Keychain Magic: Prologue & Chapter One

Prologue

No criminal in Astricka who had any sense to them would dare steal the ancient water of magic’s past from the Sorceror’s Guild. In order to know its location, one would have to join the Sorceror’s Guild to begin with, and in order to acquire the ancient water, in its sparkling glass vile, one would have to pass many tests and perform many tasks. It was nearly impossible to master a theft so complex.

But not entirely.

And that much Rodsha knew.

It was the fifth moonpassing, the time of requests. Every year, during this time, sorcerers and sorceresses would send their prayers and desires to the seven gods of Astricka- and the lucky ones would get their wishes granted. A dark shadow of a dragon and a cloaked man rode across the pale lavender sky at dusk, which gradually became deep violet as it reached the surface of Astricka, the magical land below it. The cloaked man was Rodsha, and his dragon was Edeline. They were on their way to the kingdom of Sparth, the home of the seven gods, located at the point so high that only dragons could fly, because it was natural for dragons never to oppose the seven gods.

Rodsha set foot on the great floating cloud that was tinged with a gray violet shadow, where the great ornate gates stood, shimmering in their twisting splendor. He had been anticipating this moment ever since being accepted into the Sorceror’s Guild.

“I call upon the Great Irvan Boltore,” he announced, his voice echoing into the kingdom beyond the gate.

A bolt of lightning shot through the sky, Irvan’s symbol. In the mythology of Astricka, he was the first of the gods to be designed by the great One Power. Rodsha wanted him, and no one else.  

“State your name and purpose,” Irvan’s voice echoed, booming through the sky.

Young in appearance, the gods never aged. They all appeared to be in their mid twenties, divine and beautiful. All the Gods were equal in rank, holding their own opinions. Often they quarreled, but that was why they had the Great Arena, where they would settle their disputes through battles. The battles were designed by the One Power, and every time there was a dispute among the gods, an entire arrangement had been previously designed in the Hall of Decisions, an endless hallway in the high kingdom of Sparth atop mountains of clouds. The hallway had endless rooms, each labeled for specific situations to which the Gods had been quarreling over for quite some time. It was always there, yet it was always expanding, new rooms appearing every time the gods argued. Whenever a door was opened for a specific situation, the Great Arena would appear, and the gods would engage in combat. The winner would determine what decisions would be made in terms of the situation at hand.

“My name is Rodsha, and I am here to give you my request, for it is the

 fifth moonpassing of the year.”

With a bolt of lightning once again, Irvan Boltore materialized before Rodsha. His dark brown hair blew in the breeze, and his piercing blue eyes depicted Rodsha’s gray face before him. The gods all wore white silk robes, with a long silk top and pants below them. Each one of them wore a gold colored neckless with his or her symbol in the center.

Irvan looked at Rodsha knowingly. At this point, the god that was chosen to receive the request would evaluate the requester.

“You have done great work in the magic field, Rodsha. You have become part of the Sorceror’s Guild, and have learned to deal with and obey the requirements asked of you. But I am still suspecting of your dark mind. You have been struggling with a need for power for a very long time. However, you may proceed. I am allowing you to state your request.”

“I have noticed the creatures of Archellon in my travels,” Rodsha began.

 The creatures of Archellon were a group of mermaids, nymphs, centaurs, and humatriacs, or evolved human supernaturalites, that lived by the Sea of Cressantris- the sea surrounding the land of Astricka. This was the sea where human magic wielders would extract magical sea salt that the Gods had blessed. The salt, when rubbed between the hands of a magic user, would exfoliate the the skin and stimulate the nerves of magic in the human body for approximately three days. These nerves, when stimulated, gave humans the energy they needed to perform spells. When the salt’s power wore off, the nerves would return to their average subtlety and dullness, which left no more power. In humatriacs, however, the nerves were already stimulated, but they were immune to the salt. They had only selected supernatural abilities, and no more.

“I have interacted with few, but I have watched many.”

Irvan sensed something deep in Rodsha that did not please him, but he allowed Rodsha to continue.

“My request is simple…” Rodsha said, and seemed to pause pleadingly with a doubtful hesitance.

“I would like to borrow the creature’s souls, and study them.”

 But Rodsha did not want to borrow the creature’s souls. He wanted all the creatures as slaves because he wanted the sea salt from Cressantris all for himself, and it was clear to Irvan that this was the case.

Irvan scowled at Rodsha’s selfish request.

“You are lying Rodsha,” Irvan snapped, a lightning bolt shooting through what was now a deep violet sky.

“I refuse to grant you this wish.”

“I refuse to leave until you grant it!” Rodsha shouted.

“Foolish creature!” Irvan yelled, as he conjured a ball of lightning in his hands. Its electricity could be felt all the way from the cloud that Rodsha was standing on, as Irvan was far away.

“One must not argue with a conclusion of the gods!”

“I declare a duel in the Great Arena!” Rodsha foolishly yelled. He knew that no ungodly creature was allowed in the Arena of the Gods, but he hoped he could get Irvan to do so anyway by angering him enough to enrage him into battle mode.

“For doing so, Rodsha, I must punish you. I know your aims are far from studying. I know your aims were meant to control. The Great Arena was meant only for the divine, and you know that. You are forever banished from Astricka to the realm of Ignasis, and you may not have your request. Your body and spirit shall be disfigured, and you shall be unable to request anything from the Gods during the fifth moonpassing of next year, and we shall free you from Ignasis only when we feel you have learned your lesson.”

And with that, he struck Rodsha with the lightning ball, which sent him flying off of the cloud before Sparth and into the realm of Ignasis where he was punished, leaving Edeline to release a loud shriek of terror before she flew away, abandoning her master and returning to the Simbaerian Glades where she had come from.

Just then, Irvan Boltore received a message from a great wizard named Milo who was truly pure at heart.

“This is my prayer, O seven Gods. In my adventures through the universe as a sorceror and explorer, I have stumbled upon a beautiful world called Lumasis.”

  “The creatures there were created by some great power that was not our own, and they are the purest, most divine creatures I have ever met. They are abundant in magic and very gentle.”

“Amazingly kind, they are weak and believe that there is a Chosen One out there who will some day rule over them. Without their Chosen One, they claim they will die. They are searching for a leader, and I know there is a creature out there who is pure enough to watch over their world. A creature with a purely good heart, which I suppose is lighter than a grain of salt from the sea of Cressantris.”

“I wish to pass this great knowledge to you before I die, and I wish for you to activate the prophecy I have written, and create a way for the Chosen One to access Lumasis once such a creature is found. I have created a quest for the Chosen One to go on, so they can prove themselves worthy of ruling over the world. Please allow this quest to be made real. As I am old and near death, I wish for you to grant me this request before my life comes to an end.”

“I shall send you the written Prophecy and the quest I have designed for the Chosen One to prove themselves worthy through a portal. Please accept my prayer.”

With that, a scroll materialized before Irvan. It was marked:

For the Seven Gods: A Wish

Irvan took the scroll, and quickly returned to the kingdom of Sparth.

But little did he notice; he had made a grave mistake.

Inches away from the pit that encompassed the realm of Ignasis, Rodsha, who had previously rubbed magic salt into his hands before the meeting with Irvan, had frozen the lightning ball in time, breaking free from its path. He had landed right before the abysmal pit that ran straight off the edge of Astricka, a prison for those who misbehaved. He had narrowly escaped his punishment.

He stared down at the dark pit, and laughed a quick, bitter laugh, shaking his head with disdain. And then, he turned, and walked away.

Two Years Later

“Who is that man?” Orna whispered to Cedrick.

“I’m not quite sure.”

They peered over at the darkly clad, disfigured man, who was hunched over, narrow boned, and shadowy eyed. His gray skin was a complete contrast to the humatriac’s soft golden skin, but he seemed threatening as he stood there, watching them silently, a deep guilt and vengence booming within him.

They were on the coast of Archellon, on the sandy shore by the sea of Cressantris. Irvan was extracting sea salt for his new job in the Sorceror’s Guild. He was the magic salt collector and packager, and his job was to extract the magical sea salt and pour it neatly into boxes that would be shipped to magic shops.

Orna held their baby, Serafina, gently in her arms. They watched the odd man in the distance, as he walked out by the sea, pacing by the huts that had been made by the tribal humatriacs, much like the islanders that lived on the chain of Islands in Cressantris called the Islands of Ophracia. They were known for their lovely artisan crafts and their many tribal designs, as well as for the markings they’d draw on their bodies from the glowing blue dust from precious sea stones along the shore of Cressantris.

The man entered one of the huts, and Orna became worried.

“Take Serafina,” she said, gently placing her baby in Cedrick’s arms. He took Serafina with a concerned expression.

 “I’m going over there,” Orna said dutifully.

“Be careful, Orna,” Cedrick warned quickly. He quickly changed his mind, catching her shoulder. “Perhaps I should go instead.”

Orna agreed, taking Serafina, who was two years old, and sitting down with her on the shore, beside Cedrick’s packages.

Cedrick crept into the forest lining the coast of Archellon, peering out from behind the tall trees with dark brown bark and flat emerald leaves, overlooking the shore. He felt unarmed, as if he needed a weapon for protection. He watched as the odd, disfigured man left the hut, nearly catching a glimpse of his Cedrick’s face, which left Cedrick with a prickled feeling in his neck that began to feel painful.

Cedrick got down flat on his stomach, and crawled with his knees and arms back to the shore where he saw Orna sitting with Serafina. Running up to them, he placed his hand on Orna’s shoulder, and whispered to her.

“It’s not safe,” Cedrick said with caution. “The man is powerful, and he’s up to no good.”

Orna looked at him, at his neck.

“Cedrick…” she whispered, in awe.

“What is it?”

She touched his neck, and whispered back, “there’s a black mark on your neck. What happened?”

The skin was as black as night, and soft. It as if the black mark on his neck was devouring him, although it wasn’t spreading. It was simply in one spot, devouring that area, absorbing its power.

“I don’t know,” Cedrick said worriedly, “the man just passed by me, and without even looking at me, I felt a prickling sensation. I need protection. We should go back to the house so I can get something to defend us.”

“Are you sure? How much time do we have left before you have to deliver the salt to the Sorceror’s Guild?”

“We’ve got time. Don’t worry. This is important. Orna…”

“What is it?”

“Keep Serafina safe.”

Chapter One

Fifteen Years Later

Serafina Mathonwy

There comes a time in every teenager’s life where they have to accept the fact that they’re different. Everyone’s got something that separates them from everyone else. Especially me. I guess I’ll start with the average stuff. Most people are still discovering what they want to be in their senior year of high school. But I’ve always known what I wanted to be.

Art and writing are my passions. I love how I can weave an essay and unleash a new opinion that I didn’t even know I had, or pour out pages of flowing emotion and know that I own it, that it’s mine and that it’s unique. I know that I’m going into journalism and creative writing, and as for art, I know I have a huge future ahead of me. I see myself as a talented artistic amateur, but one with a big heart and a lot of fervor. I paint to release the rumbling emotion with in me, I feel my heart rising in my chest when I see a beautiful scene, I am one with the world. I love the beauty of art, and I want to learn it, to master it as an illustrator whether I’m already good at it or not. There’s always a way to improve, and there’s always a chance to excell. Art and writing free my restless soul. Not many people are emotional enough to say that. I am.

Most kids at school have two parents, and I only have one. My father dissappeared from my life when I was seven. For the next two years, he came in and out of my life like rain storms in the summer. He was quiet and foreign, a man who did not make friends or become close to anyone. I could never tell what was going on inside his mind, he rarely spoke. Mom took care of him like an orphan off the street, but he didn’t need her to. He was independent, but I knew that deep down, he was suffering, and he had been for a long time.

After I turned nine, I never saw him again. I’ll never know who my father was deep down, and I suspect that although he may know himself better than I may have, he didn’t truly know who he was either.

In intro to psychology 101 last year, I read that parents need to develop a sense of trust with their children when they’re born. By taking care of them time after time, the kids learn that they can rely on the parents. If not, they have serious issues, and it becomes nearly impossible for them to have healthy, trusting relationships. The odd thing was, even though I trusted my father from a young age, he was a mysterious figure. I never knew him. He protected me from a distance, watched over me like a helpful stranger. He was like an invisible protector to me, a higher power that was subtle and weak, although somewhat instinctively caring. I’ll always wonder about him, why he left, what was going on. But in the end, I just have to accept the fact that he’s just not here, and he doesn’t want to take care of me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be independent and accept myself.

The last thing I’ll mention that’s different about me is this: there is more to me than meets the eye. There is more to me than any seventeen year old could fathom. But I won’t get into that right away.

The cafeteria buzzes with commotion. My eyes scan the room as I hold my lunch tray in my hands, walking from table to table timidly. I peer over at every table as I walk through. My eyes stop when I see Aaron, sitting by himself in the far corner. His sketchbook is by his side, and he’s eating his french toast dunkers while working on something- a new project? He’s a great comic book artist. He loves to draw dark scenes with intricately designed technical gadgets and science fiction style, action packed sequences. His characters are a little to edgy to handle sometimes, but that’s why I like them. They speak with caustic humor and serious intrigue. Sometimes violent, but never too gory to handle, Aaron can truly master the concept of suspense. Every time I read his work, I’m thirsty for more. But lately, he’s been way more hesitant to show me his stuff. I’ve been wondering if there’s been something personal going on with him lately, but I haven’t asked. He hasn’t really changed too much as a friend, and he’s still supportive as ever, which leaves me reassured; the main reason why I don’t try to investigate further.

I wouldn’t expect him to be sitting alone. At Westerville High, he had tons of friends other than me and Baeya. The three of us met at Baeya’s sixth grade birthday party at Lumino’s Arcade. Ever since then, we’ve been best pals. Baeya, also an extrovert, was always sure to make a first impression. Notably unusual, but amazingly fun-loving, she introduced me to Aaron right away. I was playing this odd Futuristic Fender video arcade game at her party, and she knew I was getting bored of it and feeling really alone. She pretty much grabbed my wrist, marched me over to Aaron, and said we’d definitely like each other, which was when we all ended up clicking really well. Baeya’s just really outgoing like that. Ever since she was a kid, she’s had social skills way beyond her level. And Aaron’s a great listener, which is partially why we get along so well. He remembers everything you say, and knows what you mean. He never overlooks anything you run by him.

Last year, our junior year at Westerville High, Baeya suggested we all apply to Wildavon Academy of the Arts. We’re all obsessive artists. I’m an abstract painter, illustrator, and writer. Baeya’s more of a playwright and an actress. And Aaron of course, is a comic book expert and a pretty talented guitarist. Besides, Westerville High, deep in the city, was growing mundane and hectic for us, and we needed to start over new. None of us wanted to go it alone, so we all applied together, and made it in.

I walk over to Aaron, and sit down.

“Hey,” I say, surprised he’s not sitting with anyone else. It’s our first day at Wildavon, though, so I guess that makes sense. But I’d still expect Aaron to be the type who’d make friends fast.

Aaron turns to me, smiling, his side swept light brown hair swishing past his blue gray eyes. I smile again, and ask if I can look at his sketchbook.

“Nah,” he says, “I’m working on something personal.”

I nod, and sit down next to him.

“You seen Baeya lately?”

He looks at me with a knowing stare.

“Not liking her new look, huh?”

“It’s not that,” I say, somewhat defensively.

He looks at me, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

“Okay,” I say. “I admit it. I’m just worried. She seems… well, different.”

“Trust me,” Aaron says. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge her. Baeya’s still the same on the inside.”

Baeya walks by, her short brown hair died fire red with a streak of blue on her sidebangs, and a floral dress that’s tight to her waist with a extremely low neckline and red high heel shoes underneath a pair of jeans. She sits at a table with a dark emo boy, shaggy blue hair covering his face, and steals his jacket, pulling it around her shoulders and laughing.

I look back at Aaron with concern to see a small smirk on his face that kind of seems to say “cute new look, you should keep it.” The smirk fades away as he notices my twisted brow and worry filled eyes.

“Okay,” Aaron says. “I know you two are usually closer than any two girls I know. But if you’re worried, just talk to her. Don’t get so scared about all of it.”

I nod, my face tilted to one side and my eyebrows floating up a bit, approving of his rationality.

I just really hope he’s right.