Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons 1)

Don’t expect miracles, she’d said. Just put it on in the evening, and leave it on until it was time for bed.

So I kept my hands off my face and sighed.

My parents should have been back hours ago. They had never left me locked in overnight. Someone had always come to check on me. I was tired of being a prisoner. Where were my parents? I fingered the sword at my waist.

At this rate my face would be covered with green gunk until the early morning. My supper would soon be cold and tasteless. My stomach grumbled.

If only I had learned the art of sending. Even though I was mad at my father, I wanted to send a message to him. I had this strange feeling something was terribly wrong, but it was hard to pin down. What could be wrong? I must have been reading too many books. Really, why was I worried?

Usually the cold didn’t bother me, but that night was colder than usual. Or maybe I felt a chill from whatever was going on. In any case I shivered. I tried to concentrate on my father, his bald head and big green eyes. Father. Where are you?

Nothing. Or maybe just a little something. I concentrated once again. Father?

A blood red flash made my head reel.

Whoa. I knew from my studies that headaches could be a sign that something was wrong. But this was worse than a headache — it was like a red hot poker to my eyes, and the redness still burned in my vision as the pain faded. What had that all meant?

Maybe nothing. Maybe I just shouldn’t fool with unfamiliar magic.

Or was my father in danger?

Everything about magic was so complicated.

There were so many types of magic that I’d read about, but never practiced. It was dangerous to attempt things, when you didn’t know what to do, exactly. But I didn’t have a choice, most of the time. My tutor had shown me so little practical magic, I wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t experimented myself.

But blood red? What could that mean?

I tried to stop wor

rying. I needed to calm down and finish my homework.

But as soon as I stopped thinking about my dad, I felt the horrible itch of the drying green gunk on my face.

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a stick of long brown incense.

A few weeks ago Ana had told me burning spice freed the mind from distractions and fear. That was why witches and wizards burned so much incense, she had said. I’d just figured they burnt it to make them smell magical.

Ana had recommended a specific kind of incense, and I’d gone straight out to buy it. I probably would have done anything that promised to help me finish my homework faster.

The place had smelled so good. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and other spices burned on sticks. Everything was covered with a warm red light. The shopkeeper, Gerard, was larger than life, almost crackling with magical energy. He scared me more than a little. I could tell he did more than sell spices. But most of all, the smells struck me. I could almost taste them.

Now I sipped tea from a tiny cup. The tea, too, was spiced. Ana had told me that tea cleared the mind. If it helped me think clearly and get out of this room any faster, I was all for it.

The homework stared at me, unfinished. Even though it was late, I still wasn’t done. I wondered if that was my birthday present from my tutor: extra homework.

But what did it matter, anyhow? Even if I finished my work, I was locked in until my mom showed up to check it. And I had this horrible feeling she wouldn’t be showing up anytime soon.

What if something had happened to them? Would I have to stay locked in the room until someone called a lockbreaker?

And if my parents were in danger? No, that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? My father had never experienced any danger, had he?

I hated being locked in. It made me feel so powerless and insecure, even with the sword at my side.

It had not always been this way. I was born sixteen years ago, on the winter solstice, in the far North not far from King Lowen’s castle. My great grandfather whispered magical words in my ear just after I was born. All I can remember is a great burning flash. Then they had let me grow. They had let me learn to use my hands and feet and mouth, learn to toddle along, learn to use my first non-magical words.

I’d played in the streets with other kids from the castle and the village. I dimly remember running around like a wild animal until my parents snatched me up.

Things started to change when I turned eight. The second imprinting. That one I remembered all too well: the sting of the words whispered in my ear; the burning energy that made me want to cry out to my mother, as she stood there watching and waiting.