simply:
Dear Jonathan,
The village of Cortton has fallen under an evil spell. They have asked for the brotherhood’s help. Please aid them.
Yours in Devotion, Calum Songmaster
Jonathan reread the letter. It said the same thing. No new information appeared. It was not like Calum to be so brief, but if it was painful to write. . . . Still, it bothered Jonathan.
Calum was their contact, their only link to the rest of the brotherhood. It was he who passed to them assignments from the rest of the brotherhood. Jonathan had served with them for most of his adult life, but he knew none save Calum and a handful of others. That handful took its orders from Calum. The original intent had been to protect the brotherhood’s leadership. If an operative were caught, tortured, he could reveal only a few names, and no one who was irreplaceable. The movement itself would not be hurt. Now Jonathan chafed under the restriction. Calum was dying, and if he died without passing his own contacts to someone else, they would all be’ cut off.
Jonathan could still battle evil, but as a vigilante going from one disaster to another. There would be no long-term goal to work toward. Fighting individual evil was a good thing to do with one’s life, but ultimately useless. The evil sprang up faster than any one person or small group could destroy it. But if they destroyed the evil that infected the land, cut off the maleficence at its source, there would be no new monsters. If the evil stopped breeding, the monsters could be hunted down one at a time and killed. Even the evil magic might fade, the evil that corrupted all magic-users. Jonathan was not sure he believed that wholeheartedly. Mages were a weak lot, easily tempted. He sighed. His thoughts turned back to Elaine.
He shifted his chair toward the window. A soft amber glow filled the hut. It took a moment for Jonathan to realize it was fire—healthy, normal fire gleaming against the windows and open door. Flickering shadows caressed the snow outside the door.
The piles of debris were gone. The snow looked as if some great broom had brushed it clean. Where had all the broken pottery, the warped furniture, the dirt, the rotten cloth, gone? He shook his head. He was not sure he wanted to know. He hoped Lilian, their maid, had not been watching. If she saw how quickly magic could clean, she might be tempted.
Of course, as far as Jonathan knew, a person had to be cursed with the magic from birth. She could not simply choose it.
Gersalius came to the shed’s open door. Firelight bathed him in warm colors. He had a broom in his hands.
Jonathan sat up straighter in his chair. If the old wizard was going to take to the air on the broom, Jonathan wanted to see it. He had heard of such things, but never been witness.
The wizard bent over the broom, hands a foot apart on the stick. Orange fire shadows turned the ordinary broom to gold, or perhaps that was its true color. The wizard breathed a great fog into the air—a word of command?
Jonathan stood, leaning close to the cold glass. Gersalius propped the broom against his body, rubbing his hands against the cold. When the broom was once more firmly grasped, he began to sweep the stone stoop.
Jonathan stepped back with a snort of laughter. Perhaps the wizard heard him, for he looked up. He must have, for he waved, then went back to sweeping the snow. It had not been some giant hand that had cleaned the snow, but one old man with a broom.
Gersalius stooped and picked up a small bit of cloth. He shook it out, frowned, then made a sharp flicking motion with his hand. The cloth vanished. No light display, no wind, no tricks; it simply was no more. Jonathan stepped back from the window so he could no longer see the disturbing old man.
Perhaps Gersalius could not fly on a broom, but what he could do was bothersome enough.
There was a solid knock on the door. ”Enter,” Jonathan called.
The door swung inward. Thordin entered. His square shoulders
Dear Jonathan,
The village of Cortton has fallen under an evil spell. They have asked for the brotherhood’s help. Please aid them.
Yours in Devotion, Calum Songmaster
Jonathan reread the letter. It said the same thing. No new information appeared. It was not like Calum to be so brief, but if it was painful to write. . . . Still, it bothered Jonathan.
Calum was their contact, their only link to the rest of the brotherhood. It was he who passed to them assignments from the rest of the brotherhood. Jonathan had served with them for most of his adult life, but he knew none save Calum and a handful of others. That handful took its orders from Calum. The original intent had been to protect the brotherhood’s leadership. If an operative were caught, tortured, he could reveal only a few names, and no one who was irreplaceable. The movement itself would not be hurt. Now Jonathan chafed under the restriction. Calum was dying, and if he died without passing his own contacts to someone else, they would all be’ cut off.
Jonathan could still battle evil, but as a vigilante going from one disaster to another. There would be no long-term goal to work toward. Fighting individual evil was a good thing to do with one’s life, but ultimately useless. The evil sprang up faster than any one person or small group could destroy it. But if they destroyed the evil that infected the land, cut off the maleficence at its source, there would be no new monsters. If the evil stopped breeding, the monsters could be hunted down one at a time and killed. Even the evil magic might fade, the evil that corrupted all magic-users. Jonathan was not sure he believed that wholeheartedly. Mages were a weak lot, easily tempted. He sighed. His thoughts turned back to Elaine.
He shifted his chair toward the window. A soft amber glow filled the hut. It took a moment for Jonathan to realize it was fire—healthy, normal fire gleaming against the windows and open door. Flickering shadows caressed the snow outside the door.
The piles of debris were gone. The snow looked as if some great broom had brushed it clean. Where had all the broken pottery, the warped furniture, the dirt, the rotten cloth, gone? He shook his head. He was not sure he wanted to know. He hoped Lilian, their maid, had not been watching. If she saw how quickly magic could clean, she might be tempted.
Of course, as far as Jonathan knew, a person had to be cursed with the magic from birth. She could not simply choose it.
Gersalius came to the shed’s open door. Firelight bathed him in warm colors. He had a broom in his hands.
Jonathan sat up straighter in his chair. If the old wizard was going to take to the air on the broom, Jonathan wanted to see it. He had heard of such things, but never been witness.
The wizard bent over the broom, hands a foot apart on the stick. Orange fire shadows turned the ordinary broom to gold, or perhaps that was its true color. The wizard breathed a great fog into the air—a word of command?
Jonathan stood, leaning close to the cold glass. Gersalius propped the broom against his body, rubbing his hands against the cold. When the broom was once more firmly grasped, he began to sweep the stone stoop.
Jonathan stepped back with a snort of laughter. Perhaps the wizard heard him, for he looked up. He must have, for he waved, then went back to sweeping the snow. It had not been some giant hand that had cleaned the snow, but one old man with a broom.
Gersalius stooped and picked up a small bit of cloth. He shook it out, frowned, then made a sharp flicking motion with his hand. The cloth vanished. No light display, no wind, no tricks; it simply was no more. Jonathan stepped back from the window so he could no longer see the disturbing old man.
Perhaps Gersalius could not fly on a broom, but what he could do was bothersome enough.
There was a solid knock on the door. ”Enter,” Jonathan called.
The door swung inward. Thordin entered. His square shoulders
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