neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Let me tell you something, son.” Jon-Tom sliced off a cylinder of sausage and poked it into his mouth, chewing reflectively as he gestured with his fork. “It’s true that I helped save the world, and as a full-time occupation I can tell you that it’s very overrated. Not to mention highly stressful.”

“Actually I mink you’ve saved the world twice, sweetheart.” Talea set a fresh bowl of steaming sweet-and-sour potato down alongside the vegetables.

Jon-Tom frowned. “I thought it was just once.”

“No, dear,” she said firmly. “Twice, at least.”

“Really? Anyway,” he continued, turning back to his son, “I’ve been down that road, and it’s not half so glamorous as you seem to think it is. A nice, steady, comfortable practice of magic somewhere, executing medicinal spells to help people get well and plastic surgery spells to improve their looks: That’s what you want. A good living in a proven profession that’s respected and admired.”

“But I don’t just want to make a living, Dad,” Buncan protested. “I want to perform mighty deeds. I want to accomplish great things. I want to see the worlds.”

“Better start with this one. You’re too young and inexperienced for the rest. Besides, there aren’t any great quests at hand presently. I know. I keep a regular check on the ‘Q’ section in the classifieds. Just for old times’ sake,” he explained quickly to Talea.

Buncan tried to meet his father halfway. “Are you trying to tell me there are no great quests left in the world?”

“Not at the moment. Not in this part of it, anyway. The Plated Folk have been quiet ever since Clothahump and I kicked their chitonous butts back over the Jo-Troom Pass. Nothing of similar bellicosity has emerged to duplicate the threat they once presented.

“Meanwhile, business is good. I’m not trying to come down hard on you, Buncan. But you can take it from someone who needed more than eighteen years to overcome a bad voice: Right now you aren’t close to having what it takes, verbally. And without your duar you sing even worse. Sort of a crapella. You need heavy-duty voice training, and plenty of it. It’s something you can’t fix with magic. I tried that route, and it doesn’t work that way. Some things,” he finished grimly, “are beyond the reach of even the most powerful forces to fix.”

“Clothahump could do it,” Buncan muttered. “If he was interested in anybody’s problems besides his own.”

Talea whacked him on the side of his arc-inscribed head. “Don’t speak like that about your goduncle. Even if he is a turtle. He’s been very good to your father and me, when he could just as easily have decorporalized us and had done with it, after all the trouble we caused him.”

“You have to apply yourself to your studies and your training,” Jon-Tom insisted unequivocally. “How can you do that if you’re off on a quest somewhere?”

“On-the-job training?” Buncan ventured hopefully.

“Not a good idea where controlling the forces of Otherness are concerned,” his father replied. “Anyway, my situation was different. I was trapped in this world and had no choice but to experiment. I did just well enough to stay alive. If it hadn’t been for Clothahump . . .”

“That’s right,” agreed Talea. “Let me tell you, when I first met your father he was the most wimpy, hopeless, gangly, driveling . . .”

“Hey!” said Jon-Tom.

Buncan pushed himself back from the table. “I know you both mean well, and I promise I’ll think about what you’ve said. But you’ve fulfilled your dreams, Dad. You’ve been all over mis world and your own. I haven’t been any farther than Lynchbany. I’ve never been beyond the Bellwoods. All I want is what you had.” He rose and headed for his room.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” his father called after him.

“You haven’t finished your snake,” his mother added.

Following dinner, Jon-Tom helped Talea with the dishes. “He’ll be all right,” he assured her. “He’s just going through a stage.”

“You keep saying that.” She handed him a dripping bowl. “Do all the young people in your world go through stages and phases? Personally I think a few good whacks with a stout cane would cwhacks with a stout cane would c don’t use that where I come from. We use more enlightened methods, like psychology.”

“Does that raise as red a welt as hickory?” She shook her head. “You coddle the boy.”

Jon-Tom looked toward the stairs. “I disagree. I think our little talk had quite a profound effect on him. He’s a bright kid, and he does play well.”

“Yeah, but he sure can’t sing worth a copper. He’s so bad he makes your voice sound good.” She handed him a platter.

He put it on the counter and took her, soapy water and all, in his arms. “You’ll pay for that one, Talea.”

Something twinkled in her eyes. “There were many who said I should have charged.”

For a while they managed to forget all about their obstreperous son.

Later, as they lay on the kitchen floor, Jon-Tom pondered his progeny’s future and saw too many potential problems for comfort. After all, Buncan was not what one would call a dedicated student. His academic shortcomings were the bane of his father’s existence, Jon-Tom having advanced as far as law school in his own world. It wasn’t that the boy couldn’t do the work. It was just that his interests lay elsewhere.

Talea was less concerned. “Buncan will never be a solicitor or physician, Jon-Tom. If he has any special talent, it lies in the field of magic.”

“But he has to do the minimal schoolwork,” he argued. “A basic knowledge of zoology, for example, is critical to the establishment of good business relationships. You need to understand how the needs of a gorilla differ from those of a chimp.”

She put her arms around his neck, leaning against him. “You worry too much. Buncan gets along fine with everybody. All his classmates like him.”

“Getting along isn’t the same as understanding.”

CHAPTER 3

Buncan drew back his fist, but before he could swing, the heavy-bodied adolescent black bear had a paw on his chest, shoving him back and down. Because he’d inherited some of his father’s unusual Otherworld height, Buncan towered over the majority of his fellow students.

But not Fasvunk. The bear came as near as anyone in the school to carrying the mantle of class bully. While no taller than Buncan, he was built far more massively. He adjusted the yellow lizard-skin headband above his eyes, hitched up his matching pants, and beckoned with both paws.

They were surrounded by the rest of Buncan’s class. Archmer the badger held the ball they’d been playing pentagon with.

“C’mon, human,” Fasvunk growled. “You think you’re so special ‘cause your sire’s a spellsinger. Well, I ain’t impressed.”

Breathing hard, Buncan confronted the bear squarely. He wasn’t afraid of Fasvunk, but neither was this how he’d planned to spend his afternoon.

“I don’t want to fight you, Fasvunk. I haven’t got the time.”

“Sure you do, Buncan.” The bear’s gaze narrowed. “Way I hear it, you want to fight everybody sooner or later. Why not start with me?” He snorted and kicked at the ground.

“I never said I wanted to fight everybody. I just said that I wanted to deal with everybody. As for my father, you’re right about him. If you’re not careful he’ll—”

“He’ll what?” said Fasvunk, interrupting. “Turn me into a fish? Force me down on all fours? I thought you could do that yourself. Or do you have to run to your daddy to perform every little spell?”

“Yeah,” came a nasal voice from the surrounding circle. Buncan recognized Othol the anteater. “You’re always carrying that duar around so you’ll have something to scratch your butt with.” A few of the others laughed, but most kept silent, waiting to see the outcome of the confrontation before choosing sides.