Tryal's Curse 5.0

~2804 words

Chapter Five~

Letterage 

Malkolm glared at the potted plant on Kelm’s writing desk, willing it to topple over onto the ground. It would look so lovely on the floor, Malkolm thought furiously. Yes, so absolutely lovely, with its elaborately patterned, glazed surface in teeny-tiny fragments. He imagined crushing the clay underneath the heel of his boot, imagined venting all his frustration out on the little potted plant that had been tossing clods of dirt his way for the last one hour.

It had a most meticulous aim.

A small pebble hit Malkolm square on the forehead. He let out a cry and magicked a barrier around it. The plant giggled, knocking its long, curling leaves against the pink, shimmering magical shield. Malkolm glared at it again.

The plant glared back and snarled, its leaves waving at Malkolm in a most peculiar manner—Malkolm was certain it was making rude gestures at him.

Unfortunately, he didn’t speak Plant.

He turned his attention to the papers scattered along Kelm’s desk, wishing his Ixistence magic was useful against plants. It was a most unfortunate thing, that Ixisters were restricted to using their magic against people and animals alone. Plants had always been out of the loop—although Malkolm was of the opinion that the Ixisters’ Council ought to do something about it. Most plants were quite vicious.

Including this one. His brow scrunched up as he regarded the pile of papers in front of him, casting the plant a wary glance every now and then. It was an Elora Contestus, the common houseplant, and one of Kelm’s obvious favourites. He had at least ten of them in every room! The plant itself had long, dark-green leaves that curled to the ground; its stem shot up like a leafy turret and brushed the roof. There were seven of these sort of plants surrounding Malkolm at this very moment,

Walking into the Room of Books was like stepping into a greenhouse: the air was muggy and paper fans surrounded Malkolm as he sorted systematically through the sheaf of documents on the desk. He waved his hand and a breeze wafted around him. The window facing the desk was covered with ivy; the tendrils wriggled like snakes. He scooted away slightly, leaning his chair backwards on two legs.

Malkolm hummed under his breath as he went along with his work, though he did glance out the window every now and then, as if he expected to see someone clambering up the rocky ledge any time now. But no—there was nobody there, least of all the person he expected to see, fuming and yelling as he climbed—

Malkolm slammed a notebook on the desk, just as a tingling feeling ran up his skin. It was an odd crawling sensation—one that made him shiver. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and hoisted a large umbrella made of shimmering magic above his head.

Just then, a series of tiles clattered to the ground, all of them laughing most—most obscenely, he decided. He narrowed his eyes at them and snapped his fingers. ‘Turaana,’ he said, and the colourful tiles returned to the ceiling.

Malkolm had observed that ever since Kelm had left the house, everything within it had taken to expressing its animosity towards him. It was unlikely that Kelm had enchanted the house before he had left, because his magic was steadily flooding away from the Meare. No, Malkolm thought, frowning. He drummed his fingers against the desk. The house obviously hated him. The stairs tripped him up and tiles occasionally fell from the ceiling and crashed at his feet. He had developed somewhat of a sixth sense for them now, so it was possible to tell if anything was going to happen.

But Malkolm was not the sort to wait for a house to kill him. He methodically set barriers around himself and flicked papers across the room, searching for the documents that made the house legally his. Perhaps there was a loophole that was responsible for this mess, he thought, or perhaps Kelm, in his stubbornness, had refused to sign somewhere. Malkolm had a sneaking suspicion that the documents were all in place, though, and the stolen letter seemed to burn in his pocket.

The stolen letter—Malkolm had whispered to the wind to slip it out of Kelm’s pocket when he was in the village, and the wind had obliged most readily, of course. He had seen Kelm reading the letter, ripping the seal off in the most violent of manners, after the search parties had been sent off to search for Elborn’s niece—or daughter—or whoever she was; it didn’t matter, Malkolm thought crossly. Stealing the letter from Kelm had been easy after that. It had been disenchanted when he had taken off the seal, meaning that whatever it was, Malkolm could now read it.

He hadn’t had a chance to, though, ever since he had locked the door behind him and rushed up the stairs to Kelm’s—no, his, he corrected himself—Room of Books.

This had partly to do with the fact that he had been unconscious for about half an hour after his arrival—a rather heavy oak door had slammed in his face and made an attempt at his life. Since he’d woken up, Malkolm had been kept busy in trying to find the Contract of Magic Transfer and fixing a bloody nose.

His face still felt uncomfortably wet.

Patting at his pocket, Malkolm dodged another pebble the Elora Contestus thrust at him. Arms outstretched, he created a whirlwind of papers in the middle of the room, ripping each to shreds as it passed his eyes: Advertisements (Rentai Scales, half off at Marge’s Miscellany!); bills, both for the repairs Kelm had gotten done in recent years and completely forgotten about, as well as the duck variety; receipts for spells he had ordered from Syti, the industrial hub; and a strange collection of poetry in squiggles.

But no contract.

Malkolm snarled. ‘Why,’ he thundered, to the room at large, ‘is it so hard to find a piece of paper here?’ He flicked his wrist upwards—not even pausing to admire the exact fluidity with which his sleeve cut through the air—and cast a quick Finding spell. The entire room became bathed in a golden glow, suds of sunshine glowing on the grey, stone-brick walls. The air around him buzzed, the houseplants became slightly disoriented, and Malkolm winced as clods of dirt hit the large windows.

He scanned the room for any beeping objects, but as the gold on the walls faded—the houseplants relaxed visibly—Malkolm realised an important thing. The contracts were not here. He raised his arms above his head and conducted a stronger search of the entire house, until he could feel his fingers grazing even the top of the ceiling. It was as though his senses had become dislocated with his physical being, so that he was everywhere and nowhere and in several places all at once. He ran his hands along nooks and crannies, under floorboards and between the roots of rather disgruntled plants. He searched the cellar; he searched the twenty-five attics and the tower with the staircase that spiraled upwards past the clouds.

Nothing met his searching gaze, or rewarded the quickness of his hands. The buzzing around him quietened, until all that was left of it was a slight drone. Malkolm balled his hands into tight fists, his arms rigid, his head turned towards the ground as he seethed.

The contracts were with Kelm.

He stalked over to the dirt-streaked windows, one arm holding the magical umbrella above his head. The plants continued tossing dirt at him, and he bit the inside of his cheek as more tiles fell from the ceiling and crashed around him. The desk began to dance. The drawers quaked. The rug slithered like a snake and attempted to trip him up.

Malkolm shoved the offending bits of furniture across the room, magicking a giant hand out of nowhere that rolled the rug up tightly—he wedged it in the chimney.

Turning to the window, he hoisted the shimmering umbrella above his head.

Then he waved his hand. ‘Velerio,’ he said, his voice reverberating, ‘Ixister-exa, Kelm.’

A blurry image appeared on the dirty window. At first the picture unfolded like little bits of mosaic, then the bits and pieces colluded, until what Malkolm saw was a dishevelled man with frightening eyebrows searching madly for a Something in the bedcovers. The room he was in was small and cramped; bookshelves lined the walls and everything, from the wallpaper to the rug on the carpet, appeared to be in varying shades of pink. Malkolm winced.

Kelm did not look pleased. His beard was swirling around his head in a fiery red halo; his clothes were rumpled, the magnificent embroidery on his robes not half-so-magnificent when it resembled the splotched scrawls from a writer’s bad night. He turned his pockets inside out and stamped across the carpet, fuming.

‘Dratted … letter,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘Daniel … most displeased—WHERE IS IT?’ Rubbing at his forehead agitatedly, Kelm paced across the room. Malkolm was most amused when he continued to think out loud, all whilst the shutters—these, too, were pink—rattled to echo his discomfiture. Malkolm did not waste a moment to wonder why Kelm was so anxious—he already knew.

First was the girl, the girl who had disappeared. Malkolm had found it quite amusing, the way Kelm had snapped at the villagers and ordered them about, and attempted to cast a Finding spell to sweep the entire mountain range. He was not sadistic by nature, but Kelm’s trouble tickled him immensely. Even more so, after he returned to the red house….

He batted away a tendril of ivy that was snaking around his wrist. It, too, received a glare. Malkolm had been sending a lot of those around today.

It had been two days since the search parties had set off, two days since half of them had returned to deal with their businesses, shaking their heads at the silly little girl whom, it was rumoured, had run off with a little vagabond and was hiding in the mountains. Malkolm clutched the handle of the magical umbrella tighter, trying to ignore the constant hail of dirt and tiles from behind him. As far as he was concerned, the whole thing was rather silly—and the majority of the villagers appeared to agree with him. Arlene Randerfort did not appear to be popular among many of the people in the Meare, anyway. This was partly because of the colour of her skin, Malkolm had gathered, which was nut-brown like the people of the South—the Sezars, and the Mearefolk still hissed over how Arlene’s mother had run away with ‘one of those terrible, terrible folk’.

He watched as Kelm continued pacing, occasionally stopping to search his person—for the letter, Malkolm assumed. Suddenly, in the midst of his angry muttering, he froze. His eyes widened and his eyebrows flickered. Then he turned and walked out of the room. Now—moving down the stairs … entering an impeccably neat hallway … banging the door shut behind him and running down the cobblestoned streets, up, up, up a flight of stairs to the village square—Kelm made his way to The Mountain.

Quick as a flash, Malkolm dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He didn’t care if the house collapsed around him—he had to read it now, before Kelm came and demanded it back. Malkolm knew he couldn’t deny having stolen the letter. It was against the Ixisters’ Code of Conduct to lie.

So he dropped his umbrella and jumped on the desk. Flicking and stamping on the ivy, he thrust the window open and stepped onto the broad windowsill. A barrage of very accurately aimed soil and stones followed him outside, and the window snapped shut behind him—so suddenly that he teetered on his toes and almost fell.

He flipped the letter open. He read: 

Kelm,

Salutations to you, dearest of friends. I will not waste either my time or yours with greetings—they are of a trivial nature, when laid against the topics of which I must speak. I hope you are doing well, anyhow, and that the red house remains intact. I also hope you are in fine enough health to leave the Meare immediately.

Your presence at his Highness’ homestead is requested—it is a most urgent matter, a matter which I shall discuss with you somewhat deeply upon your arrival, but which I shall attempt to sum up in fewer words here. Please do take care that you burn this letter as soon as you are done reading it, for it concerns information of a most delicate nature.

You are aware, from what the Ixisters’ Council has been perpetuating, that King Trent has been very ill for quite a while now—in fact, this sickness has been a bane on the entire country, ever since Prince Wallace disappeared five years ago. I repeat this information as a refresher, and also because I am uncertain as to what the Council has conveyed to you. The prince has not, in fact, gone on any voyages, but deserted his poor father, and ever since last winter, the king’s condition has worsened. The economic and socio-political states of the countries you are aware of, also, I am sure, and it sickens me to hear of the smuggling, as well as the commonness with which slavery has grown. Nothing is condemned these days, old friend, and this is majorly because the Inspektors are sticking both their feet in matters that should be the LEGAL ADVISOR’S concern.

Besides this—and I will not repeat this to you again, by letter—the Blacksmiths are gaining power once more. More will be explained when you arrive at Durthnõt, but for now, just know that the situation is worse than the public fears it.

You are needed, Kelm. I have asked the Ixisters’ Council to revoke all energy that floods you in the Meare, so your power over it will gradually reduce to a crisp, although your internal magic will be retained. Your position is being given to a recently graduated Ixister—quite a bright young chap, Malkolm. You needn’t fear that the Meare will come to any harm under him. This will, of course, be temporary if it suits you, and as soon as the king’s condition improves, you will be reinstated in your position as Ixister of the Meare.

Come swift; you are needed. There is no other Ixister in the Meare that I would trust with the king’s life more—for I trust you as much with mine.

Faithfully,

Donovan Smeth

Slowly, Malkolm lowered the letter. His face was blank, but his eyes glimmered—not with tears, but with jealousy and badly veiled anger. He was a stand-in. Kelm was being sent to serve in King Trent’s court, and he was a stand-in! He was younger, more powerful, with a better grip of the newer engraving methods and enchantments, and yet—and yet it was the old man who was being called in to heal the king? What of his backward methods—pah! Malkolm crumpled the letter into a ball and spat on the windowsill. As soon as Kelm was done with whatever ‘healing’ he had to do, Malkolm realised, he would be dropped from the position as easily as a fall leaf drifting to the ground!

No, he thought. He gritted his teeth. This would not happen to him—he would not let it happen to him. He would go to Durthnõt in Kelm’s place, he would heal the king. And, he thought, he knew just what to blackmail Kelm with. His power—his current power over the Meare.

Once more, Malkolm flicked his hand at the window. ‘Show me!’ he said, ‘Arlene Randerfort!’

Just then, the slithering rug smashed into the window and collided with Malkolm. While he was reading the letter, it must have wriggled free from where it was trapped beneath the furniture—and Malkolm fell down the side of the house, down … down…. He screamed, trying to remember the spell for levitation, but his mind seemed to have been wiped clean. Tears—hot against his cold face—leaked from his eyes. He shut his eyes tight.

His back hit a hard surface. It stung. It sizzled. It felt as though it was imbued with magic.

Malkolm’s eyes opened to see Kelm standing on a square of bright blue magical energy, glaring at him from beneath a flaring halo of something that was an eyebrow—or a beard—or both.

Malkolm gulped.