The Last Enchanter Read online

  “Well, well,” said Zyll. “It’s about time you awoke. Had you intended to sleep all day?”

  Xerxes yawned again, a faint squawk escaping from his beak. “Sleep?” he said groggily. “How can anyone sleep with so much racket? All you humans do is talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!”

  When Xerxes caught sight of Marcus on the cot, he ground his beak furiously. “And you complain I sleep too much! Up! Up, lazy boy! The day’s half gone!”

  “Now, now, Xerxes,” said Zyll. “The boy’s not well. He’s had another attack.”

  Xerxes gasped, though Marcus sensed a hint of mockery in it. “Another attack? How convenient.”

  Zyll leaned Xerxes against the hearth and laughed lightly. “If you will excuse us a moment, my old companion,” he said. “Marcus and I were just discussing the situation and would like to continue our conversation.”

  Xerxes rolled his eyes and clicked his beak impatiently.

  Zyll lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “In private,” he added.

  Xerxes closed his eyes, and just before he returned to his still form he said, “I’ll expect no more complaints about my sleeping in after this.”

  Zyll carried a bowl of broth to Marcus who accepted it gratefully. The steaming liquid satisfied his hunger and took the edge off his pain.

  “I saw her again,” he said, setting the empty bowl aside. “I saw Ivanore.”

  “Oh?” replied Zyll.

  “The vision was clearer than ever before. She looked so real, and she was trying to speak to me.”

  Zyll held out his hand. “A little more?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.” Marcus handed him the bowl, and Zyll returned to the hearth and filled it again. He filled another for himself. “I wish I knew more about my mother,” Marcus continued. “I know she died when I was born, but sometimes, like when I have those visions, I feel her close to me. Silly, isn’t it?”

  The enchanter paused, staring at the bricks of the hearth. Marcus recognized that look. It meant Zyll’s thoughts had gone someplace else for a moment. Then Zyll blinked and finished filling Marcus’s bowl.

  “No, of course not,” answered Zyll, setting the ladle aside. “It is only natural for a boy to wish to know his mother.” He turned to Marcus. “How are you feeling now?”

  “A little better,” Marcus confessed, “though I still hurt a lot.”

  “Earlier you were speaking of the wound in your back,” said Zyll. “Is that the source of your pain?”

  Marcus considered his question. “Come to think of it,” he said, “the pain is mostly in my chest, as though my bones were being crushed.”

  Zyll set one bowl of broth on the table before returning to the cot. He handed Marcus his bowl, his expression serious. The steam rose into Marcus’s face.

  “Think back to that day in Dokur,” he said. “Your brother Kelvin was mortally wounded from a fall. Using magic, you revived him by exchanging your life force for his.”

  Outside the cottage, the wind beat against the thatched roof. It reminded Marcus of that terrible day months earlier—the loud flapping of dragons’ wings, waves crashing against the shore, and the screams of people dying. These were memories he had tried—yet failed—to forget.

  “I don’t understand,” said Marcus.

  “Magic comes with a price,” said Zyll. “Greater magic demands greater sacrifice. Look at me. I limp when I walk, and my eyes grow dim. Magic has taken its toll on me one spell at a time. Do you ever feel spent after using magic?”

  Marcus remembered his quest and the lessons in magic he had received. Each spell had left him breathless and tired, but the feeling had soon passed.

  Zyll continued, “Most acts of magic result in moments of exhaustion, small aches and pains. To manipulate organic substances, whether plant or animal, requires greater effort and exacts a higher toll. The most difficult feat is healing human flesh. Most magicians will not attempt it. And even more, to call someone back from death itself . . .” Zyll shook his head. “You are the first I know of to survive it.”

  “How can that be?” Marcus asked. “I’m only an apprentice.”

  “How you survived, I do not know,” answered Zyll, “but you have been left with a reminder of your sacrifice. Your body carries within it the shadow of Kelvin’s wound and death. You will feel its effects forever after.”

  Zyll eased himself into a chair at the table. “Let us finish our supper,” he said, lifting the bowl between his hands.

  Marcus watched as Zyll brought the bowl to his lips and drank, but he was no longer hungry. The old man smiled at Marcus as if to comfort him, but Marcus did not feel comforted. Instead, he felt afraid. Deathly afraid.

  Five

  The Sotherby cottage looked gloomy in the fading daylight. Its roof sagged in spots, and the walls showed signs of age and neglect. In contrast, a brightly colored flower garden grew at its doorstep. Each day when Lael returned from the marketplace, she would spend a few moments picking out weeds, loosening the soil, and watering her cherished plants.

  Today after plucking off a few dying blossoms, Lael sat on the porch step and gazed out across the now barren fields that stretched out in front of her home. The harvest this year had been the best yet, and there was talk that next season would be even better. But she didn’t care about next season, or even next month or next week. She wasn’t even sure if she cared about tomorrow.

  From inside the house came the sound of glass shattering.

  Lael sighed. “Another empty bottle,” she said, rising to her feet. As she did so, the step beneath her creaked.

  “Lael?” called her father’s gruff voice. “Is that you?”

  A moment later, a scruffy-looking man filled the doorway, the air around him smelling like liquor. He stepped out onto the porch, swaying unsteadily.

  “Well?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  Lael held up a small, linen sack and shook it. The bright sound of clinking coins brought a smile to her father’s lips.

  “How much?” he asked.

  Lael opened the sack and emptied the coins into his palm. As he counted them, his smile disappeared.

  “Only seventeen? I expected twenty at least.”

  “We waited too long,” said Lael. “You know the price drops at the end of the season. Still, it’s more than last time.”

  Sotherby grunted and squeezed the coins in his fist. “Thieves! Always trying to cheat a man. And you,” he continued, turning his angry gaze on his daughter, “if it weren’t for your idle ways, we could have taken the harvest to town a week ago and gotten double!”

  She should have seen it coming, but when her father’s fist came down across her left ear, she was taken by surprise. The blow was sudden but far from serious. His drunkenness left him weak, and his aim was bad. Still, Lael cried out.

  Her father raised his hand to strike again. “If I didn’t know you better,” he said, “I’d swear you’ve been stealing from me. Why else would the likes of Farnall Dungham be richer than me when I have nearly twice the land he does?”

  He stared down at his daughter, who held her hands up to ward off the next blow, but it never came.

  “Nah,” he said, tottering past Lael down the steps. “You wouldn’t have the nerve to steal from your own father, not when you know what would happen if you did. I’m going to town.” He waved his fist full of coins. “I need to fetch a new bottle.”

  Lael watched her father walk down the road toward town. He would not return until morning, when his belly was full of ale and his money was gone.

  Lael blinked back tears and hurried inside the cottage. She went to her bed and reached into her tunic. There, concealed beneath her clothes, was a woolen scarf made by her mother years before that Lael kept tied around her body. She untied it now and carefully laid it across her bed. She ran her fingers beneath one of the folds until she found the treasure hidden there: three silver coins, the remainder of the price of this season’s harvest. She rubbed the
warm coins against her cheek.

  Setting them on the floor beside her, Lael loosened the threads in one corner of her mattress and pulled out a small, wooden box she kept hidden in the straw. She opened the lid. Inside were twenty more coins to which Lael added the three.

  Lael closed the lid, returning the box to its hiding place. Then she picked up the scarf and held it to her face. The fragrance that had once been so strong was only a faint memory now, but if she tried hard, Lael could still smell the sweet scent of lilacs, her mother’s favorite flower.

  “Nine years,” she whispered to herself, forcing back tears. “Nine years since you’ve been gone. But I finally have enough to bring you home.”

  Six

  In the cottage at the edge of the grazing fields, Zyll gave a quiet command. A small flame bloomed on a candlestick, lighting the room and the table on which sat a copper bowl filled with water. Peering into the bowl, Zyll hoped to see some of the latest news of the island. He wondered how his son, Jayson, was coping in the marshlands. He wondered, too, if his grandson, Kelvin, was happy in Dokur. What he saw, however, was far from comforting.

  When the image finally faded, Zyll rested his hands on the edge of the table while his tears fell into the bowl.

  “Master?” a voice behind him whispered. “Grandfather?”

  Zyll turned. “Marcus, why are you out of bed?” he asked, drying his eyes with his calloused fingers.

  Marcus stood beside him dressed in his nightshirt, trembling slightly in the cool, night air. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, stepping closer. He saw the bowl on the table and the dampness on Zyll’s face. “What is it?” he asked. “What did you see?”

  Zyll sat down at the table, motioning for Marcus to do the same. Soon they were seated across from each other, the candlelight casting dancing shadows on their faces.

  “I’m afraid I must leave,” said Zyll.

  “Leave?” asked Marcus. “But why?”

  “Something terrible has happened, and I must go to make things right—if I still can.” Zyll paused before continuing, his voice barely a whisper. “I did not want to tell you this,” he said, “but you will hear of it eventually, anyway. In my vision, I saw Fredric, your other grandfather, in great agony.”

  “Is he sick?” asked Marcus.

  Zyll shook his head. “It was over quickly,” he said. “Fredric has died.”

  Marcus slumped back into his chair. He had known his maternal grandfather only a short time, but still the news took him by surprise. A new realization struck Marcus. “If Fredric is dead,” he said, “that means Kelvin is the new ruler of Dokur Province.”

  “Yes,” replied Zyll. “I will go and offer my services to your brother. Perhaps this old man may still be useful in some way.”

  “Do you really have to?” asked Marcus. “I mean, it’s such a long journey.”

  “I wish there were some alternative, my boy, but there is none.”

  “But I don’t understand. Kelvin has an entire court at his beck and call. I know he’s your grandson, but so am I, and I want you to stay here with me.”

  Zyll’s gaze turned to the flame in the fireplace. He did not answer for some time, and Marcus began to wonder if he ever would. Finally, Zyll looked back at Marcus, his expression resolute.

  “What I am about to tell you, Marcus, is known only to me. It is important that it remains so until I have evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  Zyll lowered his voice. “Fredric did not die of natural means,” he said somberly. “He was murdered.”

  Seven

  Murdered?” said Marcus in disbelief. The shock made the pain in his body flare up briefly. He breathed deeply for a moment until the discomfort subsided. “Are you sure?”

  “Sadly, I am,” answered Zyll.

  “But how? Who? Was it the Hestorians? If they’ve sent a spy—”

  Zyll reached across the table and patted Marcus’s hand reassuringly. “There’s no need to cast blame on the Hestorians. I am fairly certain they are not responsible.”

  “But they are our enemy.”

  Zyll pressed his hand, warm and dry, against Marcus’s hand. “My boy, do not confuse the people of Hestoria with those who govern them. You know full well that in his younger days, Fredric was responsible for many unjust deeds. Did his actions make us all evil?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Of course not.”

  “Good,” said Zyll with a nod. He then rose from the table with some difficulty.

  “Maybe what you saw hasn’t happened yet,” suggested Marcus. “Maybe something can still be done.”

  “The past is always certain,” Zyll said. “It cannot be changed.”

  Hanging from a hook in the wall was a worn leather satchel, the same satchel Marcus had so reluctantly taken with him on his quest for the Rock of Ivanore. Zyll removed it now, filling it with a set of clean clothes, a rolled blanket, a small pot, some dried fruit, and a wedge of cheese. “Fredric is dead,” he continued, “and I fear that the man responsible intends to do the same to your brother.”

  “Then we should leave right away,” said Marcus.

  “Not ‘we,’ dear boy,” said Zyll, lifting the satchel to his shoulder. “You are not well. Perhaps once things are settled in Dokur, I will send for you.”

  Zyll pulled on his cloak and cap. Then, taking up his walking stick, he strode out the front door into the darkness.

  Marcus got up from the table and went after him. “Wait!” he called. “You can’t leave me behind. I want to go with you.”

  In the east, the first glimmer of sunlight made its appearance. Marcus clutched his chest, trying to hide his pain, but Zyll would not be fooled.

  “Rest, my boy. Regain your strength,” said Zyll. “Tend to Agnes for me until I return. She needs company as much as I do.”

  Zyll turned and started off across the field. Marcus pounded his fist against the cottage door. He wanted to run after Zyll and demand that he be allowed to come along. He was strong enough, after all. The pain was not half as bad as it had been yesterday. Then he thought of Fredric and Kelvin. Knowing that Kelvin might be in danger and that he would not be there to help his brother made Marcus angry. But then if the pain came again, Marcus would only delay Zyll’s journey and further endanger his brother.

  Marcus went back inside the cottage. He hurried to the bookshelf and took down a wooden chest. Setting it on the table, he opened the lid. There were items of all shapes and sizes inside, nearly filling it to the rim. The Celestine ring Fredric had given him lay on top, but he pushed it aside. He did not have time to sort through everything now. He took the item he wanted in his fist and slammed the lid shut.

  “Grandfather!” Ignoring the pain, Marcus ran as fast as his weakened legs could carry him. Zyll had just reached the opposite side of the field and had paused at the border of the forest where a thick wall of trees greeted him. He turned now to watch Marcus with mild amusement.

  “Grandfather!” repeated Marcus, nearly collapsing into Zyll’s arms.

  “I told you before, boy, you cannot come to Dokur,” Zyll said. His voice was stern, but his eyes revealed a tenderness that Marcus had recently come to know well.

  Marcus shook his head. “I know,” he said, “but please take this with you.”

  He held out his hand. Across his palm lay a small, metal object. Zyll took it, narrowing his eyes to examine it more closely.

  “It’s just a key,” continued Marcus, “just an ordinary key. You gave it to me once, remember? Said it would unlock my destiny.”

  Zyll nodded, and a slight smile formed on his lips. “And so it did,” he said. “So it did.”

  The old man placed the key in his satchel and wrapped his arm around Marcus, pulling him close. He held him there for a long time. When he finally let go, there were tears in his eyes.

  “I will treasure it always,” he said. Then Zyll passed through the trees into the forest, leaving Marcus standing alone, shivering in the cold.


  Eight

  Two days after Zyll left, Marcus arose from his cot and stretched his arms over his head. The pain that had nearly crippled him before was now nothing more than a dull ache. Maybe by tomorrow he would feel well enough to go to town.

  Marcus made his way to the fireplace, where Zyll had left a pot of soup warming over enchanted coals. Marcus dipped the ladle into the broth and emptied it into a bowl. Then he carried it to the table.

  He took several spoonfuls before he noticed what was in front of him. Zyll’s divining bowl was dented from years of wear. It sat just where Zyll had left it before his hasty departure.

  Marcus looked into the dark water. Zyll had seen Fredric’s death. He had sensed danger, betrayal. Marcus desperately wanted to see it, too. And why shouldn’t he? He wasn’t half bad at magic now.

  In his mind, he formed an image of Dokur. He remembered the crowded streets, the jutting cliffs above the shore, the grand yet menacing Fortress. The vibrant colors filtering through the stained-glass window in the king’s council chambers and the scarlet robes Fredric wore were as vivid now to Marcus as they had been when he had first seen them eight months earlier.

  He focused on his memory of Fredric’s face. Could he really be dead? And was it true that his brother, Kelvin, was in danger? Marcus peered into the water and tried to summon up the past. Suddenly it felt like someone had taken hold of one of his ribs and snapped it in two. He doubled over, clutching at his chest. He took slow, measured breaths until the pain began to subside.

  What Zyll told me was true then, he thought. Magic is to blame for the attacks I’ve been having.

  In a sudden burst of anger, Marcus swung his arm across the table, knocking the divining bowl to the floor. The bowl landed with a sharp ping, and the water spread across the wooden floor, leaving a dark, widening circle in its wake.

  “Then I won’t do magic,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not ever again!”

  Marcus stood up and snatched the rag still draped over the edge of his cot. He knelt at the edge of the spill and placed his hands in the water. He wondered at the stillness of it. Its surface was as smooth as a mirror, so smooth Marcus could see his reflection in it.