Bindings

The Books of Magic: An Introduction

Prologue

The Falcon's wings were powerful, and the bird shot rapidly…

Chapter One

I always knew that gym class was state-supported torture, Timothy Hunter…

Chapter Two

Tim felt a pounding heat. The hood he wore grew…

Chapter Three

Tim sank onto the boulder and kicked a pebble. “Gone.

Chapter Four

Tamlin knelt down and scooped up a handful of red…

Chapter Five

Tim made it back alive from the strange desert, and…

Chapter Six

Tim wandered the streets hunched up against the cold. He…

Chapter Seven

Queen Titania wandered the grounds of her castle. She felt…

Chapter Eight

Tim looked around him. “I—I—did it,” he stammered.

Chapter Nine

What kind of loon would build a house like this?

Chapter Ten

If this door was locked, then it was pretty obvious…

Chapter Eleven

On and on Tamlin flew, uncertain of how to find…

Chapter Twelve

Tim felt Groggy and Stiff. No wonder, he realized, I'm…

Chapter Thirteen

Death was still waiting. Tim hadn't spoken a word in…

Chapter Fourteen

Okay, now death had really ticked Tim off. “Oh, I'm…

About the Authors

Copyright

About the Publisher

W
HEN I WAS STILL
a teenager, only a few years older than Tim Hunter is in the book you are holding, I decided it was time to write my first novel. It was to be called
Wild Magic
, and it was to be set in a minor British Public School (which is to say, a private school), like the ones from which I had so recently escaped, only a minor British Public School that taught magic. It had a young hero named Richard Grenville, and a pair of wonderful villains who called themselves Mister Croup and Mister Vandemar. It was going to be a mixture of Ursula K. Le Guin's
A Wizard of Earthsea
and T. H. White's
The Sword in the Stone
, and, well, me, I suppose. That was the plan. It seemed to me that learning about magic was the perfect story, and I was sure I could really write convincingly about school.

I wrote about five pages of the book before I realized that I had absolutely no idea what I was
doing, and I stopped. (Later, I learned that most books are actually written by people who have no idea what they are doing, but go on to finish writing the books anyway. I wish I'd known that then.)

Years passed. I got married, and had children of my own, and learned how to finish writing the things I'd started.

Then one day in 1988, the telephone rang.

It was an editor in America named Karen Berger. I had recently started writing a monthly comic called
The Sandman
, which Karen was editing, although no issues had yet been published. Karen had noticed that I combined a sort of trainspotterish knowledge of minor and arcane DC Comics characters with a bizarre facility for organizing them into something more or less coherent. And also, she had an idea.

“Would you write a comic,” she asked, “that would be a history of magic in the DC Comics universe, covering the past and the present and the future? Sort of a Who's Who, but with a story? We could call it
The Books of Magic
.”

I said, “No, thank you.” I pointed out to her how silly an idea it was—a Who's Who and a history and a travel guide that was also a story. “Quite a ridiculous idea,” I said, and she apologized for having suggested it.

In bed that night I hovered at the edge of sleep, musing about Karen's call, and what a ridiculous idea it was. I mean…a story that would go from the beginning of time…to the end of time…and have someone meet all these strange people…and learn all about magic….

Perhaps it wasn't so ridiculous….

And then I sighed, certain that if I let myself sleep it would all be gone in the morning. I climbed out of bed and crept through the house back to my office, trying not to wake anyone in my hurry to start scribbling down ideas.

A boy. Yes. There had to be a boy. Someone smart and funny, something of an outsider, who would learn that he had the potential to be the greatest magician the world had ever seen—more powerful than Merlin. And four guides, to take him through the past, the present, through other worlds, through the future, serving the same function as the ghosts who accompany Ebenezer Scrooge through Charles Dickens's
A Christmas Carol.

I thought for a moment about calling him Richard Grenville, after the hero of my book-I'd-never-written, but that seemed a rather too heroic name (the original Sir Richard Grenville was a sea-captain, adventurer, and explorer, after all). So I called him Tim, possibly because the Monty
Python team had shown that Tim was an unlikely sort of name for an enchanter, or with faint memories of the hero of Margaret Storey's magical children's novel,
Timothy and Two Witches
. I thought perhaps his last name should be Seekings, and it was, in the first outline I sent to Karen—a faint tribute to John Masefield's haunting tale of magic and smugglers,
The Midnight Folk
. But Karen felt this was a bit literal, so he became, in one stroke of the pen, Tim Hunter.

And as Tim Hunter he sat up, blinked, wiped his glasses on his T-shirt, and set off into the world.

(I never actually got to use the minor British Public School that taught only magic in a story, and I suppose now I never will. But I was very pleased when Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar finally showed up in a story about life under London, called
Neverwhere
.)

John Bolton, the first artist to draw Tim, had a son named James who was just the right age and he became John's model for Tim, tousle-haired and bespectacled. And in 1990 the first four volumes of comics that became the first
Books of Magic
graphic novel were published.

Soon enough, it seemed, Tim had a monthly series of comics chronicling his adventures and misadventures, and the slow learning process he
was to undergo, as initially chronicled by author John Ney Reiber, who gave Tim a number of things—most importantly, Molly.

In this new series of novels-without-pictures, Carla Jablonski has set herself a challenging task: not only adapting Tim's stories, but also telling new ones, and through it all illuminating the saga of a young man who might just grow up to be the most powerful magician in the world. If, of course, he manages to live that long….

Neil Gaiman
May 2002

T
HE FALCON'S WINGS WERE POWERFUL
, and the bird shot rapidly into the sky. Tamlin, the
Queen's Falconer, shaded his brown eyes against the sun to peer up at his charge. Satisfied by its soaring circles, knowing the bird would not attempt a getaway, Tamlin's attention turned inward. He could no longer ignore the pressing questions that nagged at him.

Could it be true?
he wondered. The prophecies from long ago—he had put no store in them. But now he could not keep from thinking about the possibilities. Nor could he keep his mind off the child who had come here, to this place called Faerie, and bested the Queen at one of her own games.

Tamlin had only caught a glimpse of the boy from the realm of mortals, but he had not forgotten him. A lad who could hold his own with the Queen would be remembered.

But could Timothy Hunter, who briefly visited the realm of the Fair Folk, be the child of the prophecy?
If he were—and if the prophecy were true—there would be consequences for Tamlin, the Queen, even for Timothy himself. Because of this, Tamlin did not know even his own heart—what to hope or whether hope was possible. Tamlin did not want to be deceived again. He had been deceived too easily in the past by the glamours of Faerie.

The falconer sighed. There were too many
times he had allowed himself to be deceived by this land. Faerie had offered untold pleasures: beauty, joy, and delight. A caressing breeze, sparkling brooks, beckoning lakes, wild forests dappled and mysterious. But that was before everything changed.
One believes what one wants to
, Tamlin mused,
and Faerie herself seems to encourage self-delusion, finding secret ways to make it easier to accept what should be unacceptable. She has the power to conjure illusion and create delusion.
Tamlin's long tenure in this world had made that painfully apparent.

Tamlin raised his gloved hand to signal the falcon he was training.
And what of the Queen?
Tamlin wondered.
She is so practiced at pretense it would be hard to glean what she knows of Faerie, of the prophecy, of anything
. The majestic bird swooped down and landed neatly on Tamlin's wrist. Its talons gripped the thick leather of his glove. Tamlin spoke soothingly to the bird as it preened, then lowered a hood over the bird's head. “You and I are the same,” he told the bird. “We soar to our heart's content, but we have only the illusion of freedom.”

Tamlin scanned the horizon. It pained him to see what had become of the royal hunting grounds. Where once majestic trees had sheltered myriad animals, now there stood withered,
gnarled deformities. Beyond them were the devastated valleys, the choked and thirsty ground cracked and dead. Like all of Faerie.

He knew he must act, and soon.

 

Titania, Queen of Faerie, stood at the low marble wall that surrounded a patio behind the palace. The twilight sky matched her mood as it transformed the pale and placid scene into something darker and more intense.

That child,
she thought,
that child who arrived from the realm of the mortals. And yet—his power.
It simply made no sense to her. Unless…

Have I been deceived?
she wondered, her golden eyes narrowing. She did not see the scene before her, the courtiers strolling the paths, sprites making sport on the crystalline lake, the pretty flitlings hovering nearby awaiting her command. What she saw was treachery, duplicity, and danger. She, too, was distracted by the ancient prophecies. All those years ago—What had
truly
happened to the child? She thought he had died, had been told of it, but had not witnessed it herself. She should not have been so foolish; but she had placed more stock in trust then, and some would say trust is cherished by fools. Today it would have been different, and she would not be facing this…this astonishing possibility.

This could be a boon
, she realized. Anger over the possibility that the child of the prophecy was still alive, over being lied to, should not cloud her recognition of the advantage the child could pose. But at the same time, the prophecy might not be true at all. And the child, despite her suspicions, may still very well be gone.

Trust. Despite her hesitation, trust was what she had to count on, and it was such a tricky thing. Tamlin had never lied to her, more's the pity. There were certainly times when she wished that he had. In the past, he'd hidden things from her but when asked a direct question he inevitably gave her a direct answer, even if that answer put him in danger of her wrath.

Yes. He was the only one she could ask, the only one who could find out the truth. But how would he react to this news?
He may have already solved this riddle
, she realized. In which case, she wanted to be included in whatever knowledge he had.

She shut her eyes and felt the breeze growing cooler as the sun fell below the horizon.

“Come, my Falconer.” She summoned Tamlin with her mind by picturing him. She heard a flutter of wings and smiled.

“Why have you called me?” a growling voice demanded.

Titania slowly opened her eyes. Tamlin—tall, lean, muscular; the betrayed and betrayer; her beloved and despised one—stood before her. His straight brown hair hung to his shoulders, framing his angular face. Adversary and only true friend. They had so much history between them it hung thick and heavy in the air whenever they were together.

Now that he was here, she was unsure how to proceed. With everyone else—even with her husband King Auberon—she did as she would without a thought, not a twinge of concern about what she might be asking or doing. Yet with Tamlin she was humbled. She wanted his approval, particularly because he rarely gave it.

She didn't look at him; instead, she kept her eyes fixed in front of her. She noticed a few of the tiny flitlings buzzing nearby and waved them away. Gossip would not be welcome. She nodded at the two armed servants who had placed themselves discreetly just beyond earshot. There were always several bodyguards around. It would attract too much attention if she dismissed them—it would be too obvious that this was a personal matter.

“I have been wondering…about that boy,” she said. She kept her voice light, as if this were nothing but idle curiosity.

“What boy?” Tamlin asked.

This time she looked at him, an eyebrow raised. She was letting him know that she was aware he knew precisely what boy she was talking about.

“Ah.” Tamlin said. “The mortal one, who made his way into this world not long ago.”

“Yes, him.” She sat on the wall, her back to the lawn. She spotted her jester, Amadan, peering down at them from her bedchamber window in the turret. What was he doing up there? Spying, she assumed. She made sure Amadan knew that she saw him. She might need him, but she wanted him to remember who was in charge. That flitling was small, but he held most of the court in his thrall, always scheming, stirring up intrigues within intrigues.

She smoothed her long skirt over her knees. The light breeze made the translucent pastel chiffon layers flutter. “I am glad he was brought to me.”

Tamlin nodded, waiting for her to play her hand.

“I sense great power in Timothy Hunter,” Titania said. “He bears watching. I want you to bring him back here. Now.”

Tamlin's brown eyes were opaque; she could not tell what he was thinking.

“Did you hear me?” she demanded, growing
impatient. She tossed her long locks over her shoulder. “I want you to fetch him. Bring him here to me.”

“No. I will not.” Tamlin stated firmly. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he transformed into a falcon and soared away.