CHAPTER ONE
The Abandonment of Magic
A bone-chilling screech echoed through the forest. The old man turned his gaze to the large black raven, who shifted uneasily on his driftwood perch. Crossing the small cottage, he stopped by the open window and tilted his head to listen. He knew the Draywood Forest well—its creaks, groans, and the curious sounds of countless creatures. But this was different. Something had happened.
He leaned in closer.
“Grunk, craw!” the raven called out.
“Hush, Bertram,” the old man whispered, his voice tight with unease.
Then another screech cut through the silence.
With a grim expression, the old man pulled his battered leather eyepatch down over the scarred hollow where his left eye had once been. He reached for the tall wooden staff resting against the wall, grabbed his weathered brown hat, and hurried out of the cottage to investigate. Bertram, following his lead, fluttered to the windowsill and launched himself into the darkening sky.
The old man hurried through the forest, his pace quickening with each agonizing cry that echoed through the trees. What had begun as a distant, indistinct screech soon became unmistakable, frantic pleas for help. Bertram stayed close, flitting from branch to branch as they pressed deeper into the woods.
The old man adjusted his course as the echoes shifted, sometimes veering left, sometimes right. The cries were growing louder now. A cold knot twisted in his chest as he realized they no longer sounded like the cries of a creature in pain. They sounded like the screams of a child.
Panic surged through him at the thought. He quickened his pace, feet crunching over leaves and snapping twigs as the screams continued.
Then, just as suddenly as they had begun, the screams stopped.
An eerie silence fell over the forest.
The old man froze mid-step. The stillness was unnerving. Bertram landed on a nearby branch and cocked his head as if listening. The sudden absence of sound was far more unsettling than the cries that had led him there.
For another moment, there was only silence. Then, faintly in the distance, he heard a low, rhythmic humming. Or was it buzzing? He couldn’t be sure. It was soft, like the delicate purr of hummingbird wings, yet it carried a strange, unnatural edge. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He strained to place it, to determine its source. He took a tentative step forward, focusing on the faint hum.
Everything about this felt wrong. He wanted to turn back, to return to the safety of his cottage before nightfall. But he couldn’t. Someone had cried for help, and he couldn’t ignore the desperation in those screams. He had to press forward.
With fresh determination, the old man picked up his pace once more, moving as quickly as his old legs would allow. The humming sound wove in and out of his hearing, teasing him, always seeming to be just ahead. Bertram kept pace, darting from branch to branch, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows for hidden dangers.
Finally, the source of the sound came into view.
He crept up behind a large, gnarled tree, peering cautiously around its trunk. A short distance away, in the faint light filtering through the canopy, he saw them.
“Faeries,” he murmured under his breath, shock washing over him.
He had seen faeries before, long ago, but never in the Draywood. The creatures before him bore little resemblance to the delicate, graceful beings he remembered. These faeries were slightly larger than his fist, and their appearance was wild and unsettling. Their hair hung in disheveled tangles, and a thin layer of fine, silvery feathers covered their bodies. Most of the faeries were smeared with blood, like beasts after a fresh kill. Beneath each hand protruded a single long claw, sharp and curved like a talon.
Their wings were translucent and shimmering, beating furiously like those of hummingbirds, producing the sound that had drawn him there. But these creatures were nothing like hummingbirds. They were grotesque, twisted beings, driven only by madness. In their tiny faces, the old man saw nothing but pure hatred and savage fury.
On the ground beneath them lay a small body, bloodied and half-hidden by leaves and mud. Its limbs were unnaturally twisted. The old man’s heart lurched at the sight of the pitiful figure, unrecognizable beneath the grime.
The faeries above darted back and forth erratically before diving in swift, vicious bursts, talons outstretched. One by one, they swept across the body, slicing into the already battered flesh. The figure remained still and unresponsive, yet the faeries continued their frenzied assault, slashing and tearing with ruthless determination. Their behavior seemed driven by some cruel, malevolent force.
He had never seen faeries behave like this. They were feral and violent, nothing like the creatures he had known in his youth. A wave of dread washed over him as he watched. He felt compelled to intervene, yet feared what these faeries might do if he revealed himself.
Bertram, perched on a nearby branch, remained still, his dark eyes fixed on the bloody scene below.
At last, the old man decided something had to be done. Tightening his grip on the staff, he stepped out from behind the tree and ran to the limp body, positioning himself over it. The faeries reacted instantly to his intrusion. They had a new target. One by one, they dove at him, talons outstretched and ready to tear into him.
Bertram, always loyal, swooped down to defend him. But the faeries, merciless and brutal, attacked the bird immediately. They tore at his head and wings. Feathers flew everywhere as they battled in midair.
“Bertram, fly off!” the old man shouted. “Go! Now, go!”
Reluctantly, Bertram obeyed, retreating as the faeries gave chase. Several pursued the raven briefly before turning back to focus their attacks on the old man.
The old man crouched over the body, bowing his head. His right arm shielded his face while his left hand clutched the staff. The faeries attacked from all directions, their razor-sharp talons slicing into his back, arms, and hands. He could hear his cloak tearing as they slashed through it, reaching the tender flesh beneath.
Despite the pain, the old man fought to center himself, to find the inner peace he required to mount his defense. He needed to focus, to summon the strength for what he must do. Slowly, he chanted, his voice a faint whisper at first, then growing louder.
“Dispere esto adiu te… Dispere esto adiu te…”
The words gained power with each repetition, his voice rising above the faeries’ frenzied attacks. He stood and raised his staff high, even as their talons slashed at his exposed skin.
“Dispere esto adiu te!” he shouted, louder and louder, until his voice echoed through the forest. Still the faeries continued their assault, swarming around him, talons tearing at his face and hands. Desperation overtook him. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he screamed the words with all the force he could muster.
Then, finally, the staff reacted.
A flash of blinding light burst from its tip, followed by a wave of energy that radiated in every direction. The air erupted into a whirlwind of leaves, twigs, and dirt as the blast hurled the faeries backward, flinging them away from the old man. They screeched in panic and fled into the shadows of the forest.
But the old man knew it wouldn’t last. He no longer had the power to bind the faeries or banish them from the forest entirely. He had once been a powerful wizard, capable of such feats, but that was long ago. Many of the powers he had wielded were now gone. Magic was fading from the world, slowly stripping him of purpose and leaving him to fend for himself.
He scooped up the blood-soaked body and hurried through the forest, retracing his steps. He had gone only a short distance when he heard the unmistakable buzzing of faerie wings behind him. They were coming for him again. The old man quickened his pace, moving as fast as he could.
Just as the cottage came into view, the faeries caught up with him. They resumed their attack, ripping at his face and back with renewed fury. Carrying his staff in one hand and the limp body in the other left him defenseless. But he was close. Almost home.
He stumbled between two massive, ancient trees just outside the cottage. As the faeries swooped after him, they slammed into an invisible force. They screeched in agony as the unseen shield surrounding the cottage hurled them violently backward.
Battered and bloody, the old man ran inside, cradling the limp body in his arms. Again and again, the faeries tried to breach the boundary, only to be repelled, their shrill cries of pain filling the air. The charm he had placed upon the cottage long ago was an old but powerful spell, meant to keep the unwanted at bay. Lucky for him, it was holding firm.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the faeries gave up. They screeched one last time, then disappeared into the depths of the dark forest.
The old man swept the wooden table clear and gently laid the body upon it. A faint moan escaped its lips, and the slight rise and fall of its chest caught his eye.
It was alive.
He knew there were wounds that needed tending, but they lay hidden beneath clothes caked with layers of blood and dirt. He fetched a rag and filled a washbasin with water, then wet the cloth and began the slow, deliberate task of cleaning the body. Each careful wipe revealed bruises, cuts, and scratches beneath the muck. Fortunately, the mud and leaves had sealed most of the wounds, keeping the worst of the bleeding at bay.
As more of the body emerged from beneath the filth, distinct features came into view: long, tangled white hair, webbed fingers, and ears that pointed straight upward before bending sharply at the top like folded leaves. To confirm his suspicions, the old man gently lifted one of the creature’s eyelids. A large black pupil, surrounded by a thin ring of bright gold, stared back at him.
The old man drew in a sharp breath, his heart skipping a beat.
This was no child.
“A Terralin,” he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief.
The realization made his hands even gentler, as though he were handling a rare and fragile relic that might shatter at the slightest touch. With deliberate care, he turned the Terralin onto its side. More serious wounds marred its back. As expected, there were fresh gashes from the faeries, but there was something else as well. Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed the Terralin’s back. These were not the work of the faeries. They were signs of past torment. Evidence of vicious beatings and unspeakable cruelty etched permanently into its skin.
He examined the rest of the body more closely. Smaller scars marked the Terralin’s face, arms, and legs. The top of its right ear was partially torn, mutilated as though something had ripped through it. The old man’s throat tightened, and tears welled in his eyes as he traced the brutal patterns with trembling fingers.
He knew the pain those scars carried. He knew because he carried scars of his own.
Once he had finished cleaning and tending to the Terralin’s wounds, the old man laid him gently upon a makeshift bed near the fire. The remedies he had prepared would ease the Terralin’s pain and keep him resting as he healed. He tended to his own wounds, then set aside a few herbs for Bertram, should they be needed.
The raven had not yet returned from the forest, but the old man knew he was injured, though he could not say how badly. Now, with the fire crackling softly beside him, he sat in uneasy silence, his thoughts weighed down by worry for both of them.
*****
At last, after several days, the Terralin awoke. Sensing something was wrong, he cautiously cracked one eye open and scanned his surroundings. He lay on a bed of straw near the fireplace in a small, dimly lit room. Someone had neatly piled his clothes beside him.
He slowly turned his head, taking in more of the room. An old man sat in a rocking chair, carving a piece of wood with a large knife. The steady rhythm of the chair produced a soft creak with each motion, almost like the beat of a slow song. With every careful stroke of the knife, wood shavings drifted down and gathered in a small pile at his feet.
“You needn’t be afraid,” the old man said without looking up from his carving. “You are quite safe here.”
The Terralin’s heart pounded in his chest. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to him that the old man’s voice felt foreign and out of place.
“Where am I?” he asked nervously.
“You’re in my home,” the old man replied, his focus still on his work. “You’ve been my guest for the past four days.”
The Terralin opened both eyes and glanced around the small cottage. In the center of the room stood a wooden table with two chairs. Along one wall, shelves crammed with dusty books and scrolls stretched from floor to ceiling. Nestled among the volumes were delicate wooden sculptures of woodland creatures: a rabbit, a squirrel, and a bird among them. Against another wall stood a small bed. In the corner, steam rose from a pot on a black stove, filling the room with the comforting aroma of vegetable stew. By the window, a large raven perched on a tall piece of driftwood, its dark eyes quietly observing.
“Who are you?” the Terralin asked.
“My name is Eddigan,” the old man said, finally looking up. “And what might I call you?”
“I’m called Stick,” the Terralin replied. Whether it was Eddigan’s tone, the warmth of the fire, or the smell of stew filling the cottage, something about the place put him at ease.
“Stick?” Eddigan echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Should I assume that’s not the name your mother gave you?”
“In fact, it was my mother who first called me Stick, but I was named Jacqaan at birth.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Stick,” Eddigan said with a hint of surprise in his voice. The Terralin spoke with a slow, deliberate cadence, as though carefully weighing each word before speaking. “You speak the common tongue remarkably well. To be honest, I wasn’t sure we’d be able to communicate at all.”
“Thank you,” Stick said. “I’m fluent in Baelon and Sym as well, though there is rarely any need for it. My mother always said you can never have too many ways to communicate.” He realized too late that he was rambling. It was a habit that always seemed to surface when he was nervous.
The raven shifted on its perch, drawing Stick’s attention. A wave of memories washed over him. Memories of Jassin, his younger brother. As children, they had once wandered near the riverbed, where Jassin had discovered a fallen starling. The nest was too high in the trees to return it, but Jassin, ever determined, had vowed to nurse the tiny bird back to health. Despite his best efforts, the bird had died within a week, leaving Jassin heartbroken. More than half a century had passed since Stick had last seen his brother, yet the ache of his absence remained as sharp as ever.
“Is that your bird?” Stick asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the raven.
“That is Bertram,” Eddigan replied. “He’s been my companion for many years, though I would not presume to call him mine. He is a loyal friend and comes and goes as he pleases.”
Noticing his discomfort for the first time, Stick shifted beneath the thin blanket. His wounds throbbed, each pulse bringing a sharp stab of pain. His hand moved cautiously over the bandages covering most of his body. As he felt the extent of his injuries, he let out a gasp.
“What happened?” Stick asked, his voice filled with shock and urgency.
“What do you remember?” Eddigan asked.
“I was walking through the forest, minding my own business. I think I was humming The Ballads of Baelish, if memory serves. Then I was suddenly attacked.”
“Yes,” Eddigan agreed, “and quite brutally, I might add.”
“But what attacked me?”
“Faeries,” Eddigan said flatly.
“Faeries?” Stick repeated in disbelief. “Since when are faeries hostile?”
“Since the beginning of the Arcansil,” Eddigan replied. A shiver ran down his spine as he spoke the word aloud. It was a word he hadn’t uttered in years. It tasted bitter, almost profane, as though he were invoking something unspeakable. Arcansil was a term reserved for the worst of all things that could befall the world, or at least his world.
Stick fixed his gaze on Eddigan. Arcansil was not a word he knew, yet the mention of it had drained all color from the old man’s face. “What is the Arcansil?” he asked.
“The abandonment of magic,” Eddigan replied, his gaze drifting away, captured by some distant, sorrowful thought. “Magic is leaving this world, or perhaps it is the world leaving magic behind. Either way, few creatures feel its absence more keenly than the faeries. Magic is woven into the fabric of their very existence. It’s no wonder they’ve gone mad.”
Stick could see the pain etched into Eddigan’s face and kept silent, reluctant to press further. Yet Eddigan, lost in thought, seemed almost to forget Stick was in the room at all.
“It began with the extinction of the elves,” he continued. “That’s the theory, at least, though some argue it was the Arcansil itself that drove them to vanish. I believe the latter. Elves cannot survive in this world without magic. As enchanted beings, they would shrivel and fade, or at the very least descend into madness, as the faeries have. The Arcansil touches all creatures who draw strength from the wellspring of the arcane. They feel it in their bones, like an unreachable itch. It is maddening, a constant sense of being stretched thin. This torment touches every magical being, even wizards.”
A long, heavy silence hung in the air. Eddigan’s words intrigued Stick, but he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. He was in a stranger’s home, after all, and did not want to risk offending him.
“I thought there were no more wizards left in the world,” he said cautiously.
After a moment, Eddigan seemed to pull himself from his thoughts. “There may still be one or two left.” He noted the surprise in Stick’s expression and added, “Until four days ago, I thought there were no more Terralins left in the world.”
“The world is not quite rid of us yet,” Stick replied somberly.
In truth, Stick was the last of his kind, and he knew it. He would be the final Terralin. Once he was gone, his species would fade into myth and legend, and in time, the world would forget them entirely.
He also knew he was nearing the end of his life. He could feel it approaching, a quiet inevitability. There had been no deceit in what he had told Eddigan before. He had indeed been walking through the woods, minding his own business, humming The Ballads of Baelish. But his true purpose had been to find a suitable place to die. It was a quest he had undertaken years ago. Everywhere he went now, he kept his eyes open for the perfect hollow, a secluded meadow, or a gentle ring of trees where he might finally rest.
It was the reason he had not panicked upon waking in a stranger’s home. Years ago, he might have, but now such concerns no longer mattered to him. He was grateful that Eddigan had saved him from the faeries. He would much rather leave this world on his own terms. But truth be told, he had been preparing for his death for a very long time.
“Where are my manners,” Eddigan said, with renewed energy in his voice. “You must be famished. Can I offer you some stew?”
It was as though Eddigan had read his mind. The smell of the stew had clouded all other thoughts. “Yes, thank you,” Stick replied gratefully.
Eddigan brought him a small bowl of stew and a cup of fresh water. Stick devoured the meal, savoring each bite, and soon afterward drifted into a deep sleep.
*****
Over the next several weeks, Stick continued to recover slowly, waking only long enough to eat before drifting back to sleep. Eddigan administered herbs and medicinal concoctions to keep him resting and as comfortable as possible. Though his mind brimmed with questions, he remained patient, waiting for Stick to regain his strength.
Then, one morning, Stick awoke to find Eddigan lighting a fire in the hearth with a simple twist of his finger. His eyes lingered on the small flame, and in a soft, matter-of-fact voice, he said, “You’re a wizard, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Eddigan replied. “At least I was once. These days, I’m left with little more than the ability to perform simple tasks, like lighting fires.”
Stick heard the anguish in Eddigan’s voice, a deep, unspoken sorrow woven through every word. He felt as though he understood, at least as much as anyone could. Eddigan was not merely losing his magic. He was being stripped of his identity. For a wizard, magic wasn’t just a tool or a skill. It was their purpose, a connection to something greater. And now that connection was unraveling, leaving Eddigan adrift, clinging to the remnants of a life that no longer felt whole.
“I’m sorry,” Stick said softly. There was nothing else to say.
Eddigan didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his focus on the hearth, quietly stoking the fire.
Stick had known of wizards throughout his long life, though only through stories and rumor. From all he had heard, they made great use of their abilities. Some roamed from town to town, helping those in need. Others served as trusted advisors to kings, wielding their magic in the halls of power. Then there were those who remained among their own kind in the wizardly orders, devoting their lives to pondering life’s greatest mysteries.
Eddigan, however, was different. He wasn’t helping townsfolk or guiding rulers. Nor was he immersed in the intellectual camaraderie of an order. Instead, he seemed to be hiding, living as a recluse deep in the forest, far removed from the rest of the world. It puzzled Stick. The effects of the Arcansil might strip a wizard of power, but what could compel one to retreat so completely into isolation? He couldn’t help but wonder what had driven Eddigan to such a solitary life.
“Is the Arcansil the reason you live alone in this cottage, hidden away in the woods?” he asked.
A grim expression settled on Eddigan’s face. “There are many reasons,” he said. “None worth digging up now.” His voice carried a finality that left no room for further questions.
An awkward silence hung in the air until Bertram, returning from breakfast, swooped in through the open window and landed gracefully on his perch. The raven fluffed his feathers, then leaned forward to clean his beak, rubbing it methodically from side to side against a worn patch on the driftwood. When he finished, he let out a low, contented croak.
Stick’s expression brightened instantly, and Eddigan noticed the change. “You seem to enjoy Bertram’s company,” he said, his tone curious. “Do you have a fondness for ravens?”
Stick’s smile lingered as his eyes remained fixed on the bird. “He reminds me of my brother,” he said. “Of my childhood in Dorveth… of my entire life, I suppose.”
His voice was soft and reflective, as though the memories were just out of reach. “When I was young,” Stick continued, “my life was much simpler, much happier. But then, suddenly, fate ripped that happiness away from me.”
His gaze remained fixed on Bertram, as though the bird held a fragment of that long-lost joy. “As I got older, those moments of happiness became fleeting and scarce. Fewer and farther between. Now, as I approach the closing chapter of my life, I struggle to make sense of it all.”
Eddigan studied him thoughtfully. He had never met a Terralin before and had not even been certain they still existed until fate brought Stick to his door. The Terralins were a people of legend, their stories rare and often shrouded in myth. Yet here sat one before him, alive, an echo of a race thought long gone. He wanted to know more.
“I’ve heard stories of Dorveth,” Eddigan said. “The great mud city, as some called it. Though I must admit I never fully believed it was real.”
Stick chuckled softly, amused by the mythical reputation of his childhood home. “Dorveth is no myth,” he said. “It was a sprawling Terralin city hugging the banks of the mighty Bjogen River. The mud and clay there were perfect for building.
“At its peak, nine clans and countless generations of Terralins called Dorveth home. There were thousands of us, living our lives in relative peace for centuries.”
His gaze grew distant. “Until it all went away.”
“Would you tell me of Dorveth?” Eddigan asked. “Would you tell me about your life there?”
As Stick considered the request, memories surfaced: his brother Jassin, his closest confidant and ally; his twin sisters, Lenna and Dilya, always full of energy and laughter; and his mother, the revered matriarch of their clan, who had named him Stick and guided him with unwavering strength. His father’s image loomed large as well, a steadfast figure who had served as chieftain of Dorveth and head of the tribal council for nearly a century.
The faces of family and friends filled his mind. The weight of those memories—the love, the loss, and the irretrievable past—pressed down on him like a burden too heavy to bear.
“What would be the point?” he replied at last, his voice hollow. “Dorveth is no more, and neither are any of the Terralins who lived there. All of it will die with me—the city, the memories, their lives. All gone.”
Eddigan studied him in silence as he packed his pipe with spice weed.
“The point, Stick, is that you are not gone yet,” he finally said. “I imagine you have lived a long life, one filled with joy, sorrow, pain, and love. You have a choice. You can take those things with you to the grave, losing them forever, or you can share them and keep them alive a little longer. Perhaps, in telling your story, you might find clarity, or even truths about yourself you never realized before.”
A quiet sadness lingered beneath Eddigan’s words, and it made Stick suspect there was more behind the request than simple curiosity. Eddigan seemed determined that he should tell his story, almost desperate.
“Perhaps,” Stick said after a pause. “Why is this so important to you?”
Eddigan stared into the distance for a moment, as though searching for the right words. “Because my own people will die out,” he finally said. “The Arcansil will take all of us, and I can think of no greater tragedy than for an entire people to be lost to time.”
“I will consider it,” Stick said, with new understanding. He now understood that Eddigan faced the same fate. The Arcansil would take all wizards and every last magic user from the world. They would all be gone, an age of magic left only to history. It wasn’t only Stick’s story that concerned Eddigan. Not entirely. It was the stories of all peoples and creatures who faced extinction for one reason or another.
Now, Stick had to decide whether or not the Terralins’ story was worth saving, or if it should die with him.
*****
The next day, Eddigan’s mule-drawn cart rolled steadily into the village of Tambor, coming to a stop in front of a small wooden building at the edge of town. Every few months, he made the long trip to Annie’s Mercantile for supplies. It had been nearly a month since he had rescued Stick from the faeries, and now there were two mouths to feed. The Terralin ate little, but Annie’s store also doubled as an apothecary, and Eddigan needed to replenish his stock of medicinal herbs and other remedies.
A creaky wooden door announced Eddigan’s arrival as he stepped into the store. Inside, a plump woman sat comfortably in a large rocking chair by the window. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun, and thin wire spectacles perched precariously on the tip of her nose. In one hand, she held a long wooden pipe. Thin tendrils of smoke curled lazily into the air as she toked. The faint scent of pipe tobacco mingled with the earthy aroma of dried herbs and aged wood that filled the store.
“Good morrow, Annie,” Eddigan said, briefly lifting his hat.
“We don’t have no carrots this week, Edd,” she replied flatly, her pipe now perched between her lips.
“That’s quite all right,” Eddigan said with a nod. “I’ll take a few extra potatoes and onions, then.”
“Suit yourself,” Annie said indifferently, leaning back in her chair.
Eddigan moved through the small room, handpicking vegetables from the neatly stacked wooden crates along the floor. One by one, he carried them to an empty counter near the front of the store, arranging them in a tidy row. Nearby, shelves lined the wall with vials of oils and jars filled with medicinal herbs and finely ground roots of every kind. He leaned in, reading the labels with care before selecting several jars and vials and placing them alongside the vegetables on the counter.
Annie let out a groan as she slowly rose from her chair and shuffled over to the counter.
“What else for ya?”
“A dozen rashers of bacon and two lengths of sausage, if you’ve got them.”
Without a word, she went to the back, then returned with the meat and set it on the counter with the other items. “That it then?”
“Yes,” Eddigan said with a nod.
She tallied the items, mumbling the price of each beneath her breath. “That’ll be seven coppers,” she said finally.
Eddigan reached into his small purse and laid a few coins on the counter.
“What news from town?” he asked casually.
Annie’s face lit with a hint of excitement. “There’s only one thing folks ’round here been talkin’ about,” she said, her tone laced with intrigue. “The madman they found over at Sheppy’s place.”
“Madman?” Eddigan repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Found him muckin’ around with the hogs!” Annie exclaimed, breaking into a booming laugh. “Sheppy said he was talkin’ crazy, yellin’ up a storm and claimin’ to be a wizard! Have you ever heard such nonsense?”
Eddigan frowned slightly, though he kept his expression neutral. “A wizard, you say?”
“They said he looked a bit touched, as it were,” Annie continued. “His face was all scarred up, and he had a shiny staff like he was playin’ the part.”
“Scarred?” Eddigan asked, his curiosity growing.
“That’s what they say,” she replied with a shrug. “A long one from ear to ear, and a big round scar right between the eyes.”
“Peculiar,” Eddigan said softly, his mind already racing as he considered whether his suspicions could be true.
“That was my thought!” Annie exclaimed. “They said he was old as the hills, too. Maybe he just lost his mind to age.”
“Where is this madman now?” Eddigan asked, a hint of urgency creeping into his voice.
“Took Sheppy and both his brothers to get control of him, but they finally got him tied up,” Annie replied with a chuckle. “Far as I know, he’s still locked up down at the constable’s office.”
Eddigan nodded thoughtfully, slinging the sack from his shoulder onto the counter. He carefully placed each item inside.
“I have business in town, and I could use the walk,” he said. “Do you mind if I leave this with you until I return?”
“Set your things there in the corner,” Annie said, already plopping back into her chair by the window.
Eddigan left his sack of purchases in the corner as instructed and rushed out the door. “I’ll return shortly, Daisy,” he said, patting the mule on the head as he passed. Then he hurried down the long dirt road toward the constable’s office.
When he arrived, he found the constable and four other men talking in hushed tones outside. Among them, Eddigan spotted the local sexton. His wrinkled face was set in grim resolve, although Eddigan suspected that might simply be his natural state. The men stood around a weathered body cart, its wooden frame darkened by years of use. The heavy silence hanging over the group told Eddigan that something bad had happened.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Eddigan said as he approached. “Constable, I wonder if you might be of help.”
The constable stepped forward with a serious expression. “You’re the fella who lives out in the Draywood, right?”
“That’s right. My name’s Eddigan,” he replied. “We met years ago when you were still a deputy.”
“This isn’t a good time, Eddigan,” the constable said, irritation creeping into his tone. “Maybe come back another day.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the group.
“I understand you have a prisoner in your keep who might have caused some trouble,” Eddigan said.
The constable turned back, narrowing his eyes. “What do you know about it?”
“He has a round scar on his face, doesn’t he?” Eddigan asked.
“That’s right,” the constable replied. “Do you know him?”
“Possibly,” Eddigan said. “May I see him?”
The constable exchanged glances with the other men, their expressions shifting with shared understanding. “As it happens, we were just about to bring him out,” the constable said. “Your friend died early this morning.”
Eddigan’s brow furrowed. “How?”
“Come with me,” the constable said simply.
Eddigan followed without another word.
The constable led him down a dim hallway lined with jail cells and stopped at the last one. “Here he is,” he said, stepping aside.
Eddigan stopped in front of the open cell, his breath catching as he took in the grim scene. It was far worse than he could have imagined. His heart sank as his suspicions solidified. The figure before him was unmistakable. It was Merion, his childhood friend. They had trained together in their youth and been conscripted into the same order.
In those days, Merion had been a strapping young man, his muscular build and fiery red hair a testament to his strength and vitality. Now, what lay before Eddigan was a gaunt, broken shell of that memory. Merion’s long, disheveled hair clung to his bloodied face. Blood was everywhere, on the floor and walls of the cell, painting a picture of violence and suffering.
Eddigan swallowed hard, the weight of recognition and grief pressing down on him. Merion had once been a promising wizard, far more skilled than Eddigan. But everything had changed the day Merion sacrificed his own future by coming to Eddigan’s defense. Eddigan owed his life to him, and now he stood witness to the cruel fate that had befallen his old friend.
“What happened here?” Eddigan whispered, his voice barely audible.
“He was already in bad shape when they brought him in,” the constable replied grimly. “Rambling nonsense, out of his mind. He kept tearing at his own head, scratching, clawing, ripping at himself. Then this morning he started throwing himself at the walls, bashing his head in until finally he struck a fatal blow.”
Eddigan’s eyes drifted across the scene, taking in the clumps of bloodied hair scattered across the floor. On Merion’s head, patches of torn skin and raw flesh hung loosely, a horrifying testament to the violence he had inflicted upon himself. The room stank of blood and despair.
“Did you know him?” the constable asked, his tone softening.
“Yes,” Eddigan replied somberly. “A long time ago. His name was Merion.”
“I was about to turn him over to the sexton,” the constable said. “Did he have any kin?”
“No,” Eddigan said. “There wouldn’t have been anyone. Let the sexton do his duty and lay him to rest.”
Eddigan turned to leave, but hesitated and glanced back. “Did he have any personal effects?”
The constable shrugged. “There are a few things,” he said. “You’re welcome to them.”
Eddigan followed him back into the office. The constable retrieved a small leather satchel from the desk and handed it over. “Do you want his walking stick too?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” Eddigan replied. His voice was steady, but something unreadable flickered across his expression. Walking stick? he thought with silent amusement.
He took the satchel and staff with quiet reverence, his fingers lingering briefly on the worn wood as if it carried a piece of Merion himself. In a way, it did. After all, what is a wizard’s staff but an extension of its owner?
Eddigan felt the weight of the satchel in his hands, knowing there were items inside, but he would wait until later to inspect them. Some things were better left to private moments, away from curious eyes.
He made his way back to Annie’s and gathered his things. As he started the long journey home, his thoughts lingered on Merion and the years they had shared in their youth. The memories felt so vivid, as though they had happened only yesterday, and he could not help but wonder where all the years had gone.
But his reflections soon gave way to darker thoughts. Merion had gone mad, just like the faeries. Eddigan was certain it was the Arcansil that had driven him to madness, severing his connection to magic and unraveling his mind. A chilling realization washed over him. What he had just witnessed might not be Merion’s tragedy alone, but a grim premonition of his own fate.
*****
It was early morning when Stick awoke to the familiar sound of wood being carved. He turned his head to see Eddigan in his chair, focused intently on a new piece. Thin curls of wood fell with each stroke of the knife, joining the growing pile of shavings at his feet. The scene reminded him of the first day he had awakened in Eddigan’s cottage.
“It’s a fine morning,” Stick said with a smile, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Is it?” Eddigan replied, his tone heavier than usual.
His expression was somber, and Stick could tell something was weighing on him. Ever since Eddigan had returned from town, he had been quieter than usual. Something had happened, but he hadn’t said what.
Stick studied Eddigan for a moment, assessing his mood. “I’m ready to tell you my story,” he finally said. “But I’m not sure where to start.”
Eddigan’s hands stilled, his knife hovering over the piece of wood. He looked down at Stick, and for the first time that day, a small, genuine smile touched his face. Setting the carving aside, he leaned back in his chair.
“I think it’s always best to start at the beginning.”
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