Chapter 11: In Which Marning Makes a Mess In Auran City

Burgen Winterstarch had eyes the colour of forget-me-nots and hair so blond it brought the sun to shame. His cheeks were as round and pink as a baby's bottom; his complexion glowing like moonlight. His teeth, which he constantly flashed about in a confident grin, were as white as pearls. His robes had more frills and colours than a peacock's tail, made of the finest fabrics and fashioned according to the highest court fashions. He stepped into the room with light steps, a bounce in his easy stride and with flourishing movements overflowing with youth, he sat down before the Grand Master Marning.

"You called! Grand Master!" he chimed. The boy tended to exclaim whatever he said.

Burgen Winterstarch seemed like an overgrown clown, and even though Marning knew that this was mostly an act, whenever he had to have an audience with the boy his skin crawled.

Marning would have to learn to live with it.

Burgen was the third son of a minor noble who had a few small holdings somewhere in the poverty-stricken west of Auranora. If he had not been born a Wielder, Burgen would have most likely ended up as one of the dregs of nobility, so poor he could barely buy his bread, but still proud to call himself nobility

Despite his meagre means, Burgen had been one of those fortunate boys who discovered his abilities at a tender age and, vibrant with youth, had managed to make the most of them. In truth, his head was not filled with rocks as he led many to believe. He was exceptionally gifted, and that was why he was sitting before Marning.

But, gifted or not, he was just another magician overshadowed by Cooper. Another who could struggle and strive all his life, and never reach the greatness of the deceased King's Magician.

Even if Marning had chosen this youth to fill the much sought after position that had been Cooper's, this boy was nowhere near being the next Harlock Cooper.

"I ask that you get rid of that tone," Marning said tersely. How could he hide his bitter disappointment? Cooper had been unique, his existence had been a miracle in history, and now he was gone, leaving behind a dry and colourless world. A world filled with magicians and Wielders, but devoid of the real essence of magic. "You needn't exaggerate in my presence, boy, it will make me hurry to regret my decision."

Burgen straightened in his chair, his expression changing to attentive seriousness; he said nothing, which was exactly the right thing to say.

"As you are most likely familiar with the process, you will be made the King's Magician if I recommend it after two years of apprenticeship under my hand." Marning lowered his voice, "but to be fair with you, Winterstarch, I feel obligated to explain to you in what position you stand."

"I believe I know," Burgen said with a hint of arrogance in his confident smile.

"Oh?"

"I am to be the most unfortunate King's Magician candidate in the history of Auranora, for I stand to fill shoes larger than any magician could fill. I will never amount to anything like my predecessor, I am only sufficient for what a world lacking Harlcok Cooper could offer."

Marning grunted in agreement, at least Burgen's ability to comprehend was comforting."Yes, that is vaguely the matter I wished to illustrate."

"Then I trust we understand one another, Grand Master!" Once again Burgen's smile flashed, and he crossed his legs theatrically "I cannot aspire higher than my abilities will allow. I am content to accept this position even if I am the most tragic person to receive it in all of history."

Marning's frown returned. Burgen was too much of a clown for comfort. "As long as this won't mean the end of Auranoran history," Marning said dryly as he slowly stood up, his old bones creaking. These days, whenever movement was required, it was accompanied by sighing.

Burgen leapt to his feet as swiftly as a rabbit. "I must go to another appointment." Marning told him. "Let us start your lessons tomorrow."

"Yes, Grand Master! Fare ye well!"

Marning bristled at Burgen's voice, before he shook his head, clucked his tongue and, joints groaning, trudged off.

***

Like many Wielders, Marning did not believe in the Gods or the afterlife or any of the other nonsense they offered. Believing in Gods was a popular habit of the masses of people who were not Magic Wielders. However it was not necessary to completely discard everything connected with religion. Tradition still had its value.

Many Wielders practiced tradition on occasion, Marnng included. The ability to Wield magic often didn't travel by blood, A Wielder could appear in any family, from any class in society. Only in magic were the people of Auranora equal. Cooper used to say that if people could be equal in the potential to be Wielders, they should be equal in everything.

Cooper often voiced dangerous, subversive ideas like that, and only he could get away with it.

Given his position, when Marning travelled outside the palace grounds and into the city streets he was expected to do so in style. But he found being carried in a sedan chair an embarrassment, and coming out by carriage or on horseback was a hassle, so he allowed himself to choose another mode of travel:

A magic rug.

It was a vehicle of his own creation, a beautiful rug woven from gold thread and fine silk. Of course it had been Cooper, inspired by children's stories, who gave him the idea; of course it had been Cooper who figured out how it could be accomplished. But the King insisted that Auranora's Grand Magic Master would still be accompanied by the proper escort, thereby announcing his passage to the city people. It made the rug almost pointless, since he couldn't soar over the city buildings like he had intended to. Yet it became a trademark spectacle associated with the Grand Master's appearance.

He sat cross-legged on the rug, which floated a foot above the ground, with two novice magicians in front of him and two walking behind. He knew that for these young men, performing such a task was an honour. They had no other way to come into close proximity with the Grand Magic Master. Somehow, they hoped to be influenced by him by merely escorting him through the streets of the city.

Many years before, when he had been an aspiring novice himself, he remembered once escorting the then Grand Master, Old Scotch-breath Nailcklin. He had held his back so straight the whole time that his spine ached by the end of the day.

Like his spine that day, Marning's path in life had been straightforward the entire way. He discovered his Wielder abilities early on, when he was eight. He finished his magician studies at seventeen, he was apprenticed to be the next King's Magician at twenty, and he was appointed Grand Master at the young age of forty. His life had been a series of anticipations for the next position.

Until he no longer had anything to aspire to. Then he turned and looked at the path behind him, finding the magical world suddenly wanting in talent. From then on, his life became an endless search for a spark of light in the gloom of magic. In a straightforward way, like a rising sun, Cooper had stepped into the blank skies.

He was too old now, far too old, for things to stop being straightforward.

The hour was noon and the streets were busy. Crowds of people were ordered to move aside to allow the passage of the Grand Master. They pressed back in a hurry to either side of the street, some looking disgruntled at the inconvenience, others were anxious to get a good look at him. Carts had to veer out of the way, the horses pulling them stomping angrily at being ordered about so sharply. There was much yelling and pushing and stumbling associated with such passages, but the people would grow silent when Marning came into view.

All this mess, just for one appointment outside the palace.

Not even an appointment, for it was an appointment with no person. It was out of tradition, out of despair, out of depression that he set out to look upon the stone that marked Harlock Cooper's grave. Cooper's body had been placed in the ground on the crowded east side of the city. Even though he had been the greatest man in the Kingdom, even though he had been the greatest magician in history, he was buried among his people, next to his family, as was proper. His funeral had been like a funeral of one of the people, open to all who wished to mourn, and the people of Auran had all come to pay their respects, jamming the small cemetery and spilling out onto the surrounding streets. On that day the messy and noisy east side had been silent, dark, and respectful. Even though for most of his life he had been far removed from them, comfortably ensconced behind the walls of the palace, the people still claimed him as their own.

Cooper would have loved seeing this, Marning thought with bitter irony, he would have loved seeing how Marning crossed the entire city just to visit his grave.

And then with a deep frown he drove that thought away. Cooper, wherever or whatever he was now, would hate being dead.

Suddenly, two carts trying to manoeuvre out of the Grand Master's way crashed together with the sound splitting of timber. It was followed by chaos; the panicked cries of horses and oxen, the screams of people leaping out of the way. But it was over before anyone could clearly comprehend what had happened.

The neighing of a freed but terrified horse, its hooves clopping on the cobblestones as it fled, were the last sounds. The noise subsided and was replaced by a momentary shocked silence.

The dust began to settle, Marning looked down to see the novices crowded around the rug. He smirked, he could not decide whether they wished to protect him or wanted him to protect them. He cleared his throat and, to the alarm of his four young escorts, stiffly alighted from the rug.

Stepping heavily, he went over to the looming heap of two overturned carts, picking his way among the cabbages that had been the cargo of the smaller cart and now littered the street. As he passed them, the cabbages started moving and shuffling about, filing in behind him like students following the schoolteacher.

Without appearing to notice them, the Grand Master continued walking until he was near enough to raise his eyebrows at the fallen cart, which obediently righted itself, the cabbages seizing this moment to jump back into it. The cart driver, who had been trying to get to his feet, sat frozen to the spot, seeming to find the sight of the Grand Master standing over him more disconcerting than any cart accident.

Marning saw that he wasn't seriously hurt and moved on to the second cart. It was, in fact, a large, enclosed wagon, too big for the city and by its state, it proved that the bigger you are, the harder you fall. It was properly smashed. The oxen that had been pulling it had broken away and so had two of its wheels. Its two drivers lay dead, but it was the wagon's cargo that made Marning hurry his stride. The door at the back of the cart tore away at his command and a boy jumped out, followed by a string of men, all of them blinking in the bright sunlight. There were eight men besides the boy, and they were all chained together.

Amazingly, not one of them appeared to be hurt. The men looked around anxiously. The first to recognise the Grand Master was the last man on chain, and he regarded Marning with a look of both fear and awe. "You're... You are the Grand Magic Master?" he asked, not needing a reply, Marning was in full regalia, and any fool in the city would recognise the Grand Master from a mile away. The man fell to his knees. "Grand Master," he murmured with trembling lips, "We —we're saved!"

The other men went down one after the other, too shocked or too numb or too tired to speak, until the only one to remain standing was the boy at the other end of the chain.

The boy was like scarecrow, his arms so thin they looked like twigs, his black hair disheveled and matted, his skin brown and mottled. He was surveying his surroundings with practical curiosity, steadily unfazed. Slowly he turned his head toward Marning.

Reality was swallowed by a dream. Marning's blood ran like ice as his feet moved him forward. Why was the face he saw in his thoughts the face he saw with his eyes? It was a ghost. A ghost created out of memory. Marning seized the bony shoulders of the child, who in turn glared up at him, the boy's brown eyes filled with suspicion. "This can't be," Marning whispered, his fingers tightening over the boy's shoulders. "You can't be."

That straight nose, those high cheekbones, those brown eyes and small forehead. Etched into memory forever. A ghost with flesh and bones. A face he had seen day after day, until that boy had grown into a young man. Until that young man died –

But this boy was alive. Marning let go of him and took a step back. He was alive, and there was an almost feral fierceness in his expression. "Who are you?" the Grand Master asked. One deeper look – it was exactly as it should be – a Wielder, a strong and burning Wielder.

The boy still glared and didn't answer. A very angry Wielder. Marning touched the silver chain at the boy's throat; it slipped off into Marning's palm. The boy spat something out that landed on the ground with a metal clatter and rolled away. "Who are you, boy?" the Grand Master asked again.

The boy tried to lift his hand to touch the welts at his neck but the shackles weighed him down. "Are we free now?" he asked in exactly the manner Marning would expect him to, without any regard for who he was speaking to.

Another look from Marning and the shackles fell away from the boy and from all the men as well. "Do you know who I am, boy?" Marning asked, trying a different strategy.

"You're the Grand Magic Master," the boy replied without hesitating.

"I stand second to the King for ordinary men, first in command for Wielders," the Grand Master said. "And I will ask you one last time, who are you?"

The boy shrugged, his voice overcome with fatigue when he said, "I'm Rat."