Young Writers Society

~2659 words

~*~

Malkolm Yttrian was of the opinion that all the doors in Kelm's house had been specifically erected to annoy him. He could have sworn—if he were authorised to swear, which, being an Ixister, he wasn't—that there were twice as many doors as there had been when he had arrived fifteen minutes ago. First, two purple ones with spangled lettering popped up along the staircase. Malkolm thought nothing of it; he had seen odder things, after all, and he simply pushed past them without a second glance. Then, as he was about to plant a foot firmly onto one of the rickety, wooden steps, another door popped up. He only registered that it was a door after slamming into it. He drew back, eyes streaming, and rubbed his nose. Said door received a watery glare, but remained unperturbed.

(It was just a poor little door, after all.)

‘Eräza,’ Malkolm hissed. He waved his hand. The door disappeared. Another flick of the wrist and his nose stopped throbbing. Under normal circumstances, Malkolm would not have been so frivolous as to risk sapping his strength for a sore nose—but he was irritated. It had been a long day. He had travelled across half of Tehshia and the entirety of the Re'acian desert by dragon, and at a short notice from the Ixisters' Council, too. It had been quite the surprise, the promotion, although Malkolm had not bargained for such a tiring journey….

He was ready to begin his new job, he thought, shaking his thin hands free of the clingy material of his robe. He was ready to have Kelm meet his Meka and formally dismiss him. Because, Malkolm thought firmly, he did not need a Meka. He walked on, cursing the sharp turns and lack of landings on the zigzagging staircase. Left. Right. A steep run along the walls. Malkolm was out of breath before he had taken a hundred steps—although it could be argued that said hundred steps were built along mountain trails of old; they did not prove easy to climb.

It might not have been so bad if it wasn't for those dratted doors! Malkolm was heaving with anger as he glided—or tried to glide—along the strangely structured staircase. Honestly, he'd heard legends about this man; it wasn't that hard to conjure a Step-on-Flight if you had enough wood. He continued upstairs irritably, adding this to his list of ‘changes-to-be-made’.

But although Malkolm was learned and talented for so young an Ixister, even he did not know of Kelm’s knack for annoying people—just for the sake of it. The old man was currently holed up in his chambers, incredibly cranky, annoyed, irritated, and everything in between. He flipped through books, searching for something to amuse him, growled when nothing distracted him, and cursed the younger Ixister for his skill with engarvments. Seven silver, spindly letters now decorated the walls: it was a lock-in spell, the kind that could only be removed by its Tracer. The Tracer who was currently struggling towards him, and towards whom Kelm held nothing but animosity.

So he whispered to the staircase to rebel.

And rebel it did, to Malkolm’s great irritation. A hundred and fifty steps up, there was a door that blared nonsense; twenty-two steps after that, one that was bright pink and trumpeted at being approached; and another fifty steps later, a door that was keen to debate the pros and cons of monarchy.

Malkolm's patience was wearing thin. He swallowed an expletive that was threatening to escape his mouth—barely swallowed it down, so it burnt against the roof of his tongue. This is all Kelm's doing, Malkolm thought viciously. He gathered his cloak around his shoulders once more and arranged it so it didn't cling around his neck much. He felt hot, sweat dripping in a most uncomfortable manner between his shoulder blades. The tips of his hair that hung above his eyes turned pink.

Malkolm couldn't take it. 'Akiel Yarts!' he exclaimed suddenly, causing a multitude of shiny tiles on the ceiling to fall loose and shatter along the wooden stairs. Smoke drifted in from nowhere at all and from everywhere at once, two rather different places, if you were interested in the physics of such things ... but that is beside the point. As the smoke gathered around him, Malkolm's own stupidity became quite apparent. He could not see.

Upstairs, in his room made of books, Kelm rollicked on the floor with laughter.

‘Ixister—Kelm!’ Malkolm thundered, casting the Voise-Incrieze spell almost subconsciously. ‘I need to speak to you!’ He tried inching up the staircase, not daring to reach out and feel his way up along the walls. What if he tripped? There was no reversing the effects of an expletive, because an expletive once uttered proved disastrous for days—longer, even, depending on the level of its obscenity.

'You can lock the soul, but not what it doth dole ... out,’ Kelm replied, his voice thundering just as loudly down the staircase. ‘That rhymed a lot better in my head,’ he admitted.

Malkolm huffed. ‘Elborn Radagel is here to see you!’ he said. ‘He says he carries a letter from the king. If you’d let me get upstairs somehow, I could take you to him. And, you can tell him to take his sorry self away as well, because he’s dismissed.’ He muttered that last part under his breath, but even then his echo bounced along the smoke-obscured walls.

There was silence. Then— ‘I heard that.’

Malkolm smacked his forehead with his wrist. ‘Ixister Kelm, I would normally proceed despite the—the unforeseen obstacles in my way, but, unfortunately, I cannot.’ He paused. ‘I swore.’

He winced as Kelm’s laughter boomed down the stairwell. The sudden urge to pad his ears with the lapel of his cloak overcame him, but he settled for thrusting his fingers in his ears instead. He waited until the sound of Kelm’s rumbling laughter decreased to a badly veiled guffaw. Then he spoke, ‘Can’t you get the staircase to carry me upstairs? Or—better yet, Transport me.’

‘Do it yourself.’

‘I can’t. I can’t Transport until I know my way around the house well enough, or until it’s legally mine. You know this.’

‘Do I? You’re the Ixister.’ And, to Malkolm’s consternation, Kelm began to hum.

‘Please,’ Malkolm forced the word through gritted teeth. ‘Please Transport me upstairs. I can’t get rid of the smoke, it’s a stupid punish—’ He exhaled loudly. ‘Please.’

It worked. Kelm stopped humming almost immediately. The smoke around Malkolm began to dissipate. He was swept off his feet, toes grazing the nosing of each step; it was a silent reminder, Malkolm knew, that he ought to behave in front of Kelm. Legally, it was still his house, and although Malkolm had been quick to make certain … changes … he still did not hold authority over everything.

Despite this, a small, smug voice in his head crowed over how he had locked Kelm up well and truly. (In the physical sense, at least.)

Once he was standing outside Kelm’s door, Malkolm brushed himself free of invisible smoke particles. Then he pulled a pot of ink from his pocket and dipped the edge of his sleeve into it, blowing at it until it resembled the nib of a fountain pen. He set to work, drawing an engarvement that would allow him to enter Kelm’s room, and for Kelm to leave temporarily.

When he swung the door open, a book collided with his forehead. He yelled—partly from pain, but more so because he was surprised.

‘What was that about?’ Malkolm said, eyes hardening. He bent down and plucked the book from where it had landed. Kelm’s main living area was a mess, with papers, books and diagrams all strewn across the carpeted floor. The curtain was singed. The sofa was squawking. Kelm was standing on a tabletop, glaring down at him with dark, accusing eyes. His eyebrows were bushy and wild, meeting in the centre. Malkolm might not have noticed this detail, if it wasn’t for the fact that the eyebrows—or eyebrow—was bright red. He blinked.

‘I did not think you would ignore common courtesy, Malkolm,’ Kelm said, his eyebrow flaring like a campfire, ‘that you would resort to locking me in my sanctuary.’ He said ‘sanctuary’ proudly, gesturing at his less-than-regal surroundings. ‘I’m aware that the Council ordered you to come here, to take my position from me, but the Council did not call for disrespect.’ He folded his arms across his magnificent, silk cloak (red, also, and embroidered with cats). ‘Explain yourself.’

‘I can’t explain myself,’ Malkolm said honestly. ‘And I won’t bother, except that it felt right. You ought to be busying yourself with the packing, anyway.’ Kelm’s eyebrows flared again at the mention of ‘packing’. He gained a few extra inches; his hair brushed the ceiling. All in all, he looked quite formidable, but Malkolm wasn’t about to let him know that.

Instead, Malkolm hoisted a half-smile on his face; the next words he spoke were painfully polite. ‘Come downstairs. Elborn is waiting.’

‘What for?’ asked Kelm, stepping down from the table, a sheaf of engarving pens catching onto the tail of his cloak. ‘How can he—does he know?’ He furrowed his eyebrow at Malkolm.

‘Know what?’ Malkolm stepped across a pile of scarves and strolled towards the ex-Ixister. He tugged one of Kelm's engarving pens free from his cloak and tucked it into his own collar. Kelm harrumphed with disapproval and magicked his pen back.

‘You know very well what--I'm talking about the girl who’s gone missing, of course.’ At Malkolm’s confused expression, he said gleefully, ‘You’re Ixister, with access to the View of the entire Meare—yet you don’t know?' Malkolm shook his head. Kelm snickered. 'Maybe you weren’t officially made the Ixister,' he said happily. A wide grin was now stretching across Kelm’s face, his whiskery beard grazing his ears. ‘We’d better go downstairs and tell Elborn anyhow. Follow me, stand-in!' He left the room, walking down the stairs briskly. Malkolm followed, disgruntled, his hair a bright, burning pink now.

‘Why’s Elborn here if he doesn’t know about the girl?’ Kelm asked, stamping on the staircase as he walked to do away with the smoke.

‘Because,’ Malkolm said, falling into step with him, ‘letter. I’ve already told you.’

‘I was dealing with the sofa,’ Kelm said, shrugging. ‘All I registered was your plaintive mewling.’

‘I don’t mewl,’ Malkolm muttered.

‘And neither does my cloak. But really—what kind of let—’ Kelm’s sentence was left unfinished, because just then a loud crash echoed up the stairwell. It sounded like a grand piano had been tossed against brickwork, or several pianos, or perhaps a small elephant or two. Kelm froze. 'My workshop!' He ran down the rickety steps, jumped onto the next door that came in his path, and skated down the remainder of the stairs; the door was blown right off its hinges. Malkolm did what he did best without magic.

He ran.

As Malkolm rushed into the workshop, he collided with Kelm and went sprawling on the ground. Kelm remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide and glassy. ‘My workshop!’

Malkolm grunted. ‘My workshop!’ He got to his feet. He blinked.

A giant, purple Hollusion was walking around the room, its large hands passing through the domed ceiling. That must have been what made the crash, Malkolm thought, if someone sent it via message-in-an-Orb. Looking closer, he saw a trace of purple leading to the fireplace; like a string, it wound around the Hollusion’s leg. Being a Hollusion, the creature was, of course, intangible—merely a mirror image of whomever had created it. Malkolm peered up at it.

It was a woman. Her hair was done up in an impeccable fashion, but her face was wild and angry, nose scrunched up like a camel's hump. Pale spots of pink danced on her cheeks. She was gesturing erratically and screaming so loudly it was impossible to understand what she was trying to say. In her hand was a heeled boot, with toes so pointy that just looking at them was equal to being stabbed in the eye. She was aiming it at someone, Malkolm realised, as if intending to throw it.

Elborn Radagel was huddled in a corner, hiding in a tablecloth.

‘Garnet, dear, the Hollusion is rather—large!’ he yelped. ‘Calm—calm down?’

Garnet continued shrieking. Malkolm strained his ears and caught the words, ‘Arlene—ELBORN—back—I’M SO WORRIED.’

‘QUIET!’ Kelm yelled. He flipped his hand and whisked Elborn into the middle of the room, the tablecloth flying around him. He looked quite like a fat bird, Malkolm thought, amused. Kelm gripped Elborn firmly by the elbow and propelled him towards the hulking Hollusion. Elborn whimpered.

‘Lovely to see you, Elborn,’ Kelm said, ‘absolutely lovely, and lovely to see you, too, Garnet—GARNET, BE QUIET!’ The Hollusion quietened, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her glittering scarf. Kelm cleared his throat. ‘Hello, Elborn,’ he said again, beaming at his Meka.

‘Hello,’ Elborn said, smiling weakly. ‘You’re not dead. And you’re red now.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Kelm said cheerfully. ‘Fits with the theme, doesn’t it? But, that aside, three questions. One: why are you here? Two: Why has Garnet sent a message-in-an-Orb and maximised her image—you should know better, Garnet, you almost gave me a heart attack—and three: who has gotten rid of all my things?’ He gave Malkolm a cursory glance as he spoke the last bit. Malkolm simply grinned. ‘Explain,’ Kelm demanded, looking down at Elborn again. ‘In order, please.’ His eyebrow wiggled ferociously.

‘I—er, well, I have a letter.’ Elborn pulled said envelope from his pocket and handed it to Kelm. ‘And, uh, I was waiting for Ixister’—he puffed his cheeks and forced the word out as if in pain—‘Malkolm to bring you here, when Garnet sent a message-in-an-Orb … it landed, see, in the fireplace, and then she … toppled out and began to scream.’ Kelm nodded at Elborn understandingly.

He turned to Garnet. Indigo tears were streaming down her face and she coughed down a sob. ‘And you, Garnet Radagel?’ Kelm said, smiling at her encouragingly. ‘What happened to elicit such an urgent means of communication, hm?’ He patted the Hollusion’s hand, wincing slightly as his hand passed through her. Sparks fizzled from her index finger. ‘There, there, stop crying—for goodness’ sake, ask your wife what’s wrong, Elborn!’

‘Garnet, darling, what’s wrong?’ Elborn asked her, managing to look both afraid and concerned at the same time.

The Hollusion drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Arlene—Arlene is missing. We’ve searched the town. I thought she was staying at Rachel’s house, Elborn, like she’d said, two days ago and told me not to worry because she’d be back today—you know, Elborn, you kissed her goodbye and told her to brush her teeth and—but I—I went there today and they said she never arrived and—TWO DAYS, Elborn, she’s been missing and I only just found out and—’ The rest of her words were drowned out into a stream of incoherent muttering. She began to cry.

Elborn went pale. ‘Two days—are you sure you looked properly? Garnet—ARE YOU SURE, DID YOU LOOK PROPERLY?’ When his wife didn’t answer, Elborn moved closer and waved his arms in an effort to get her attention.

Instead, he tripped over his own feet and fell right through her. The Hollusion fizzled and died.

There was silence. Elborn did not move, his forehead laid against the cool stone. Malkolm stood awkwardly and stared at him, wondering if he should be worried, or amused, or both. Kelm's eyebrow turned grey, his face drawn and anxious.

‘Come,’ he said softly, when nobody spoke.

He swished out of the workshop and strode towards the door, flying down the hallway and outside—towards the Meare.