Chapter One: From the Tent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To make sealing spells, all that is required is red paper, black ink, and a steady hand.

 

 

 

He remembered the day his mother killed herself.

He saw her tears as she walked to the kitchen, carrying him and setting him on the ground. Jonis could barely hold his head up—but then he was only a day old. Her brown eyes were red from constant crying. She had not stopped crying since the moment the doctor put him in her arms, murmuring in dismay, “Your child has blue eyes.”

Back then, he did not know the significance of those words. And how could he? All he knew was that when his mother held him, he felt her despair. Both of them wept all night until his father came home from the fields.

Trading arms to lie in, Jonis had stopped crying the moment his father had touched him. All the despair he felt was replaced by an overwhelming joy. His father had looked down on him, his blue eyes shining, and he had sighed with relief. “At last…a boy.”

They had no other children. Jonis was the first.

His father had walked with infant Jonis in his arms for a while until Jonis got hungry. Yet, as soon as he returned to his mother’s arms he was enveloped in her despair again, and he cried.

The moment after his father had gone off in the morning for some cooked food, and to hire a woman to care for his wife while he worked in the fields, Jonis’s mother climbed out of bed. Still sore and tired, she made her way to the kitchen.

 

Jonis closed his eyes. He didn’t want to remember it, though the memory often forced itself back to his forethoughts.

Clenching his teeth, the thirteen-year-old boy continued on his way to his father’s tent, carrying the firewood that he had gathered on the village skirts. It was all he or his father was allowed to use in that area. They were not welcome in town much. They were not welcome in most places—if most especially in Pringsley, the village where Jonis was born. They had not returned since the day his mother died. The village Harsall only tolerated his father and him because his father was a skilled hunter and provided excellent choices of wild meat—except not lately. Lately his father had been sick, and Jonis had to stay home from school to take care of him.

“I’m back,” Jonis said. Parting the tent curtain, he set the wood next to their camp stove.

“Come here, son,” his father wheezed out. He then coughed, choking with his hand over his mouth.

Jonis dropped to his knees and grabbed the cloth that lay next to his bedroll on the teakettle which was warming next to the small cook stove. “Come on, you’ll be fine. Just take a slow breath.”

His father shook his head, but his coughing subsided. “No, I won’t be fine, son. I’m dying.”

Chills rippled through the boy, but he already knew what his father told him was true. One touch, and he knew his father was not as young as he looked. All his life his father looked like all the other fathers, young and inexperienced, weathered only by the elements. Besides his unusual blue eyes, which no other man Jonis ever met had, his father walked with an aged step. His outward appearance was deceptive. Though physically he looked like a man who would have a thirteen-year-old son, he felt more like he should have great-grand children.

Jonis peered at him, picking the damp rag off his father’s head. He dipped it into the basin of cool water nearby and replaced it. “Don’t say that.”

Wheezing, his father waved Jonis closer. “I have something to tell you, Jonis.”

His father reached up, grasping Jonis’s arm. Jonis felt the shock of rebound—a protective jolt that kept skin-sensitive creatures such as themselves from harming one another. He looked down on his father’s sweaty brow.

“It is time I shared with you the truth,” his father whispered.

Jonis blinked.

His father reached up towards Jonis’s forehead.

Jonis pulled back.

“What are you going to do?”

“Give you a memory,” his father weakly answered. “Now don’t move.”

He watched as his father’s hand reached over his eyes, placing his fingertips against Jonis’s forehead. The touch electrified against his skin. But instead of feeling rebound, which was as painful as swallowing glass, Jonis felt an opposite sensation. Jonis’s mind opened, and he saw into his father’s thoughts. It was the same sensation he had when he was a child in the times when his father wanted to teach him something but did not have time to use words. Just a touch, and he knew what his father knew. This time, a flood of information flowed into his brain. At first it came like a mild pour, filling his thoughts as quickly as he could take it—but then it flooded in as a deluge.

Jonis tried to pull back, but his skin shocked him, refusing to break the link. More, more, and more information dumped into his brain. It overflowed the spaces in his thoughts, pressing against his ears. His head started to throb. Clamping his hands on the sides of his skull, Jonis shook violently. Inundated, swimming in thousands of years of thoughts and memories—images reeled before his eyes in a whirlpool with nowhere to go. He crouched in himself, rocking. 

“I know it will take time to absorb.” His father’s voice inexplicably sounded different. “But you must keep the memory alive and pass it on to your children, if you ever are lucky to have any.”

Jonis’s head felt heavy, clogged with memory. Churning around like a storm, the information fought for space in his brain. In the distance, he heard his father continue to gasp for air. Panting hard and sweating, Jonis managed to open one eye.

Lying in the bed where his father had been was an entirely different man. Same clothes though. His skin was white and thin; no longer rough brown. But that explained why Jonis had been so pale and not tan like his parents. The man that lay before him was also ancient—nearly in his hundreds, if just that. His skin clung to his bones, sunken, wrinkled and pale, with white wispy hair, like clouds over his splotchy scalp. The only things that were the same about him were his blue eyes. They remained as bright as ever, though now watery and tired. The man stroked Jonis’s hand, gazing tenderly on him.

“I may have committed many crimes in my lifetime,” the man who was his real father, wheezed out, “But you were the best thing I ever did.”

Jonis closed his eyes. Tears forced their way through the cracks. “Come on, Papa. You can’t die. You are Cordril. You said so yourself. The people in the village say Cordrils can live forever.”

“People don’t know much about Cordrils, son,” the old man whispered. “We die of old age just like everyone else. Now is my time.”

But Jonis sobbed, clutching his father’s shrunken, bony hand. “You can’t die. You can’t leave me alone. What will I do? They hate me in town.”

The old man patted his hand. “I have given you all the knowledge of our ancestors. You can use it to survive. Just remember.”

“Remember what?” Jonis asked. His face was damp with tears, staring at the poor shriveled man. His head was still swimming with information. The only memories he could discern were his own—the death of his mother at the forefront. That pierced him deep, knowing what he remembered from her as she stabbed herself in the heart, giving her child one last goodbye kiss. From her thoughts, Jonis learned that his father whom he had known his entire life was not the man she had chosen to marry, but a demon that had possessed her husband’s body. Her blue-eyed child was proof, and Jonis could feel her despair even now.

His father started to choke, drawing in a breath of air. It brought Jonis out of his thoughts.

“Remember—everything when you need it,” the old man said. His father closed his eyes, laboring for air. “Search the memories I gave you, and learn who you are.”

Jonis shook, staring as he watched his father attempted to breathe one more time. The old man drew in long and with effort. There was no exhale. His father stared up at the tent ceiling, his mouth open. His shining blue eyes dulled to black.

 

Jonis sat for some time, staring at his knees, unable to stand. He was alone. His father was gone.

He did not know how long he remained like this, but when the cold wind blew the tent flap open, Jonis looked up and blinked. He glanced back down again. His father was still there in the same state, desperately looking at the tent ceiling as if begging to be taken to the stars above it.

Though his head still swam with thoughts from thousands of years back, Jonis hopped to his feet and quickly rushed out of the tent. He stood outside on the top of the hill that overlooked the village in the valley, gathering his breath, shaking and crying.

“No. Why did you leave me?”

But the memories so new to his head answered him. His father had long been dying. It was a miracle that he had lasted that long. His father was already ancient when he had stumbled upon his mother and had replaced the man she was in love with—a painful regret his father held. Now Jonis knew the entire story. Taken from the memories his father had given him he learned that his father was desperate, hoping to leave posterity but never able to coax a woman to be his wife. All were afraid of him—a Cordril, or more commonly known as a demon that stole lives to live longer. But it was a myth, as his father had said on his deathbed. Not that they couldn’t steal lives by the touch of their hands, but that they did not live any longer by it. They could take on the forms of their victims— but those were mere shells. The face of his father he had grown up with was just a shell. The old man was the real thing.

Jonis stared down the hill at the village. The law said he had to report his father’s death and turn himself in to the village magistrates. Up till then, as long as he and his father kept to the law, they were left alone. He had been lucky enough to be allowed to study with the students in the village school. His schooling had taught him the basics, focusing a great deal on the laws of their nation, Brein Amon. Jonis trembled, looking down at the newly installed electric street lamps and the bright windows of the villagers, lit by more traditional gas lamps. What would they do with a Cordril’s body? Everyone believed they were demons, or half-demon, which was just as bad. His head full of memories shouted that demons were to be cremated, by Brein Amon law, to prevent any kind of infestation. So many demons spread their seed through the corpses they inhabited or infected.

Another thought jumped to the forefront of his mind: would they send a hunter to kill him after cremating his father’s body? 

Jonis shook his head. The new information his father had given him handed him other options. The Cordrils had their own traditions of burial. If he followed them quickly, leaving the grave unmarked, he might be able to satisfy both the laws of the land and the demands of his people. Then, of course, he had to sneak off. Though he knew how to hunt, he was no match for a demon hunter.

He drew in a breath and turned, going back into the tent.

 

“I found him, Patriarch,” the village constable said, shoving Jonis forward to the village head’s desk. He was holding the broadsword Jonis’s father always carried with him. The constable handed it to the village patriarch. “He was using this.”

Jonis stood sullenly on the finely woven rug in the patriarch’s office, head to toe encrusted with dirt. He looked up at the sword wishing he had it back.

The office was a mixture between the archaic and modern. Brass clocks ticked on the walls alongside gas lamps whose fragrant oil lit the room with a pleasant glow. A mimeograph machine sat on a stand nearby. With it were reams of scrolls alongside folded print books with sturdy leather binding. The village patriarch peered through modern bifocals at Jonis, lifting up his nose with a perusing sneer. “Where did you find him?”

“He was burying his father, Sir. We had the demon dug up and burned. But what should we do with the Cordril child?” the constable asked. He shook Jonis by the back of his collar. The man wore gloves and long legged pants with brass buttons, well prepared to deal with a Cordril. There was no way for Jonis to escape now, even by touching him. If he leapt at the man’s face, his attempt at freedom would be taken as an assault rather than as self-defense.

The patriarch of the village stroked his chin. He glanced once at his two advisors. They sat nearby in the large stuffed armchairs at the side of the room, carrying about them an air of dignity. One of them glared at Jonis, his wrinkles cracking deep in stern thought. But the other equally-aged man rose from his chair and delivered a bow to the patriarch. “I suggest, sir, that the boy stay with me.”

Jonis looked up at the man with a jerk of his head. His eyes opened in disbelief, and he stared. The village magistrates had always watched him with suspicion when he passed through the village to attend school. Of course, it was hard not to stare at the lean pale boy who no only had the demonic color of blue for eyes, but also a shock of sand colored hair—especially when he stood next to all the dark brown mops of his classmates. The villagers had only tolerated having him around, as he ran errands for his father. But this was inconceivable. No self-respecting magistrate would ever be seen speaking with him let alone allowing him to move in to his home.

“Are you insane? That child is a demon,” the patriarch exclaimed with the same incredulity Jonis felt. But he also expressed aloud a revulsion that the boy did not want to hear. 

Nodding as if he understood, the elderly man calmly replied with a smile that said everything would be fine. “Yes, but he is also a little boy who has gone through a terrible trauma. What he really needs is a good home and a clean education.”

“He is already a student at the Harsall school for boys, and not that bright either,” the other elderly gentleman reminded his companion, with irritation. “His teachers are not impressed with him.”

The gentle magistrate bowed graciously, glancing with admiration at the broadsword across the patriarch’s desk before looking the patriarch in the eye. “That may be, but I believe that a bit of kindness in his time of need, and an advanced education, may prevent future ills.”

The man stood back with an air of patience, now silent.

Jonis looked up at this man, wondering if this was all a lie or if his chance to live might be real. His heart has never stopped pounding since the police caught him and dragged him away from his father’s body.

Their village leader pressed his hand to his mouth in thought, drawing in a breath. He exhaled and glanced at the dirt-encrusted sword. He then looked at the boy who stood sulky and defiant as he hung by his shirt collar in the constable’s grip. After a moment of this silent contemplation, the patriarch waved for the constable to take Jonis out of his office so he could have a clearer head to think.

The constable grunted and steered Jonis out into the hall, setting the boy on the wood carved bench across from the patriarch’s office. He sat next to him, peering at Jonis’s suddenly blank expression. Then he checked his pocket watch.

“I don’t see what all the fuss over you is about. I told them they were crazy to let you learn with the other boys at the school, but they didn’t listen then either.” The constable frowned as if everything dealing with Jonis would turn ill. “Never trust a patriarch to act to the benefit of the people. He has some sneaky idea in mind.”

“What will happen to me?” Jonis said just above a whisper, staring at the floor.

The constable snorted, narrowing his eyes on Jonis’s blackened face. The soil from the hill was quite dark and had even got up Jonis’s nose from the scuffle, as he had tried to bury his father despite the police’s arrival. “If it were up to me, I’d have you burned with your daddy. I don’t need a demon stalking the people here. It is ancient knowledge that once you let a demon settle in, people start to die.”

Jonis knew that adage. It was in the back of his new memory as a truth. One of his ancestors had hunted other demons for profit, taking rewards from villagers that needed an expert. His credo included never allowing one demon to live that crossed his path—paid for or not. Demons of all kinds were the enemy in this world. Jonis shuddered, recalling it. That ancestor had been brutal. It was no wonder these people considered Cordrils just as bad as the other demons that roamed the land.

“I have never killed anyone,” Jonis murmured, still staring at his clay covered feet. He had been too slow at burying his father. Now it was too late.

“I bet you killed your old man,” the police constable replied.

Jonis turned his head, returning the glare this constable made at him. “You would lose that bet.”

The constable blustered, rising up. He raised his hand and slapped him. “Insolent boy!”

Jonis clutched his ear. It throbbed. The ringing in it muted out all other noise.

“Never talk back to your superiors!” the constable shouted with his fists clenched.

“We need him now,” the patriarch’s secretary called from the office, leaning out the doorway of fine wood.

The constable yanked Jonis from off his seat, kicking his backside and shoving him through the doorway, then followed after him. Jonis stumbled, glancing back at him with a scowl, rubbing his rear end with his free hand.

“We have reached a decision,” the patriarch announced, gazing on Jonis and the constable with a light air as if their behavior was usual.

The constable forced Jonis by the collar to stand at the desk front, holding him there with the expectation that he would run.

Jonis’s body tensed. This was end. It was over.

“You will stay with the honorable magistrate, Mr. Farren, as he has requested. But if you do anything unlawful, you will face immediate execution. Is that understood?” The patriarch folded his hands on top of his desk and waited for Jonis’s response.

Jonis hung from his collar without a fight as he stared up at the town magistrate. His mouth dropped open. “You are letting me live?”

The patriarch gazed down on him with a magnanimous grin. “We are allowing you to learn how to be of service to your country. If you prove worthy, Jonis Macoy, then maybe you will live a long and prosperous life as a good and regular citizen. Mr. Farren seems to be quite convinced that you have potential to be an asset to our village, and maybe one day to the nation of Brein Amon. What do you say to that?”

Jonis’s heart thundered in his chest. He knew this was not an ordinary offer. He was being given the chance to live and maybe even be accepted by the people as one of them.

“I’ll do anything you ask!” Jonis shouted out, staring from the patriarch to Mr. Farren.

The constable dropped his grip on Jonis’s collar as if in shock, though perhaps he let go on orders. Jonis practically fell against the desk to prostrate himself in front of the two men. 

“Oh, thank you, sirs! Thank you a thousand times!”

The patriarch smiled, gesturing with a wave. “Go then with Mr. Farren. He will set you up in your new home.”

Jonis jumped to his feet and practically fell to the feet of the elderly man. Mr. Farren gave a small nod of his head, smiling, though flustered. Jonis rushed straight up to him, grinning like a little boy again. He was too earnest for even the hardened constable to consider his action as devious as most considered a demon’s motives to be. The magistrate was already holding his father’s broadsword, feeling the weight of such an instrument in his wiry arms, yet managing to carry it well. It seemed strange that the old man was allowed to keep it instead of it ending up as a trophy on the patriarch’s wall.

Mr. Farren led out with a gloved hand. “Come this way, boy. We will get you cleaned and fed.”

They passed the constable who looked on Jonis darkly but stepped back, knowing the patriarch’s word was law. The constable watched Mr. Farren and Jonis walk out the office and into the warm hallway together as if they had been paired long ago. The elderly man had a quick step for his age, and strangely, Jonis walked at his new guardian’s pace as if no other man’s opinion mattered more in the world.

As soon as Jonis was out of earshot, the constable turned to the patriarch. “I think you are making a terrible mistake.”

“And I think you are shortsighted,” the patriarch replied. He was grinning to himself, leaning back in his chair with his fingers steepled against one another as if an idea of genius had just come to him. “With a Cordril around, no other demon would dare enter our village. That is why we have been so sheltered for so long. That Cordril and his son kept them away. Mr. Farren knows what he is doing. You’ll see.”

“But what about a Cordril infestation? You know demons spread themselves out.” The constable almost shouted.

However, the patriarch was still smiling, spinning around in his monogihide chair. “Do not worry. Cordrils breed like humans. They need a mate first. And as for this child, he has yet to grow up.”

The constable was still not satisfied. However, he bowed and stepped back. “Your word is law.”

“Yes,” the patriarch answered with a smirk. “It is.”

 

Mr. Farren took Jonis out of the main council building, going into the village square which was near the center of the village. He led him down the broad stone steps and to the dirt road towards his own home. The air reeked of smoke. Up above the town, Jonis could still see the light where his father’s tent smoldered. Smoke covered the stars and masked the moon with reddish film. He wasn’t the only one looking up to the hill either. The villagers peered out their windows, sniffing the air and murmuring to each other that the demon was dead. But as Jonis and Mr. Farren passed through the village, heads turned and stared at them. Most gawked with just as much surprise as the constable had to see that the boy was allowed to live. Jonis lowered his eyes, trudging across the sanded road with increasing apprehension.

“Now, Jonis,” Mr. Farren said after some silence, “You must know that your situation is very precarious. You must be on your best behavior from now on. Do you understand?”

Jonis nodded, peeking at the dirty glares from the fishmonger and the butcher as they walked by their shops as they were being closed. His father and he had brought in venison, which sold better than some of their meat. “I understand, sir. The people would rather have me dead.”

The man coughed, trying to hide his surprise at Jonis’s stark understanding. He hefted the sword above the crook in his arm. “Ah, well…yes, actually.”

They crossed to the sidewalk where the village builders had recently laid down stone into the newly developed concrete to make a firmer path. They were planning on paving the roads in cobblestone next so they could reach the status of ‘town’. They were large enough by then, just not developed enough. Smaller towns usually hung onto the ancient ways, often fighting progress. Very few in town even owned an automobile.

“Do you, well, really believe what you said to the patriarch?” Jonis asked with a sober gaze at him. “That…I…could be part of this society. You know, live like a regular person.”

Mr. Farren stopped where he was and smiled at Jonis. “A human? You really want that, don’t you?”

Nodding vigorously, Jonis watched him, holding his breath before speaking. “Are you kidding? To have people no longer look at me and call me a demon, to be treated with regard instead of fear or hate? I think I would trade anything for that!”

“Even your father’s sword?” Mr. Farren asked, lifting his eyebrows in such a way that made him look shrewd. He started his march again.

Jonis swallowed. His eyes had not really been off the sword. “It is a family heirloom, not an ordinary sword. But,” he looked up at Mr. Farren, “if it helps, I would.”

They stopped at the doors to a sizable house. Jonis would almost call it a mansion, but larger more expensive homes stood on the skirts of the town on higher ground. This home was in the center of the village where the roads were still dirt and the house was not so ostentatious. It barely had front garden. The wrought iron fence around it looked so old that it had probably belonged to a Sky Child in the ancient days when their nation was called Westhaven.

“It would help,” Mr. Farren replied. “But you do not have to give it up entirely. Just for now. We can put it away for safe keeping.”

Jonis bowed low before the magistrate, the dirt falling off his head as his hair flopped down. “Then keep it. I will not ask for it until you feel I should have it again.”

The magistrate smiled more genuinely, placing his hand on the hilt. “We’ll seal it up.” He reached into his pocket and drew out brass keys to unlock the door. “I think I have a few spells inside we can use. I dabble a bit in the magic arts. I once wanted to be a magister.”

That was news. Magisters combined science with magic, specializing in spells for warding off demons. But they were also skilled at potions that healed sickness and cured blights. Up until that time, Jonis had no idea that anyone in the village was knowledgeable in the magic arts. It was dying profession, much like the Magic Age was nearly gone. Science was the new magic, and it was rapidly taking over the nation. That was why many magisters those days knew both.

Opening the door, Mr. Farren reached over to the switch on the wall. An electric light came on, buzzing in its onion shaped bulb on the wall. He smiled over at Jonis who was staring at the glowing filament in the bulb with amazement. The man then nudged Jonis in.

Jonis stepped carefully inside the room, feeling even grimier as the dirt on his boots scuffed off on the front mat. It was his first time in a long time for Jonis to be inside a real house. And even then, he had only been in one for two days. The day he was born and the day his mother died. He had lived in a tent with his father ever since.

The walls were covered in wallpaper laced with flowery designs and straight lines. Black and white photographs hung in frames, showing the elderly man with an elderly woman and three young ladies all in a row. There were more paintings than these new printed images, but Jonis stared at the mystery that science had created. It was so amazing to see such a perfect image. The romanticized painting of a younger Mr. Farren hung right next to it with a painting of a young woman whom Jonis assumed was his wife. The front room was full of furniture besides. Divans with velvet seat cushions, tassels on pillows and smooth mahogany tables covered in tatted cloths of bleached muslin and linen with draperies of silk and satin. Jonis’s infant home had been a simple three-room cottage with a thatch roof and white washed walls. If Mr. Farren’s home was not a mansion, then surely it had to be close, for nothing in Jonis’s intense long memory compared to this.

“Do you like it?” Mr. Farren asked.

Jonis drew in a breath and smiled. “Oh yes, sir.”

Mr. Farren grinned with satisfaction and motioned to the right. “Come now. Let’s go upstairs and get you bathed. I’ll call for the housemaid to find you some clothes. The ones you are wearing will have to be burned.”

Turning, Jonis looked up at him. “Why? Are they that dirty?”

With a shrug, Mr. Farren replied, “Though my maids can clean out dirt that bad, it will ease the minds of the townspeople if your clothes are disposed of. If you come clean and changed in the public eye, they will believe that perhaps you are not infected with your father’s ways. Understand?”

That view was not new to Jonis. It was true, people knew little about Cordrils. Fear and superstition drove them. Mr. Farren seemed to understand what he appeared to be was just as important as his true substance. If they were to set people at ease, Jonis would have to look the part.

“I understand,” Jonis said. He bowed his head and turned to go up the stairs. His feet left tracks of dirt. But instead of getting angry, the elderly gentleman covered a laugh.

Mr. Farren’s eyes smiled as he led Jonis upward with a more tired shuffle and directed him to the wash room.

Jonis stared into the room, having only bathed in the stream nearby or a lake on one of their journeys. In fact, Jonis usually enjoyed the chance he had to use the school’s plumbing, with hot water pumped in. But this room was full of brass pipes that led to three different spouts. There were brass knobs above a porcelain basin where a real bar of store soap rested on the edge. Next to the sink was the bath. Stroking the porcelain with his hands, Jonis peered in the drain. He sighed with relief, knowing that he would not have to carry buckets of the dirty water out of the enormous tub.

“Have you ever used one?” Mr. Farren asked, leaning in with curiosity.

Jonis shook his head. “Not in my lifetime.”

But a memory swam up, nearly drowning his thoughts with how to work the system. Piping was not new to Brein Amon. It was merely new to the common folk. One of his ancestors had pipes in his home. In fact, other memories much more ancient than the piping in their land drew out images from his head about efficient piping systems and marvelously clean water of an even more antiquated civilization not of this world.

Mr. Farren reached over to the knobs. “This letter indicates the hot valve. You turn it clockwise to open the valve. The other one is cold water. I recommend adding cold water first and then adding the hot water. Sometimes the hot water can scald.”

Jonis nodded, reaching for the cold water knob.

“Put in the plug first.” Mr. Farren lifted a chain off the side of the large bathtub and drew up a rubber cork end. He stuffed it into the drain. “When you undress, just leave the clothes on the chair over there. Our maid, Mrs. Days, will collect them. I will have her bring you something to wear.”

Then without another word of instruction, Mr. Farren walked from the room. He only gestured for Jonis to get on with undressing.

With a strong sigh, Jonis looked around the room. He glanced to the floor where his feet had made tracks. With a grimace, he stepped to the tile and picked up the bathroom rug that already had smears of mud on them. He set the rug on the lid of the chamber pot then started to undress completely. By the time he was done, the floor was covered in soil.

The maid came soon after he had climbed into the steaming bath. She averted her eyes and muttered curses under her breath. “…filthy. I have to wash it again. How am I supposed to get those stains out with that…”

She trotted out in a huff.

Jonis peered over the tub edge at the dirt-covered floor.

She returned again after she had taken the clothes to the gardener so it could be burned in the remains of the bonfire. With a broom and dustpan, she swept up the dirt that was on the tile. Then, on her hands and knees, she scrubbed, still muttering curses to herself without even setting eyes on Jonis—which was just as well considering the rising blush on his cheeks as he ducked under the water to hide himself.

“…No consideration for anybody….” The maid grumbled, hefting up the muddy sludge of her cleaning bucket and tottering out the door. She did not slam it, but her silence was deafening.

Jonis did not dare climb out of the bath for a long while. The water itself got murky brown, and he had to drain it and then fill it again to get truly clean. By the time he was done, it was an hour later. He wrapped himself in the only available towel, feeling the water drip off his hair onto his nose, flattening against his forehead.

The maid returned, carrying only a sleeping gown.

“The master says once you are dressed, see him in his study.” She dropped the sleep gown on the chair with a bitter tone.

Jonis decided not to agitate her further and merely bowed, clutching the towel around him. “Yes, Ma’am.”

The woman huffed, trotting away with more gripes on her lips. Jonis decided not to listen, drawing in a breath for courage. He understood that everyone would think the magistrate mad for taking him in, and the maid probably hated him more for making her clean up his dirt trail. In fact, Jonis started to wonder if Mr. Farren would not also be angry at him for soiling his clean home.

 

The study was more difficult to find than Jonis had thought. There were rooms upon rooms in that house, and neither Mr. Farren nor the maid said where that particular room was. After a thorough search upstairs, Jonis headed back downstairs, passing the maid as he went by. He knew there was a quicker way to get accustomed to the house, but he decided not to take it. Touching the hand of the maid would have given him her knowledge, but at what price? A loss of Mr. Farren’s trust. It was not worth it. Touching the maid would make her faint and then later her mood would be even fouler than it was now. No, Jonis realized that if he wanted to be treated like other people, he could not use his extra abilities. He had to live and learn like other people did

So he searched.

But really, all he had to do was go down to the main floor in the first place and walk just around the stairs—which he realized too late. The door was open, and Jonis found Mr. Farren at a desk, squinting through his spectacles at a dusty scroll spread out over work papers. His father’s sword lay on the desk near the edge, still sheathed.

All around the room were books among books on tall shelves that nearly required a ladder to reach them all. Three large loveseats sat in strategic places between the bookshelves under the windows, where in the daytime the sun would provide ample light for reading, but where he also installed electric lights to use at night. The carpet was a deep red, spread over the shining wood floor. A glass-faced clock, with all the gears ticking visibly behind the hands, hung on the far wall over the desk where Mr. Farren sat, studying even more ancient texts than he had on the shelves. The desk itself was situated near the middle of the room, leaving only a wide walk space between it and the reading benches and bookshelves. Behind Mr. Farren stood a large locked cabinet so old like the wrought iron fence, and so ornate that it did not look Brein Amon style. Again Jonis got the impression that his home had once been owned by more powerful magistrates than their simple village elder.

“Ah! Much better!” Mr. Farren smiled one he spotted Jonis standing in the doorway. He waved him over. “I am sorry, but we have no clothes your size in the house at the moment. Tomorrow I will have the village tailor come and make you some suits. Now come here, and let me teach you how to make a seal. You may find this one skill very useful in the future.”

Jonis padded barefoot over to the desk, feeling the change from the wood floor to carpet under the soles of his feet. He stepped on to the rug next to the desk, peering at the scroll. The writing was difficult script and in ancient style. Normally, Jonis would not have been able to read it. But now that his head was packed full of memories and knowledge from his ancestors, he could read the paper with ease.

“It says here,” Mr. Farren pointed to the scroll, “that we must have a strip of red paper as long as the writing needs to be. I have here a roll of spell paper I bought in Danslik last spring. It will do. We can cut off what we don’t use.”

Jonis nodded, remaining silent. As far as Mr. Farren knew, he was somewhat of a weak student. He did not know how the magistrate would react to him knowing so much more now so quickly. He thought it best not to let on that he could read the instructions.

“Now,” Mr. Farren lifted over a long handled writing brush. “We need some ink and a brush and a steady hand.” He put the brush into Jonis’s hand. “I hope you have studied your penmanship. The writing must be precise.”

Setting the brush in his fingers, Jonis nodded to him. “I can do it. My writing is not too bad.”

Mr. Farren’s eyes glittered, connecting with Jonis’s gaze. “I bet it isn’t. Now write exactly what I tell you, repeating the words as I say them. Understand? Write it from the top downward.”

Jonis nodded again, swallowing. He dipped the brush into the ink, carefully dabbing off the excess.

“Sealed. Secure. By the hand of Jonis Macoy.” Mr. Farren watched him as Jonis placed the brush onto the paper.

“Sealed….” Jonis wrote it. “Secure….” Jonis took care in his letters, stroking just right. “By the hand…of…” He drew in a breath. “Jonis Macoy.”

His signature scribbled down to the last.

“Now before it dries, carefully lift the paper up by the edges. Don’t say anything and don’t smudge the ink.”

Mr. Farren lifted the dirt-crusted sword in its scabbard from off the table, standing it on its tip. Jonis did exactly what was instructed.

“Now lay the strip over the hilt so that it crosses to the scabbard on both sides. Do it gently, and watch the ink.”

It was harder this time. The ink was still very wet, and Jonis’s sleeve threatened to smudge the writing. He had to turn and face the scabbard end on. Placing it carefully, Jonis made sure both ends of the paper touched smoothly and taut. Mr. Farren tore off the excess red paper from the written spell. “Now say: Only I. Remain until awakened.”

Taking a breath, Jonis repeated, “Only I. Remain until awakened.”

The paper snapped flat from his fingers. It stuck to the hilt and the scabbard as if pasted on. The ink instantly dried.

“There!” Mr. Farren patted him on the shoulder. “You have done excellently. That sword now will remain sealed until you want to open it. Only you can cut the seal. That is a promise.”

Jonis peered in amazement at his handiwork. It was the first spell he had ever cast. Magic was not dead after all.

Mr. Farren seemed to read his thoughts. “Yes, it is quite amazing. A lost art, I tell you. In the days when the world was nearly half demon, magic was a household skill. Today, I daresay that one in a million know the craft. Though I am glad I don’t live in the terror of that era, I do miss the freedom that magic knowledge had given us.”

“That was before the Sky Lord sent his armies to take over, right?” Jonis asked.

“You have been paying attention in your history class.” Mr. Farren grinned in approval. “Good. And yes, that is right. Of course, after the Sky Children’s abilities began to diminish and they were defeated, our new era took their science to replace magic. It was science in the end that defeated them, not magic.”

Jonis looked at the floor. Yes. In his new memories, he had learned a great deal about these Sky Children, whom up until then he had only seen as poor slaves punished for their ancestors’ crimes. Now he knew how dangerous they had been. His ancestors remembered and hated them. It was unsettling, feeling emotions that were not his. Even now, he could not accept them entirely. Remembering the facts made his head spin. It was easier to block them out entirely.

“So, my boy! Let’s get you fed and into bed. We have a long day tomorrow.” Mr. Farren tucked the roll of red paper away into his drawer and stood up. He picked up Jonis’s sword, carrying it to the locked cupboard. He opened it up. He leaned the sword inside next to other mysterious articles. Jonis peered in, but Mr. Farren shut the doors before he could get a good look. He caught only a glimpse of shiny things and mysterious jars.

“Come on, Jonis. You must be starving,” Mr. Farren said.

Jonis turned and let himself be led to the kitchen. The cupboard would still be there tomorrow.

Chapter Two: From the School

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Written spells have more potency than spells merely spoken”

 

 

 

 

The tailor was not happy to be summoned so early in the morning. And he was even unhappier when he saw whom he was clothing. Standing uncomfortably in the front room, Jonis decided to remain silent to avoid an argument.

Mr. Farren handed the tailor gloves. “Put these on, please.”

The man gave the magistrate a testy glance as he opened his supply bag. “My hands aren’t going to dirty your precious charge if that’s what you think.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Farren replied, glancing at Jonis. “It is for your protection.”

The tailor blinked then looked up at Jonis’s bare legs as he stood on the low stool Mr. Farren had provided for him. They were as white as death. The man quickly pulled the gloves on. “What? Does he have some sort of skin disease?”

“You could say that,” Mr. Farren said, keeping his eyes on Jonis. The boy had nothing on but a sleeveless undershirt Mr. Farren had dug up from his own closet. He had set the nightgown aside on Jonis’s pillow in the boy’s new room. Jonis had slept on the floor, unable to even close his eyes while he lay on the large bed. Of course it was almost impossible to wake him up in the morning. He was wrapped like a sausage bun in his blankets, clutching his pillow in his arms rather than under his head. The maid wouldn’t even touch him, grunting to herself about the boy’s ingratitude. Of course, Jonis had also been reluctant to even leave his room. The idea of seeing another person besides the magistrate had filled him with dread. Everyone from the maid to the cook flinched at the sight of him.

The tailor decided not to linger longer than he had to. In a way, it helped the situation. He ordered Jonis about as if he were any other customer, making him lift his arms, stand straight, and endure the inspection of his crotch inseam so his pants would fit. He snapped his measuring tape a few times and jotted down all the information that he needed.

“Ok, now we don’t need the boy. If you will please send him off, we can discuss your purchase,” the tailor said, turning from Jonis.

Jonis hopped off the stool, just as eager to leave the room.

Mr. Farren merely smirked at the both of them. “He will remain. They will be his clothes, and therefore he will have a say in it.”

The tailor blinked. “But I don’t think he is needed here. You know better what he needs. Send him away and tell me your order.”

“Jonis,” Mr. Farren said with a mild nod. “Tell this man what clothes you need.”

Both the boy and the tailor looked at one another with surprise. Jonis was the quicker to recover. He cleared his throat and answered, but mostly to Mr. Farren. “I need a pair of pants and a shirt. I lost everything I owned in the fire, and you burned my last pair.”

Mr. Farren smiled benignly at him. “So humble. Really, Jonis. Is that all you want?”

Jonis looked up at him and nodded. “That’s all I need.”

Raising his chest and nodding to himself, Mr. Farren patted him on the head. “Alright, you go off to the study and find a book to read. I’ll discuss the details with the tailor.”

Obeying with gratitude, Jonis hurried out of the room—anything to be away from there. As he left the room, he heard Mr. Farren say, “I want him to have a school uniform. He has been the only child without one, and I want him to fit in.”

“Are you crazy?” the tailor answered without even lowering his voice. “Why do you want a demon to fit in with the other children?”

“Jonis is not a demon. You misunderstand him and his abilities….”

Jonis did not stick around longer to hear. There was enough reassurance in what he had already heard that he did not need anything else. Mr. Farren did not see him as a monster.

 

Mr. Farren eventually joined Jonis in the study when the tailor had gone. He found the boy sitting cross-legged on the far loveseat with an enormous book in his lap. Blinking once, the magistrate crossed the floor quietly, peering at the title on the cover. It read: History of the Last Century, by Meril Batis. The magistrate cleared his throat, folding his arms. “That is quite a hefty book you’ve chosen. Your schoolmaster claimed that you only had an average score in Reading, let alone in History. Are you trying to catch up with your classmates?”

Jonis looked up and blushed. He closed the book immediately with a shrug and set it aside on a table. “I was only curious.”

Hunching down to look Jonis in the eye, Mr. Farren bit his lip. “Did it happen yet?”

Blinking, Jonis stared back, though his heart gave a jump. “What happen?”

The magistrate stood upright, drawing in a deep breath. “I think as soon as you get your school uniform, we ought to have you tested. I have a theory about Cordril youth. I want to test it on you.”

Jonis continued to stare at him. “Test what?”

Mr. Farren smiled again with that harmless, yet thoughtful way. “Your intelligence. I have a feeling that you are no longer a C level student.”

He turned without another word.

Jonis had observed that Mr. Farren loved mysteries about as much as he loved magic, which explained a bit why this man took him into his home. Perhaps Mr. Farren thought he was a mystery that was so intriguing that the magistrate could not let it go.

 

On the following day, the wrapped brown packages containing his new clothes started to arrive. The school uniform came first. In it contained one simple straight collar tunic with long straight sleeves, a vest that ran long in the front, but only to his waist in the back with a tie strap. It had a matching pair of breeches with buckles at the knees. A small jacket went with it. Mr. Farren had purchased white stockings to match. As soon as the magistrate had Jonis dressed in the outfit, he took the boy out to the cobbler to get shoes fitted for him.

The cobbler wasn’t any happier to see Jonis still in town than the tailor was. However, Mr. Farren and Jonis soon left the shop with one pair of gray leather boots and an order for a better fitting pair later. By then it was getting late. Straight from the shop, Mr. Farren took Jonis to school, which was held in a large brick building down the road back towards the main thoroughfare.

Jonis’s teacher did not hide his disappointment at seeing him alive and in his classroom again. It disturbed him even more seeing Jonis dressed like the other children. The other boys stared at Jonis from their desks when both the town magistrate and Jonis stood in the doorway.

“Hello, Mr. Ditrick,” Mr. Farren addressed the teacher with a formal bow, gazing on the classroom full of cast iron seats, topped with wooden desks. “May we come in?”

The teacher knew he had to say yes, though he really wanted to bar the young Cordril from ever setting foot in the building again.

“Of course,” Mr. Ditrick replied with a brisk nod. “You may take a seat in the back. And I suppose Jonis should take his place at his desk.”

Both complied—though Jonis wished he were sitting in the back of the class with Mr. Farren.

The lesson continued right where it left off before they were interrupted. They were doing sums on their slates. Jonis had preferred simple math to the new complex equations his teacher was pounding into their brains. Strangely, this time while he took his seat, Jonis noticed something different about the writing on the chalkboard. The equation was still just as long, but now, his memory tickled and told him how to solve it. He didn’t know whose memory he had gotten the information from, but Jonis’s heart pounded when he realized that all the math equations were now cake to him.

He picked up his own slate and chalk and started to work.

The teacher called several of his classmates to the board to solve the math problems, skipping over Jonis whom he always thought a dunderhead. He felt it wise not to embarrass him in front of the village magistrate. Rumor had already spread how the magistrate had taken a peculiar interest in the boy, and it was not wise to annoy a town official.

They passed from Math to History, and then from History to Science. Mr. Farren did not interrupt the lessons. He did not do anything more than watch Jonis as he studied from the books on hand, listened to the lectures, and worked energetically in his notebook on class assignments. The twinkle in Mr. Farren’s eyes flashed and increased, as did the gentle grin on his lips as the lessons progressed. When the lunch hour began, he at last rose from his seat and approached the teacher.

“Your methodology seems quite sound. I am rather impressed,” Mr. Farren said to him, glancing once at Jonis who decided to head to the cafeteria instead of waiting for his guardian. It was apparent to him that this discussion was private.

“I would like to set up a test for Jonis after class, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Farren said.

Jonis passed out of the door, missing his teacher’s response to the request.

“So, blue-eyes, did you kill your old man?” Tavin, a boy in the class higher than Jonis asked, barring the way to the dining hall.

Jonis stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to keep them from touching the others. It was an old habit of his, one he adopted when he realized just how powerful of a shock people got when his skin connected with theirs, especially when he was upset. “No. My father died of old age.”

The boys around him laughed, sounding more sinister than jovial.

“He didn’t look that old!” Tavin said with a menacing glare, but he still kept his distance. “I heard you killed him for his sword. Someone saw you fighting with the cop to keep it.”

Lowering his eyes, Jonis stared at the boy’s shoes. “My father was ancient. I was digging his grave with the sword. We didn’t have a shovel.”

“I think you killed him, demon.” Another classmate slapped him on the back. Jonis recognized Regan’s voice. Regan sat kitty corner from him near the back of the room. Regan immediately jumped out of the way to see what Jonis would do.

Jonis took his hands out of his pockets. He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Well, you’re an idiot.”

“Oooh!” Those standing nearby gathered in a crowd, sounding in chorus as they waited for a fight.

Jonis just turned and continued on his way to the cafeteria.

Tavin let him pass.

But Regan shouted back, “Well, you can’t talk. You are barely passing with a C. It’s only luck that you aren’t a total dummy.”

Glancing back once, Jonis blinked at him. “Unlike you.”

But it was a mistake to mouth off. The boy jumped on Jonis’s back, strangling Jonis around his collar with his bare hands.

“Get off!” Jonis tried to bat him away first, swinging back his arms and teetering towards the wall. Both fell against it. The wood boomed and creaked under their weight.

The noise from the scuffle drew Mr. Farren and his schoolteacher out of the room. Both men ran into the hall and stared at the two boys fighting before moving to interfere.

Jonis reached behind himself, placing his hands on his classmate’s face. The crowd stepped back, watching Regan’s face go from pinched, angry, and bright red to ash white. Regan stared up at the ceiling, gasping. But Jonis let go, tossing the drained boy aside. His eye flared luminescent blue as his hands balled into fists. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

Then he looked up.

His eyes widened when he saw Mr. Farren’s disappointed face, and even more so when his eyes fixed on his teacher’s glare. Jonis loosened his fists, and he fell back against the wall.

“I’m sorry. He….” but Jonis could not bear it, watching them both with horror. He turned and ran down the hall. Already everything was ruined.

“Stop, son,” Mr. Farren called out, taking a step after him.

Jonis halted near the corner at the other end, breathing hard with his eyes fixed on the floor.

Mr. Farren jogged through the boys, breathless by the time he reached Jonis. He placed a hand on Jonis’s shoulder. “It is all right. It was in self-defense.”

“It is not all right!” Mr. Ditrick shouted, tromping after them. “This is what I mean! Did you see what he did to Regan?”

The magistrate turned. He gazed down his nose at the teacher. “Did you see what that boy was doing to him? I never thought our schools allowed such savage behavior.”

“I am sure Jonis provoked him,” the teacher said through his teeth.

“Ah,” Mr. Farren replied coolly, lifting his chin higher. “But aren’t you supposed to be raising young gentlemen here? Young gentlemen should know how to behave regardless of provocation.”

“But that thing used his demonic powers against the boy. Surely that should be punished!” Mr. Ditrick’s voice had gone low and dangerous, a sound that made Jonis’s bones shudder.

Jonis listened to Mr. Farren’s silence. He knew admittance was in there.

Immersed in guilt, Jonis turned around and faced them. “I will never do it again, I swear.”

“Liar,” his teacher snapped from his safe and distant spot in the hall. “You’ll resort to it, you demon. It’s in your blood.”

Mr. Farren placed a hand on Jonis’s head. “I think not, Mr. Ditrick. Jonis will keep his word, and I will help him.”

His teacher went silent. He knew it was the word of a magistrate. There was no countering it. He drew in a breath and huffed. “Yes, sir.”

“And the test will go as planned for this afternoon, right?” Mr. Farren added, gazing calmly on the teacher.

Again the teacher bowed. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Farren turned and escorted Jonis directly to lunch. When they had gotten around the corner and had walked up the stairs to the cafeteria, Mr. Farren whispered into Jonis’s ear, “We will have to get you gloves. Long sleeves have already been ordered for you for daily wear. I don’t want you accidentally bumping into someone and have him blame you for loss of strength. That boy is not harmed?”

Jonis shook his head. “Only tired. And I am sorry I did it. I didn’t think, except to get him off my back.”

“I accept your apology. I know you mean it.” Mr. Farren bent over to get eye to eye contact. “Now you must commit to your promise. Swear that you will never resort to harming any of your classmates, even if it means taking a bloody nose. You must be respectable, or you will never make it among humans.”

Crossing his heart, licking his hand, and raising his palm, Jonis said quickly, “I swear I will never even think about touching any one of my classmates ever again, even if I have to get a bloody nose.”

Mr. Farren smiled.

“I believe you.”

 

No one dared touch Jonis the rest of the day. No one spoke to him either. When class had finished, Mr. Ditrick took Jonis to the office where they met Mr. Farren. His teacher sat Jonis down at a mildly scarred wood desk and handed him copies of their graduation exam. Taking it into his hands, also handed a pen to write with, Jonis peered at the first question. Then he stared at the page with larger eyes. He looked up at both Mr. Farren and his teacher. Mr. Ditrick still frowned at him.

“I don’t understand,” Jonis said flipping through the papers. “I am only in grade seven. Why are you giving me this?”

Mr. Farren smiled down on him with that same mysterious glitter in his eyes. “Just answer the questions honestly, Jonis. Don’t hold back. I believe I know something about you. And watching you today, I believe your actions have proved it. However, your teachers need to see it.”

The elderly man looked entirely serious.

Shrugging, Jonis set the papers onto the desk and applied his pen, dipping it into the inkwell.

The test was not as hard as it had initially looked. Taking his time, Jonis peered at each question. Answers for each one floated upward from the deep memory his father had passed on to him. As he went on, the answers became easier to recall. In a way, his inundated memory was slowing sorting into the cracks in his head, finding places that suited them. Of course some questions were worded funny. Answering them was tricky. It was strange relying on an ancient memory to solve riddles and analyze poetry that he had never even touched in his daily life. All of it, except maybe for a few questions, came from this new memory his father had given him. When he finished, the hour had not even passed.

“I knew it,” Mr. Farren said, clasping his hands and pressing the tips of his fingers against his lips.

“Nonsense!” Mr. Ditrick said, sounding exasperated, echoed by other teachers that had come to watch. “We haven’t even graded it yet! It could all be wrong—and in his case probably is.”

Jonis decided to remain silent as he leaned back in his chair to watch the school administrators eye him. One man plucked the test off his table to mark the score. All heads turned to watch, waiting for the results. Mr. Farren glanced at Jonis once, smiling closed-lipped before returning his focus on the men in the room. He lifted his chin, listening for what they would say.

“Impossible,” the one checking his test murmured just above a breath.

“He must have cheated!” his teacher shouted, rounding on Jonis. “Where did you get the answers? Stand up! You must have a cheat note on you.”

Jonis stood as ordered, raising his arms. He allowed his teacher to feel over his uniform. Mr. Ditrick even made him remove is coat and vest.

The man found nothing.

“See. I told you,” Mr Farren said at last. “Genius. Cordril children, when they have either great trauma in their lives or when they have hit puberty, have a burst of genius. My theory is correct.”

Deciding it was unwise to counter him at this time, Jonis remained silent. He knew where all the information had come from. He did not need any cheat notes.

“But what about this answer?” the head teacher called out, lifting up the test.

Jonis looked up, wondering which one it was.

“This fact is not in the history books.” The man then read it. “Halis Grammond became the Patriarch of Brein Amon through subterfuge and bribes. He did not honestly win the election, and he had a hunter kill his competitor. How does he know this? Was his ancestor the hunter that killed him? This information was hushed up. Only I know about it because my grandfather used to work in Danslik as an errand boy. They paid him to stay silent. I hadn’t told anyone until now.”

Everyone stared at Jonis who abruptly seemed to shrink in his seat.

Mr. Farren peered at him. “Was your ancestor the hunter?”

Jonis vigorously shook his head. “Oh, no sir. The hunter that killed him was a Hann. My ancestor ran an inn at the Poris crossroads out west near the border. He met—”

But he stopped, realizing that he was spilling out the truth.

“Who did he meet?” Mr. Farren asked, waiting patiently. His eyes still reflected pleasure.

Taking a breath, Jonis shrank against the seat. “He met the Patriarch Grammond’s book keeper. The man was fleeing the country with money he stole. He stopped off at the inn.”

“So Reiz Filt did escape to the west,” Mr. Farren muttered aloud. He then smiled at Jonis. “Did you know that was the mystery of the century? That man was not seen crossing the border, but everyone swore that he escaped with the Patriarch’s gold and settled down in the west. The soldiers never did find him. Rumor had it that a demon ate him.”

Jonis slouched deeper into the chair. “The rumor is not entirely wrong.”

Everyone stared at him, encircling his chair. Even the magistrate’s smile slipped. “What do you mean?”

Wincing at admitting a past transgression as if it were his own, Jonis replied weakly, “My ancestor found out about the gold Mr. Filt had stolen and, well…he, uh….” Jonis bit his lip. “Let’s just say that Mr. Filt never made it to the border—though a demon did not technically eat him. Greed is a temptation for all kinds, I guess.”

Their eyes grew wide.

Mr. Farren coughed into his hand, regaining his composure. “I see. Well, let’s hope greed does not get a hold on you.”

Jonis vigorously shook his head, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. “Oh, no sir! I would never—”

“As if anyone can believe that,” one of the teachers grumbled, turning and walking towards the door.

A sick silence settled in the room. Admitting a past crime was not something Jonis had hoped to do. He had not known it himself until his father had passed on the memory. Their family had used the gold, relocating just over the border in the wild country to the west called Ki Tai among the Cordrils. They opened another inn, but had less traffic than the last.

“I think,” Mr. Farren said, walking over to Jonis and placing a hand on his shoulder, “That I have proven my point now. If you would give me his graduation certificate, I can then proceed with his further education elsewhere.”

“He doesn’t deserve—” One teacher started his argument with a glare.

“He hasn’t done the work,” another snapped, quite ruffled.

“It is not the same as—”A third growled, glaring at the boy.

“I think we should do as the magistrate asks, and send him along,” the principal said.

The arguments stopped. Their anger fizzled like a fire doused with water. Only their smoldering resentment remained.

Mr. Farren bowed to the principal. “Thank you, sir. I am glad you understand the situation.”

“The test is final,” the principal said, gazing mildly on Jonis. “If it is not a suitable gauge to see if a student is ready for the world, then we had better rewrite it.” He glanced at the other teachers. “Am I right?”

None of them looked like they wanted to rewrite another test form. It had been difficult enough to make that one. They all conceded, backing off with bows. “Of course, sir.”

Mr. Farren left Jonis in his seat, joining the principal at his desk while the school administrators gathered the proper documents to send the application for early graduation to the capitol. The Patriarch of Brein Amon wanted all unusual activity reported, including geniuses among the population. They would have to wait for at least a month for a response. Mr Farren signed it as Jonis’s guardian. He then passed the document to the principal. Mr. Ditrick also had to put on his signature. He did it with a discontented growl, scribbling his name out with his iron nib pen. Ink splattered on the corner, leaving unruly spots.

“He will have to remain in class until permission is granted,” the principal said, folding up the paper as soon as the ink was dry, and he placed it in an official envelope. “Can your boy control himself until then? I heard about the incident during lunch.”

The magistrate looked stern as he bowed. “Teach your boys to keep their hands to themselves, and you will have no problem with Jonis. I can assure you of that.”

“Understood,” the principal replied. He stood up, assessing Jonis with a sober glance before leaving. He took the letter with him. The other teachers filed out of the room until only Mr. Ditrick and Mr. Farren were left alone with Jonis.

“Let’s go home, Jonis,” Mr. Farren said, leading out with his arm. “We can get those gloves made, and you can join your class tomorrow.”

Jonis stood up. The idea that in a month’s time he might not need to attend school any longer pleased him very much. But looking at Mr. Farren, he knew his guardian had other things in mind for him. The man was merely switching educations. What he would learn was still unclear.

 

That evening, Jonis sat at dinner staring at the porcelain plate set in front of him. It was covered in roasted pheasant and potatoes. The electric light danced off the crystal and the silver. His second night at meal in that house still felt so out of place. It was too fancy for him. Up till then Jonis had eaten campfire-cooked food and bread bought from the town bakery, all of it eaten with his hands. At school, he has been renowned for his poor table manners. His life had changed on the outside, but inside he felt exactly the same. Only now the ancient memory he had just barely acquired helped him compensate with habits he never had used before. Three days ago he would not have known what to do with his fork.

Mr. Farren ate silently at the other end of the table, taking modest bites and chewing closed-mouthed as if nothing of any real matter had happened that afternoon. Though his calm manner made Jonis feel somewhat safe, his body was still tense. It was hard to eat.

“What worries you?” he heard Mr. Farren ask while lifting a cup to his lips.

Jonis swallowed the small bite on his fork and shrugged. “Do I look worried?”

“You look anxious.” He sipped from his goblet then set it down. “Now, I consider you a sensible boy, able to face problems rather than run from them. You seem to have a problem. I can help you solve it. Now tell me what the problem is.”

Biting his lip, Jonis rested his fork on the edge of his plate. “How long can I live here?”

Mr. Farren blinked. “How…why Jonis, are you afraid that I will send you away?”

Jonis lowered his head. “I saw the application form for the military academy on your desk before dinner. You tried so hard today to get me my graduation certificate. I only thought that….” He couldn’t finish. Jonis stared at the small empty spot on his plate.

“That I was preparing to send you away from this village as soon as I can? Is that it?” Mr. Farren asked. His wrinkled face creased along with the question, making him seem mysterious, as Jonis imagined a wizard would be.

Jonis nodded.

Sighing, Mr. Farren replied, his wrinkles easing, “Many people would like it if I did that. Don’t be mistaken. But I, for one, want to supplement your education before we even think about a career in the military.”

“But that pamphlet,” Jonis nearly jumped from his seat, panic filling his voice. “You were already thinking about it.”

“The village patriarch had that sent over, son. He thinks that you would make a fine soldier. So in a way, yes, they want to get rid of you.” Mr. Farren rose and walked over to where Jonis sat. “I, however, want to see you expand your mind and become a magister. I saw last night that you have a knack for it. You could be a great healer one day. And with the resurgence of demons in the land, I think we’ll need it.”

Jonis lifted his head, blinking. It was true. His own father, before he went to his sick bed, met demons on the road and had to fight them. And without so many magisters in the land, the demons were coming back unchallenged. The Sky Children could no longer defeat them. They were as weak as the humans that now enslaved them. It was no wonder that Mr. Farren wanted Jonis to take on the trade.

“I will do my best, sir, to please you,” Jonis said, bowing.

Mr. Farren smiled, resting his gloved hand on the boy’s head. “And I want you to be happy. I think there is too much unhappiness in the world as it is, Jonis Macoy. You have a good heart. I have seen it before in town when you were younger, and I see it with you now. I don’t care if people think you are a demon. You are like a Sky Child, innocent until tampered with—and I will not allow you to be corrupted.”

Jonis had no idea what that meant, and he decided not to ask. His main concern was answered, so Jonis relaxed in his chair. Suddenly the pheasant looked mighty delicious, and his stomach growled at him to eat. “Thank you, sir.”

 

Chapter Three: From the Kitchen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A herbalist is a magic user that employs the natural elements of the world in his spell casting.”

 

 

 

 

The month had gone way too slowly for Jonis. With his extended memory, Jonis now found all the tasks he had to do in the class hour were nothing but busy work. But he played along, humoring the teacher and keeping his hands to himself.

Jonis wore gloves all the time now. He also wore long sleeves and stockings under his knickers, even when it grew warm. The other boys ran around barefoot and in sleeveless shirts in their free hours, and they often mocked him for dressing so stiffly. But Jonis kept his word, never resorting to using is Cordril abilities to fight back, even to the point of getting a bloody nose. When he came home, bleeding down his lip and chin but grinning because he held true, Mr. Farren shook his head and gave him permission to fight back—with his gloved fists. The next time, the other boy went home with a bloody nose.

Of course the magistrate heard complaints for Jonis’s cheeky behavior. Jonis had gotten comfortable in Mr. Farren’s home. And he often fought others with words rather than fists anyway. He talked less like someone who was thirteen and more like someone who had lived a great deal longer than that. Because of this, frequently his teacher sent home notes ordering Jonis to do extra work as punishment for being disrespectful—and Mr. Farren made sure he did it. But for Jonis the work took a couple of minutes to complete, so it really wasn’t much punishment at all.

As the weeks continued Mr. Farren continued with Jonis’s magisterial education, digging out his scrolls with an unhidden excitement. There were times that he was impatient to see Jonis, meeting him outside his schoolhouse with a test question on his lips to drill Jonis on, grinning and walking with a spring in his step. It grew even more apparent that Mr. Farren could not wait for Jonis’s graduation advancement once Jonis finally admitted that he could read the ancient texts himself. From there, Jonis was teaching the magistrate.

“And what about this spell. The letters are smudged. I have inspected it for hours, but you know how difficult the writing is to read—unless you have grown up with it of course.” Mr. Farren’s hair stuck up from scratching his scalp.

Jonis peered over the smudge. “It looks like it says: heather and ash mixed together with dried mint leaves, garlic, and onion should be boiled and set on a rash or poison sting. It will draw out the toxins.”

“Heather and ash, huh? Those H’s are so hard to decipher. I thought it said Leatler and asl, which, of course, means nothing.” Mr. Farren looked up at him. “My boy, your skills are beyond what I expected. How far back does that memory of yours go?”

“About three thousand years, give or take,” Jonis said with a shrug. “I’m not sure really. There is more, here and there, but not enough to really piece together an established history.”

“You already know so much about demon hunting though,” Mr. Farren murmured with a drawn sigh. “There is little I can teach you now.”

Bashfully shrugging, Jonis glanced back at the scroll. “I can’t help what has been stuck into my head. It is strange for me to recall memories that aren’t my own. Besides, I didn’t know this. I bet there are spells that my ancestors never bothered to learn. That sealing spell you taught me was one. This one is another.”

Mr. Farren smiled and rolled up the scroll. “You don’t have to try and spare my feelings, son. I know this is all old memory to you.”

Jonis frowned, looking uncomfortable. “It isn’t. I was telling you the truth. There is so much that you could still teach me.”

His guardian laughed as he rose

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.02.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7554-7864-5

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