Magician Interrupted (5 page)

He sighed and created a shield to protect him
and Path from the drizzle of rain that began to fall. With O’rah at
his side he might have shielded the entire forest around him. So
what that the rain was welcome by thirsty plants and animals! He
was feeling melodramatic and because of this, practicalities were
superfluous.

“Oh Paris, dear?” The silvery voice of O’rah
intruded upon his thoughts as he and Path sat on the mossy log. His
romantic ideas died in an instant at her sneaky tone. He had to
admit, he was in love with the idea of O’rah, not of O’rah
herself.

“What?”

“Did you forget something before you so
precipitously left us?”

He made a face but replied sweetly, “I don’t
think so.”

“Let me just tell you then that Harro, that
ineffectual, made Jesta a rather unusual spell for her
birthday—”

He tried not groan mentally as he remembered
the Assembly member’s daughter.

“—I won’t go into details dear, since you
obviously felt the need to divorce yourself from us. Her nose just
hasn’t looked the same since the ... um ... incident. But I’m sure
you’re not that interested in the pesky details and that all the
Assembly is in an uproar and furious. And by the way, give my
regards to the Assembly member Jarson when he hunts you down.” Her
false tinkling laughter resounded in his head.

“Funny how Gareth made sure the spell stuck
though.”

Silence met that observation.

“He was—”

He cut her short not wanting to hear the
excuse and sent her a jolt. At her screech he broke contact
quickly. He could use her ability to magnify at any level of
contact, no doubt it was why she hadn’t contacted him earlier but
she obviously felt it worth the risk to threaten him. But she had
also warned him.

The drizzle stopped and he realized during
the conversation his umbrella had expanded with O’rah’s innate
abilities. That made it even more maddening. O’rah didn’t actually
train; her abilities were completely inherent. It was Paris who
worked at the actual spell, creating it, molding it and delivering
it. Gareth just held the spell in place until the job was done.

He looked at Path who ignored him. “You’ve
joined a renegade. Let’s go.”

He sat the pack on the log, shoved his arms
back in and heaved up stumbling forwards. Path jumped off the log
and headed in the opposite direction to where he wanted to go.

“Path? Path?” Paris called.

With her tail straight up she disappeared
into the glistening leaves now dripping water in the dying light.
He spotted her tail now and then through the foliage.

He called one more time. There was no
response.

“Traitor.” He kicked at a stick feeling
irrational. The first few steps saw Paris trying to dislodge the
stick from his pants without bending over. Once free he began
walking with purpose for all of a few minutes until again, the pack
won the day. He knew where there was a cabin and an insane woodsman
nearby. A simple spell would put the man to sleep. Now that he knew
O’rah located him he might as well be comfortable.

For that matter … he stopped walking and used
a little spell. With a much lighter pack he almost ran down the
track.

Paris was determined after a good night
sleep, and after plugging up the old man's mouth with a muffler, he
would find out why his magic was restricted. Now that he was away
from the stupid Trinity pit he found his mind awash with childhood
memories. He was sure he had performed spells and magic without the
use of actual “spells”. He bolted upright, why had he just
remembered that? It was all there, not quite distinct in his mind,
but a definite shape forming in the fog. Why had the Assembly
always insisted on O’rah, Gareth and him living together? Why in
that stupid Trinity pit? Why had the thought of leaving never
occurred to him before now? He had entertained vague notions but it
always slipped away. And he had been brooding for days on that
cliff face. He snorted and lay back down putting his arms beneath
his head. The more he thought about it the more he had the
impression they had been manipulated. Or maybe it was just him.

By morning he was feeling fresh and resolute.
His thin, pale, hairless body stood naked under the outdoor shower.
He magically shaved and trimmed his hair. No need to look like a
scruff now that he was determined to find out exactly where O’rah
had come from, and have a little chat to his descendants of his
other long dead siblings while trying to stay out of the clutches
of the Assembly. He had just under two weeks before joining the
marines. He didn’t know who he could trust yet but he was going to
get answers one way or another.

But before he could do anything he had to
protect himself. If indeed one of his so called Trinity pals were
manipulating, or even being manipulated, then he had to know what
it was to perform a counter spell. Or did he? Dark tales of the
Goths had reached down into the pit and he found his initial
interest wash away. There was a region of Dayre which housed the
planet’s undesirables. Deformed beasts and humans were said to be
drawn to the dark tunnels which led to the underworld. Demons were
said to visit this realm by means of those tunnels. It was said
Demons had a magic of their own but that they rarely interfered in
the affairs of people. Perhaps it was time to test that theory
unless it was the Demons who really ruled Dayre. They might be able
to help him. Paris then sniffed at that idea as the real rulers
were the Assembly. Plus, he had no desire to visit the underworld.
It was time to find the truth; the fact that a truth needed to be
found was proof enough to Paris that he'd been a pawn since he was
old enough to start making decisions. He just wouldn’t start with
Dayre or the Demons.

As Paris dressed and removed the spell on the
old woodsman he considered his next move. O’rah had said the
Assembly was furious and Jarson was hunting him. He could count on
two things. The first was O’rah would have been told not to contact
him but in her mind she couldn’t resist to make him fearful so he
could count on what she said as being true. The second thing was,
they would take him back or kill him. His mind was expanding by the
hour which indicated that someone had been inhibiting it and that
they had to be close by to achieve that. It could have even been an
object but he'd left all his possessions behind so he was safe from
that at least. After digging through his pack he realized he had no
civilian clothes. And he didn’t want to go back to Career
Worlds.

Paris re-cast a spell on the woodsman, patted
his chubby cheek as the man sighed, and ran back into town. As he
neared the town he started limping as the new boots were chaffing
in places Paris hadn’t felt before.

“Yowee!” He limped into town and down the
back streets to ensure he didn’t bump into the brunette, Emily or
the supply marine. He found an old clothes store when a sight
caught his eye. He pulled the pant and top ensemble off the rack
cursing. That … that … scat sold his clothes here. They’d been
cleaned going by the lack of stench. He limped, trying to look
authoritative, and dumped the clothes on the counter. “These are
mine!”

“Sure, mate. After you pay me.”

“They were stolen.”

The man lifted the pants and laughed. “I
thought you’d be glad.”

“I want them back.”

“Then go down the guard station, file a
complaint, and if they believe you they’ll give you a ticket.”

The words of the marine came back. “Did you
piss her off?”

“Do you know who stole
them
?” the
shopkeeper asked with a supercilious expression, lifting the top
with some distain.

Face burning, knowing he’d made a complete
fool of himself, he angrily plucked them off the bench and put them
back, tidying the hanging clothes around them. He found two decent
pants and tops, and a soft pair of boots. As he looked through a
rack of clothes he saw the shopkeeper still at the counter talking
to a younger shop assistant.

“I’ll take my lunch now.”

“Sure, John.”

They both glanced over at him so Paris
pretended to browse realizing he was at a rack of dresses. He
quickly moved to another “manly” rack hoping John would go away and
after several minutes, with Paris growing annoyed at John for
taking his sweet time, the older shopkeeper finally left for the
back of the shop. Relieved that he could buy his clothes without
feeling like an idiot Paris handed over his money.

“Settled on better, hey?” John asked loudly
from behind him.

Paris jumped and then nodded. The man had
returned to grab some keys from the till.

Swallowing his pride he asked, “What did you
mean by if they believe me? Don’t they investigate?”

John laughed loudly. “Over a ragged pair of
pants and top?”

Once again Paris left with roars of laughter
following him.

Along the way townsfolk touched him on the
arm or shoulder.

“Good on ya.”

“Good hunting, marine.”

“Tha a brave lad.”

At the last Paris half laughed, half groaned
and increased his pace. He found a place to change and headed back
thinking of his situation. If the Trinity was into some kind of
mind control at least Harro would be the least worried about being
manipulated as all he ever aspired to be was the best Buzzard
player in Dayre. Paris still felt vaguely responsible for the youth
until a blister popped. Swearing, he limped back out of town.

Paris left the cabin after eating some bread
and cheese. The woodsman didn't have much so Paris left a gold coin
on the table. Just as the old man started to rouse Paris left and
headed east toward the mountains of Pyre. The woods were less dense
and he crossed a few fields. It would be important now to remain
free and get the answers he needed. There were two spells he could
use. One would change his appearance or he could become like a
chameleon. A disguise would mean characterization and then
manipulating people to get answers. The energy to maintain such a
guise while staying in character would be high. The other used less
energy but he’d have to rely on local gossip going his way. He
grinned suddenly, towns loved gossip. He could make some nocturnal
visits, whisper sweet nothings into the ears of natural
investigators and then simply follow them around waiting for the
answers. He had time and it wouldn't raise suspicion.

Paris wasn’t stupid though and he knew he had
to reckon on counter spells and the unknown element to show itself.
But then he was stupid because he’d lived under a spell for
hundreds of years and not known it. His narrow face took on an
angry pout and black eyes shone with frustration. Stupid. Stupid.
If he used a bit more energy he could slip into one of the levels
of the underworld. It was like the frequency of a communications
device. The underworld had many frequencies and the chances of them
finding him would be difficult. If he didn't stay in one area too
long then it would be near impossible to track him. He thanked the
gods that gargoyle had some uses, his previous work before becoming
the Spell Binder had been as a computer hacker, different line of
work but with the same principles. More complex data streams
equaled longer hacking times. Paris suddenly wondered if Gareth had
gone through Career Worlds. No, he was being paranoid.

Paris stopped for lunch, munching on one of
the ration bars, and made the necessary preparations. He was now
glad that Path had gone her own way. Unless she was in fact the
tool for betrayal. No, he'd only bought her several decades ago.
And if anything his rebellious attitude started soon after that.
Maybe he should go find that witch. But he would keep that option
open, he could always visit her later. Stuffing the green bar
wrapper in his pocket he stood and retrieved his pack. With
decisive steps he travelled towards the first town, Sak, stopping
at a hidden entrance. Paris had created a little spell and looked
out for a shimmer. There was one now just ahead of him between two
trees.

To the uninitiated it looked like Paris was
waving his arms around before stepping into a mist. After his
seeming “disappearance” into the brush he kept heading east through
what should be a relatively unused frequency. It was so close to
the normal world he could still see the woods and dirt path. He
came across a junction—not in the real world—and stayed his path.
The witch lived in the west and he didn't have much time for
riddles; he’d never met a witch who gave straight answers to simple
questions.

Fields surrounded the town but he was still
in woodlands. They were thinning though as he travelled along a
wider, dirt path. Sak was a town rich in culture and gossip. They
prided themselves on knowing a lot. Paris rather thought they’d be
a lot of know-it-alls. He also guessed that the Assemblers would go
there too. No doubt they worried about his new freedom and would
have several search parties out there looking. He wanted to leave a
false trail so appearing in a few towns north, and mingling with
the inhabitants making sure they would remember him, seemed like a
good plan.

Days later Paris, thinking his plan was
already getting holes in it, sat on a hill that was covered in
green grass and little white flowers. He leaned against the trunk
and enjoyed the shade of a young tree. Sak spread out below. He
received another call and he tuned in.

“Yes?”

“Aren't you in a charming mood?”

“What do you want, O'rah?”

There was a hesitation. “I’m supposed to find
out where you are dear but I’ve suddenly developed a splitting
headache from your rudeness.”

She broke the connection.

He smiled. Despite where her loyalties lay
she would not play the puppet even if she intended to. O’rah had a
temper and it would work for him in this case. Everyone had their
limits and obviously the manipulators had theirs. Paris clapped his
hands together and closed his eyes. There was work to be done but
first a nap. And then, the marines.