Elazar the Magician - Preview

Prologue

 The Forest of Shadows was an apt name for the ancient forest surrounding the base of Mount Vadaka. Its huge trees had black, peeling bark, and gnarled branches that formed dense canopies of blood-red leaves high above. So dense that little light found its way to the forest floor. This meager illumination cast the forest in a bloody hue, as if warning anyone who dared enter the forest of what dreadful things might befall them.

A warning that Tyrus’s best friend Magnus had refused to heed, insisting that they both brave the fringes of the Forest of Shadows to find one of the Six Magic Mushrooms that were rumored to grow within. Legend had it that each of the Six would give whoever ate them magical powers…and Magnus was dead-set on becoming a magician like his hero Elazar.

They’d trudged through the periphery of the forest for nearly three hours before finally finding one.

“There!” Magnus blurted out excitedly, sprinting ahead of Tyrus and weaving around the thick tree trunks. He came to a stop before a bright green mushroom. It was barely ankle-height, with a slender stalk and a small green cap. Magnus knelt, staring at it in wonder. “I can’t believe it!”

Tyrus reached Magnus eventually, looking at the mushroom dutifully. It was, to his surprise, a Maki mushroom…one of the Six. Anyone who ate it would supposedly gain the power of a master warrior, such that a man might defeat a dozen enemies single-handedly. Magnus immediately pulled a small notebook from his pants pocket, opening it and using a pencil to jot down a few notes. Then he began to sketch the mushroom. Tyrus watched, waiting patiently for his friend to finish. Magnus had sketches of all sorts of mushrooms in that notebook, and carried it wherever he went. The kid was hopelessly obsessed. Magnus finished his sketch, then hesitated, glancing at Tyrus.

“What?” Tyrus asked.

“Should I make a spore print?” Magnus asked. In addition to his sketches, Magnus sometimes cut off the caps of mushrooms he liked, pressing them on a page in his journal to deposit spores there. This was called a spore print…and if Magnus wanted, he could scrape the spores off the page later, putting them in a sterile jar of flour or some other food source to grow more of the mushrooms. It was illegal to grow one of the Six without permission from the Elder back home. Permission that the Elder would never grant. For only the Order of Elazar, the religious authority that ruled the land, could ever grow the Six.

“I don’t really care,” Tyrus replied.

“Don’t care?” Magnus retorted incredulously. “It’s a Maki mushroom!”

Tyrus just shrugged again. If you asked Tyrus, Elazar was just a myth, and magic was all bullshit. But Magnus was a true believer, and as such, could not be swayed. An odd pair of opposites, Tyrus and Magnus. Magnus was short, with long black hair and silver eyes, while Tyrus was tall and slender, with long blonde hair and green eyes. Tyrus believed in logic and reason, while Magnus believed in magic…and Tyrus was serious while Magnus was seriously over-the-top. Yet somehow their friendship worked.

“I forget, you’re obsessed with gizmos,” Magnus said.

“And doodads,” Tyrus added with a smile.

“Definitely the doodads,” Magnus agreed with a grin. “Can’t forget about those.” He paused, eyeing the mushroom. Then he reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a small knife. He used it to cut the mushroom cap off, and then pressed the bottom of the cap on the page of his notebook. He closed the notebook then, stuffing it back into his pants pocket.

“You’d better not grow it,” Tyrus warned. “I mean it Mag.”

“I won’t.”

“Uh huh,” Tyrus replied. “We’d better get going,” he prompted, eyeing the grassland beyond the forest. The sunlight was clearly waning. “It’s getting late.”

“Okay,” Magnus reluctantly agreed.

With that, they made their toward the tree line, exiting the Forest of Shadows. But the shadow of dark, angry thunderclouds forming just below the peak of Mount Vadaka followed them as they rushed back to the village of Chesselhurst, the low rumble of thunder echoing ominously over the land. 

* * *

 By the time Tyrus parted ways with Magnus and made it to his modest home at the eastern edge of Chesselhurst, the storm was nearly upon him. He made his way up the wooden steps to the narrow building, opening the door and stepping into the kitchen. He saw Dad there by the stove, dressed in his usual gray overalls, attending to a steaming pan. Dad was freakishly tall, his head almost touching the ceiling, but was slender like Tyrus. Unlike Tyrus, he kept his hair short, barely more than an inch, on account of being the village clockmaker. Long hairs and gears didn’t mix.

“Hi Dad,” Tyrus greeted.

“Hey Ty,” Dad replied with a smile. “I was starting to think you got lost.”

“Nah,” Tyrus said. “Just Mag being Mag.”

“He never knows when to stop, does he?”

“Nope,” Tyrus agreed with a smile.

“That’s the secret to success,” Dad mused.

“Not stopping?”

“Knowing what you want and not letting anything stop you from getting it,” Dad corrected. He turned to look out of the kitchen window then. “About time it rained,” he said. “This summer was brutal.”

“Need help?” Tyrus asked, eyeing the stove.

“Always offering to help after I’m done,” Dad mused, ruffling Tyrus’s hair. “Guess I can’t blame you. Your mother used to blame me for the same thing.” He gestured at the small table at the far end of the kitchen. “Have a seat.”

Tyrus did so, but only after getting his notebook from his room upstairs. Dad doled out portions of beef stew for both of them, then sat down. They ate in silence, Dad reading a book while Tyrus opened his notebook. It had graph paper, a grid of faint green lines that helped him draw things to scale. With precision, unlike Magnus’s notebook, which had plain sheets of paper. He flipped through the notebook, eyeing some drawings he’d done earlier that day. Of various inventions he’d come up with using some of the extra equipment left over from Dad’s workshop in the basement. They didn’t speak, each lost in their own thoughts. It was exactly how they preferred to eat, and Mom had never understood it.

They finished, and Tyrus offered to do the dishes. An offer Dad accepted, of course, because he hated to do them.

“Back to the grind,” Dad notified him. Which meant that he’d be down in the workshop until late that night. He had an unusually large order of clocks to finish by the end of the week.

“Okay,” Tyrus replied. “I’m going to bed after this.”

“Sweet dreams,” Dad replied with a smile. He ruffled Tyrus’s hair again, and Tyrus gave him a hug.

“Love you,” Tyrus told him.

“What’s not to love?” Dad asked with a grin. Tyrus grinned back. Dad gave a mock salute, then went down to the basement while Tyrus finished up the dishes. Then Tyrus went upstairs, brushing his teeth and washing up, then going to his room and flopping on his bed. He gazed at his various contraptions atop his bureau, little machines made of gears and such from Dad’s spare parts. Chesselhurst used precious few of Dad’s clocks, being a backwards village, at least according to Dad. Most of them he shipped west to Parthon, a country unlike any other. One where science reigned supreme, not magic.

His gaze shifted to the telescope he kept near his window, a gift from his mother before she’d passed. A gift he’d used every clear night since, to look out at the stars and the planets. Heavenly bodies that moved just as reliably as the gears in Dad’s clocks, though by what mechanism nobody knew.

One day he’d go to Parthon. A place where people like him and Dad belonged.

Tyrus’s eyes drifted closed, and he snuggled into his pillow, pulling his blanket over himself and turning onto his side. Visions of a great big clock came to him then, with millions of gears ever-turning. A universe-clock, or a clockwork universe, knowable. Rational. Without any need for magic at all.

At length, the vision faded into nothingness, into an oblivion that ruled over all. A great nothing to which he returned each night, and from which he would spring forth the following day.

Then, from nothing, there was a tremendous flash of light.

BOOM!

Tyrus jolted awake, his ears ringing loudly…and saw the ceiling above him exploding in flames, hunks of burning plaster falling toward him.

He didn’t even have time to scream.

The hunks struck him in the chest and face, and he rolled off the bed, landing on the floor beside it with a whump. He scrambled on his hands and knees away from the bed, then got to his feet, slapping burning plaster from his clothes and face…just as the ceiling above his bed collapsed completely, burying it in charred plaster and wood and shingles.

Tyrus stared at it in disbelief, backing away from the bed and toward the door…and then gasped as flames soared upward from the ruins, reaching the ceiling and setting it and the wall aflame. A tremendous wave of heat struck him then, burning his eyes and face.

Run you idiot!

He yanked open the door, rushing into the hallway beyond. He went right for his Dad’s bedroom, turning the knob and shoving the door open.

“Dad!” he shouted, even as thick black smoke billowed across the ceiling above. But Dad wasn’t there.

The workshop!

Tyrus sprinted down the hallway, rushing to the stairs. He took then four at a time, leaping down to the bottom and rushing across the living room and kitchen to the basement door. He threw it open, bounding down the wooden stairs. They took a left-hand turn, and Tyrus slammed into the wall with his shoulder with a grunt, continuing down to the bottom. He saw his Dad’s workshop ahead, a giant wooden table filled with heaps of gears, tools, and other metallic things. Dad’s chair had tipped over in front of it…and a good six feet away from that chair, Dad was lying on his back on the floor, his shirt in flames.

“Dad!” Tyrus gasped.

He rushed to his father’s side, then looked around frantically for a blanket, finding one draped across a few boxes beside the workshop table. He grabbed it, beating at the flames licking at Dad’s shirt, then smothering them by pressing the blanket over them. To his relief, it worked.

“Dad!” he repeated, kneeling at Dad’s side. But Dad didn’t respond, his eyes open and glassy, staring at nothing. His right hand was horribly burned, with a long, wide wound that was gray with beefy red edges. His sleeve was charred, and there was a blackened hole in his shirt at his chest. “Dad, come on!” he urged, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it.

But Dad didn’t respond.

Tyrus shook harder, but Dad just laid there, staring at nothing. As if the him that mattered was already gone.

“Come on!” Tyrus pleaded. He saw a flicker of light from above, and looked up to see flames licking at a hole in the ceiling ten feet up…right above the pile of metal Dad had been working with. Flames spread outward from that hole, fanning across the ceiling in orange-red light that rippled like the surface of a lake. The air filled with a choking haze, making him cough violently. He grabbed Dad’s good arm with both hands, struggling to drag him to the foot of the stairs. Then he paused to rest, coughing again, his breath coming in short gasps.

“Dad, wake up!”

But still, Dad just lay there…and flames spread further across the ceiling, forming a fiery ocean above. The heat was beyond anything Tyrus had ever felt, the air so thick he felt like he was drowning in it.

Tyrus grit his teeth, then grabbed Dad by the wrist, trying to haul him up the stairs. But he was too heavy, and Tyrus could barely get Dad’s upper back on the first two steps. He paused then, trying to catch his breath…and then broke out into a hacking cough.

The fire above spread until the entire ceiling was engulfed…and the ceiling above Dad’s workshop table collapsed, burning debris falling atop it.

“Come on!” Tyrus yelled, pulling again. He got them up one step, then another…and then his grip slipped free, and he fell back against the stairs, banging his head on the edge of one. He cursed, grabbing Dad’s wrist and hauling upward again, pulling with all his might. But he was tiring, and Dad barely went up another step.

Smoke was billowing down from the ceiling now, thick and gray, the basement obscured by an ever-growing haze. Tyrus’s head began to pound, his breath coming in short gasps. Still he pulled, trying to get Dad up just one more step. But his arms burned with the effort, his muscles feeling like jelly. His slick palms slipped free from Dad’s wrist, and Dad slid down…all the way to the bottom of the stairs.

“Damn it!” Tyrus swore, scrambling to the bottom. He grabbed Dad’s wrist again, trying desperately to pull him upward again. But he couldn’t. His arms were too tired. He was too weak.

The hole in the ceiling above Dad’s workshop table widened, more burning debris falling to the table and the floor. A hunk of burning wood fell on Tyrus’s right knee, and he cried out, batting the debris away…but more pieces fell all around him, some clattering on the stairs above and rolling toward them.

“Dad!” he yelled, slapping Dad’s face frantically. “Dad, wake up!”

The ceiling directly above Dad collapsed, flaming debris landing on him…and setting his pants and shirt on fire.

No!

Tyrus swatted at the debris with his hands, flinging them off of his father. Some of the pieces stuck to his palms, searing them instantly.

Tyrus screamed.

He wiped his hands on his shirt…and watched in horror as it too began to burn. Something inside of him snapped then, something primal. A thing beyond thought or reason. Beyond control. He struggled to tear off his shirt, even as his palms burned, the pain excruciating. But in that moment, pain meant nothing. Only survival.

Tyrus threw off his shirt, scrambling up the stairs and out of the way of more falling debris. Then he glanced back from midway up the stairs, watching as his father burned, flames eating away at his chest and neck…and then at his face. The flesh sank inward, sizzling like so much meat on the grill. Until all of its moisture had been devoured.

Then it turned gray…and then black. His beloved father reduced to ash.

Tyrus stared in horror, the stink of burning flesh and wood overwhelming him. He puked down the stairs, the vomit hissing as it struck hunks of burning wood.

Then he turned and ran. Up the stairs and to the right, bursting through into the kitchen. A kitchen of pure flames, the floor and ceiling like hell itself. Tyrus leapt into it, sprinting as fast as he could through the fire toward the front door…and burst through, continuing onward into the cool, wet night.

Chapter 1

 For Magnus, the journey to magic began in the usual way:  with the gift of a curse.

It began on the day of the Masquerade, a holy ceremony held every thirteen years on the first day of Spring. As life sprang forth from the great dying off of the season before, the children of the village of Chesselhurst would choose their fates. In the form of ceremonial masks that symbolized each of their destinies.

It was the single most important day of Magnus’s life.

He woke up at the crack of dawn, leaping out of bed and getting dressed in record time. That done, he went to the bookshelf on the far wall of his room. There were rows and rows of glass jars there, each sterilized in a pressure cooker, then inoculated with mushroom spores of various kinds. He eyed them, each having the telltale pure white of growing mushroom mycelium. Without a single trace of contamination, he noted with pride. He spotted his red leather-bound journal and a few pencils on the bottom shelf, and grabbed them. The journal was where he logged drawings and descriptions of each kind of mushroom he’d found…and he always kept it on him, just in case he found something new.

Magnus rushed out of his room and bounded down the stairs to the kitchen, his socks slipping on the tile floor. Breakfast was already on the kitchen table – two apples freshly sliced, some nuts, and a hard-boiled egg – but Magnus ignored it, shoving his feet into shoes he’d set by the door, then grabbing the doorknob and yanking the door open…

…to have the butt of a broomstick thrust into his belly.

“Oof!” Magnus blurted out, stumbling backward. And nearly dropping his journal and pencils.

On the other end of this makeshift weapon was his mother. With her long black hair tied back severely into a ponytail – and her silver eyes set in a scowl – she was a formidable presence indeed. She pointed the butt of the broomstick at the kitchen table. No words were exchanged, nor were they needed. Rubbing his smarting belly and backing up to the chair by the table, Magnus sat down to begin the gobbling of the breakfast. And like most obligations, he found it difficult to swallow.

“Slow down,” she chided, striding through the doorway into the kitchen. “Choking is a quicker death than you deserve.”

“You’re so motherly,” he said through a mouthful of food.

“Every last bite,” she commanded, ignoring his quip.

“Yes master,” he mumbled.

“Damn right.”

Magnus complied, until he’d finished her prescription. He bolted up from his chair then, eyeing the door anxiously.

“Ah ah,” she warned, jutting the broom at his plate, then at the sink. Magnus sighed, bringing the plate to the sink. Then he turned to face her.

“Come on,” he complained. “Tyrus is waiting for me!” They’d agreed to meet here at sunrise. The Masquerade wouldn’t start for another hour or so, but there was no way he was going to be late.

“Sorry Mag,” she replied. “I was outside waiting for him. He hasn’t showed up…and honestly, I don’t think he’s going to.”

Magnus lowered his gaze. She was probably right, as much as he hated to admit it. Tyrus had been…different ever since his dad had died six months ago in a house fire. Lightning had struck the house, burning it to the ground. Tyrus had barely escaped with his life, but his father hadn’t been so lucky. His uncle Silas – a monk who was the Elder’s second-in-command – had agreed to take him in, and to make Tyrus his apprentice at the monastery.

Tyrus was still Magnus’s best friend. Hell, they’d been glued to each other practically since birth. But things just weren’t the same as they’d been. It was as if the fire that’d claimed Tyrus’s dad had taken the fire out of him.

Mom walked up to him, ruffling his hair affectionately. Then she handed him his backpack, taking his journal and pencils and stuffing them inside of it.

“Go get your mask honey. And find Tyrus and give him a hug for me. He probably needs it.”

“Yes!” Magnus exclaimed. “And ew, no,” he added regarding the hug. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then ran to the door…but not before she slapped him on the butt on the way out.

“Still too slow for me!” she called out after him.

“I will defeat you, villain!” he shouted back, shaking a fist dramatically. “One day!”

“Never!” she cried, cackling evilly. He grinned, bounding down the porch stairs to a narrow dirt path that cut across the front lawn. Onward he went, the sun in full force overhead. The path led up the steep slope of a large hill, then leveled off at its top. From there, the hill sloped due west down to a beautiful valley a quarter-mile ahead, where the center of Chesselhurst was plain to see. This was where the Masquerade would take place, on the village green in front of the monastery.

Magnus bounded down the hill just as fast as he could, his eyes not on the village center, but on what lay miles beyond:  Mount Vadaka. It was truly enormous, its snow-capped peak so high it was forever shrouded by an impenetrable layer of clouds known as the Ceiling of the World. And on that peak, hidden from view, stood the Temple of Infinity, home of Elazar the Magician himself, the last of the Enlightened Ones.

 Legend had it that on the day of the Masquerade, when the shadow of Mount Vadaka fell over the village, Elazar would arrive to see if any of the children were worthy to become his apprentice. For centuries, no one had been. But Magnus had a plan…for the mask he chose would force Elazar to take notice.

Magnus made it down the big hill and into the valley, passing various quaint homes and shops, until at last he spotted the monastery straight ahead. The monastery was a three-story white stone building with a roof shaped like a mushroom cap, the tallest and most important building in Chesselhurst. It was smack in the middle of the village green, a large circle of perfectly-manicured lawn. A few monks were already in the process of setting up the big display of masks in front of the building; the men wore white uniforms with black sashes, while the women wore black uniforms with white sashes. One of the monks was Shila, Tyrus’s cousin. Shila was nineteen…and easily the prettiest girl in town. She had long, honey-colored hair falling perfectly straight to the small of her back, and lovely blue eyes that took his breath away.

“Well, well, well,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and smirking at him as he approached. “If it isn’t Magnus the Magnificent.”

“Hey Shila,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze. He had a bit of a reputation for being…dramatic. He of course blamed his mother, because she was too.

“You’re early,” she told him. “Shoo. Go away.”

“Where’s Tyrus?” he asked.

“Master Silas said he was still in his room,” Shila answered.

“Really?” Magnus replied. Shila’s expression grew serious.

“You know how he is now,” she said. Magnus nodded. They both knew. Hell, everyone knew. The end of his dad’s life had in many ways been the end of his.

“I’m gonna check up on him,” Magnus decided.

“See you soon, Magnus the Magnificent,” she stated. He flashed her a shy smile, then turned away from the display, running across the village green toward the double-doors of the monastery entrance. As an apprentice monk, Tyrus shared a room with his uncle Silas.

“Hey!” someone to his left shouted. Magnus froze in place, recognizing the voice instantly. For it was none other than Master Silas himself. A bald, fat, middle-aged man, with sickly pale skin from spending too much time in in the monastery.

“What?” Magnus blurted out, fear gripping him. Silas was very keen on rules, but short on humor. And as every kid in the village could tell you, Silas liked to hit. Silas jabbed a meaty finger at Magnus’s feet, and Magnus looked down. He’d nearly stepped on a cluster of white mushrooms poking through blades of grass. They were King’s Crowns, a common species in Chesselhurst. The monks worshipped all mushrooms. Indeed, according to them, Elazar the Magician had received his magical powers by mastering the use of each of the Six…magical mushrooms with the ability to confer enormous power.

In any case, to step on a mushroom in front of a monk – especially Silas – was to earn a beating.

“Oh,” Magnus mumbled. “Sorry Master Silas.”

“Be careful,” Silas warned. Magnus eyed the man’s right hand warily. His hitting hand.

“I will,” he promised. “Um…where’s Tyrus?” he asked. “We were going to pick masks together.”

“In bed,” Silas answered. “He didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Too excited for the Masquerade, eh?” Magnus guessed with a grin. Silas didn’t smile back, which was hardly surprising. “Guess I’ll go wake him up.”

“I’ll get him,” Silas retorted. With that, he turned away from Magnus, making his way toward the monastery. Magnus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, watching Silas leave with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. A feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It was a familiar feeling, one he’d had since Tyrus’s dad had died. Because ever since that night, Tyrus hadn’t been right.

Chapter 2

Tyrus laid on his side on his hard, narrow cot, his knees curled up to his chest. His thin brown blanket was pulled up to his neck, shielding him from the chill of the small, dark monastery bedroom. A ray of sunlight from a small window cut through dust swirling in the air, illuminating the simple, stupid specks like fireflies. A lie, this illusion of life. Of the divine hiding in plain matter. He did not let it touch him, this light, staring instead at where it’d landed as a glowing spot. On the cot beside his. A cot that was empty now, as it’d been last night. His uncle had claimed to be concerned that it was too cold for Tyrus to lie alone…so he’d done Tyrus the dubious favor of sharing Tyrus’s bed.

Tyrus shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around him. He tore his gaze from the glowing spot on Silas’s cot, eyeing the bedroom door. He always slept on his left side. Always faced the door. During his first few months of living at the monastery, he’d slept facing away from the door, terrified of it opening. But now he knew it was better to face his fear than to hide from it.

He deserved everything that happened to him, after all. That was the only thing Silas had taught him that was true.

Tyrus took a deep, shuddering breath in, closing his eyes for a moment. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the flames on the basement ceiling, flowing across it like waves of the ocean. Destroying everything in its path, consuming all. And though it’d spared most of him, it’d consumed his father and his past, leaving nothing but ash.

He heard the doorknob turning, and his eyes snapped open. He clutched the blanket tightly to his chest, his heart thumping in his chest as the door swung open.

It was Silas.

“Get up,” the man ordered.

Tyrus stayed right where he was, frozen in place.

“I said get up,” Silas snapped, taking a step into the room. Tyrus bolted upright, the blanket still wrapped around him, and Silas eyed him with clear disgust. “You’re making a scene,” he sneered. “Your friend is expecting you.”

Tyrus swallowed, then nodded. It was the day of the Masquerade, after all. Of course Magnus was waiting for him. He still believed. He was a blossoming flower that’d never been stepped on and crushed, allowed to be utterly, blissfully himself.

Pretending to be like him was the hardest part.

“Don’t forget your ceremonial dagger,” Silas warned, reaching into his pants pocket and tossing something onto his cot. It landed in the spot of light…a key to the bottom drawer of his dresser.

Tyrus nodded mutely.

Silas gave him one last glare, then stormed out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. It was as much to prompt Tyrus to leave the room as it was a threat that Silas would return if Tyrus didn’t.

So Tyrus held his blanket around him as he slid off the cot, wincing at his sore buttocks as he did so. He waddled painfully to the door, closing it quietly. Only then did he take off the blanket, revealing his skin. He went as quickly as he could to his white uniform hanging in the corner, putting on the shirt and pants. Then he tied his white belt tightly around his waist, making sure the two ends showed in front, and were exactly the same length. The Order of Elazar’s monks were keen on useless details, wasting their time and energy on things that didn’t matter. The white belt symbolized innocence and purity…of which Tyrus had neither.

It was all pointless. All of it. None of the monks were enlightened, or ever would be. Enlightenment didn’t exist. And Tyrus suspected that Silas – and the Elder – secretly knew it. Anyone who read more than a few of the books in the monastery library would realize it.

Of course, no one read these books…not more than one or two. They just took the Elder’s word for it. They were puppets, all of them, handing their puppet-strings to the Order of Elazar. So eager to be controlled, to be told what to do and what to believe. After six months in the monastery, it was painfully clear to Tyrus that he could never belong here. That he was meant for something more.

Tyrus took a deep breath in, letting it out. He gazed down at himself, gritting his teeth. With his uniform on, he was invisible. The him he truly was. The uniform, he knew, was his mask. It was all of the monks’ masks. It was their fate and their disguise, so powerful that it could make a monster seem like a saint…and hide every last bit of Tyrus’s shame.

For what he’d done. For what’d been done to him.

For who he was.

Tyrus squared his shoulders, taking a step toward the door, focusing on walking normally. Then he cursed, having nearly forgotten his ceremonial dagger. A blade barely over two inches long, every villager would be carrying one tonight. For the blood offering, a ritual sacrifice of the collective self for those participating in the Masquerade. Each villager would shed a small amount of blood for the Order, symbolizing their commitment to the Elder…and to the man they worshipped. Elazar the Magician, at best a mere legend…and at worst, a fraud.

He made his way to Silas’s cot, eyeing the glowing key. Its light gave it a kind of significance…one that wasn’t lost on him. For him, it offered a ritual of a different kind. A blood offering not for the collective, but to free himself. It was a key that could unlock the only power he had left:  the power to sever the strings that bound him to Silas.

He snatched the key from the light, then went to the dresser, unlocking the bottom drawer and retrieving the dagger there. He stared at it for a long moment, studying the sharp edge of its blade.

Then he brought it to his own neck, gripping the handle tightly…and pressed the blade against his throat.

Do it, he told himself, his palm slick with sweat. His heart hammered in his chest, and he licked his lips, closing his eyes. He conjured up images of what Silas had done to him last night, stoking his courage.

Do it!

But he waited a second too long…long enough for doubt to trickle in. He cursed silently, lowering the blade to his side. He slid a finger across his throat, checking it for blood. But there was none, to his relief. No one would know what he’d almost done.

Coward.

Tyrus sighed, his shoulders slumping. He retrieved the ceremonial necklace from his dresser, putting it on. It held a sheath for his dagger, and he put the blade inside, the sheath resting on his belly. Then he turned, making his way to the door. As he did so, his uncle’s face came to him, the way Silas had smirked at him last night. Triumphantly, after Tyrus’s body had betrayed him yet again. Proof that, in the end, what Silas had done was what Tyrus had really wanted, no matter how much he’d wanted to hate it.

Freak.

Silas had proven what Tyrus was, again and again and again. An abomination. Something that, if people only knew the truth, they would never be able to love. That was Tyrus’s secret, what his uniform hid so well. Only Silas knew the truth…and Tyrus knew that if he ever stepped out of line, that unspeakable darkness within him would be exposed to the light.

He reached the door, then glanced back at the ray of sunlight peeking through the window, at the glowing spot on the cot it made. He tossed the key on the cot, and it landed right on that sunlit spot, seeming to glow against the darkness. Then he opened the door quietly, stepping outside of the room he shared with his uncle…and transformed into just another innocent disciple of the Order of Elazar. A fitting mask indeed, making the Masquerade a pointless show. He would play their game because he had to, but whatever he picked had no meaning at all.

His mask had already been chosen for him.

Chapter 3

Magnus waited on the village green…and waited, his eye on the monastery entrance. He’d thought about becoming a monk when he was younger, but Elazar had never once chosen a monk as his apprentice. So despite Magnus’s fascination with the monks’ teachings, he’d decided against becoming an apprentice monk like Tyrus.

He fidgeted, glancing back at the rack of masks, then returning his gaze to the monastery.

What’s taking so long?

Then he spotted the double-doors opening, and to his relief, Master Silas came out. Behind him was a boy a few inches taller than Magnus, but much skinnier, wearing the white shirt and pants and belt of a monk’s apprentice. His long blond hair came down to his upper back, and he wore it so that it covered the left side of his face. The side that’d been burned during the fire.

“Hey Tyrus!” Magnus greeted, waving excitedly. “Come on, it’s almost time to get our masks!”

That it was, for the monks had nearly finished setting up the display. And to Magnus’s dismay, a few children were already gathering before it. He’d missed being first in line – and having first choice of his mask – so that he could share this moment with his best friend. Silas stopped a few yards away, and Tyrus stopped dutifully alongside him. To Magnus’s surprise, Tyrus didn’t reply…or even react. He just stood there, staring at his feet, looking even paler than usual. There were dark circles under his eyes, evidence that Silas had been right; Tyrus must not have gotten much sleep.

“Come on Ty,” Magnus urged. “Let’s get our masks!”

Still, Tyrus didn’t respond. Master Silas put a hand on Tyrus’s shoulder, and Tyrus flinched away from it.

“Go,” Silas ordered. Tyrus nodded silently, stepping forward until he was standing in front of Magnus.

“Let’s go!” Magnus prompted, grabbing Tyrus’s hand and pulling him bodily toward the display of masks. Fully assembled, the display was a vertical wooden structure five feet tall and over thirty feet wide, with row after row of colorful masks hung upon it. Hundreds of masks, each symbolizing a specific fate for the child who chose it. Once you chose a mask, you kept it until you died, after which it went back into circulation for the next generation. And there was only one of each mask, which meant that if someone took the one he wanted before he could…

“One line!” someone behind him commanded.

Magnus turned. It was the Elder of Chesselhurst, the highest-ranking member of the Order of Elazar in the village. He was perhaps seventy, wearing a white shirt and pants like the other male monks, but with a golden sash, and had long white hair and a long white beard. As the spiritual leader of Chesselhurst, his word was law, his judgement final. As such, the children obeyed, quickly forming a line in front of the display. Including Magnus…and behind him, Tyrus.

“Today is the day of the Masquerade,” the Elder declared. “Today is the day you decide your destinies…by choosing the mask that you will wear for the rest of your life.” He eyed them sternly. “Take your time,” he advised. “Follow your hearts, not your heads. For to deprive your heart of what it truly desires is a fate to fear over every other.”

Magnus scanned the rows of masks, then spotted the one he was looking for:  a red mask at the bottom left of the display, one with ferociously scowling white eyebrows and a perpetual frown. The face of the legendary magician Kakoro, a long-dead hero of legend. Kakoro hadn’t just been any magician…he’d saved the whole frickin’ world thousands of years ago. He’d also been struck with a horrible curse. One where everyone he loved was doomed to die tragically, and he’d been forced to wander the world as a lost soul for half a lifetime. Which was probably why no one ever chose him. But if Magnus wanted Elazar to choose him as his apprentice, he had to do what no one else was prepared to do.

“Come forward, one child from each line at a time,” the Elder instructed. “Let your mask choose you…and let no one else choose it for you.”

That was the way of the Masquerade. Parents were forbidden from attending the choosing of one’s mask, so that their children would be able to choose for themselves. And once that choice was made, it was final. The Elder taught that each child had to choose their own way, regardless of the consequences.

Magnus fidgeted, watching as the first boy stepped forward, scanning the display of masks. But to his relief, the boy didn’t go anywhere close to Kakoro, choosing a different mask instead. A girl was next, and Magnus was pretty confident that she wouldn’t take his mask…which she didn’t.

Then, to his immense relief, it was his turn.

The monk at the front of the line was none other than Shila.

“And there he is,” she declared. “Magnus the Magnificent has returned.”

“Hey,” he mumbled.

“What shall the great Magnus choose for his destiny?” Shila inquired, arching an eyebrow. “Choose wisely, oh prince among men, for your choice will save – or doom – our world!”

“Ha ha,” Magnus grumbled.

“Seriously though, I’ve being waiting for this for years,” she confessed, handing him a brown cloth bag to carry his mask in. “All the monks have bets on which mask you’ll pick.”

“Which one did you bet on?” he inquired. “And what do I get if I choose it?”

“Follow your heart,” she retorted. “Not your head.” And she glanced down, making it clear which one she was referring to. Magnus blushed furiously.

“I didn’t…I wasn’t…” he stammered, utterly mortified.

“Aww,” she teased. “Who would’ve known that Magnus the Magnificent was so bashful?”

“Can I choose my mask now?” he grumbled.

“As you wish…your Magnificence,” she replied, gesturing at the masks with a flourish. Magnus ignored her, eyeing Kakoro. He was about to go right for it when he noticed that everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch him.

Like, everyone.

He paused then returned his gaze to the rack of masks, rubbing his chin and making a show of being terribly indecisive. And, being a consummate performer, he ignored his audience, acting as if what he was doing was anything but an act.

At length, Magnus stepped forward, walking rightward – away from Kakoro’s mask – and stopping before the mask of Tortaka. Emerald green with white accents, the mask was fixed in a ferocious scowl. Tortaka had been a powerful warlord bent on becoming an Enlightened One. A powerful man feared by all, who had nearly conquered the world long ago. He’d grown so powerful he’d challenged Elazar himself…and Elazar had sent Kakoro to kill him. At the moment of Tortaka’s death, he’d finally found enlightenment, learning the secrets of the universe. So the legend went, anyway.

Magnus stared at it, seemingly transfixed, and began to reach for it.

The crowd hushed, and someone gasped.

Magnus hesitated, then withdrew his hand, shaking his head.

“Magnus!” Shila protested. He did his very best not to smirk.

With that, he went leftward, back toward Kakoro’s mask. After putting on more of a show – but not too much, for to overdo it would spoil the act – he stopped before Kakoro’s red and white mask, lowering his gaze to it.

“Come on,” someone grumbled, and were immediately hushed by the monks. Magnus hesitated, then reached for the mask…and pulled it from the display. A symphony of gasps erupted from the assembled crowd, and even Shila couldn’t stop herself from putting her hand to her mouth in shock. Magnus presented his mask to the audience, striking a heroic – and defiant – pose.

“I choose Kakoro!” he declared triumphantly.

And with that, he put the mask on, slipping the elastic over the back of his head to hold it in place. He was glad that it hid his expression, for after seeing the reaction of the crowd, he was grinning like an idiot. It was his best performance yet…and he couldn’t be more thrilled with his audience’s reaction.

With Kakoro’s mask, Elazar simply had to notice him.

He turned to Shila then…and with his mask on, he felt strangely brave.

“Did you win your bet?” he inquired. She put a hand on her hip, giving him a look that made it clear what the answer was.

“This isn’t a joke,” she protested. “This is serious, Magnus.”

“I know,” he replied. “I chose what I wanted.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he promised. “I’ve been sure for over a year now.”

“Uh huh,” Shila replied, clearly unconvinced. “Your dagger,” she reminded him, retrieving it from her pocket. It had a purple-painted wooden handle and a two-inch blade protected by a black leather sheathe that hung around one’s neck. She handed it to him handle-first, and he took it, putting it around his neck so that the sheathe hung over his belly. It was the ceremonial dagger for the Revelation, the second act of the Masquerade. For when the great shadow of Mount Vadaka fell over the monastery, everyone in the village would congregate in the sacred building. And at last, the children who’d chosen their masks this fateful day would reveal their destinies to their families.

“Thank you, m’Lady,” he said with a little bow. And it was the peculiar power of his mask that he felt so courageous in the presence of her beauty.

Magnus turned away from Shila then, smiling at Tyrus, who was next in line.

“Go on,” Magnus prompted. Tyrus hesitated, then stepped forward, and Shila smiled at him, trying to give him a hug. Tyrus shrank back from her, and Shila frowned, leaning in to say something in Tyrus’s ear. He shook his head, and she said something else…but Tyrus just shook his head again. Her expression darkened, and she handed him his brown cloth bag, then stepped back, looking hurt. Tyrus turned to the display of masks, standing there for a long while. At length his gaze rested on one particular mask. A green and white mask…the same one Magnus had paused at, to fool with the crowd. The mask of Tortaka. Magnus frowned. Tyrus couldn’t be serious, after all. To choose Tortaka was madness…but in an apparent fit of madness, that’s precisely what Tyrus did.

There were gasps as Tyrus reached for Tortaka’s mask, pulling it from the display.

“Tyrus!” Shila scolded.

“Silence,” the Elder admonished. “Tyrus’s mask is his to choose.”

“But…” Shila protested. The Elder shot her a venomous glare, and her mouth snapped shut. She turned to Tyrus, her eyes growing moist. “Why, Ty?” she asked.

Tyrus didn’t answer, putting his mask on instead.

“Tyrus…” Shila pleaded. But Tyrus turned away from her, walking back to Magnus.

“Wow,” Magnus told him. “Gotta say I didn’t expect that.”

“You chose Kakoro,” Tyrus pointed out.

“Yeah, but Kakoro and Tortaka were enemies,” Magnus protested. “We’re best friends.” Tyrus gave him a look.

“It’s just a story Mag,” he grumbled.

“No it’s not,” Magnus retorted. “It’s real, Ty. And by the end of the day, Elazar’s gonna choose me as his next apprentice!”

Tyrus didn’t reply.

“Maybe I’ll teach you a little magic too,” he offered. “Anything for my best friend, even if he did just choose to be my mortal enemy.”

He threw his arm around Tyrus’s shoulders affectionately…and Tyrus stiffened.

“Tortaka the warlord, conqueror of all the land!” Magnus exclaimed dramatically. “Come, let us be off to Mount Vadaka, my mortal enemy. Elazar awaits!” He’d planned on going to the foot of the mountain to intercept Elazar as the magician made his way down the mountain to the village, so as to stand out even further from the other boys and girls.

“Fine,” Tyrus agreed. “But we have to be back before the Revelation.”

“We will,” Magnus promised. Shila stepped up to him then, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Go help him, Kakoro,” Shila told him. “Maybe your magic can save Tortaka from himself.”

Magnus smiled at her, inclining his head. Then he turned to Tyrus.

“Onward, Tortaka!” he cried, breaking out into a run across the village green. Tyrus ran reluctantly beside him, with a stiff, awkward gait. They made their way toward the foot of Mount Vadaka, some three miles away. For if Elazar the Magician was truly going to come down from the Ceiling of the World to visit Chesselhurst – and choose his apprentice – Magnus wanted to be the very first to meet him.

Elazar the Magician will be available in a few weeks!