Chapter 15 Declan #2
“I had to help him. You scared the breath out of him,” órla said before I could speak. “Literally!”
The old man chuckled and stood, leaning on a wooden cane carved with intricate vines along its length and topped with a polished, gnarled knot larger than both his bony fists.
“Daughter, it warms this old man’s heart to see you again.” He turned toward the door of the cabin and waved to me. “Come, come. We have much to discuss.”
I followed the man into the cabin, surprised to find the inside even simpler than the exterior.
Aside from a small bed nestled against the wall, a round table and simple wooden chairs, the cottage was bare.
Opposite the door, a copper teapot squealed from its hook over a fire.
Battered mugs hung in a row from hooks above the hearth.
“Please sit. I’ll pour us some tea.” The old man shuffled to the pot, leaning his cane against the wall beside the fireplace.
Flesh sizzled, and his hand glowed, as he grabbed the handle of the pot and poured water into two large mugs. The acrid smell of scored skin wrinkled my nose. Yet, when the man returned the pot to its hook, his palm was whole and unmarred.
The shock on my face prompted a deep, rumbling laugh. “Dear boy, you look like a hooked fish, staring with your mouth open like that. Close it before the flies get in!”
“He’s silly like that sometimes,” órla chirped, prompting the old man’s laugh to swell and his eyes to crease.
I set my pack down and sat at the table. The man sat as well and took a long sip from his mug while staring at me over the rim.
The moment stretched.
I hesitantly sipped my own bitter brew, then cleared my throat.
I didn’t know what to do or say.
The man’s head snapped up. “Ah . . . Forgive me, boy. I was lost in thought. What were you saying?”
“Declan is silly,” órla offered before I could reply.
I shot her a glare. She giggled and ducked her head.
“Why don’t we start with an introduction?” I suggested.
“That’s a grand idea. It’s been years, maybe decades—or centuries, I can’t remember—since my last visitor. Days and nights . . . they all blend together, and I am so very old.”
The man settled back into his chair and took another sip before staring at his tea in silence.
More long, awkward moments passed.
órla hopped from my shoulder onto the table and trotted to stand in front of the man. “Keeper, please.”
He startled and peered down at the little owl. “Ah, yes, Daughter. Forgive me.”
His gaze returned to me, and clarity entered his eyes for the first time since we’d met.
“Young man, as I’m sure you guessed, I am the Keeper of Magic. Perhaps you will know me by other names in days to come. My charge, for as long as time itself, has been to protect the Well from all who would do it harm or covet its power.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Keeper,” I said, not quite sure if an honorific was appropriate, and, if so, which one. I was treading on unfamiliar ground. “I am Declan Rea, a Ranger of the Melucian Empire. The Arch Mage sent—”
“Yes, yes.” He waved his skeletal palm. All warmth having left his voice as he asked, “Why did you intrude on the Path?”
I was taken aback. “I didn’t intrude. I was sent to find you, to ask for your help.”
“And what help could an old man offer?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. The Arch Mage . . . Atikus . . . they sent someone who doesn’t even have a Gift to find magical aid.”
I ran my hand through my hair and sighed.
A note of resignation entered my voice as my shoulders drooped.
“I’m not sure what they’re expecting from this. All I know is that they believe you can help us, and I was sent to ask, to beg if necessary.”
“Why does the Arch Mage need assistance? He is powerful in his own right. And Atikus”—his rumble returned—“that man has layers upon layers undiscovered.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant about Atikus, but certainly understood how the old Mage could be secretive. His Gift of perfect recall was impressive, but that would do little to fend off trebuchets and flaming arrows.
Over the next few minutes, I explained the situation on the border between Melucia and the Kingdom, our encounter with scouts in the mountains, and the tens of thousands of troops now camped within leagues of our homeland.
The Keeper listened intently, peppering me with questions throughout.
All signs of the doddering old man had vanished, save for how he hobbled when he stood to refill his mug.
“Without help, many will die, and Melucia will fall, likely followed by the tribal lands to our east. The military power of the Kingdom far outweighs all the other nations combined.”
The Keeper stood and turned toward the fire so only half of his face was visible. Light danced across his expression, casting ominous shadows.
“It has been over a thousand years since one came to me seeking aid. Her pleas were genuine, and her need was great, so I granted her access to the Well. The evil she wrought using the power of her Light was terrible. If I live another thousand years, nothing will cause me more sadness or regret.”
My mind reeled as I searched my memory and tried to recall lessons of the history he recounted. “I don’t understand. A thousand years ago . . . would’ve been the time of the Kingdom War . . . and Irina. Are you saying Irina used power you gave her to start that war?”
“Yes . . . yes. Irina. That was her name. I can see her face even now. She seemed so frail and helpless.”
The weathered man shrank before my eyes.
“She found a way to harness the power of the Well and bend it to her will. She would’ve succeeded had your Arch Mage not come to me quickly and told me of the war she waged. I also granted him access to the Well, only the second in millennia, and by the Phoenix,
he raised the mountains that now form your border, killing many but halting the plague of war.”
There wasn’t a child alive who couldn’t recite some version of the legend of Irina and the Kingdom War, but I had never expected to hear the tale from one who helped bring it about. And then I realized what he’d said. . . .
“Wait, you said our Arch Mage came to you for help back then? Arch Mage Velius Quin? He can’t be more than thirty or forty years old . . . and I was taught that the Phoenix raised the mountains by sacrificing herself, not some Mage. There’s no Mage powerful enough to do something like that.
That’s what our legends say.”
The Keeper laughed so hard he spilled his tea.
I gaped as the dark liquid evaporated in tiny flashes of light the moment it touched the pearlescent fabric of his robe.
He returned to his chair and eyed me through an amused, fatherly gaze.
“Oh, my dear boy, Quin must be twelve or thirteen hundred years old by now, perhaps a few centuries more. Magic does such wonderful things for the complexion.”
He chortled again, hacking a few times as his laughter settled.
“Some of what you have been taught is true,” the man said, sipping several times to clear his throat.
“But none of that is important now. After Irina’s . . . troubles, safeguards were put in place to ensure the Well is never abused again. You encountered the first of those protections when you touched the Path. Without the flow of magic, one cannot even see the stones.”
My head snapped up. “Wait. Then why could I see them? I don’t have a Gift.”
The Keeper placed a hand on my arm as his smile brightened. “My boy, there is Light inside you brighter than any sun. Magic has always flowed within you—through you, actually—though you may not have known it.”
My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find words. My eyes refused to blink.
“You have much to learn, but the question remains: Are you worthy to be taught?”
Childhood anger flared, and I tossed off the old man’s hand in a fit of juvenile rebellion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—any of it. I’ve never been good enough . . . or worthy . . . or whatever. Magic never chose me, and it never will!”
The Keeper sat back and stared for a long moment, his expression a dark mask, then stood and held out his mug. “I’d like some more tea, please.”
“Get it yourself,” I spat.
órla tottered to the edge of the table and caught my eye. “Get the man his tea, Bond-Mate.”
Her serious, almost-adult tone surprised me almost as much as the Keeper’s claim I had magic.
“Fine!”
I shoved back my chair, marched around the table, and grabbed the scalding handle, jerking the kettle off its hook above the fire. A glow flared from my palm, gaining brightness the longer I gripped the angry metal.
The acrid taste of charred skin assaulted my senses.
My eyes flew wide, but the Keeper simply held out his mug.
I filled it, then returned the kettle to its hook.
I stood before the fire and gawked at my palm as the glow faded. There should’ve been a line of scored flesh. I should’ve been in pain—a lot of pain.
Unmarred, healthy skin stared back.
This can’t be real. There’s no way—
“Oh, it’s real, my boy.” I heard the Keeper’s booming voice in my head.
I spun around to find the old man smiling and sipping his tea.
“But . . . how? I’m Mute and—”
“Yay! Declan made blue Light again!” órla hopped on the table, snapping both men out of the moment. She continued her dance while I struggled to remember to breathe. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.
Without preamble or warning, the Keeper reached up and pressed his index finger into my forehead. “Now, let’s put that silliness about you not having magic away. The real question is, what will you do with it?”
The world spun into complete darkness.
This time, órla didn’t bring me back from it.