The Last Enchanter Page 3

  Within moments, Marcus realized the sounds were gone. The crackle of the fire, the soup boiling, the window shutter creaking in the wind—all had gone silent.

  And then he realized everything was gone. The world around him had vanished—the table, the fireplace, the cottage—everything. All that remained was himself and the puddle of murky water.

  Marcus stared at his face in the water. As he did so, the reflection changed. It was not his face he saw now, but an older face bearing the marks of years of hard work and of magic. Zyll stared right back as though he could see Marcus through the water. The image widened, and Zyll’s entire body came into view. Zyll lay on his side on a patch of brown earth. The front of his robe was covered in blood flowing into the soil beneath him. As Marcus watched in horror, Zyll’s eyes flickered for a moment and then closed. His body lay as still as the earth.

  As the water turned dark again, Marcus desperately waited for some other image to appear. He wanted to see Zyll stand up and walk, to hear him laugh and tell Marcus to do his chores. But no image came, only the pale, frantic reflection of Marcus’s own face.

  Nine

  Marcus did not notice the world returning, nor the sound of the knock at the door. He may not have heard or seen anything at all had someone not grabbed him by the back of his tunic and pulled him to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” asked the boy standing in front of him. It was Tristan. “Are you hurt?”

  Marcus looked around. The cottage was back to normal. “What happened?” he asked. He realized Clovis was there, too, and had pulled out a chair for him. Clovis held Marcus’s arm, helping him into it, though the pain Marcus had felt minutes earlier had nearly gone.

  “We should ask you that question,” said Clovis. “We knocked and knocked. When you didn’t answer, we thought maybe you’d had another attack.”

  “I’m fine,” said Marcus, “but I have to go.”

  “Go where?” asked Tristan.

  “Dokur.”

  Marcus looked around the room. He wouldn’t need much, just enough food and water to last a few days. He could refill his water skin at Lake Olsnar. He would also need a weapon. On his quest he had had Xerxes, who doubled as a sword, but Zyll had taken the walking stick with him this time. Marcus had no sword of his own, so he would settle for the long knife Zyll used to cut squash from the garden. It was a good ten inches in length with a sturdy handle. Luckily, Zyll kept it sharp. It would have to do.

  “Marcus, you’re acting very strange,” said Clovis. “What’s going on?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” said Marcus.

  “Try us.” Tristan crossed his arms and waited.

  Marcus wanted to hurry, but he knew his friends wouldn’t let him go without some kind of explanation.

  “Two nights ago Zyll left for Dokur,” he began. “He saw something in his divining bowl that made him believe Kelvin might be in danger. Today, just now, I saw something, too. I saw Zyll.”

  Marcus stopped. The image he had seen passed through his mind again. It was almost more than he could bear.

  “I saw Zyll dying.”

  Tristan huffed in disbelief. “Zyll can’t die.”

  “Yes, he can,” said Marcus. “I have to get to him as soon as possible.”

  Marcus got up from the table. He fetched Zyll’s knife and tied it to his waist with a long strip of cloth. Then he took a blanket from his bed, placed some figs, cheese, biscuits, and dried meat on it along with some coins, and tied the corners together. After taking one last look around the room, he picked up his bundle and headed for the door.

  “Are you sure?” Clovis asked. “Sure about Zyll, I mean. Maybe he’s just sick, or maybe it hasn’t happened at all.”

  “It’s happened,” answered Marcus, “or is happening. Zyll uses magic to see things in the past and present. The images in his divining bowl have never been wrong. Not once.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” said Clovis.

  “No,” said Marcus, “you’ve got responsibilities here.”

  “That’s right,” said Tristan. “It’s busy season at the tanner’s. I can’t just up and leave. And Clovis’s father’s got more bow orders than one person can handle.”

  “I wouldn’t let you come,” said Marcus. “Besides, I need someone to look after Agnes while I’m gone.”

  “Tristan will take care of the goat, won’t you, Tristan?” said Clovis.

  Tristan shrugged. “Yeah, sure I will.”

  “And he’ll tell my father where I’ve gone. As long as I’m back before the first snowfall in a couple of weeks, he won’t mind.”

  Clovis held tight to his bow, his wide, brown eyes gazing expectantly at Marcus. Clovis had proven a loyal friend during their quest, though the journey was at times demanding for the slightly overweight boy. But he had grown taller since then and had slimmed out a bit. Maybe Clovis would be up to the task after all. And besides, Marcus reasoned, the crossbow would come in handy for hunting.

  “All right, then,” said Marcus. “Grab some extra bread and cheese from the cupboard and anything else you need, and let’s go.”

  Clovis eagerly gathered up some supplies and followed Marcus out the door, grinning from ear to ear. When they’d gotten halfway across the field, Marcus glanced back at the cottage where he had lived with Zyll his entire life. He wondered whether he would reach Zyll in time or arrive in Dokur only to learn that he was too late to save his grandfather. He shuddered to think about that. He decided it was best to put Zyll out of his mind and to focus on the journey ahead.

  He looked back once more. A sick feeling filled him, one he could not ignore, no matter how hard he’d try. It was a feeling that he would not be returning—at least not anytime soon.

  Ten

  Twilight.

  For humans, this was the time of day when light blended into darkness, creating a muddled picture of the world, but Jayson was not human—at least not entirely.

  Jayson had been born of a forbidden union between human and Agoran. Like his Agoran mother, Jayson’s eyesight, hearing, and sense of smell were far more acute than his human cousins’. What he gained from his father was a strong skeletal system and powerful human muscles.

  He used these attributes now as he prowled the marshlands of Taktani, the northern part of the island where the Agorans had lived for most of Jayson’s life. Creeping through the underbrush, he pursued the scent that had attracted him hours earlier. He could have ended the hunt in minutes, satisfying himself with a warm meal, but he delighted in the hunt itself, savored the act of tracking and trapping his prey. In truth, he doubted he would even make the kill. There was no need. There was food to spare in the village, but still, something in him felt driven to this occasional pleasure.

  He pressed on as daylight continued to fade, his catlike vision unhampered by the dimness. Several yards ahead, a warboar grunted and pawed at the ground, preparing its nest for the night. Jayson, hunched and ready, extended his claws. His muscles twitched anxiously, but still he waited.

  There would be a midnight feast, he decided at last. He would resist the urge to eat the kill himself and instead carry it back to the village where the elders would prepare it. A bonfire would be lit, and everyone would gather to celebrate the return of his people to their homelands in the forests of Imaness.

  Jayson smiled. Yes, this was reason to celebrate. The village he had called home as a child would welcome his hunt. It would be his gift to them, his offering of goodwill.

  The warboar was resting now, unaware of Jayson lurking behind the willows. Jayson’s attack would catch it by surprise, rendering it helpless before it could consider the possibility of escape.

  Jayson flexed his muscles and pressed his heels into the soft earth. He would need instant speed. His claws glistened in the moist, night air. They would make quick work of the warboar’s thick hide. Steady now, thought Jayson, pacing the warboar’s breathing with his own. Steady . . .

  In the distance,
a voice called out. The warboar shifted in its sleep. The voice called again, strained, worried. Jayson knew that voice well, and immediately the thought of the hunt left him. He turned and sprinted off toward the village. The warboar would live another day.

  Eleven

  The hours passed too slowly, and Marcus wished more than anything that he could travel faster, but if he pushed himself too hard, the pain might come back. He would be useless to Zyll then. Better slow than not at all.

  Clovis didn’t seem to mind. He passed the time by describing every detail of every hunting trip he’d been on in the past few months, none of which interested Marcus, but listening to Clovis did keep Marcus’s mind off Zyll for a while.

  As daylight faded, Marcus started to feel anxious. The last time he had spent the night among these trees, he had nearly become a giant snake’s meal. He was sure there were other creatures lurking in the shadows, and he did not want to meet any of them.

  Marcus walked faster. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being stalked.

  “You must be feeling better,” said Clovis.

  “What?” asked Marcus.

  “You’re walking faster than before.”

  “I just want to get out of the forest.”

  Marcus wasn’t afraid of the dark, at least not anymore. He had overcome that fear months ago in the shadows of Dokur’s watchtower when he fought Arik, the man who betrayed Dokur to the Hestorians. However, Marcus still didn’t like the darkness. Darkness had a way of settling into his bones, like a winter chill or a sickness. At home, he always managed to have his chores done before nightfall. By the time the sun said its last goodbyes and tucked itself behind the mountains, Marcus had long before put Agnes in her pen, drawn water for the next morning, and shut the cottage door tightly behind him.

  Before Dokur, before he had conquered his fear, he understood why he was afraid. Everything made sense. But now, as the sky grew dark above the forest of trees, the uneasiness he felt made no sense at all.

  It’s nothing, he told himself, but with each step the light grew dimmer and his courage grew weaker.

  “We’ll stop here,” he said, tossing his bundle to the ground.

  Clovis walked another few paces and then tossed his knapsack beside Marcus’s. “I guess here’s as good a place as any,” he said through a yawn. “Should I get some wood?”

  It would have been easy to make fire. The enchantment that had once seemed so impossible now came almost without thinking, but Marcus hesitated. He thought of the pain it would bring on, and what Zyll had told him: Magic is power, but power comes with a price.

  Luckily, Clovis had come prepared. His flint and wool made quick work of the kindling, and they soon had a warm fire. After Marcus and Clovis ate some food from their packs, they spread out their blankets and lay down for the night.

  Just as Marcus had convinced himself that it was safe to fall asleep, something in the darkness caught his attention. It wasn’t anything he could see. It was more of a feeling that someone—or something—was there.

  Marcus shook Clovis by the shoulder. Clovis, who had already fallen asleep, groaned as he sat up. When he saw the knife in Marcus’s hand, he reached for his quiver, drawing out two arrows. Marcus placed a finger to his lips, motioning for silence.

  “What is it?” Clovis mouthed.

  Marcus leaned close and whispered in his ear. “We’re not alone.”

  Twelve

  By the time Jayson reached the edge of the village, darkness had fallen, and the wide, grass huts stood guard in the moonlight. He slowed his pace a little and listened. Once more, the voice called for him by name. He went toward it and found Nathar waiting for him.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” said Jayson. “What is it?”

  Nathar was one of the pureblood Agorans Jayson freed from the Celestine mines. He was tall and proud, though the web of scars on his back showed what he had endured there. Jayson recalled the anger that had burned in Nathar’s eyes upon their first meeting. That anger served Nathar well in the battle with the Hestorians. Nathar had been Jayson’s closest friend ever since.

  “The elders have called for you,” Nathar said.

  “The elders? But why?”

  Nathar pressed his eyelids shut. “I can’t believe this. Not really,” he whispered more to himself than aloud.

  “What has happened?” Jayson asked.

  “A messenger just arrived from Dokur. It’s Fredric . . .” The Agoran’s voice broke off, but he quickly regained control of himself. “He is dead.”

  The words struck Jayson to his core. It was true that he had never liked Fredric. Rather, he had more than ample cause to hate him, but hate him he did not. Despite Fredric’s past crimes, the king had been one of the few links Jayson had to Ivanore.

  Jayson clenched his jaw, his heart filling with sorrow, not for himself but for his sons who had lost their grandfather. Jayson wished he could be with them to comfort them.

  “You said the elders want to talk to me?” Jayson asked.

  Nathar nodded again. “They plan to send you to Dokur.”

  “Of course,” replied Jayson, “but I am still needed here. We are to return to our lands soon. There is still much to do to prepare.”

  “As it stands, there may be no return.”

  “What are you saying, Nathar?”

  “This is what I dread telling you, my friend. Fredric’s order to return the Agorans to our homelands has been revoked.”

  “Revoked?” cried Jayson with growing fury. “But he swore an oath, signed a binding agreement! What right does anyone have to change that? Who is responsible?”

  Nathar bowed his head, reluctant to continue. Jayson took a deep breath to calm himself. “Tell me,” he said, “by whose authority has this happened? I must know so that I may plead our case before him.”

  Nathar’s shoulder began to tremble. “I saw the name on the document for only a moment, but there is no doubt,” he said. “It was Kelvin Archer, your son and heir to the throne of Dokur.”

  Thirteen

  Did you hear that?” asked Marcus, crouching low behind the fire. Beside him, Clovis knelt in the dirt, readying his bow. Marcus noticed the tip of Clovis’s arrow trembling slightly.

  From the edge of the firelight came a slight stirring of leaves. Marcus crept toward a large stone. As he approached, he was sure the sound of his heart beating was as loud as thunder. Summoning his courage, he leapt behind the stone, hoping to surprise whatever was hiding there. From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Clovis trying to hold his bow steady. Sounds cut through the silence—scuffling, grunting, someone crying out in pain.

  A moment later, Marcus had it by the hair and dragged it, kicking and squirming, into the light. Marcus pulled back its hair and looked at the face, red and out of breath.

  “You!” Marcus shouted, letting go. “You’ve been following us all along!”

  Clovis lowered his arrow. A smile crept onto his face, and he covered his mouth with his hand to keep from chuckling.

  Lael angrily brushed the dust from her tunic.

  “Why?” Marcus demanded.

  “Why do you think?” Lael scowled at him. “I want to come with you to Dokur.”

  A laugh burst from Clovis’s mouth, but he quickly swallowed it. Marcus clenched his teeth. He had been afraid, and for what? To be humiliated by Lael once again. All he wanted was to be rid of her once and for all.

  “You can’t come,” said Marcus. He scooped up a handful of kindling and pitched it into the fire.

  “Who are you to tell me where I can and cannot go?” answered Lael. “I’ve as much right as you to travel these woods.”

  “Lael, look at you!” said Marcus, waving his hand up and down the length of her. “You’re not ready for this sort of journey.”

  “Not ready? I’m more ready than you were when you went on your quest. You know as well as I that I’m just as strong as you and better with any weapon. In fact,” she added, “from wh
at I hear, you two could use someone like me along for protection.”

  The kindling ignited, the flames rising higher. Marcus felt the heat on his face. Or was the heat coming from inside him?

  “Go home, Lael. Your papa is calling.”

  From the look in her eyes, Marcus saw how deeply his words had stung her. Why did he always say the wrong thing?

  Stepping closer to the fire, Lael held out a small, leather pouch in her fist. She shook it. The coins inside jingled like tiny bells.

  “I’ll pay you,” she said. “Be my guide, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Are those silver coins?” Clovis asked, swallowing hard.

  Lael emptied the bag into her palm. The firelight reflected off the shiny coins.

  “That’s at least a year’s pay!” said Clovis.

  “More,” replied Lael. She held up a single coin and returned the rest to her pouch. “And I will gladly share it all if you will take me with you.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Clovis, reaching for the coin.

  Marcus grabbed his hand. “We don’t want your money, Lael.”

  “We don’t?” asked Clovis. “No, right. Of course. We don’t want your money, Lael.”

  “Where did you get all that, anyway? Did you steal it?” asked Marcus.

  Lael ignored his question with a defiant glare. “Will you take me or not?”

  Marcus stared at Lael over the tip of the flame. Behind her, the Black Forest seemed vast and endless. Marcus noticed, too, that Lael’s eyes were almost as dark as the forest.

  “All right,” Marcus replied finally. “You can go to Dokur.”

  Lael’s shoulders relaxed.

  Marcus couldn’t help but grin. “But,” he continued, turning from the fire, “you’ll be traveling there alone.”

  “Marcus Frye!” shouted Lael. “You’re a tyrant! That’s what you are!” She pulled back her arm and chucked her coin at him. It hit him on the shoulder and fell soundlessly to the earth.