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  He had created this device, this fishing pole, at the age of six. It made the catching of fish far easier than wading the surf with a spear. In truth, he enjoyed fishing now, and why not? The warm stones beneath, the yellow sky above, the emerald ocean crashing against the rocks . . . and when the fish were ready to be caught and eaten, they would let him know by tugging upon the bone hook at the end of his line.

  Tranquility.

  It was called the Island of Patience, after all. Though he himself had given it that name.

  On this fine day, however, that tranquility was interrupted.

  “Caw! Caw, caw!”

  The boy’s eyes went wide and he laughed happily as he launched himself up from the rocks. He nearly forgot all about his fishing pole, then paused to quickly crank the spool, reeling in the hook and the shattered shellfish he had used as bait. He could easily build a new one, but better to take care now. With the hook reeled in, he put the pole over his shoulder and leaped from stone to stone, deftly navigating the treacherous rocks of the promontory until he reached the shore.

  “Caw! Caw!” came the cry of the rook once more. The boy saw it ahead, circling high in the air.

  “Edgar!” the boy called excitedly.

  But in his heart, that was not the word he shouted. In his heart he shouted, Father! For the arrival of the rook meant that his father had come to visit him again. It had been so long—months, by the boy’s reckoning—that he had begun to despair of ever seeing his father again.

  The rocky coast gave way to beach, a broad expanse of red-hued sand that flew up behind his feet as he sprinted along the shoreline, eyes searching for the door. Then he saw it and his heart leaped. As always, the ornate door and its elegant frame had appeared where no door could possibly have been, hanging in the air above the red sand, just a few feet from the surf.

  The door hung open.

  The boy’s steps began to falter.

  The rook cried again and fluttered to land atop the door frame, perching there and gazing at the boy as he slowed his approach. The figure that had just emerged from the door and now stood upon the beach, just as out of place in that peaceful spot as the door itself, was not his father. This man wore a heavy, deep green cloak with the hood thrown back. He was startlingly tall and broad shouldered, with a thick beard and a dark mane of hair falling around his face in such a way that he reminded the boy of an image his father had conjured once during a lesson. The stranger reminded the boy of a lion.

  Yet he was not a stranger, not really. For though the face was unfamiliar to him, the boy had been given his description.

  His pace slowed. The boy walked carefully toward the man, his fishing pole slung across his shoulder. The man gazed at him with wide, astonished eyes, just as he gazed at everything else around him. The rook looked on, quietly observant.

  “You’re Leander Maddox,” the boy said, barely able to hear the rasp of his own voice above the surf.

  “I am,” the massive visitor agreed with a nod.

  The boy hung his head, gaze fixed upon his browned feet in the red-hued sand.

  “Then my father is dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Timothy?” Leander stared incredulously at the boy, raising his voice to be heard over the rush of the surf crashing down upon the beach.

  The dark-skinned youth looked up from his sandy feet with tears in his large eyes. “Yes.”

  From his perch atop the mystical doorway, Edgar cawed loudly, mournfully, and then the rook glided down to alight upon the boy’s bare shoulder. “I’m sorry, kid,” the bird said, managing to convey his sympathy with both his eyes and his tone.

  “Then it’s true?” the boy asked, gazing at Edgar, who seemed markedly different now that he was in Timothy’s presence. “My father is dead?”

  The rook bobbed up and down upon the boy’s shoulder before answering. “Caw! I hate to be the one to tell you, but yes. He’s gone, Tim.”

  A warm, moist breeze blew off the water and Leander was again struck by the enormity of the deception that had just been revealed to him.

  “Timothy,” he said again, striding across the thick sand, away from the open door that would return him to the real world and normalcy. He stared at this boy, this extraordinary, impossible boy. “You’re alive,” he proclaimed, feeling like a simpleton, but unable to overcome his astonishment.

  The rook fluttered his wings, feathers beating the air. “The kid’s just learned that his father has passed. How about a little sympathy?” Edgar berated him.

  Leander had never heard Argus Cade’s familiar speak in such a manner and found it to be a bit disconcerting. He wondered if this new facility with language—albeit coarse language—was a result of his presence on the island, or some aftereffect of Argus’s death. Or perhaps, he thought, Edgar always had such an abrasive personality, and it was yet another thing hidden from me. Not that it mattered, for the rook was right. In his shock, Leander had been deeply insensitive to the boy’s feelings.

  “My deepest condolences, Timothy,” Leander offered, bowing his head in apology. “Please excuse me. I am truly sorry for your loss. It’s only that I am overwhelmed, you see, by the shock of finding you here—alive.”

  The boy appeared to be in relatively good health. He was fit and alert, well muscled for a child of his age, and his sun-darkened skin gleamed. Leander had already noticed the pole Timothy held over his shoulder and wondered at its purpose.

  “My father warned me that you would react this way at first,” Timothy said. His gaze had drifted to the ocean, his sadness terrible to see. Now, though, he raised his eyes and studied Leander’s face. “He told me that if anything happened to him, you would come, and that I was to explain to you why I’m here.”

  “That can wait, Tim,” Edgar suggested. “Take some time for yourself. You have the right to mourn as we all did.”

  The boy smiled sadly and reached up to gently stroke the rook’s head. “That’s all right, Edgar. My father prepared me for this. He told me Leander wasn’t the most patient of mages. He shouldn’t have to wait for this mystery to be explained to him.”

  The bird glared at Leander from the boy’s shoulder. “Do what you have to,” he said begrudgingly.

  Leander felt a tremor of guilt go through him—the boy ought to be given time to mourn—but at the same time he could barely contain his curiosity. He had to know why his friend and mentor would strand his only child this way, abandon him, away from the world.

  “Why, Timothy?” the mage asked, stooping to gaze into the boy’s eyes. “Why this charade—why did your father want the world to think you were dead?”

  Timothy lowered himself down onto the red sand, as if the weight of his knowledge had finally proved too much, crushing him to the ground. Edgar fluttered from his shoulder to land beside him, as though to stand sentry over the boy. The bird began to pace.

  “Because I was born different,” Timothy said, running his fingers through the dark red granules. He did not look up, and Leander thought he seemed almost ashamed.

  “Different, my boy?” The mage dropped to one knee in the sand and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Different how?”

  Timothy let the red sand sift through his fingers as he contemplated his answer.

  “Timothy?” Leander prodded.

  “I can’t do things like everybody else can,” he said, finally lifting his gaze. Another balmy breeze from the ocean ruffled his dark, curly hair and he squinted to keep the sand from his eyes. “I can’t do magic,” he said. The revelation seemed to sap the strength from his body and he again returned his shamefaced gaze to the rose-hued beach.

  Leander frowned, bewildered. “You are unskilled at the art? Not as adept as your father? But surely that’s no reason to—”

  Edgar fluttered his wings in annoyance. “Listen to what the kid is saying, Leander,” the bird squawked. “He can’t do magic.”

  The mage looked from the bird to the boy. Timothy almost seemed to have
gotten smaller, as if he was withdrawing into himself.

  “I can’t say it any simpler than that,” the boy explained. “My father told me that the world runs on magic, that it’s in everything, and it connects everyone in a circuit of sorcerous power. But not me. I’m not part of that circuit. There’s no sorcery in me. I’ve no magical ability at all.”

  Leander was so astounded that he could only stare. These words Timothy spoke with simplicity were words of horror or some morbid jest. To be entirely without magic was tantamount to being without a heartbeat or being unable to breathe. But it was true. Of course it was true. For Argus Cade to have hidden his son away like this—at least now it had begun to make a certain bizarre sort of sense.

  “I . . . I’m sorry for staring, Timothy. It’s just . . . I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he blurted out, again feeling ashamed by his lack of sensitivity. “That’s utterly incredible.”

  “Hukk! Hukk!” Edgar cried. “Now you see? That’s why Master Argus opened the door, why he created an annex here. It’s a pocket dimension, but adjoining our own. Simple sorcery for one as skilled as he was.”

  “Was . . . ?” Timothy whispered, becoming increasingly agitated, digging his fingers deeper into the red sand beneath him.

  “He was safe here,” the rook explained. “Protected.”

  Questions flowed so fast and furiously through Leander’s fevered thoughts that the mage almost uttered a spell of tranquility to calm himself. Timothy appeared visibly upset, and Leander reached a comforting hand toward the youth. “There now,” he began, but the boy scrambled to his feet before he could be touched.

  “I’m sorry,” Timothy said, a firmness to his voice. “But I think I do need some time alone.” He turned and strode toward the emerald ocean.

  “Yes, of course,” Leander called after him, his own heart aching as he tried to make sense of it all. Argus Cade had meant the world to him and now had passed from it, yet here was his son. A boy whose care had been placed in Leander’s hands. “Take all the time you need.”

  An unpleasant sound came from somewhere deep down in Edgar’s throat. “Got a bad feeling about this,” he squawked ominously as he watched the boy wade into the ocean waves. “Got a bad feeling.”

  Leander was not certain precisely how long he simply stood there upon the shore of this tropical island in an alternate dimension, numbed by the enormity of the secret that had just been revealed to him. The warm breeze off the water ruffled his green robes and the strong, sweet scent of blossoming fruit trees made him entertain the idea that this was all some sort of dream. Or a spell, perhaps. A spell of enchantment could have caused him to imagine all of this.

  He turned toward the ocean, watching the waves roll in upon the shore. In the distance, a small, dark-skinned boy looked tiny and frail amid the vastness of the sea. This isn’t a dream, he thought, feeling the pangs of sadness. Nor was it a spell.

  Leander turned away from the sad scene of a boy in mourning to gaze about the land on which he stood. It didn’t appear to be a very large island, but more than sufficient for one young habitant. This might be a pocket dimension, but it was clear to him that it shared many features with the world of his birth, and he wondered how far the island was from the closest large land mass, and whether or not other sentient beings dwelled upon this world.

  The beach ringed a lush jungle, an abundance of Yaquis trees waving their fronds in the tranquil winds as if to entice him closer. His stomach gurgled with anticipation—he had always enjoyed the exotic taste of the Yaquis fruit—and Leander realized that he had not eaten a meal in over a day’s time, distracted as he had been by business and grief and now, by the incredible.

  Farther along the shore and slightly inland, Leander spied an encampment he presumed must be the boy’s quarters. He shielded his eyes from the sun, squinting to make out more details of the place. Amid a particularly thick grouping of ancient Yaquis, a large rectangular structure had been constructed above the beach, suspended from the trees. A thick band of smoke trailed up from the roof into the yellow sky. There was another, larger structure below. Timothy certainly had adequate shelter in case the elements should change their mood from pleasant to foul.

  As he began to gather his thoughts, Leander’s mood started to change. The thought of the young boy, here in this place, all alone, filled him with sadness and great concern. No matter the reason for it, he felt an unwelcome anger toward Argus Cade growing within him. His mentor might have told him what had happened, what he planned. And Leander would have advised against it. Surely the world was not so cruel that it would harm a boy so helpless.

  Then another thought, a darker thought, entered his mind. He wondered if perhaps Argus had hidden Timothy not out of protective instinct, but out of shame. The idea troubled him profoundly.

  “Don’t think badly of him,” Edgar said, flapping his wings and flying several feet nearer before dropping back onto the beach. The familiar hopped toward him across the thick, red sand. “I can see it in your face, what you’re thinking. But Master Argus loved the boy. All he wanted was to keep him safe. This island is a lonely place, but in a way, it’s paradise. No one can harm Tim here, and he has learned how to fend for himself, how to survive, how to create what he needs from the world around him. He’s brilliant, just like his father.”

  Leander averted his gaze from the rook, brow furrowed. Argus Cade had been the finest man he had ever known. “I don’t know, Edgar,” he said, voice a rasp. “Keeping a child cloistered away, albeit one as severely handicapped as Timothy . . . I am having a difficult time convincing myself that there wasn’t another way. A better way.”

  The mage paused and glanced up at the bird. “And you, rook. You’re far more talkative and far more knowledgeable than I ever realized. Are there any more secrets you’d care to share with me?”

  The bird hobbled closer using short flaps of his ebony wings to help him across the landscape. “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” he croaked. “I know you don’t like me—I could always sense it—and the truth is, I really don’t care for you all that much. You’re a pompous, humorless ass. But like you, I made a promise to Argus Cade before he died.”

  Leander was taken aback by the bird’s candor, but after a moment he nodded. Edgar was right on each count. A flash of memory went through Leander’s mind then as he recalled once more the expression on Argus’s face as he breathed his last, and the request Argus had made. “He asked me to look after Timothy when he was no longer able.”

  “Exactly,” Edgar said. “Me as his familiar and you as his guardian.”

  Leander nodded, something from all this business suddenly making sense. “That explains why you didn’t die with the passing of your master. He bequeathed you to the child. Is that also why your . . . demeanor has changed so much? A reflection of the boy’s youth rather than your former master’s dignity?”

  The rook ruffled its feathers. “You figured that out all by yourself, did you?” he cackled. “I can see why you were one of Argus’s top students.”

  The mage ignored this jibe and turned his attention back to the subject of their discussion: the boy standing alone in the green sea. In the world into which he was born, Timothy Cade would be a freak, unable to complete the simplest of tasks, from turning on a light to preparing a meal. If he was utterly devoid of magic, he would not be able to learn as other children did, and the ordinary pleasures of youth, like playing with spells of transmutation or levitation, would be denied him.

  But he was your son, Argus, Leander thought. Your son. To hide him away from the world, and hide the world away from him . . . The mage still did not understand.

  Edgar cawed loudly and took flight, soaring overhead in a long, arcing circle. Leander glanced out to sea and saw that the boy was returning, trudging across the sand, away from the hungry pull of the waves. The white orb of this dimension’s sun had begun its descent, giving the sand an even darker hue.

  “Remember,” Edgar said
cautiously. “We’re sworn to look after his best interests.”

  Leander did not respond aloud as he watched the stricken youth approach. His best interests. He let the words reverberate through his thoughts. And what exactly does that entail?

  “You know, Timothy, we don’t have to do this right away,” Leander ventured. “If you need more time—”

  The boy reached down to pick up the strange branch he had dropped earlier. “No, I’m okay,” he said, slinging it over his bare shoulder. “I just needed to say good-bye to my father.” There was a weight to his words, and he glanced out across the ocean. Then he stood straighter and met Leander’s gaze. “He said that I should show you Patience. That I should show you all I’ve done here—all that I’ve made.”

  The boy began walking toward the structures that Leander had noticed in the distance earlier.

  “Made?” Leander asked, following the boy up the beach as Edgar glided above their heads on the warm currents of air.

  “I make things,” the boy explained. He held out the pole fashioned from the branch of a tree as an example. “Like this.”

  “And what exactly have you got there?” the mage asked curiously.

  “It’s my pole for catching fish,” he said proudly. “I made it when I was six.”

  Timothy demonstrated the strange fishing pole, turning a crank that unwound a line of twine with a piece of curved bone tied to its end. “You put bait for the fish on the bone hook and lower it into the water. When the fish are ready to be caught, they eat the food and tug upon the twine.” He pretended that he had caught something in the sand. “I use the crank to pull the fish out of the water.”

  Leander had never seen anything like it and yet the simple logic of it was wonderful. “Clever,” he said appreciatively.