"Let you go to the fair alone, so that you can drink and carouse with those tavern friends of yours? Why don't you take me to the fair? Is there some reason why you can't be seen in public with your own wife?"

"No, my darling, of course not It's just that… well, a man enjoys a chance now and again to get together in the company of other men. You would feel out of place, I'm sure."

"The company of other men, is it? You wouldn't be thinking of some of those bar wenches, now, would you? I've seen the way you look at that serving girl at the tavern. I'm not going to let you run loose on a binge to Gist even if there weren't a fair going on. You, taverns, celebrations, and money in your pocket are not a good combination. We can go to the fair together next Trueday and see who wins the ribbon in the jelly competition."

"Yes, my dear," Grantin had mumbled meekly.

What was that? Did he hear a sound in the hallway? Quick as a snake Grantin sprinted around the table and peeked through the crack in the door. No, all was quiet. Grantin turned away from the portal and then stubbed his toe on an obstruction. Looking down, he saw that in her fanaticism for cleanliness Mara had again moved poor Uncle Greyhorn out of position.

Grantin bent over and shifted his uncle's body six inches away from the door. Over the past six months by dint of great effort Grantin had been able to unlimber Greyhorn's two arms, which now protruded straight up, the fingers spread open. On the little finger of the left hand hung Grantin's stylish new beret. No doubt about it, Greyhorn made an extremely functional hat rack. Who knows, perhaps in another year or two his legs might be unbent to the point where the wizard would be able to serve as a life-size sewing dummy for Mara's domestic pursuits.

Grantin gave his uncle a jolly salute and made his way to the bookcase against the left-hand wall. As quietly as possible he removed a heavy leather bound volume and carried it over to the table by the window. He quickly found the spell he needed.

In a hushed whisper Grantin recited the appropriate incantation, then stared into his ring's scarlet stone. In only a few seconds shapes began to take form. Shortly he was able to make out Chom's and Castor's visages. His two friends reclined in soft comfortable chairs on a sunny patio. A great circular umbrella shaded them from the harshest of Pyra's rays. At their elbows stood tall, foaming mugs of beer. In the background Grantin thought he spied an enchanting hostess.

Without conscious thought Grantin's fingers leafed through the volume of spells. Unbidden, his eyes leaped down a weathered wrinkled page to one special incantation: Spell of Magnificent Transport.

"Through the use of this spell an accomplished sorcerer may be transported quietly, safely, and in absolute comfort to any nearby location which he can clearly visualize. The greater the power of the wizard, the more distant the destination, or the more rapid the speed of transition. To call up the vehicle one must embark upon the following steps in order…"

Grantin greedily scanned the page and convinced himself for at least the tenth time that he had properly committed the spell to memory. Guiltily he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf before returning to the window.

Outside, the golden sunlight painted a lovely picture of peace and harmony. How easy it would be to slip away to Gist for a visit with his old friends. Perhaps in their travels they had discovered other wrongs which needed righting. For a fact, Grantin's recent life, which a year ago he would have deemed idyllic, now seemed somehow stale.

But what about Mara? Could he just run off and leave her like that? Grantin felt a pang of guilt. He really did love the girl. He couldn't just abandon her. What if she took solace with another man in his absence?

Still, still… absence makes the heart grow fonder. A few days away from her, a week or two, would not be so bad. He could leave her a note so that she would not worry.

In the distance Grantin heard Mara's heels clicking up the stairs. He turned back to the window. Straining his eyes around the edge of the castle, he hoped to catch a glimpse of a plume of smoke or the glitter of sunlight on glass which would mark the location of Gist. He still had time to recite the spell.

What should he do?

About The Author

David Grace has written ten novels. To see a list of his other books and to read free excerpts from them, visit his website: WWW.DavidGraceAuthor.Com.

All of David Grace's books are available at Smashwords.Com as well as most other on-line ebook sellers.

Here is an excerpt from David Grace's novel:

Fever Dreams

The wall outside my office held an imitation mahogany plaque inscribed with gold-colored letters: "Raphael LaFontaine – Special Inquiries – Licensed Private Detective." When I reached the top of the stairs I discovered a pink-cheeked little man wearing a thirty-year old brown wool suit standing outside my door.

"Mr. LaFontaine?"

"Who are you?"

"Stuart Willoughby, attorney at law." The little man held out a fleshy palm.

"What's this about, Mr. Willougby?"

In my almost five years on the Baltimore PD I had learned to distrust lawyers to the same degree I was wary of strange dogs and wandering snakes.

"Could we go inside?" Willoughby turned toward the door but I didn't move. "My client needs your services," he said. "I have a case for you."

I gave Willoughby a long, careful look, then unlocked the door. My office is a single fifteen by twenty foot room. The desk, fronted by two Office Depot chairs, faces the door. There's a couch along the right-hand wall, file cabinets, a fax-printer-copier-scanner combo and shelves of office supplies along the left. A cheap PC crouched on the floor. Willoughby gave the room a quick once-over and settled into one of the client chairs.

"Very compact, very efficient," he said with a polite smile as he handed me his card. I glanced at it and tried to suppress a frown. The address was in Carroll County, about thirty miles north-west of the city.

"You're a little way from home."

"A referral from an old client. The foundation of my practice is the personal touch."

I took a close look at Willougby but he remained something of an enigma. Somewhere north of sixty and south of eighty, he dressed like a manikin out of a post-war Sears catalog. Defeated, I gave a little shrug and grabbed a memo pad.

"So, to business," Willoughby agreed. "My client is a lady who lives here in Baltimore. She dated a gentleman who wanted more from the relationship than she did. When she tried to break it off, he refused to take 'no' for an answer."

"Has she contacted the police?"

"That would present something of a problem. She considered it, briefly, then called me… You see," Willoughby continued after a brief pause, "the gentleman in question is a Baltimore police officer. Frankly, I'm concerned that a formal complaint to the BPD might cause more problems than it would solve."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I've heard that you have an excellent rapport with BPD and I hoped that a friendly word from you in the gentleman's ear, without any official intervention, might prove a more, uhhhm, tactful solution." Willoughby gave me a plastic smile.