Mercury Mind (The Downfall Saga Book 1) (18 page)

“Quit making excuses.”

“I’m not.”

“Just because you’ve lost your memories doesn’t mean that you’ve lost your heart.”

They cautiously looked in the hall and saw that all of the tables were empty and the doors to the kitchen closed. Shutting the door behind them, they sat down at a table and Donovan took his lute out of its case.

“Distract me,” said Donovan.

“What?” said Kort.

“This will be easier if I’m not thinking about what I’m trying to do.”

“Okay. What should we talk about?”

“What are you going to do this summer when you return home as a powerful wizard?”

“Me? Powerful?” Kort broke out into laughter while Donovan experimentally plucked a couple of strings. “I expect that I’ll head back to the farm and do what I always do. Tend the herd, fix what needs fixing and avoid as much work as possible.”

“Have you thought about doing anything away from the farm?” asked Donovan, starting to tune the loot.

“No. I always assumed that things would just go back to normal.”

“No matter what happens, you’re going to return home with more knowledge than when you left. You can read and write, you know about numbers and can perform magic.”

“Who would pay to watch me light up glass balls?”

“Performers have done well with less. What about writing. From what you’ve told me, not many people there can read or write. Maybe you could write letters for them that they send to friends that they haven’t seen in a while.”

“Most of the people were born there and plan on dying there, so they won’t have much need to send letters to old friends, but I like the idea. Head over to someone’s house, chat with them for a while, write a page or two, and go home with a purse full of coins.”

“There,” said Donovan, with a final turn of a knob, he finished tuning his lute. He began plucking strings at random. “Know any songs?”

“A few. Dad loves singing around the campfire.”

Kort hummed the tune to Tom Came Home, a song about a vagrant who headed off on many adventures but always came home to sleep under a mulberry tree which he called home. It was a fast, simple tune which Donovan picked up after several minutes. His fingers glided over the strings and music began to envelop him.

Kort started singing the words. His voice was raw and rustic, but singing the song brought him to a happier place. By the end of the song, he had forgotten all about the disastrous dinner at the keep, and even his homesickness dissipated as he sung the familiar song.

They played Tom Came Home a second time before Kort started teaching him Polly Come Over, a raunchy song about a woman with questionable morals that he and his brothers weren’t allowed to sing in front of his mom.

Donovan closed his eyes and lost himself in the tune. When he opened his eyes, he saw Mama B sitting at the next table, facing them and tapping her toe to the music.

“I’m sorry,” said Donovan, abruptly ending the song. “I didn’t mean to offend you. We’ll find another place to play.”

“Offend me,” she laughed. “You can’t become a mama without doing a few of the things in the song.”

Kort turned bright red and started gasping for air, like a fish caught on dry land.

“It is a welcome distraction,” said Mama B. “You both sound pretty good to these old ears of mine. Feel free to play down here whenever you wish. Now play another song.”

“Thank you,” said Donovan, “but I don’t know any others. If you can teach me the tune, I’ll try to play whatever you want.”

Mama B tried to teach him a song from her youth, a slow ballad about a princess’ hardships at home while her prince is away fighting a war in a place called Deirdra. It took him many tries to get the tune just right to her demanding ear, but she finally declared it adequate and accompanied his playing with her surprisingly strong, husky voice.

She had tears in her eyes when they finished the song and quickly excused herself to the kitchen.

They played for a while longer before Donovan decided that he had put off talking to Osmont for long enough. Returning to their room, he carefully stowed his lute, before heading over to the teacher’s building to find Osmont.

He’d never actually seen Osmont’s office before. He walked down the hallway, skimming the names on the doors on either side until he found the door labelled Osmont Wyatt, etched into a simple plaque. He knocked on the door.

A few moments later he heard a familiar voice, “Who’s there?”

“Donovan.”

Osmont opened the door just far enough to slide through, before locking it behind him. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you ... in private.”

“Let’s go for a walk.” Osmont started walking away.

“Wait. Why can’t we talk in your office?”

Osmont kept walking. Donovan stood there with an incredulous look on his face, before hurrying to catch up.

Leaving by the rear door, they began walking along one of the paths around the quad, which had been scraped free of snow that morning.

“So, what can I do for you?” asked Osmont.

“Well,” said Donovan, looking side to side to make sure that they were alone. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.” He dug out the note that Eamon had left for him before classes had started, and handed it to Osmont.

“What’s this?” asked Osmont, turning the note around, trying to make out the writing.

“Remember the trip we took into Kendra before the start of class? Eamon left this note for me with Aine at that pub.” Seeing the confusion on Osmont’s face, he continued, “I think it’s written in the Shem language.”

“Is this some kind of joke? Did Professor Cleary put you up to this?”

“I can read it.”

“I can pretend to read gibberish as well as the next guy.” He handed the note back to Donovan.

“I’m not lying. I saw a piece of paper on Professor Cleary’s desk when we first met written in the same language. I could read it. It said something about the blood of the Brother running true.”

Osmont looked taken aback, clearly something he had said hit a nerve.

Donovan read the entire note to Osmont. “With everything that I heard about the Shem I didn’t want to admit any connection to them,” said Donovan dejectedly.

“Don’t worry about ancient tales, worry about today’s actions.”

They walked in silence, their cloaks fluttering in the biting wind. “So what happened?” asked Osmont.

“I went to see Eamon yesterday,” started Donovan. He went on to tell Osmont about chasing Eamon through the city and out into the thicket of trees. The second man who surprised him, and the strange sensations when the figure grabbed him, before falling unconscious. Waking up and seeing the four Clachwards, and how they chased him up a tree. His escape to Kendra where he got the lute and note from Eamon. Osmont stopped and stared at Donovan as he read this note as well.

“Let’s show those notes to Professor Cleary.”

Osmont flew down the path, cloak trailing behind him. He took the steps two at a time and Donovan struggled to keep up. Hastening down the hallway, he burst into Cleary’s office without knocking. He waited at the door to usher Donovan in, before shutting the door behind him.

“What’s—” started Cleary, rising from his desk.

“Show him the notes,” ordered Osmont, forcefully guiding Donovan around the piles of books on the floor, over to the desk.

Donovan carefully spread out the notes on a semi-flat spot on Professor Cleary’s desk.

“What am I looking for?” asked Cleary.

“Are they authentic? Is this written in Shem?” asked Osmont, stabbing his finger at the letters.

Cleary carefully studied the letters while Osmont watched, vibrating like a kettle about to boil. Finally Cleary looked up at Osmont and calmly said, “They have similar characteristics to other articles written in Shem.”

“Do you have anything written in Shem with an accurate translation?”

“I have a few snippets in an old book around here somewhere. Now where is it?”

Cleary foraged around his office, scanning the spines of books haphazardly spread around the room. Osmont’s face transitioned to deeper and deeper shades of red, and it looked like he could blow up at any moment when Cleary triumphantly held up a faded leather book. He set it on the desk and gently began flipping through the brittle pages until he found the section that he was looking for.

“It’s right here and the translation is on the next page,” he said, pointing at a section of text.

Osmont eyed Donovan until he moved around the desk. Donovan translated the text while Osmont and Cleary carefully listened. Flipping the page, they read the translation which was shockingly similar to Donovan’s translation.

Osmont’s irritation rapidly deflated, and he sunk into a chair, head in his hands. “What does this mean?” he muttered to himself.

Cleary looked at Donovan in shock. “Where did you ...” he trailed off as he recalled what had happened to Donovan.

“What does this mean?” asked Donovan. “Am I one of them? Am I a bad person?”

Osmont snapped out of his despondency. “No, you’re not. There are many explanations of how you could have learnt it.”

“Name one,” said Donovan firmly.

Osmont opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came out. Finally he shook his head. “This changes nothing. It merely highlights the importance of discovering a way to get your memory back.”

“It does raise many questions,” said Cleary, shutting the book and returning it to a pile at the back of the room. “Why would the Shem teach a human boy their language, before blocking his memories and sending him to study at our only magical institution?”

“Let’s not dwell on it,” said Osmont abruptly. “Donovan, I want you to write out a translation of the notes and give it to Professor Cleary.”

“There’s more,” said Donovan quietly. The look that Osmont gave him made Donovan wish he hadn’t said anything, but it was too late now. “During my struggle, I ripped this off the neck of the other man.” He slowly held out his hand, the necklace of the dagger wrapped in lightning dangling below.

“Is that a—” started Cleary.

“It’s nothing,” snapped Osmont, snatching the necklace out of Donovan’s hand. “Professor Cleary and I need to talk. Give the translations to Professor Cleary when they’re done.”

Donovan meekly retreated from the room.

N
otices were posted on the doors of all the dorms a couple of days before classes were scheduled to resume. The notices told the students that classes would be canceled on Wednesday and the students were to meet in the main hall at eight ‘o clock in the morning for an announcement.

A buzz immediately engulfed the dorms, spreading to each new student when they returned from their break. Classes were a complete write off on Monday and Tuesday as the professors attempted to review all of the information that the students had managed to forget, while the students spent most of their time gossiping about the notice and not listening to the professors.

Everyone made their way down to the hall early on Wednesday to eat a restless breakfast before waiting for the announcement. Donavan took a seat beside Kort, across from Delaney and Ravyn, his plate piled high with sausages and eggs. The other three ate a few pieces of toast but were too nervous to manage any more.

“Why are you all so worried?” said Donovan, between bites of sausage. “Whatever is going to happen will happen, so why worry about it?”

“That’s easy for you to say,” said Ravyn. “I just told my parents that I’m near the top of all my classes. I can’t afford for anything to happen.”

“Maybe Professor Severn’s been sacked,” mumbled Donovan.

“That’d be great,” said Kort, and Delaney nodded her agreement.

“They wouldn’t have him teaching classes this week if they were going to let him go,” said Ravyn.

“Spoilsport,” said Kort.

“Think positive thoughts,” said Donovan cheerfully, his tone not matching his thoughts since his conversation with Osmont and Professor Cleary. He wanted answers, but he knew that this announcement wouldn’t provide any.

Just before eight ‘o clock, Headmaster Marrok, Osmont, and Professors Cleary and Moncha entered the hall. A hush spread before them, engulfing the entire room. The four of them had a quick, quiet conversation before Headmaster Marrok stepped forward to address the assembly.

“Good morning,” said Marrok, in a quiet voice which travelled to the far corners of the room. “I trust that everybody is here.” He paused for a moment to survey the room before continuing. “You will all leave here in several short months and become representatives of Haven for the rest of your lives. Wizards have suffered from many centuries of persecution, so we take our reputation very seriously. Each year we give all of our students an assessment to help us to understand how a student may react in a different environment. We use the results to determine if any students require special attention, specifically related to losing control of your Gift and becoming a danger to those around you.” As Headmaster Marrok finished, he stepped back in line to let Professor Moncha take over.

“Everybody quiet down,” said Professor Moncha, and she waited patiently until every side conversation had stopped. “The process that we will be using will appear simple, but I assure you that it is not. We have carefully constructed the world where the simulation will take place, and imbued it into a magical artifact. We will use this item to cast a glamour on you. You will temporarily fall into a deep sleep while your mind processes the simulation. The world that you will find yourself in is not complete and your own minds will fill in many of the details of what you experience. The four of us will be linked to your mind and we will experience every detail as you live it. Everything will work the same as real life except for one significant difference. You will not be yourself. Rather you will be an idealized version of yourself and you will have all of the abilities that come with it. If you envision yourself as a powerful War Wizard, then you will instinctively be able to wield powerful magic and can use any weapon. The only limitations are the ones which your mind places on itself. It may take you a while to get used to it, but if you follow your instincts and don’t fight what’s happening, then your mind will quickly adapt.”