One

The Coming of the Mage

The night was cool and crisp with new-fallen dew. Gratia sat by the fire watching flames dance wildly in the still air. Her thoughts were captured by one wondrous thing: the old wandering gypsy man who had entered their camp that morning. He sat on a huge log on the other side of the fire, telling tales of old as if he had lived them himself, and to her six-year-old mind, and some of the other members of the camp who were gathered around listening, he may well have done.

Few people ever came upon their Romany camp. This was mainly because people didn’t care for gypsies a great deal. They were seen as unclean and mysterious people who would cut your throat for a purse full of coppers. That is why her family had set up their home in the Shaihien valley where people rarely wandered, and so left them in peace.

Yet this morning, while she had been playing by the stream with a few of the other gypsy children, they had seen a shadow moving through the trees and, out of curiosity, had gone to look. What they found made their eyes grow wide with surprise. There, in front of them, had been a squat old man, his face covered by a huge grey fur robe with a long white beard protruding from under the hood. He held a staff, twice as tall as any of the children. It had been carved of a light wood, with gold bells and silver gypsy charms tied to the head.

The man had stopped as the children stalked him at a safe distance, making no attempt to hide themselves, for they knew they were much faster and nimbler than he. For a moment he stood as still as a rock, then he drew back his hood and turned to face them.

A unified gasp rose from the children as they saw his eyes. They were like crystal-blue gems, as soft as the sky yet as sharp as the wind. All around his cheeks and brow there where deep scars; ruts of crimson skin barely healed by time. It was clear to them that although his eyes were as clear as their own, they were quite incapable of seeing.

He had come back to their camp and been offered a bowl of soup, which he relished and lapped up with a hunk of black bread. He had then slept for at least four hours in one of the caravans. After that, the children and some of the other members of the family bombarded him with questions of where he was from and why he was there. 

Now, as the dark night drew in around them, he sat by the fire allowing a trickle of words to fall from his mouth, creating a chain of sentences which seemed to come alive and dance into rhythms of a story which captured the imaginations of all who listened.

Gratia sighed with contentment, she had always loved stories, but then, didn’t everyone? She did not know a member of the family who had not, at some stage or another, sat on that big log and told a tale to the others. But this one was somehow different. All the stories she had ever heard before had either been fairytales of princes and witches, dragons and princesses, or they had been in some way historical: how the family had come to be, important times in the family's history, important people of the family, family heroes and heroines and such. But this one was different. It seemed to be a little of both. It was almost like a true fairytale, one in which the goblins and princes had gone into battle to decide the fate of history. 

And there were important princes, with names. Not just ‘Charming’ and ‘Starshine’, but real names! There was a Prince Gaida who ruled a kingdom called Kaidan, who went to war with a witch named Serrial who ruled a land called the Ebony Kingdom and threatened to kill Gaida’s wife and children if he did not hand over his land. Then there was a Goblin King named Ethwinal, who married an Impian wife, and led his entire kingdom into battle to save her people when they were attacked by the Drow. But it was the way he told it that was special. There was something in his voice... a passion. He had been there when all of these stories were taking place, she was sure of that.

And so, as the flames glinted in her eyes, she sat and listened to those wondrous stories the old blind man told and something in her heart danced at the thought of all those places and people that were out there, that could look up at the same moon that she could. Her deep green eyes darkened, and her thin arched eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she followed the music the old man spoke.

The next morning, Gratia awoke by the fire covered in a blanket her father must have brought out for her. The first shimmering rays of dawn were coming over the horizon and the family were beginning to stir. The large, sturdy Romanies rocked slightly as people moved about in them. A couple of children were already picking logs from the small, delicate caravan that served as a wood store.

The scent of applewood was already thick in the air and she caught a waft of something cooking; her tummy rumbled. She struggled to her feet and looked around, there was no one else by the smouldering embers of the fire. Rubbing the last of the sleep from her eyes, she made in the direction of her caravan. 

Inside, she smiled as she saw her father hunched over the fire, stirring a large pot of something that smelled very good. Placing the blanket back on her bed, she sat down on it and looked at him for a moment. 

Wroguard was a tall man with gruff features. He had deep green eyes, a little darker then her own, and his hair was the same raven black hers was. It was ruggedly cut, mopping his brow. He was also strong. She had seen him lifting with ease logs and saddles that the younger men struggled with.

He had a small scar near to his left eye where he had once been attacked. He had been accused of stealing apples from a stall in a town market. When he tried to deny it, the guard told the stall owner to hold his hand to the table. The guard had produced a long, sharp knife and raised it high above his head. Her father had pulled away just in time, but as he turned to run, the stall owner pulled out a dagger and slashed at his face. An inch closer and he would have lost his eye.

She did not have a mother. She had died when Gratia was a very small girl. Her father said she was too young to remember her, that her mother caught an illness through drinking bad water and became very sick. She had died then. There was a little hand-sized painting of her mother hanging by her bed. She had been a very pretty lady, with dark brown eyes and flowing chestnut locks that whipped up into curls and licks, like her own black hair did. She had a lovely smile that made her eyes light up with mischief. Her father had told her she looked a lot like her mother sometimes, that she had the same smile – and the same temper.

Apparently, her mother had a wicked temper and a sharp tongue to compliment it. When she was charming she could make any man in the camp do as she wished, and when she was in a foul temper she could make anyone in the camp do as she wished. Her name had been Chalice. 

Her father had named her Gratia though, it meant ‘Grace’ in the gypsy tongue, for he often told her that she was his ‘saving grace’ now that her mother was gone. She liked that. It felt good to know he needed her around. Gratia Evaina Cilarie. The gypsy Cilarie. She smiled to herself.

After breakfast she went back outside to look for wild flowers that she could dry. She followed a narrow path into a copse of trees that hid a tiny spring where she knew Gillyflowers and Maid’s Hair grew. Kneeling by the clear pool, she cupped her hands and drew some of the night-chilled water to her mouth, savouring the refreshing taste.

A chill went down her spine. Her skin began to prickle as she realised she was being watched, though she could not actually see anyone. Peering through the shady trees, she thought she saw a shadow move. She waited, fearing to breath in case it should give her away. 

After a few moments, nothing had revealed itself. Knowing she could not well sit there all day, she built up her courage.

“Who– who’s there? Jinyan, is that you? Because if it is, come and talk to me!”

“It is only me, young girl,” came a soft voice directly behind her.

Gratia shrieked in alarm. The shock that someone had been standing behind her all along made her jump so violently that she almost fell into the small pool. Spinning around she found herself face-to-face with the old gypsy traveller. Exhaling shakily, she looked up at him, ready to scorn him for creeping up on her, but the soft look in his blind eyes rendered her incapable of passing a harsh word. She sighed and knelt back down.

To her surprise, the blind gypsy also kneeled down, facing her. She frowned at him, still not fully forgiving him for intruding on her little cubby and making her jump. 

“Why do you frown at me, little girl? Do I bother you?”

Gratia gasped sharply, unsure what was happening.

“I– I thought you were blind, sir.”

“Just because I cannot use my eyes little girl, does not mean I cannot see.”

Gratia, her irritation now completely forgotten, looked at the man in amazement. Thinking for a moment, she held one shaky hand up and waved it. To her astonishment, the old man took his hand out of his robe and waved back!

“You deceive me, sir! You are not blind at all!”

Her irritation began to return, she did not like to be deceived.

“You are right little girl, I am far from blind, although I cannot use my eyes to see.”

Gratia’s curiosity began to well up inside of her, engulfing her irritation once again.

“If you do not see through your eyes, then what do you see through?”

The old man smiled, satisfied that he had gained her trust.

“My staff, child.”

“But that is made of nothing but wood! Wood cannot see.”

“Ah! But it is magic, child. Do you not see that? It is made of a magic the likes of which you and your people have never encountered before!”

Gratia frowned. All her short life she had lived in the Shaihien valley. She knew little of the lands outside it, and even less of the people. She had been raised on fairytales and folk stories all her life, though she knew the people who told them were mostly as ignorant as herself.

“I don’t believe in magic,” she announced.

The old man’s smile faded a little, though his eyes remained soft.

“Oh, and why is that, little girl?”

Gratia shrugged.

“Is it because you have never experienced magic before?”

Gratia thought for a moment. Deep down inside she truly wanted to believe in the magic she had hear of, the type in the fairytales where there were lots of Storm Wizards and Sun Mages, lots of bright lights and making things disappear and turn to dust. Suddenly she saw an opportunity appear, an opportunity too good to miss. Her curiosity gave her the courage to speak.

“You are right, sir. I have never seen magic, and that is why I do not believe in it.”

As if reading her thoughts, the old man stood up with surprising ease for his aged figure, and beckoned her to do the same. 

She did. 

“You see the water in that pool, little girl? See how still it is?”

Gratia nodded and then, thinking about it, said “yes”, but strangely the old man seemed to have already acknowledged her nod.

“Watch carefully.”

The old man gently lifted his staff into the air, its small silver charms and bells tinkling and chiming together. Gently, with a hand that was as steady as a tree branch, he began to draw the staff in tight little clockwise circles. As he did so, he closed his eyes and began to mutter something under his breath.

Gratia looked at the water in deep concentration, watching for anything out of the ordinary. After a minute or two nothing had happened and Gratia began to feel irritated again, she wondered if the man had just been trying to trick her.

Just as she was about to turn away and ask him what was supposed to happen, she noticed that the water was beginning to move in a clockwise direction. Only very slowly, but it was, and it was getting faster. For a moment the young girl just stood there, wondering if she was seeing things, but soon she was sure that it was really happening. 

The water began to move faster and faster until the subtle spiral turned into a violent whirlpool, spinning dead leaves and pebbles around on the bottom. Gratia gasped, biting her lip as she looked from the pool to the old man and back again.

The water swirled faster, and then suddenly something else began to happen: the water seemed to be moving away from the edge of the pool, spinning tighter and tighter, moving into the centre of the spring and lifting up, rising up into a small spinning cylinder of water like a dust devil. Then, without warning, the old man stopped. The water hovered for a moment before dropping back down into the pool, splashing out over the sides with the force of gravity.

“But–”

Before she could say anything, the old man held up a hand to silence her. Then he bent over and held the head of the staff a couple of inches from the water. He began to mutter again, and to Gratia’s unbelieving eyes the water started to stream in a tiny thread up from the pond surface to the staff. It did not actually touch the wood of the staff, rather it formed a dome over the smooth knob, swirling and moving like a little hovering lake. The old man pulled the staff back and looked at his creation. He had not taken too much water from the pool, but then he didn’t need to.

He moved towards Gratia, holding the staff out to her so that she could have a better look at the watery dome. She held out a hand and prodded the clear swirling mass. It felt wet! She moved her finger around in it, stirring it. There was no doubt that it was really water, she was sure of that, but when she removed her fingers from the mass they were dry again. The water had streamed back to the staff like a magnet! Gratia giggled as she watched the patterns of it change.

The old man stood the staff up and let go of it. It stayed upright. He beckoned to Gratia to come closer. He took her tiny, delicate hand in his chapped and weathered one. He wrapped the thumb and forefinger of his other hand around her wrist, measuring it, then he turned back to the staff and plucked the watery dome from above it; it did not change shape. He knelt down so that he was on the same level as Gratia, then he beckoned for her to give him her hand again. He began to stretch the water into a long, thin strip which he wrapped around her wrist. She giggled, it felt funny to have water move over her arm whilst the rest of her body was dry. 

He produced a small dagger from his robe. It was made of a brilliant blue metal, and a faint turquoise glow surrounded it. Very gently, he began to carve something in the watery bracelet. With great concentration, he created delicate swirls. When he was done, he stood up again and said one word: “Kquian”. Gratia felt a tightening on her wrist. When she looked down, her face did nothing to hide her surprise, for the thin strip of water had now become silver and it was engraved with gypsy runes!

“So, you do not believe in magic, little girl?”

Gratia blushed a deep shade of red.

“Are– are you a magician?” she asked, cautiously.

“Magician? Bah! Magicians are entertainers, they use illusions and tricks. No, I am not a magician.”

“Then, what are you?”

“I am a mage, my dear girl. I deal with real magic, and that bracelet shall bring you protection when you leave here.”

Gratia’s next words caught in her throat. What did he mean “leave here”?

The old man nodded.

“Oh, you will leave, dear girl – one day. But you need not fret yourself with that now, for it is a long way off. However, when you do leave, and you are ever in trouble, just recite those few runes and I shall be there for you. But you must promise me one thing.”

“Wh– what?”

“Use it wisely. That is all I ask. Only call me if I am truly needed and you have no other option, for I am a busy man and my services are required by many. Though, for you, I shall make exceptions. I believe you have a great future ahead of you.”

And with that, the old man snatched up his staff, uttered two words, and vanished into thin air.

Gratia stood staring at the spot where the old man had been for some time. As she turned back to the path out of the woods, she was mixed with many feelings, but two emotions ruled over all the others: curiosity and fear.