I’m applying to a curated author fair in April, so to satisfy one of the requirements I’m posting the first chapter of this book. Enjoy!
Paradise Lost
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This horse hates me.
Maghrurio was convinced of it. After getting shouldered into the stall door for the fourth time, he finally lost his temper. “What is your problem, Snowfall? Don’t you like getting brushed?”
The dappled gray and white mare turned her head and stared. Maybe it was his connection with the animal, or more likely just his own conscience, but the meaning seemed clear.
I’m very disappointed in you.
Snowfall appeared to sense his changing attitude, a dissatisfaction Maghrurio began to feel last week. A strange dream of smoke, blood, and death left him shaken. The unrest dissipated, replaced by a growing feeling that perhaps it was time to move on. It was a familiar sense of ennui he’d experienced with so many jobs before. The lethal combination of boredom and restlessness, the fear of being trapped, and the need to break free.
“Come on, Snowfall, it’s not so bad. I haven’t decided anything yet.”
With a huff and a stomp, the perceptive horse turned her head away from him.
Do you expect me to believe that?
“I don’t know, girl, really I don’t. Working for Abner is fine, I guess, but sometimes I feel like I can do better than this.” He sighed. “I’m not sure what I should be doing with my life.”
Recognizing his honest admission, Snowfall nickered and turned, nuzzling him affectionately.
Maghrurio absently stroked her head and gave her an apple core from his pocket.
“Thanks, girl. Let’s get you hooked up to the wagon so I can get some breakfast of my own. Don’t worry,” he reassured the mare. “It’s not like I’m quitting this morning. I’m still making up my mind.”
Only he wasn’t, really.
• • ● • •
Washed and refreshed, the horse and wagon readied, and his chores completed, Maghrurio returned to his small room in Abner’s house. He quickly donned a fresh set of his usual pants and tunic, as unremarkable and nondescript as he himself. Slightly taller and thinner than most people, he could not be considered imposing or even notable by any stretch of the imagination.
A familiar nagging thought rattled around in his mind.
I’m approaching middle age. Will I ever amount to anything?
Maghrurio followed the aroma of fresh breakfast to the sparse kitchen, where the housekeeper was busy washing pots in the sink. “Good morning, Bacarus.”
Bacarus was a slight woman with dark hair and eyes. A bit shorter and younger than he, she wasn’t much for small talk, but her energy level made hard workers seem lazy by comparison. Because of her work ethic, perhaps, she favored pants rather than the house frocks typical of other housekeepers he’d encountered. She was usually even-tempered with him, but when suitably provoked, she could frighten the fur off a wild wolf.
She inclined her head in greeting. “It’s porridge and fruit this morning. The herbal tea is fresh. Help yourself,” she added.
Discordant humming drifted down the hall, preceding the approaching master of the house. “Good morning, all,” Abner said with a twinkle in his eye.
He was easily one of the tallest men in town, with white hair and a flowing beard he kept well-groomed. His piercing blue eyes missed nothing, and his sharp wit and ready laugh were often on display. He was a treasure trove of stories and advice and quite a friendly sort once you moved past the idea of him being one of a handful of magic-wielding Mystics in all of Sonoduhl.
“Porridge again, my dear?”
Maghrurio sighed at the morning ritual. The affluent and powerful of Sonoduhl sought out Abner for his wisdom and guidance. Why then did he seem to delight in provoking Bacarus’ temper? She returned Abner’s stare evenly. “I know how to make many dishes, Master. But for those that sample too many of them, a bit of porridge will keep their hems from bursting.”
Abner laughed at her riposte. “Such a wonderful, sharp wit. Never lose that, my dear; it is among the finest of your many talents.”
Bacarus responded by sniffing loudly, turning back to her dishes in silence, and scrubbing twice as hard.
Responding to Abner’s good mood, Maghrurio gave an exaggerated sweeping bow, “By my hands has yonder wagon been readied, my liege.”
Abner’s smile vanished. “You, on the other hand, are quite adept at keeping your talents well hidden. We’ll be chatting about your future, Maghrurio, and far sooner than you might prefer.”
Clutching a cup of tea, Abner retreated into the hallway. Maghrurio’s humor vanished abruptly as he exchanged wary looks with Bacarus.
• • ● • •
The trio set out shortly afterward aboard the rickety Snowfall-drawn wagon, Abner and Bacarus in the cramped front seat and Maghrurio, as usual, alone in the back with his thoughts.
Did I hear what I thought I heard? Am I getting fired?
Oblivious to the incongruity of worrying about firing even as he contemplated quitting, Maghrurio tried to distract himself by focusing on his surroundings. Decra was an interesting place, more than a town and less than a city. Nestled in the shadow of the Blade Mountains to the north, it boasted all the hallmarks of civilization, such as temples to several gods, a library, and a branch campus of the larger University of Learning in Acyfala, Albiona’s capital to the east. It also boasted the provincial touches of a small town–a thriving market, family farms, and a casual familiarity its inhabitants shared. People in Decra were friendly, quick to greet and chat with each other.
There was friendliness and warmth all around as they rode toward the market.
Just not within the wagon itself.
Abner seems uncommonly silent, as if he had harsh news to deliver and didn’t quite know how to begin.
At their first stop, Bacarus left the pair waiting while she visited the general store to replenish their foodstuffs. Once they were alone, Abner fixed Maghrurio with a hard stare.
Here it comes.
“Maghrurio, the time has come to re-examine our arrangement. You’ve performed various errands for me and assisted me in my work, but I don’t think you can continue in that role any longer.”
“Master, whatever I’ve done to disappoint you…”
Abner shook his head. “There is no disappointment, but it is clear you can no longer work for me.” He sighed. “You’ve gone through many jobs over the years, Maghrurio, none of which you were particularly suited to or inspired by. This job has been no different. You deserve a calling that will challenge you and inflame your passions.”
“But I have enjoyed…”
“Really, Maghrurio, you’ve enjoyed the people you encountered. But the job itself? No, this running, fetching, and carrying is a waste of your potential.”
Maghrurio saw Bacarus emerge from the store with her arms full and, without thinking, jumped down to help her into the wagon.
“We’ll talk more later, Maghrurio, but I’m afraid my mind is made up.”
After an awkwardly silent ride to their next stop, Bacarus departed to get some sewing supplies at a dress shop. Abner climbed to the ground and stretched his back.
“Please wait with the wagon, Maghrurio. The apothecary next door has asked for my opinion about an odd shipment she received.” The Mystic shambled off, leaving Maghrurio to wallow in despair and self-pity.
He was fired. Again. He just couldn’t seem to help it. He’d get an itch to do something and just as quickly lose interest. Sure, there would be a new job and a new place to live–he’d always managed to before–but still… How many jobs had he gone through? How many more before he found something that suited him? Maghrurio was by no means a young man, but he still hadn’t found an answer to the fundamental question.
What do I want to be when I grow up?
The apothecary burst from her store, yelling as she ran toward the wagon. There was a burst of bright light and a thunderclap of sound, and Maghrurio was thrown to the ground.
He slowly regained consciousness, dazed and bloody. The sounds, the smells, the feeling of danger… Was this that dream again? No, this was reality. He lay on the ground in front of the smoldering wreck that, until moments before, had been the shop.
His ears ringing from the explosion, Maghrurio lurched to his feet. He ran, choking, into the burning building, his cloak a flimsy shield against the flames. Unfamiliar with the layout, he found the interior a maze of shelves and tables obscured by billowing smoke and chaotic destruction. Flames were everywhere, with random tongues of green or violet as some exotic ingredient was consumed.
Where could Abner be?
Dodging flames and falling debris, Maghrurio weaved around obstacles he couldn’t move and tossed aside ones he could. Another fallen shelf, another pile of broken crockery, but still no Abner.
Time is running out.
He cast about desperately, searching through the smoke for any sign of his master’s body. Then, a chunk of the roof collapsed, a near miss that peppered him with debris. He ducked under a cross beam and crawled toward the back of the shop, the smoke and flames closing in from every direction. He despaired of ever finding his master when he spotted the man sprawled near the counter. He scrambled over shattered shelving until he stood next to the body. Reaching down, he felt the old man’s neck for a pulse.
He’s still alive.
Hurling debris aside, he hoisted Abner’s body across his shoulder and staggered to the doorway, barely reaching it before the roof collapsed behind them. Somehow, he struggled to the wagon and dropped the unconscious Mystic in the back as Bacarus and the apothecary ran up. They immediately started working on Abner’s wounds in a desperate attempt to save his life.
Abner was in bad shape. He was badly burned in many places and riddled with cuts and bruises from flying debris. His eyes fluttered open and fixed on Maghrurio’s face. He waved his fingers as if washing a window, and Maghrurio felt a strange breeze blow on his face.
“Our conversation is private. I don’t have much time, Maghrurio.” The injured man coughed up blood and continued. “Someone has been assassinating Mystics throughout Sonoduhl, and I fear I am their latest victim.” He gritted his teeth as a wave of pain swept through him. Maghrurio ripped cloth from his tunic and applied pressure to an oozing head wound.
A wracking cough seized Abner, and he fought to draw breath. His throat was ravaged, and he could only whisper. “You thought I fired you earlier, but you mistook my intention.” Straining, his charred right hand pulled a golden ring from his left and pressed it into Maghrurio’s. “Put this on. Never take it off. You are the Mystic now.” He smiled weakly. “Dream of me…”
Abner cried out and went limp. His eyes fluttered, then closed for the last time.
