Read The Wizard That Wasn't (Mechanized Wizardry) Online
Authors: Ben Rovik
The Wizard That Wasn't (Mechanized Wizardry) (10 page)
All he had to do was make it through tomorrow. He made a genuine effort to mend the frayed edges of his patience, though he was sure his face betrayed some of his irritation as he turned to face the mop-headed serving boy who came trotting up to him, flushed from running.
“Yes, Fermi? Speak quickly,” Volman said, continuing to inspect the latest bundles of greenery brought in from the gardens. The branches were ragged and irregular, less like they’d been deliberately pruned and more like a storm had blown them out of the trees.
Does anyone in this palace know how to do their jobs anymore?
he thought as he measured out a length of wire from the spool and cut it with the shears, preparing to make a sample arrangement.
Fermi brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes and gasped for air for an infuriating length of time. “Begging your pardon, Master Volman, as I know you’re awfully busy,” he said.
“Very astute of you, Fermi,” Volman said, frowning at a leaf between his fingers.
“I’ve just been down in the vault, Master, to fetch the heraldry, the ancient heraldry.”
“I am familiar with the Haberstorm heraldry, yes, Fermi. Did you deliver the hangings to her Royal Highness’ apartments?”
“No, Master, I ran right to you when I saw it.”
“I don’t need them here in the south wing, boy! Take the hangings to the royal apartments, and quit wasting time!”
“But, Master,” Fermi cried, “when I saw it I had to come to you first. It’s her Royal Highness’ braid, Master Volman. Her hair? I think it’s gone.”
Volman’s long fingers stopped their exploration of the cut branches. He slowly removed his hands from the table and lowered them to his sides. The tall man turned to face the boy head-on, and the youngster quailed before the intensity of his gaze. “Now why would you think a thing like that, Fermi?” Volman said, very softly.
Fermi gulped, following his master’s lead and speaking in a whisper. “Well now, Master, there’s the great marble box in the vault with all those drawers? Where the keepsakes from the Ordeals past and present go; the hair, the robes, the collars—”
“Yes, Fermi, the Shrine of Ordeals. I am well aware.”
“Well, as I was fetching the heraldry from the same room in the vault, I noticed that the drawer for Princess Naomi’s things was open a crack.”
Volman shook his head. “That’s not possible. The drawer was sealed shut when the Princess’ hair was removed and placed therein two weeks ago.”
“I know, Master, I know it was you who locked her Highness’ hair up personally, turned the key yourself.” The boy leaned in closer, sharing a terrible secret. “But it was open. A little chip of stone was broke inside so the drawer couldn’t slide back on its track all the way, I saw it.”
“You opened the drawer,” Volman said, his eyes narrowing.
Fermi nodded. “Yes, Master, seeing as it was so strange it wasn’t sealed. And that’s when I saw Princess Naomi’s pretty hair was nowhere to be seen. Master Volman—I think somebody’s stolen her braid.”
Volman laid his hands on the table, shifting the great spool of black wire slightly to one side. He looked down into the branches, his eyes unfocused. Fermi looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “If you’ll hear me out, Master,” he hissed. “I think there might be wizardry afoot. You know how those traitors stole Viscount LaMontina’s blood from the leeching last month, and then the cowardly witch killed him without even looking him in the eye? What if somebody’s trying to do the same thing to the Princess? Right during the Ordeals, when her Royal Highness is already so weak! If they’ve got her hair, that means they can do horrible things to her! Doesn’t it?”
“Fermi, my boy,” the steward said at last. “Have you told anyone else what you’ve seen, or what you think?”
He shook his head, his light hair flopping from side to side like a rabbit’s ears. “No, Master. I didn’t know who else to trust but you.”
Volman’s eyes searched the table for a moment; then, with a brief inhalation, he nodded and picked up the length of wire with his dexterous fingers, once more inspecting the cut stalks with an appraising gaze. “You’re right, my boy,” he said, not looking up. “It can be hard to know whom to trust. Fermi, can you… ah…?” As he worked, Volman pointed absently to the far wall. Fermi turned to look for whatever the steward needed.
The old man whipped around and looped the coil of wire around Fermi’s soft neck, pulling backwards with all the strength in his wiry arms. The boy flailed against the wire at his throat, his fingertips coming away bloody as Volman tugged harder. The only sound was the scuffing of Fermi’s tattered boots against the stone floor as he spasmed more and more frantically for air. Volman clenched his teeth as the wire dug into his own fingers.
Moments later, court sorcerer Ouste looked up from her reading as five rapid knocks sounded against her chamber door. She gathered up her robes and opened the heavy portal. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the old steward, breathing heavily and clutching his hands. “We must speak,” Volman said, his face burning with urgency.
The door swung shut behind him.
“Step by step, a journey of ten thousand paces,” Lady Ceres said with a faint smile on her face. She held the cup to Naomi’s lips as the girl drank another swallow, taking in the day’s sweet water with obvious relish. The Princess smacked her lips noisily as Ceres drew the cup away, and the regent couldn’t repress a snort of laughter. Naomi looked up at her with mischievous eyes, waggling one of her hands back and forth in an open-palmed gesture of giggling.
Ceres brushed the silver hairs out of her eyes and made her face stern. Princess Naomi made an equally stern face, squaring her jaw and sticking out her lower lip just like the regent. Lady Ceres just sniffed, refusing to rise to the bait. “A waypost on a mountaintop; the hermit sheds no tears for the setting sun.”
<
Lady Ceres shook her head in amazement, watching the girl’s back. Granted, the Ordeal of the Setting Sun was bound to be preferable to the Ordeal of the Torches, or of the Razor’s Edge, each of which posed potentially lethal challenges. But it was not without its tension. A truly worthy heir, it was said, would be able to notice an uncanny green flash at the very moment of the sun’s setting. This green light was a glimpsed reflection of the celestial spheres beyond Earth’s sun, and a very auspicious sign. An heir who passed every other Ordeal brilliantly and still failed the Ordeal of the Setting Sun could never hope for greatness, or for a peaceful reign. The pressure to perform was as enormous in this task as it was in every other for the past grueling thirteen days.
But Princess Naomi seemed possessed of even more energy now, on the eve of her emergence from the Ordeals, than she did at its beginning. Ceres had watched a marvelous transformation from the day a terrified young girl’s hair was chopped off, to this moment, where a spiky-headed midling stood framed in the window, taking obvious pleasure in her duty. Let naysayers like Ouste doubt Naomi’s fortitude; let them question the validity of the Ordeals themselves. The fact was that, in this case, a Haberstorm heir had entered the process as one person, and would emerge as a different one; wiser, stronger, and more fit to rule. If Naomi was not living proof that the Ordeals still could serve their purpose, Lady Ceres thought, nothing would be.
“One more day, Princess,” Ceres whispered to herself. “One more day, and you’ll have your life returned to you at last.”
“But when?” the peasant woman whined. Her stringy hair was tied in tresses that flopped on either side of her narrow head like the drooping ears of an old hound. Jilmaq couldn’t look at her face without a tight bubble of disgust rising in the back of his throat. If it rose all the way to his mouth, he wasn’t sure if would come out as a snarl or a dry heave. Consequently, he kept his back to her and, once again, thrust a hand towards the doorway. And once again, she didn’t leave.
Spheres, but this woman is thick
.
“Look here, wizarder,” she said, insulted and terrified. “It’s two days gone since I petitioned you to help cure Our Justen’s eyes. We scrounged you that money so he might have the chance to see her Royal Highness pass them Ordeals. Well, now it’s the feastday eve, and you say you ain’t even cast your magic for him yet?”
“Leave,” Jilmaq barked.
“Ooh! The nerve of you! Takin’ money from a mother of a blind boy. You’re a common thief, you are.”
“I cannot cast a spell if the spirits are not ready.”
“And what they been doin’ two full days? Ain’t they ready now? Go on, get started!”
Jilmaq hissed over his shoulder at her, narrowing his bloodshot eyes. “Do you think you’re the only petitioner I have? I have many other, far more important spells to focus on before tending to your crippled whelp. Now
leave
.” He gave her his back again.
The woman’s jaw clenched with anger. She reached down with her weathered hands, dug up a handful of earth from his dirt floor, and threw it at the back of Jilmaq’s head. He turned at an inopportune moment, and the clod struck him mostly on the right ear. The wizard yelped, his head ringing and his ear burning as he dug a nail in to clean it out. “You’re a right fraud,” the peasant spat. “I been to two other wizards afore, and they started their spells right away. Done before sundown the first night, they were. Harder spells than this, too.”
The wizard scowled, scraping his ear clean. “As if you’d know, you ignorant—“
“You keep lazin’ about, stealin’ money from folks like me, and we’ll run you out of here, wizard. See if we don’t! You cure my son this very night or I’ll have every able-bodied soul in Drabelhelm at your doorstep, club in one hand and a rock in the other.”
She kicked the ground at him ineffectually, sending dust into the air and peppering his bare calves with bits of dirt. He said nothing, keeping his hand outstretched with a long finger pointing the way to the exit. Finally, the peasant woman stormed out of his hut, knocking something over in his yard with a spiteful clatter once she went out of his view.
Jilmaq lowered his arm, drained by the encounter. The LaMontina clan may have thought it merciful to exile him from high society rather than taking his life, but an eternity of service to people like this coarse woman was worse than any torture; worse than any fiendish execution. He wiped his face, sweat and dirt mixing on his fingertips.
One day more
, he thought as he went to the door.
He pulled his door closed by the central ring, taking care to avoid touching the splintered boards. He lowered a sturdy wooden brace into place, ensuring that he would have no more unwelcome visitors entering his space. He couldn’t afford any distractions; not with so much riding on the next twenty-four hours.
Jilmaq opened his trunk and looked down at the small black bag resting on top of his faded clothes. The wizard swallowed, but his throat stayed dry. He lifted the bag by its drawstring, and the light braid inside raised up with no effort at all.
Such a delicate weight
, he thought. His heart began to race in his chest. There was no denying that he was about to commit a great crime. The fact that it was for a great reward was an explanation, not an excuse; and certainly not an exculpation. Was the reward worth it? His visitor had promised him wealth, and a new life outside Delia where he could weave spells for the worthy people in society again. But what if the Mobinoji abandoned him for so great a sin? What if they denied him their power, barring him from ever harnessing magic again? The spirits were not known to be especially moral beings, but there were tales of wizards with far cleaner consciences suddenly finding themselves bereft of magical ability. A momentary windfall was hardly compensation for a lifetime of impotence.
Jilmaq exhaled through his teeth. Even as he ran through the same uneasy thoughts one more time, he knew that the time for making decisions was long past. When he’d taken the visitor’s money, and accepted this black bag, he had cast his lot. Any hope of survival now lay in his ability to do what he’d been paid to do, no matter how ill the thought of it made him.
The wizard reached into the black bag and grabbed hold of the silky hair within. He let the bag drop to the floor, cradling the braid in his hands. His bloodshot eyes grew wet with tears. “Forgive me, Princess,” he whispered.
As the last of the sun’s rays was filtering through a gap in his barred-up window, Jilmaq moved into the back room of his hut to begin casting the most important spell of his life.
Chapter Nine
Beneath The White
The royal apartments gleamed so brilliantly they made Lundin squint. He and Samanthi had just been in the bright dawn sun, traversing the trellised open-air breezeway from the main body of the palace to the west wing where the Princess lived. Looking down from the marble walkway, spacious enough for five people to walk side by side, their eyes had been dazzled by a riot of colors from the blooming garden below and the vibrantly painted city buildings outside the palace gates. And then, ushered through the ornate double doors by a pair of footmen, Lundin and Samanthi found themselves enclosed in a world of white.
White upholstered furniture. White silk wall coverings with off-white satin stripes. White marble sculptures portraying the chiseled features of generations of Haberstorm rulers. A white staircase with an elegant white wooden railing. And, naturally, a flock of servants bustling in every direction in white jackets and skirts. Morning sunlight pouring through the arched windows reflected off these pale surfaces in an assault of radiant white beams. Lundin felt his eyes start to water.
Or maybe they’re melting
, he thought with sudden concern, narrowing his lids so much he could barely see through his eyelashes.