26 years ago

I stare at my charge’s concentrating face with a near bemused feeling. Outwardly I express only impatience at his slow work as he deciphers the archaic language I’ve set in front of him. At the age of only 11 and Raziel had already advanced quite rapidly in his magical studies. Much faster than many other children of his age, but for my master Raziel’s progress means nothing and he always finds some critique for his son.

“Ah-Fah-Lumine-Da!” The boy’s sudden chanting breaks me from my thoughts and I watch as a warm ball of light begins to grow in front of my eyes.

I resist the urge to congratulate Raziel on his accomplishment and instead do as I’ve been ordered and berate him instead, “What have I told you about casting your spells aloud? You must focus your energy and cast them mentally.” While this is an important lesson to learn there are plenty of wizards who fail to do this until they are fully grown adults. My master, though, is insistent that Raziel become as powerful a wizard as himself despite his young age.

“It’s so hard though!” Raziel whines, “I don’t see why I have to!”

I’m inclined to agree with my charge, but I don’t voice my opinion.

“What’s this now?” As if my rebellious thoughts had summoned him Tristan Snowfield walks into the study.

Mentally I cringe. The feeling of cold fingers on the back of my neck make a shiver go down the back of my spine. He has my coin. I glance down at his pocket where his hand resides and I instinctively know that he’s holding it as he speaks.

“I was just about to lecture young Raziel about the demerits of verbally casting a spell.” I inform him.

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He smiles a little before he takes a seat at a chair at the table. “By all means continue.” He gestures for us to carry on as we were and I try to not make a face.

Raziel though looks shocked, “You’re going to stay and watch?” He queries expressing his disbelief. Unlike myself Raziel has no training in the art of expression. He reads like an open book as all children do.

Before he can say anything that would earn him or I his father’s ire I quickly cut in. “Perhaps master would like to help me in setting an example?” Tristan raises an eyebrow at my boldness, but agrees. “Raziel if you would, the piece of rope…” I indicate the small bit of twine that is kept off to the side. The boy grabs for it eager to suddenly have a chance to prove himself to his father. “Now use a binding spell to bind your father to his chair.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, but at his father’s encouraging smile Raziel begins the chant of a simple bind. “Ato-Rlet!” In obedience the twine knots itself around master’s wrist and the ornate carving of the chair’s arm.

“A binding spell is like a door.” I begin to explain, “For every type there is specific key to unlock it. Some unbinding spells may be used to ‘jimmy the lock’ as-they-say of other binding spells, but it requires more effort and is messy. Now Master, if you would like to demonstrate why we shouldn’t verbally chant our spells…”

“Of course Henry.” With a simple glance the rope falls to the floor in an unimpressive display of magic. “As I and many other wizards know the unbinding spell for Ato-Rlet is Tel-Otar.” Tristian explains.

Raziel bites his lip in thought, “I understand.” He finally says, but when I look at Master I see that he’s not satisfied with the lesson.

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Gingerly he bends down and picks up the bit of twine. “More than that you should always be thinking about every move your opponent would think to make and be one step ahead. In example when you are using rope to bind your enemy be sure to make it impervious to flames so they cannot simply burn the rope off.” As he speaks the twine seemingly comes to life and I watch as it wraps itself around Raziel’s wrist and binds him to his own chair. “There. It’ll do you good to memorize as many unbinding spells as you can.” He smiles again as if tying up his child is completely normal before he stands to take his leave. “If you’ll excuse me I have other business to attend to.” He turns back and as an afterthought, “And Henry, don’t show any sympathy or pity towards Raziel. That’s an order.”

The fingers on my neck squeeze even tighter and it’s all I can do to gasp out, “Yes, Master.”

The door clicks quietly behind Tristan and only then does Raziel speak up. “How many unbinding spells are there Henry?”

I want to pity the poor boy, but instead I find myself answering in a voice of impatience, “Too many to count. Start with the ones you know. And don’t bother with mental casts for now.”

Raziel squirms in his chair and looks near tears, but tentatively begins, “Tel-Otar… Yo-La-Pay… Hok-Lom…”

After an hour of reciting the boy runs out of spells and I have to start teaching him new ones. After three hours Raziel barely has the energy to keep his eyes open let alone to cast spells. A few times the rope had stirred, but never came unbound despite the hours of effort put forth. With his eyes drooping close Raziel looks like he’s about to fall asleep in the chair. The sun had made its slow and steady progress across the sky and now at its final hour fills the study with its

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fading light and casts its blood red glow across the stacks of books on the table and wooden bookcases lining the walls.

I carefully lean towards my charge’s bound arm and try to focus all of my energy into my hand, but as I reach out to try to touch the ropes my fingers just disappear through them and continue through arm and chair. Raziel jerks at my ghostly cold touch and for a moment I can feel his despair before my hand falls to the other side. I back away feeling despair for myself as well and curse Tristan Snowfield for this miserable existence he’s created for me.

“Come on!” I snap at the boy feeling agitated and angry at his father and being unable to express any other emotions.

Raziel looks at me with an exhausted look and in an almost delirious voice asks, “What if I just burned the chair?”

“No!” I quickly interject, “In your current state you wouldn’t be able to control the flames if anything managed to burn at all.”

But Raziel ignores my warnings and with a mean glare towards his wrist begins chanting, “Fyre!Fyre!Fyre!” We are both equally surprised when the rope around his wrist disappears almost immediately in a puff of smoke. The fire, though, burns wicked and hot. Raziel lets out a sharp cry as it bites into his wrist and burns him. I watch without sympathy as he writhes onto the floor and smothers the flame against chest. A sob breaks past his lips and he slowly curls himself into a ball on the thick rug under the table.

“Raziel,” I crouch next to him, “repeat the healing spell after me.”

“Go away.” He mumbles into the rug.

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After a moment I hesitantly back away and whisk myself to Tristan. He stands in front of a fire in his own private study. Sensing my presence he asks, “Did he burn it?”

“He’ll have a permanent scar now.” I give in reply.

Tristan turns away from the fireplace and towards me, “Good. He’ll remember this lesson now.”

“And what lesson is that?” I hiss in displeasure.

The fingers squeeze on my neck tighter than before, “Never trust anyone.” Pain laces through my body to the point where I can no longer keep my form and I find myself taking refuge in my death totem that Tristan still holds in his pocket.