The Elysium Stone

Part 1

The sun was a nugget of hot iron, setting over the treeline. Endicott caught himself glancing over at it three or four times a minute, as he continued to drill the agitated faeries on their part in his summoning spell.

A thought kept buzzing him like a persistent horsefly he had to shoo away. He needed his concentration now, but the idea was free and wouldn't be contained.

"When that sun rises again it will shine on my new kingdom!" It resisted his best efforts at mental discipline.

The faeries, thousands of golden sparks swirling through the humid air for yards around him, were doing their best to follow the young mage's instructions. Faerie was Endicott's weakest language of the five Creature tongues he spoke. It was nearly as musical as Mer, but whistle-based instead of vocal. As bad as his singing voice was, his whistling was worse. Music just wasn't among his strengths.

Most of the faeries had gotten the idea that he needed them to form a hoop around his head, like a grossly oversized halo. It should be as wide as the ring of toadstools growing at his feet. Faeries have an intuitive understanding of circles, so this part was fairly easy to convey.

What they were not getting was the exact point in the incantation that he needed them to coalesce out of a swarm to form a slowly rotating ring. They had trouble hearing in the range of the human voice, and so they would not be able to take a cue from any of the magical words he would recite. And his finger gestures, tracing specific runes in the air, were too subtle for them to distinguish.

It was looking as if he might have to whistle or gesture to them as he was casting. Unfortunately, he had every reason to believe that breaking form like this would wreck the delicate spell. Every syllable and gesture was significant in this one, and he had practiced them for so long that he often cast it in his dreams, summoning random small objects to his bed. He needed another way.

He whistled for the faeries to take a short break and sat down heavily on a fallen oak. He had a fine view from this grassy hill. To the south was the Whorl River, and he could just see some of the cottages of Clyde in the distance. In the west, the sun was now perched on the last treeline of Caliphir Wood, those few survivors standing like a curtain to hide the leagues of black ash that Endicott knew lay behind it.

What a terrible loss! What a vile shame it was to see that magical and ancient forest burn to nothing. And yet, what luck! The faeries might never have been convinced to help him summon his prize if they weren't suddenly in need of a home. Endicott's luck had always been strange like that.

Or maybe it had been the faeries' strange luck in finding him. If he succeeded at summoning an Elysium Stone tonight, he could fulfill his oath to them instantly. He would invoke the gem and call into existence an entire kingdom, formed to suit his desire. The faeries would be welcome guests of King Endicott the First, and his conjured lands should be sufficiently magical to suit their picky tastes.

But it wouldn't come true if he couldn't figure out a way to signal the faeries without shattering his spell. And if he failed, he'd still be bound to find them a home. Such a quest could occupy him for years.

He propped his velvet manifold sack on his lap and rummaged randomly through its distortion pockets for anything which might help. He felt through his quills, his reference books, his outdoor gear, his bone and stone collections, his parchments, his food, his live mice and pigeons, his potions and flasks, his toilet kit, his jewelry and his coinage, considering each in turn and trying to imagine a use for it. The sun settled through the tops of the trees.

Finally, his hand fell upon the smooth glass of the answer: his hourglasses.

The faeries whistled out thousands of tiny peeps in different pitches and rhythms, sounding like wind through old rafters. As they discussed his words and these new concepts among themselves, the cacophony settled down and resolved into a collective and coherent whistle. "We understand and we will follow the substitute master," they whistled in a beautiful birdsong of consensus.

Sensitivity to the motions of the heavens is one of the first things a mage is taught, and so Endicott knew the moment the sun had set completely. He set the hourglass running on the log, and flushed most of his stored spells into the air and ground. The faeries greedily drank up the dissipating mana. He stepped to the ring of toadstools, planted his feet, and began the spell that would make him into a king.

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Part 2

Leaving his cart in the bushes was not a smart thing to do. It worried Thrumple a great deal as he climbed up the grassy hill, maintaining a fair degree of stealth for his size. He'd hidden the cart barely seven strides from the main road to Clyde, perhaps only twenty man-strides. Any traveler with a sudden need to relieve himself at that spot might stumble upon it, and also relieve Lionkirk Clan of a month's trading goods.

But Thrumple had spotted something at the top of this hill. It glittered and flashed like gold, only brighter. Someone was doing something up there, and his bones told him it involved a great treasure.

In his two years as a trader, he had grown accustomed to ignoring the call of treasure. It was all around him when he was in town, and he could have none of it. His share of gold (or more usually silver and copper) came when he had hauled his cart the nine leagues to Clyde and the nine leagues home to Lionkirk. He was used to thinking of it that way. Almost.

But this pull was so painfully strong. A treasure beyond price was certainly at stake. A hill giant could no more resist a call like this than a man could ignore a singing mermaid. His treasure-loving bones climbed up the slope themselves. The rest of him just happened to be attached.

He followed a stony little trail for a bit, until leaving it for a dusty creekbed. The creek switched back twice, narrowing as he got nearer the top of this pleasant little green hill. Thrumple liked to climb the hills around the southern part of the man kingdom when he could spare the time. They were softer than his own craggy lands, and full of tasty rabbits and moles.

Mosquitoes, gnats and flies accumulated from the muggy evening air as he made his way upward. They gathered around and on him, but he never noticed unless they got in his eyes. Ordinary insects could not put a bite through his thick skin, so they swarmed in frustration and sipped at his sweat.

Thrumple was scaling the opposite side of the hill from the activity he had spotted. Fortunately, it happened to be the leeward side as well. They would not see or smell him coming, and he moved as quietly as he could to muffle his thudding steps. At the top of the hill was a copse of oaks and scrub. He could smell a man. Or two men? He was not sure.

There was definitely a man on the other side of the trees, a clean one, wearing some kind of scented balm. Did he smell another? He glided in behind the trees, crushing no more than a few small branches underfoot, and peered down over the treetops.

It was one man. But not just a man; it was a wizard. Thrumple swallowed. Wizards were trouble for giants. They were the villain in every story he'd been told as a boy. They collected the bones of giants for their wicked spells.

This wizard was facing away from him, wearing robes of leafy green and gesturing. He was much younger than most wizards the giant had heard about. He wore a silver circlet on his head, and there was no gray in the man's brown hair and short beard. He stood still and mumbled, while a cloud of weird, unblinking fireflies billowed around him. That was the glitter he had spotted, just some fireflies.

Yet he still burned with treasurelust. Thrumple looked around the area. He saw that the wizard had a bag, sitting on a log. The treasure would be in that.

Thrumple considered his options. He could kill the wizard while he was distracted. This would be safest in the short term and most dangerous in the long. Wizards had friends. Wizards had guilds. Wizards were very, very good at finding things out.

And Thrumple had to admit to himself that if he'd had the stomach to kill for treasure, he wouldn't have gone into trading. Once had been sufficient to teach him that.

The stories had it that you could bind a wizard's hands to render him helpless. This wizard was gesturing like a mad orator. Thrumple might be able to sneak up, grab his hands out of the air and hold him down. What then?

As he watched and pondered, the fireflies suddenly gathered out of the air and fell into a rotating ring above the wizard's head. It was beautiful. The wizard raised his voice and a circle of light began to shine at his feet. Thrumple leaned forward to watch, knowing he might be giving up his only chance to grab the wizard unawares but too awed and afraid to act.

The wizard began to shout nonsense. Thrumple suspected it was magical nonsense.

"Fole parvik a dolamoo, pactriuk vercix agomn herg kah! Abul noh tchennix..."

The circle over the wizard's head began to murmur a low whistle, like a kettle about to boil. Thrumple strained to hear it. He leaned farther forward, and suddenly something moved at his feet. He looked down.

He had smelled two men! One of them had been crouching right between his feet! Somehow, he had taken the gray-cloaked figure for a rock, but it was now making a panicked scramble through the thorny underbrush. And it smelled of fear.

A thief. Thrumple had surprised a thief, waiting to set upon this wizard and steal his treasure!

With a surge of righteous indignation, Thrumple decided that he would very much like to catch this vile ne'er-do-well and present him to the rich young wizard for a fat reward.

"Hey! Stop!" he bellowed at the retreating figure.

He turned to chase the man down, but in his excitement he stumbled. His foot caught in the brambles and he fell.

A giant falling down is a long and graceless process. Thrumple grasped at branches as he fell, calling out a steerlike moan of distress and crashing through the foliage. He managed to grab a thick limb and nearly right himself halfway down, but his weight was too much for the stubby oak. Its roots came up out of the ground, and together they went crashing down in the direction of the now silent and wide-eyed wizard. The fireflies scattered.

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Part 3

When a young apprentice to the Guild is first able to store a spell or two, training begins on how to handle surprises. Typically, a master will take a group of boys out on a hike and either disappear or fake his own death. The master then lurks nearby and observes how they handle it. Mages must maintain their mystique: unflappable in conversation and unassailable in combat. Training in surprise reaction never really ends.

Endicott's master, Birchard, was an accomplished illusionist. He had led a troupe of eight of them up through Vartani Pass and faked an attack by wargs. In Birchard's highly effective hallucinario, the demonic black wolves appeared to rip the old man's throat out and tear him to pieces. Endicott had been only seven years old, the youngest in his class, but he was the only one who managed to cast a spell. He had a pathetic little ward against beasts stored up. It was little better than a tick repellant and would have done nothing against real wargs, but by the blood of the Titans, he cast it. The rest of his class fled in hysterics.

Endicott received high marks for his response, and always did well as surprise reaction training got even more brutal and vicious through the years. Only he and Birchard ever knew that in addition to casting the ward, Endicott had also wet himself. The old master kept an olfactory illusion on him the whole way home. He came out smelling like a rose.

A giant and a tree falling on him, as he came near to completing the most important spell he had ever cast, was the second most difficult surprise he had ever had. It took him more than two full seconds to react, ages by Guild standards. On later reflection, he was thankful Birchard was not around to see it.

Although he had flushed his stored spells, there were a few emergency hide-savers he was never without. One of these was a two-second timestop, with a radius of twenty feet. He called out the trigger word. The crashing of the fall and the wailing of the giant went silent. In one motion he dove over the log, rolling in the grass and bracing his ears for the crunch of giant and tree on the spot he had been standing.

The crunch did not come.

For safety's sake, he rolled two yards farther away through the grass.

The crunch still did not come. He poked his head up.

The giant and tree were still in mid-air, an expression of comical panic frozen on the giant's face. Through its O-shaped mouth, Endicott could see all the way to its tonsils. That should not have been possible in the twilight, but the giant and tree were brightly lit from below.

Of course. The faerie circle.

Endicott stood and brushed off his robes. He looked around for the faeries, saw a few knots of them, and whistled loudly for them to gather. They were agitated beyond description. Endicott ignored them. He rummaged through his manifold sack and came out with the proper wand.

Tracing red script in the air, he walked around on the ground below the giant and drew a ward of keeping. He couldn't tell how much longer the power of the faerie circle would extend the life of his timestop spell. To his knowledge, this had never even been done. If he were any kind of mage he should be enscribing this odd effect in detail for the Great Library. But it was prudent to trap the giant while he had a chance.

Depleted of mana as he was, completing the ward circle took everything he had, plus some he borrowed from the grudging faeries. When he was done, he sat down dejectedly on the grass at a safe distance, facing the giant. The faeries clouded the air, whistling incoherent streams of anger and confusion. He didn't give an orc phallus how they felt. He had lost a kingdom.

He looked up at the giant, frozen in its moment of fear. "I was to be a king, giant," he told the wretched thing. "I was to be Endicott the First, and my kingdom was to be called 'Lumina,' a land of light. I would have been a good king." The giant seemed unimpressed. "This spell I was casting was a gift from my guild. It can only be attempted once, for reasons you could try your entire life to comprehend and die a failure."

Endicott studied the giant with contempt. The faeries whistled and peeped at him insistently. "Perhaps I will die a failure."

He sat on the grass in silence, as the stars came out and the blue twilight faded to black. The faeries covered him and flew into his ears to whistle their disapprobation. He stoically ignored them, thought about his wretched fate, and waited for the mild consolation of watching the giant complete its fall. It was going to hurt a lot.

An hour went by, then two, and still the giant hung there over the faerie circle. It started to get chilly. Endicott put together a campfire and made a meal of bread, sliced mutton, and a little wine. At last he told the faeries that he would fulfill his oath to find them a home, and they whistled disapprovingly and called him a slur which means a nonmagical being who pretends he knows magic. After that, he refused to even speak to them.

He wondered what he was going to do with the giant. Convention said to kill it, as was his right by the laws of Guild and Kingdom. Its bones would be worth quite a lot, and he was tempted to appraise them even as the thing still hung in the air. But the price would be paltry compared to what he had lost, and he knew it would not be any comfort.

Giant's bones had always interested him, though. There were so many fascinating uses for them. Grind them up coarsely and they made a powerful poison. Grind them finely and combine with an acidic juice and they made a strength elixir unmatched by any other. They were used in wands, staves, divining rods, magical inks, and even some jewelry. He'd read of a dwarven pipe organ made of giants' bones which could cast mass enchantments upon its listeners. It was written that a prison made of them could hold in a major demon.

There was no substance like the bones of a giant. Endicott had half a mind to keep them for himself and spend the next few years as an alchemist, divining their properties. There was one tome he had read on their life binding properties alone which could keep him occupied for a year or two, had he this much material to tinker with. Who knew what great secrets he might uncover? Yes, failing a throne, an alchemy study might suit him well.

Except that he would be spending the foreseeable future finding a home for these moody little sparks. He would probably have to sell the bones just to cover the traveling he would be doing. Endicott sighed. So much to lose in one day.

He looked up at the giant, through eyes which were getting a bit sleepy. Some of the faeries drifted in the air between Endicott and the falling giant, and an idea snapped him to full wakefulness. He stood straight up and paced pensively around the embers of his campfire. Then he pointed to the air and spoke two words into the night.

"Life binding."

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Part 4

The fall was terrible. Thrumple hit the ground like a sack full of sea lions, and the tree came right down on top of him. He bruised and tore and bled and twisted in dozens of places, but those giant's bones of his did not break.

Really, the worst of it was the applause.

Thrumple did not think that he had lost consciousness, but when he lifted his head from the dented dirt and wrestled the tree away, it was bright daylight.

The wizard and thief were gone, but he was not alone. A crowd of several score menfolk were cheering and laughing and clapping their little hands at him. Thrumple stared at the people, dumbfounded. One of them, a round man in a hat, stepped forward and shouted over the noise.

"All right! All right, quiet yourselves! Quiet!" The crowd settled into stray whistles and laughs. "We need the word from the official timekeeper, where is Ollie?"

The crowd murmured and twisted their heads.

"He's drunk!" shouted someone, provoking a giggle.

"I'm not!" came a distant voice. "Well, yes I am. But I can read a sundial! Three pee em and four minutes!"

Another cheer went up from the crowd, and this one included a high-pitched squeal. "That's me!" a young noblewoman in a yellow brocaded dress elbowed her way through the crowd. "I had 3 o'clock on the second afternoon!"

The round man held up a hand. "Ollie?! Did Her Ladyship win the wager?"

Ollie called from the distance. "Uhhhh... Aye!"

The woman squealed, and most of the crowd groaned in exasperation. Almost at once, they began to shuffle away. Thrumple began to recognize some of the faces as townspeople of Clyde.

The man bowed to the Lady, took her hand, and led her off. She grinned madly.

With a great deal of effort, Thrumple rolled over and sat up. Over the heads of the dispersing crowd he could see some brightly colored tents, and the rising smoke of cooking fires. A quartet of fiddle and reed struck up. Someone joined on tambourine. He was at a fair, it seemed.

He brushed the leaves and bark from his woolen shirt and brown sackcloth pants, and discovered that he was coated in dried eggs and manure. He sat on the ground in silent wonder. Two of the man-king's footmen stood their ground as the people left, watching him intently. They held crossbows ready, but not aimed.

hrumple could not imagine what had happened, but he felt the pull of treasure gone from his bones. Nervously, he felt inside his shirt for his leather treasure pouch. It was still there, his fingers told him, and still held what little he had gathered in his youngish life. He exhaled.

But in place of treasure-lust he felt something else in his bones now. An itch. Something strange and unpleasant was making him feel as if his bones were full of sand or something. Perhaps his arms and legs were asleep. He stretched out his arms and shook his wrists.

Fireflies poured out of his fingertips. They scattered from his skin and flew around his head, making irritated little peeping noises. They then turned and swooped back into his arms and chest and disappeared. Some flew right into his face.

A few of the menfolk who had lingered to watch him said, "Oooooh!" and "Oh, do it again!" The footmen shifted nervously. Thrumple shook his head in fear, and a handful of fireflies again broke free, peeped loudly, and dove back inside him.

People started to gather around him again. Frightened, Thrumple rose to his feet and towered above them. Some of them gasped, as if they had never seen a giant before. Then he saw a cloud of fireflies swarm around from behind him and pour into his stomach.

The footmen aimed their crossbows at him, cautiously. Thrumple looked down at them.

The footmen glanced at one another, and one of them nodded at the other. He waved his crossbow. "Go," he commanded.

Thrumple turned around and strode off through the grove of oaks. Several of the trees had recently been felled for firewood, but it was definitely the same stand. That meant that he was on the same hill. And that meant...

His cart.

When hill giants wish to cross steep terrain quickly, few creatures can keep up. His right ankle was hurt and it gave him a sharp pain with each bound, but he could not be concerned with that now. Nor could he give any mind to the hundreds of whistling fireflies which were shaken loose with his every step. They followed along through the air behind him.

As he topped the last little rise, he could just get a glimpse down to the spot where he had hidden the cart. He broke into a desperate and painful lope. He ran as fast as he could, as if getting closer might make what he saw untrue. Maybe it was a trick of the distance.

Maybe he hadn't really seen his goods scattered and his cart burnt to ashes.

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Part 5

It was well after dark when Thrumple shambled into the square, clutching a torn burlap sack full of silver ore and some spools of plain yarn. Three bags were slung over his back, holding what little the bandits had not bothered with.

He knew well the contents of his cart; he was responsible to the clan for all of it. There had been 16 small kegs of fine brandy, half of everything Hugart the Distiller had made this year. There was a crate of truffles, six crates of dried mutton, and a sealed trunk full of lambskin parchments. All of these were gone without trace, along with four polished ram's horns, a barrel of honey, a bundle of beeswax, a fat coil of good hemp rope, and two sacks of roast pine nuts.

The rest of his cargo had been bales of wool. These he had found scattered around and soaked in mud. They were not worth salvage. Selling clean wool was hard enough with all the menfolk about who kept sheep themselves. Besides, he was carrying all that he could.

Why in the All-Mother's name had they burnt his cart?

There were few people out in the darkened streets of Clyde, which suited Thrumple. He cared less for menfolk today than he had yesterday. Or whatever day yesterday might have been. He'd had much to think about since the afternoon, and he was still baffled. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had been ensorcelled, and it was as bad as all of the stories had said.

He was quite exhausted. With a nod to the old crier who watched him from the torchlit lookout post, Thrumple set down his load upon the cobblestones. He pulled four buckets of water up from the well and drank each without a breath, ignoring the useless ladle. When he was quenched, he took up his load again and limped away down South Street, trailing a few spiraling sparks.

South Street led to the stone bridge and the docks. He planned to cross over the bridge and sleep in the pasture until sunrise, when Spencer would open his auction block. He could then sell what he had left and take the money home to Lionkirk.

He couldn't imagine the punishment the chieftains would give him. Lashes would be the least of it. There wasn't enough treasure in his pitiful pouch to cover the load--the truffles, maybe, but not the rest. Hugart would have him scraping vats for ten years to pay for the brandy alone.

Yet as bad as all of that was, there was something Thrumple feared even more. What would everyone make of his...infestation?

He couldn't hope to hide it. A few of the sparkly things were always shaken loose when he moved, no matter how gently. Sudden motions sent them flying by the hundreds. He was terrified to sneeze.

He didn't know what these pets or pests of the young wizard could be, but he hated them. The course, grinding itch in his bones wouldn't go away. He wondered if they might be eating at him from the inside. Their little teakettle voices hardly ever ceased completely, so when it was quiet he kept thinking his nose was whistling.

He knew everyone at home would hate them too. Every right-thinking giant in the world would despise such obviously enchanted bugs, or animals, or beings...whatever they were. Giants take pains not to meddle in things magical, and for fine reason. His own mother probably wouldn't be able to look at him. Even Wenna, who was "almost in love with" him, would likely turn away.

Perhaps the chieftains would even order him stoned to death. He'd heard tales from before he was born of such things.

He arrived at the docks below South Street, and found them lit by half a dozen lanterns hung from poles. Three men were loading a barge, even at this late hour. The industry of menfolk was admirable, at least. He wished that giants would take more pleasure in actual honest work. He squinted in their direction, and realized that one of the men was Spencer. Perhaps he could arrange to stow his bags and secure his place on the block for tomorrow. He turned and limped in their direction.

Spencer and the other two froze at the sight of him. Thrumple smelled fear pealing from their pores. One of the men began reaching up and extinguishing the lanterns.

But not before Thrumple counted 16 small kegs atop the barge, and noticed the high quality of thick hemp rope they were using for mooring line.

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Part 6

"Failure. It keeps us humble. It keeps mages from letting our powers run wild, Endicott. If we are accountable to no one else, then for our flaws and failures we are at least accountable to each other. None of us is perfect or invincible, but this is a strength. We must not let our ambitions exceed our self-control. If you have failed to become a king, perhaps you will walk away a wiser and better mage."

It was for words such as these that Endicott returned to Sablehorn to seek his former master. The old man had such insight, such unassailable wisdom. If anyone could help him gain some perspective on his loss, to find a new footing and a direction for his life, it was Birchard.

Two days by raft on the Whorl had gotten him to Larson's Forge. From there by rented donkey he reached and scaled the black mountain, arriving on the afternoon of the third day in the alpine meadows he knew as home. The fortress herself jutted mightily from the mountainside ahead of him, but Endicott was not headed there...not yet. Birchard had a cottage; he no longer taught.

The plodding donkey took Endicott along through the green fescue and sedges, dotted with tiny white flowers. The cerulean sky was empty of clouds, and a brisk wind ruffled his robes. Surely if he HAD managed to call forth a kingdom of his desire, there would have been a place as beautiful as Sablehorn in it.

He forded a chuckling creek. The pathway led over a short rise, and at last he could see Birchard's cottage. Thin smoke rose from the chimney, and a chestnut mare munched in the yard. As he neared, the cottage door opened and the old man in his gray robes stepped out to squint at him. Endicott waved. Birchard continued to squint.

Endicott felt a measure of contentment for the first time since his spell had been shattered. He smiled. "Master Birchard! It's Endicott. I am in need of your council, and perhaps your coney stew!"

Birchard stood in the doorway and watched him dismount without comment. Endicott approached the step.

"I see that your head is not burdened by the weight of a crown," the old man said. Endicott stopped and his smile faded. "You failed, you useless dolt. Get inside."

Endicott swallowed hard. He muttered a mild enchantment to keep his donkey from wandering, and ducked into the cottage.

Birchard sat him in an uncomfortable wooden chair at the dining table. He brought Endicott a memory potion in a blue glass bottle and made him drink the bitter thing. "Now tell me exactly how you squandered your Accolade," he ordered crankily.

"Yes, Master." Birchard was not truly Endicott's master any more, not since Endicott had passed the Four Trials. But the old man had every right to be upset. Only one or two of the most promising new mages in each class were granted an Accolade Spell, and Birchard had worked very hard on his behalf. Now he had nothing to show for it. His master's standing with his peers would suffer, and for that Endicott was ashamed.

But he believed that when Birchard heard the facts, he would see that he could not be blamed. Aided by the potion, he gave the story in great detail. He went over all of the tricky technical angles. He thought Birchard would be impressed by his hourglass solution, but the old man only grunted.

Only once did he interrupt. \"But surely,\" he objected, \"you had wards in place to discourage interlopers and passers by!\"

Endicott nodded somberly. \"Yes, Master. Quite good ones, in fact. I was certain I was alone on that hill.

\"Yet you know that giants resist warding. Their bones...\" Endicott drew himself up. \"I was not in giant country, you know. I did not expect one to be nearby. Spending the mana for a giant-specific ward might have left me too depleted to cast the summon. Of course, I ended up casting one anyway, as you will hear...\"

He went on, until he had told it all, and the sun was beginning to shine orange through the window. Birchard finally shook his head in amazement. \"And so you left the Faeries bound to the giant?\"

\"To its bones, Master, yes.\" For the first time he sensed something like grudging approval. \"It was an improvised spell based on some life-binding notes I\'d read in a volume of Gunther\'s.\"

"Remarkable." Birchard rose from his chair, went to a cabinet, and retrieved a jug of wine. He still seemed dour, but his manner had softened a bit. He poured them each a cup, and sat. "And the Faeries, they were contented?"

"For now, Master. They need a source of mana to survive. In nature they are only found in places of enchantment, like Caliphir Wood." Endicott raised his cup. "To its memory."

Birchard left his cup on the table, and stared at Endicott darkly. "They can't stay in the giant forever. Can they?"

Endicott drank a sip. "Probably not. My oath was to find them a home, and I will. Had I been required to travel with them, I would have had to keep them fed, leaving me weak. But for now, they can feed on the giant's bones. I should be able to find them a home before they consume all of the mana there."

Birchard stroked his trim white beard. "How long have you got?"

"I have no idea, Master. As long as the giant is alive and eating regularly, its life processes will keep storing mana in its bones. Whether that is enough to replace what the Faeries are eating, I don't know. It seemed to be a young and healthy hill giant. Maybe it can live with the Faeries indefinitely."

Endicott paused in thought. "On the other hand," he conjectured, "it is the magic in their bones by which giants exist at all. If the magic fails, the bones will fail. The giant will collapse under its own weight and die."

Birchard frowned. "Yes. You'll have a problem, then, won't you? You'd better do something while you're free to act."

Endicott leaned forward eagerly. "Will you help me with that? I was thinking there might be a place within Morningdale which isn't completely stomach-deep in gnomes--"

"Quiet!" Birchard stood up, and poked Endicott in the shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with where you were going to put them. In Lumina."

Endicott was stung by the unpleasantly cruel remark. He studied the scratches in the tabletop, unsure of what to say. "Lumina doesn't exist, Master," he said softly.

"Lumina has YET to exist, Dupey!" Endicott's head jerked up. He had never once heard Birchard use that hated name from his childhood. "Remember who you are! Where your TALENTS lie! We both should have guessed you would fail at your first attempt. But what about the SECOND?"

Endicott gaped in amazement. He was used to thinking of his master as an unshakable rock, stern but kindly, who never let his true emotions show. But this man seemed to be losing control...perhaps even losing his mind, in his dotage. Or had the old man really been counting on him so much to succeed?

Endicott spoke slowly and deliberately. "There can be no second attempt, Master."

"Pah! Not at the summon, of course not!" said Birchard with a dismissive wave. "But the fact remains that there is an Elysium Stone somewhere in the kingdom. Just because you couldn't SUMMON it doesn't mean you can't GO OUT AND FIND IT!"

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Part 7

"Spencer!" boomed Thrumple into the quiet night.

Spencer held his ground and smiled at Thrumple in the dim light of the last lantern. "Thrumple. How strange to see you at this late hour. I'd heard--"

"Those are my goods!" Thrumple pointed at the barge. "You ROBBED me!"

"Oh, no no no no no," insisted Spencer, with a shake of his graying mane. He smiled warmly, "No, you're mistaken, my friend. We purchased these goods two days ago from a peddler just outside of town." Fear was still steaming off of the men's hides. The two behind Spencer started to spread out to the sides.

Thrumple was in no mood to bicker with this traitorous thief. "You LIE!" he shouted, and took two great strides forward, bumping Spencer aside with his knee. Fireflies clouded from his joints and lingered in the air, peeping.

He dropped his bags on the planks of the dock. With one hand, he plucked a keg from atop the barge. He squinted at it closely in the darkness. For once the fireflies' light was helpful.

"It says LIONKIRK!" he shouted. "It has my clan mark on it!"

"Yes, I noticed that," said Spencer quickly. "The peddler said he purchased these goods from a giant who matched your description. I imagined he must have met you on the road, and--"

"Filthy liar!" Thrumple put the keg down and grabbed Spencer by the shoulder, his thumb squeezing the center of the man's chest. Thrumple shook him and shouted into his frightened little face. "You stole my cargo, and I'm taking it back!" The other two men took off running into the night.

But there was a shrill whistle, and Thrumple heard their steps pull up short.

He turned to see four pikemen trotting down South Street. Three were carrying torches in their off hand and the fourth seemed to be struggling with his equipment. Spencer's companions fell in behind their protection as they approached the docks.

"You're in trouble now, thief!" spat Thrumple at Spencer as the men approached. But the men came to a halt with their pikes leveled at him, not Spencer.

"Let him go, giant!" shouted the one with the largest helmet. He waved the pike's tip under Thrumple's nose.

Thrumple released Spencer, who stepped away, clutching his shoulder. Thrumple stood up, and the pikes now pointed at his stomach. "Okay..." he said dubiously, "but don't let him get away!"

"I'm not going anyplace, you ox!" snapped Spencer, "You've dislocated my shoulder!"

"All right, shut up!" said the captain of the pikemen. He was an older man, with a roll of fat around his waist which made his mail shirt bulge. He was panting. "Spencer. What happened?"

"HE STOLE MY--OW!" shouted Thrumple, as the man poked him in the belly. It actually broke his thick skin and a tiny spot of blood formed around the hole in his shirt.

"I asked HIM," said the pikeman.

Spencer kept rubbing his shoulder and wincing. "It's a misunderstanding, Jack. Thrumple here says he was robbed, and he thinks I did it. These ARE his goods, but I bought them squarely from a man two days ago."

"He's lying," muttered Thrumple, wary of the points at his gut. His back was to the water.

"Look, maybe he was robbed," said Spencer, "and I bought the goods from the highwayman. That would be a shame; I like Thrumple. But I'm not responsible. I paid good money and traded a fast horse for these goods. Why should I be the one who gets robbed in the deal? I'm not the one who couldn't hold on to his cart!"

The pikemen gently nodded. Thrumple opened his mouth, but Spencer continued. "Or maybe...just maybe, Thrumple is pulling a fraud. Maybe he DID sell the goods on the road, and now is claiming they were stolen so that he can make a second man pay for them."

"What?!" roared Thrumple.

"Oh I'm not saying it's very likely," said Spencer smoothly, despite his obvious pain. "Thrumple has always seemed an honest fellow, for a hill giant. But how would we know for certain?"

Now the pikemen were nodding vigorously to each other.

"Because it's not true!" Thrumple moaned.

Spencer shook his head and turned to the giant. "Look, Thrumple. I'm sorry you lost your cargo. But I didn't rob you. Here, look." He pointed at the bags on the dock. "I see that you have recovered some of your things. Why don't I buy them from you, sight unseen? Take five gold crowns for the lot, go back to giant country, and I'll see you again in a month. What say you?"

Thrumple wanted to cry out, or lash out. He believed he could take all seven men if need be; none of them were in fighting form. But the man-king's knights would be upon him before he could make it three leagues toward home. And five crowns was triple what his pathetic remaining goods were worth.

The offer would appear quite generous if, like the citizen guards with the pikes, he could not smell on Spencer the sour sweat of a well-told lie. At last he could see why his kin were loath to deal with menfolk.

"Well?" said the pikeman.

Thrumple swallowed. He was so tired.

"I'll take it," he whispered. "Th-- Thank you, Spencer."

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Part 8

The clear sky was lightening as Endicott left Birchard's cottage. The nameless donkey seemed to have eaten its fill of dewy sage, so he did not bother with the feedbag. His breath clouded out as he mounted and clucked the beast westward, toward Sablehorn Keep. The donkey fell into a brisk trot, seemed glad to be moving in the chill dawn air.

Birchard had given him much to ponder, to research, and to plan. The Great Library would hold some of the answers he needed. Time was marked, but that was not why Endicott chose to leave at dawn. The truth was that the old man was making him very uncomfortable.

In training, Birchard had always been patient with his failures, and Endicott had usually rewarded his master with success on the next try. That was his strength. But there was no second try for one\'s Accolade Spell, and Birchard had never seemed so bitterly disappointed in him. It burned.

Still, he couldn\'t believe that the old man had actually called him \"Dupey.\"

Endicott was six when they started calling him that. The guild had named and confirmed and purchased him from his parents: landless serfs who were thrilled at the chance to improve their station. They had an older son already and they could always have more, but a thousand crowns was more than they would see in twenty years of farming the king\'s acres.

The masters didn\'t tell him why they had ransomed him away, why he was special. They placed him with the other boys and put him through classes. But his nature quickly became obvious. His pattern of failure on the first try and success on the next got him mocked as an idiot by his peers. But it was when he succeeded that his nature truly showed itself.

One day in early Spring, his class had sat in a courtyard to learn its first conjuration spell: summoning a blade of grass. It was a simple spell. Anyone with a command of magic and no speech impediment could master it in an hour. Nobody failed on their first attempt, except Endicott. Fenton, the master who was teaching them at the time, settled the boys down and made Endicott try again.

When he did, he summoned TWO blades of grass.

And so his pattern went. His spells would usually fail at the first try and have double the effect on the second. He couldn't seem to control it. His masters tried to work him through it, but it was like making a left-handed child write with his right hand. His classmates dubbed him "Dupey the Duplicator." After more than a year of torment, Birchard had finally let the truth about Endicott be known, both to him and to his classmates.

He revealed that Endicott was the second son of a second son. He was born in the second hour of the second day of the second month of the second year of the second decade. Endicott's life, his powers, and his destiny were ruled by the number two. If his command of magic could be developed properly, he could become astoundingly powerful.

Some of the guildmasters, Birchard even admitted, believed he was fated to become the second most powerful wizard who ever lived.

It got better for him with his classmates after that, but worse with his masters. If Endicott could not get over his first-attempt failures, he wouldn't be any kind of mage at all. He would probably end up a scrivener, or worse. Sablehorn's entire staff of cooks and gardeners and stablehands were said to be failed adepts.

So Endicott began a lifelong struggle. He needed to fight himself and master the things that were easy for his classmates: casting a spell right the first time and evenly on the second. But he could not let his natural talents go undeveloped. The masters were used to strange cases, but nobody knew how to guide him. Which was why he drifted into magic theory.

He learned some of the mechanics of his problem, and found ways to adapt. He began to get spells right the first time. More importantly, through magic theory he gained insight into the power of the number two in all magic. There were spells he created which no-one else in the guild could cast: to double the length of his stride as he hiked, for example, or to double the amount of food he could eat at a sitting. He also added refinements to known spells which could double their power, or length, or yield. His insights served the guild well, across all fields of study.

All magical disciplines were taught at the guild, and the adepts were encouraged to seek a specialty which aligned with their talents. The more magic theory Endicott picked up, the more divination spells he had to learn. So even though he was no slouch in evocation, alteration, abjuration, and most of the other disciplines, he ended up specializing in the magic of discovery.

It would serve him now. For his second attempt to grab an Elysium Stone, he was first going to need the spells to find it.

His donkey carried him up the stony road to the fortress of his guild. Toward the Great Library. Toward the answers.

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Part 9

Thrumple awoke as distant thunder rumbled across the gray morning sky. A light rain was falling into the sheep pasture he had chosen to sleep in, just enough to freshen the piles of dried manure dotting the slope. He lay there for a few minutes, listening to the birds and trying to come to terms with all that had happened to him yesterday. He couldn\'t think of what to do.

It was nineteen leagues to home. Unburdened by a cart, it would take him only half the usual time to return, but then what? At best, clan law would require him to work away his debts. At worst...

He reached up and clapped his hands together, hard. The sparks flew and swarmed, whistling their annoyance. Thrumple knew that a much worse fate than servitude awaited him in the rocky hills of Lionkirk.

He clambered to his feet, compulsively felt his treasure pouch, now five crowns heavier with the liar\'s money. At least he had hurt Spencer a little for this, but it wasn\'t as much comfort as it should have been.

He strode to the top of the hill and scanned around. Whatever shepherd roamed this pasture had the flock a long way off. Thrumple was alone.

Clyde was to the north, across the river. There was nothing for him there, and beyond it lay only larger human towns and cities. Far to the west was home. To the south was that burnt forest, probably still magical for all that. Beyond it, he had heard, there were only unfarmable marshlands leading to the sea. And to the east...he didn\'t know.

So he turned his back to home and headed east.

His ankle gave him some grief as he walked along, especially when he climbed. These lands were farmed by menfolk, but he wasn\'t sure exactly what he would do if he met one. He had a little brass insignia in his pouch with the royal seal of this kingdom...Glessony, it was called. The seal was a trading pass. It signified his right to walk these lands, and differentiated him from others of his kind who might have come to maraud. But he knew he would be hard pressed to explain what exactly he was here to trade. He had no goods.

The rain stopped by late morning, and sunlight streamed through the cloudbreaks. Thrumple followed the rolling pastures until they led down into a fertile valley. As he descended, he spotted several cottages and common houses, dotting the fields of flax and barley. In the eastern distance, he could see something tall. A manor house, or perhaps a keep.

He found a stream and drank. He had no water skin; it had been on the cart. He had no provisions, either, and he was hungry. He regretted not going into Clyde to buy these things, but the thought of having to purchase them through Spencer was too much. Would the man have sold him his own water skin back?

He pounded his fist into the water, agitating the fireflies yet again. The ones who were under water burbled unhappily and flew back into the air in tight circles before returning to his arm.

"Oh does that bother you?" he grunted. For sheer spite, he waded into the deepest part of the creek and lay down. The water was barely up to his ribcage. He lay in it, thrashed, and shouted like a child having a tantrum. "Does it BOTHER you?! You filthy little demons? Get out! GET OUT OF ME!"

The sparks churned out of him in clouds, more than he thought could have been in there. They whistled and shot through his head, even through his eyes. He closed them and squinted hard, but they flew right through his lids and swirled around in his eyeballs...terribly bright. They simply passed through his body like ghosts. He screamed and cursed for a while longer, but the terrible brightness only got worse. At last, he moaned and lay still. "Leave me alone!"

The whistling went on. He stood up, soaking wet and shin-deep in creek. He opened his eyes, but the things were still in there, tormenting him. He only saw stars. He waded through the water, feeling his way along, and dragged himself out onto the opposite bank. He put his head down on the dirt and covered it with his arms.

As he lay there with his head to the ground, he heard the hoofbeats of approaching horses.

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Part 10

Watchstones stood beside the road as Endicott neared the gates of the old castle. They glowed in bright colors of the magical spectrum, ready to trigger an alarm. But he muttered brief words in passing and they settled down. As he got within half a mile, one of Sablehorn's old gray parrots flew up and circled him.

"King Endicott?" rasped the parrot.

"Just 'Endicott.'" he replied darkly.

The bird laughed at him and flew off to give the news ahead of his arrival.

His reception was therefore light, and consisted only of people he didn't want to see: just the nosiest and those who had never really wished him success. Five of his former classmates and two elder mages were at the gates, and the familiars of four or five others were in attendance. They all wanted to hear the story.

"The spell was disrupted, by forces outside my control," he told the small crowd. "That's all I care to say of the matter for now. But I will record the story." He brushed past them on the donkey, nearly stepping on someone's gold tabby. No-one followed.

He rode along the inner wall to the stable and secured his mount with the groomsman, a bent man in a leather jacket. "It's rented," he told the man. "I'll need to return it to Luthor at Larson's Forge."

"Shall I arrange it, sir?"

Endicott shook his head. "Just keep it well. It's a good healthy mount and I may need it soon."

"Very good, sir."

His study was in the northwest tower. He exchanged a few uncomfortable greetings with his colleagues as he made his way there. The smells of home embraced him: the mildew and must of books, the sulphuric tang of alchemy. It hung especially strong in the tower.

His quarters had been well cared-for, as the chambermaid immodestly pointed out. He dismissed her with a kind word and locked the door behind her. He slung his manifold sack to the floor and sat on the cot frame to rummage through it, producing a nice quill and some very fine parchment he had been saving. He took them to his maple desk, opened the curtains for light, and lit a manticore-oil lamp for good measure.

A great deal of painstaking research lay ahead of him, if he wanted to find that stone. But before he could begin it, he had a duty to fulfill to his guild. He had made a fundamental discovery in the field. Recording it was paramount, and he had already put it off for far too long.

"On the Influence of Faerie Circles upon Spells of Temporal Abjuration" he wrote, in flowing script.

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