Magic Zero (5 page)

Ivar leaned over the bubbling pot, stirring the contents with a large wooden spoon. His skin was fair, a pale white, but at a moment’s notice its color could change, allowing him to blend with his surroundings. It was a unique talent that had made the Asura such expert hunters.

“All who are present now were friends of the Arguscade,” the Asura said in a voice like the rumble of a distant storm. “This meal we shall consume in his honor. The pleasure we receive from it shall be bestowed upon him in the great lands beyond this.”

Ivar turned his pale features to all that were present to see if they were in agreement with what he had proposed. Leander had seen only portraitures of the ancient people and was taken by the Asura’s strange but fascinating appearance. Ivar was short and powerfully built, pale, almost translucent, with not a trace of hair upon his body. Leander had read that strange patterns demonstrating an Asura’s mood could appear on the skin, but currently Ivar’s flesh was unblemished. His eyes were dark, penetrating, and his cheekbones high and pointed. He was dressed only in breeches made from dried animal skin.

Everyone agreed that the meal would be eaten in Argus’s honor, and in a matter of minutes, they were dining upon a stew of exotic vegetables and fish, the bounty of Patience.

“I usually prefer my meat raw,” Edgar said, plucking a chunk from the bowl that had been set down before him in
the center of the table. Timothy’s familiar tossed the fish back in his throat and gulped it down. “But this isn’t bad at all. My compliments to the chef.”

Ivar, sitting cross-legged upon the floor, bowed his bald head as he received the familiar’s praise.

Seated across from Timothy, in one of the two chairs, Leander watched from the corner of his eye as the boy ate his meal. Though they had met only hours ago, the mage found that he was already quite fond of the youth. There was so much about him that reminded the mage of the boy’s father: the way Timothy moved, the way he held his head when he talked. It was like having part of his old friend still around, and the thought of him hidden away in this place was cause for concern.

They finished their hearty meal and cleaned up. Then Ivar excused himself to return to his own dwelling and commune with the spirits of his ancestors, as was the custom of his people. It was peaceful and calm upon the island of Patience, but Leander found himself growing restless, his mind tormented by the frustration he felt with Timothy’s banishment.

Edgar dozed, perched atop the back of Timothy’s chair, and the boy eagerly showed the mage countless drawings of inventions he had not yet found time to build. When Timothy finished describing a contraption that would allow him to breathe beneath the water, Leander took the opportunity to ask the lad a question that had been on his mind since walking through the secret door in the Cade mansion and finding himself on the sands of Patience.

“Are you happy here, Timothy?”

The question froze the boy. This young man, this un-magician, blinked and then glanced over at Leander. “Of course I’m happy. The island is beauty and peace and my friends are here. And I . . .” Timothy stopped. He might have been pondering the question for the very first time. His brow furrowed and he placed the latest drawing back on the pile. “I suppose I never really thought about it much,” he answered. “This is all I’ve ever known, so I would guess that I’m happy—aren’t I?”

Leander reached across the table and placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I cannot answer that for you, Timothy,” he said. “But if it was me, just the knowledge that there was something more than this—something beyond Patience—would make me at least curious to explore, both the world and my place in it.”

Timothy lowered his head sadly. “Then I guess I’ll never really be able to answer your question. I’ll never know if I’m happy or not; Patience is all that I’m allowed to know.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Leander asked.

The boy looked up, his eyes glassy with emotion. “I can never leave Patience,” he said, voice cracking. “It would be too dangerous. I could not survive.”

“Ah, but are you certain of that?” Leander asked. “It would be difficult, I’ve no doubt, but with my help, I’m confident that you would manage.”

The mage felt some small doubt, knowing that what he suggested was quite against the wishes of his late mentor.
But what he had vowed was to watch over Timothy as if the boy were his own, and if that was the case, then he knew he was doing the right thing. Argus Cade may have been one of the most powerful mages in the world, and the closest friend that he had ever known, but the old man had been wrong in banishing his son, no matter his reasons. Timothy never should have been hidden away, and Leander wanted to rectify his mentor’s error.

“Let me take you from this place to the world beyond, the world of your birth,” Leander said, grinning and smoothing down his beard. “I will show you there is more to a world than Patience.”

*  *  *

Timothy leaped out of his chair, startling Edgar from his nap. His pulse raced, his skin prickling with sensations of heat and cold that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the fear and excitement that began to combat each other in his heart.

“That’s impossible!” Timothy said, staring at Leander’s face, searching the massive mage’s eyes for the truth.

“Caw!” the rook crowed, flapping his wings in surprise. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Timothy scratched at the back of his head, breathing evenly, forcing himself to calm down. He began to pace the floor as Leander looked on, eyes sparkling amid all that hair. The boy stopped short and gazed at the mage sitting at the table. “Can I leave Patience?” he asked, and the question felt strange upon his lips.

“All you need do is follow me back through the door on the sand.”

Edgar flapped his wings insistently and cawed loudly enough to forestall any further conversation until he was given their attention. “What’s going on? What did I miss? Who’s following who?”

Timothy turned to look imploringly at the bird. “You heard him, Edgar. My father said I could never leave—that it wasn’t safe. He said that there were people in government and in the guilds who might wish me harm.”

The bird’s feathers ruffled. “Well, that is what he said, but—”

“Preposterous!” Leander dismissed those words with the wave of one of his massive hands. “Your condition would be looked upon as a handicap and be treated as such. You have nothing to fear from the world outside.”

Timothy was terrified, and as he slowly walked to his window, gazing out at the only world he had ever known, he imagined for the very first time that he might step beyond it.

“Just a moment,” Edgar cawed from his perch. “Maybe we’re moving too quickly.”

“Nonsense,” Leander boomed. “The boy has been banished long enough.”

Properly chagrined, the bird cocked his head pensively. “Well, maybe some day trips to start.” Edgar glanced at Timothy. “You won’t even know if you’re going to like it back there. It’s quite different from your little island, let me tell you.”

Timothy turned from the window, tremors of excitement unlike anything he had ever known coursing through his body.
This is what it must feel like to have magic inside you,
he thought. And then he spoke the four words that would change his life forever.

“I want to go.”

CHAPTER THREE

I
t was the oddest sensation, stepping through that door on the beach and into a shadowy corridor. How many times had he hugged his father good-bye and watched him step through this very same door, only to have the door disappear from the sand as though it had never been there at all? Magic. That was magic.

Timothy’s heart felt as though it might explode, and he held his breath until his chest hurt, just gazing around at his surroundings. Edgar had led the way, cawing loudly, excitedly, and Leander had followed next. Now the rook sat upon the shoulder of the red-maned sorcerer and watched expectantly as Timothy took several steps farther into his father’s house.

“My father’s house,” he whispered, unconsciously putting voice to his thoughts.

“
Your
house now,” Leander told him, a warm rumble in his
voice and a twinkle of approval in his eye. “Welcome to the city of Arcanum, Timothy Cade. The city of your birth.”

The boy froze. Ivar slipped silently past him, blending with the shadows so that he was barely visible, a chameleon, investigating the corridor ahead, sniffing the air. The aged warrior was on guard for anything that might threaten his friends. A moment later Timothy heard the clanking of metal as Sheridan entered this world, also for the first time. They had all passed through now, and suddenly the island of Patience seemed dreadfully far away.

“Hukk! Hukk!” cried Edgar, black wings fluttering as he perched on Leander’s shoulder. “You all right, Tim?”

Timothy forced himself to take a breath. He nodded slowly. “I think so.”

But that was a lie. He was not all right. Not at all. Though he had sometimes been lonely on the island, Timothy had rarely been afraid. Now fear spread through him with a rush of heat in his veins, as though he had been stung by a cloud-fish, its venom infecting him instantly. But that sort of infection was not deadly. In truth it passed quickly enough. And this . . . this fear . . . he wondered if it would ever pass.

How many times had his father explained to him why he had to live alone? Dozens. Hundreds. Here, he was helpless, crippled. Here, he was in peril. People would not understand, his father had told him. And what people did not understand, they often mocked, and sometimes tried to destroy.
An abomination,
his father had said. People would think Timothy was an abomination. And though his father had never hinted
anything of the kind, the boy had always sensed that, in a way, Argus agreed.

The corridor was dimly lit by globular lanterns that hung at intervals along its length. It took him a moment to realize that they were not secured to the wall and instead floated in the air. The walls were of a dark wood, with intricate designs branded above each door and on the frames. The floorboards were lighter in color and had a sheen that reflected the flickering lantern light.

A tremor went through him, but this time Timothy did not think what he was feeling was fear. A tiny smile creased the corners of his mouth and he stepped toward the wall. He felt the others all watching him as he gazed curiously up at the gleaming globe.

“How does it work?” he asked.

Leander did not answer at first, so Timothy turned to look at him. The big man ran a hand over his beard, smoothing its tangles, and shrugged. “I don’t think I can answer that question. It’s magic, Timothy. Everything in this world is magic. The lamps can be lit by command or by simply waving your hand beneath them. They sense your desire for light.”

Timothy grunted in acceptance and gazed at the globe again. No oil. No actual fire. No anchor to attach it to the wall. His father had told him much of magic, but many things had been hard to imagine without firsthand knowledge. Magic, he knew, had no mechanism.

Tentatively he waved his hand beneath the globe. It continued to shine.

“It’s true, then,” Leander observed.

The boy did not even acknowledge his statement. Of course it was true. His father had removed him from his home, hidden him away all of these years . . . he would never have done this unless he was certain. But Leander also seemed certain. Images of his father, whose kind eyes had always seemed out of place in the midst of such stern features, floated into the boy’s mind.

Timothy’s chin drooped slightly. He missed his father.

With a quiet hiss of steam, Sheridan placed a hand upon his shoulder. Timothy smiled and nodded. The metal man always seemed to know when Timothy was sad or lonely.

Taking a deep breath, the boy looked at the globe again, then he started along the corridor. Edgar took flight, wings beating the air only long enough for him to move from Leander’s shoulder to Timothy’s. The boy glanced up at the rook and smiled, and though the usually loquacious bird said nothing, Timothy thought there was something in his bearing that approximated a smile in return. At least, as much as a bird could be said to have any facial expression at all.

Of course, Edgar was no ordinary bird.

With a courteous nod, Leander moved out of the way, and Timothy began to explore, moving down the corridor. There were places where the woodwork was intricate, where images had been seemingly carved into the wood—but of course they would not have been carved, but drawn there with magic. It was so difficult for him to imagine, for Timothy loved to do things with his hands, to create, to feel
the texture and the workings of things beneath his touch.

He stopped when he arrived at a door. Upon its wooden surface there danced a swirl of color, violets and greens that flitted together like seabirds courting. With a raised eyebrow, he shot an inquisitive glance at Leander.

“Ah, yes. You think it a symbol,” Leander noted. “Often there are such symbols on doors or around them, indicating what might lie beyond. Other times you might find symbols and colors that indicate the presence of a barrier spell. This is merely decoration, however. It is—”