The Sorcerers Mark Read online

  “Pretty much,” Olivia answered.

  “He’s the one who still walks the cliff, searching for his lost soul?”

  “So the story goes.”

  “Smashing stuff, these stories. I don’t put a great deal of stock into the validity of life after death, regardless how tormented the tale, but every story has such a unique history, don’t you agree?”

  He was needling. Olivia recognized the smooth chat and became steadfast in her determination not to oblige his attempt. He hovered, expecting her to answer his query.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Fillmore?” she said curtly, annoyed by his staying.

  “Yes. Do you know the proprietor?”

  “No, can’t say that I do. But then he only recently moved in.”

  “You’ve not met him?”

  “I’ve seen him, in town.” This was after all, true. She didn’t feel obliged to tell a stranger much more.

  “Must be a well-off bloke to take over a place like this. I wonder, is he from around here?”

  “I thought you were interested in the ghost, not the proprietor.” Her suspicions were thoroughly aroused now. The friendliness of the stranger’s demeanor had wavered upon the mention of owners. The conversation had taken a turn toward being an interrogation. “What exactly is it you’re after, Mr. Fillmore?”

  “Nothing James Bond, I assure you, luv. But if I’m to get my pictures I must get past Mr.... What did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t.” Olivia was anxious he leave. Persistence, bordering on rudeness, was making her uneasy. And quaint terms of endearment meant nothing either. “Love,” she added, dripping sarcasm.

  “Oh,” he stammered, flashing a nervous smile. “I am so sorry. I don’t mean to sound....”

  “Like the Spanish Inquisition? Too late.”

  “I’m way behind my deadline and I must get back to London next week. I guess the pressure has made me thoughtless. Forgive me.”

  “Certainly. Good luck.” She bowed her head to tug absently at a clump of weeds.

  “Olivia. My jewel.”

  “What did you just say?” Olivia snapped her attention back to the stranger.

  He blinked several times. “Sorry?”

  “You said something. I didn’t catch it.”

  “Ah, no, well,” he stuttered. “I was thinking. Perhaps I did say something aloud. I didn’t mean to.” He flushed fiercely through the gray in his beard, his cheeks glowing like the Santa she had once hallucinated seeing.

  “Never mind,” she said, with a warm smile. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just, things.” She waved her hand, reducing those ‘things’ to nothingness she wished to be true.

  “I have my faults,” he said kindly. “Being a good listener isn’t one of them. I could buy you lunch.” He struggled to remain casual. “You could educate me about the spirits that haunt the area.”

  She was softened by his thoughtfulness. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Fillmore, but I can’t.” Why did she refuse the invitation? There was no logical reason she couldn’t share a lunch with a lonely foreign photographer. He was congenial, nice looking, and likely filled to the brim with interesting stories about his experiences. Yet she harbored a fierce loyalty to William Talbot, faithfulness that she was shocked to discover was firmly established despite her many reservations about the man.

  “I understand,” he said, taking a step backwards. “I wasn’t trying to impose.” Before reaching the car door, he called over. “That boyfriend of yours is a very lucky man.” Oddly, he glanced down the trail, to the crest of the hill. “Very lucky. Good-bye then.”

  The car backed from the drive, stones crunching beneath wide tires.

  “Boyfriend, indeed.” Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if she should shoulder more blame for her behavior that she should try to see William again, apologize.

  All afternoon she expected the photographer might return, armed with the tools of his trade and dressed accordingly for trekking over the rough terrain. He never came back, so Olivia suspected he had given up, graciously deciding to omit Byrne’s Lighthouse from his collection of haunted buildings. Shame, since both the lighthouse and Keep were rich in folklore, and of course Henry Byrne had been English by birth. Strange, that this Mr. Fillmore wouldn’t at least make an attempt to get permission to take pictures.

  Olivia kept busy, taking pride in preparing the garden for what harvest only the sun and the rain could conclude. She finished her chores in the house, made dinner for Mother’s return from the shop, but no matter what she did she couldn’t shake William far from her thoughts. By the end of the afternoon her theory of his ungentlemanly behavior was far less prevalent than her own reasons for a hasty departure. He must think her a foolish girl for the erratic conduct, and the more she considered her actions the more she believed to be at fault. Red wine. The shamefulness of her reaction to its ingredient gnawed at her. She had to explain. He might not forgive her, and rightly so, but at the very least she could clarify. An apology would ensure she’d sleep the night. Otherwise she’d be wracked with guilt. Besides, she came to the conclusion she actually wanted to give him a second chance.

  After dinner she slipped on her running shoes, grabbed a thick sweater and headed for the beach. Perhaps she might find him there, enjoying the solitude. They had much in common, he had said, insinuating undisclosed depths between them. A mutual pleasure in the lure of the ocean’s soothing song was no secret.

  He was there! Her heart stopped and once it had the presence to beat again it did so double quick. Just the sight of him made her pulse race.

  Silhouetted, he was sitting on a flat rock beneath the Keep’s cliff, head bowed in observance to the dancing flames of a gigantic bonfire. He was a statue in a pose of contemplation and she waited a few moments from her place on the beach beyond the path, waiting for him to move, pick up another piece of driftwood to add to the flames, but the black figure never moved. Even from this distance she felt his grief. It hung around him like a murky cloak. His isolated loneliness called for her to come closer. If she was the source of his distress, then only she could relieve him of the unwanted burden. An apology had become urgent.

  “William?”

  Hypnotized by the flames, his eyes remained fixated, eking relief from the coldness of dolor. The orange glow caressed his olive features, which were set within the stone of sincere concentration. His forearms rested on his knees, fingers wound tightly into a solid clasp. Twitching thumbs were the only hint he was living, not frozen.

  Olivia sat down beside him, as he had done with her the afternoon they first met, without invitation. She joined his search of the fire while carefully choosing what she prayed would be appropriate words of condolence.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, the proximity issuing no need for volume.

  “I deserve your scorn. You have no need to release my anguish with your sympathy.”

  She puffed a short laugh, not in humor, but in surprise to his never-ending eloquence. “If you are not a poet, William Talbot,” she said with lightness in her tone, “then you should certainly make an attempt.”

  “I shall,” he answered. “With permission that I can use your loveliness as my theme.”

  Olivia pinched her lips together to keep from laughing aloud. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he had walked directly from the pages of a quixotic tale of chivalry and conquest, he the dashing knight and she the swooning maiden. Who in this day and age spoke like this? His charm had a sobering sincerity, however. She wiped the amusement from her thoughts, embracing the genuineness, which he meant. Gone was the need to explain any past indiscretion. The relief was immeasurable.

  A branch cracked and fell deeper into the pit. It burst apart in a flutter of sparks.

  “Are you happy here? Are you going to stay?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I have found my every desire. The challenge is its acceptance of me.”

  His answer made her tingle. She reached o
ver, put her hand over his. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly.

  “Do you mean this?” he asked, letting her touch each of his knuckles. He had barely moved since she sat down.

  Olivia twisted so she could look into his eyes. He kept his lowered, watching her fingers as they explored his hand. “I do mean it, William. I was worried at first, someone living in that old building, but it could have no better friend than you.”

  He turned his wrist, entwining his fingers into hers. Gradually he lifted soulful eyes. “And what of you, Olivia? Do I merit your friendship as well?”

  Every badly formed impression of him seemed to dissolve into irrelevance. He held her hand with such sincerity, a longing for acceptance and his tone denoted the same. There was magic all around him, this she was sure, but maybe it was nothing more than chemistry they shared. He had made her realize just how lonely cynicism had made her.

  “This might seem very odd,” she heard herself admit. “So little time has passed between us and yet I feel as though I have known you for years. It’s all very new to me. And it’s somewhat overwhelming.”

  “You know me. You have known me longer than you accept as true.” He tightened the hold on her hand and then let go. “May I show you something?”

  “All right,” she said, intrigued by his sudden playfulness.

  He shifted his weight while pulling her to sit between his legs. She snuggled into the warmth of his expansive chest while heat from the fire played on her face. His arms flexed around her as he held her hand again. Resting his chin on her shoulder she felt his smile. “You have a gift,” he said in her ear.

  “Do I?” She laughed, his hair on her cheek felt like silk, smelled of smoke.

  “Trust me?”

  “Entirely.”

  “Good. Look at the flames. Concentrate on one. Wipe all other pictures from your mind. Think only of that flame.”

  This sounded like no average task, seeing she was almost wholly enclosed by his arms and body. Yet his voice had an authority that wiped away the beach. Even the sound of the waves on the shore dulled.

  Olivia picked out one solitary flame, near the edge, where it spluttered, hanging onto existence with earnestness. It was the loneliest of all because of the seclusion, a situation she could relate to. Without the others it would soon fade. Inevitability. The sprig it clung to was dissolving.

  He wrapped his fingers round her wrist, so lightly she barely felt his touch. “Point to it, Olivia. Give it life.”

  She pointed, amused at the idea of giving anything ‘life’ by merely casting a finger toward it. Yet as she pointed the flame reacted, leaping up in a graceful pirouette. “How did that happen?” she gasped. She curled her finger, drawing it into the folds of her sweater. The flame dropped, blinking, as surprised as she.

  “Again,” William coaxed. “Coincidence has no part in this.” He took hold of her wrist once more and stretched his arm with hers.

  The flame widened in response, forked and twirled again. And when she laughed, it flickered from orange to yellow to red. Fascinated, Olivia wiggled the tip of her forefinger and the flame bowed to her.

  “You see,” William said, his lips close to her ear. “It honors its Queen.”

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered, the impact of such dominion making no dent in reason. Despite his warming embrace she shivered. “What magic is this?” She hadn’t wanted to use the dreaded word. It simply fell out.

  He crossed his arms across her breast, holding her tighter. Thighs beneath her elbows hardened. “Your magic, Olivia. You have this gift.”

  “Why? How? I don’t....” Words failed. But she sensed an odd surge of power, one that radiated throughout her whole body, despite a mind numbed to the absence of logic.

  As a delighted child with a new toy she played. The fire crackled when her fingers snapped, rose into the twilight to a flattened palm, and sparkled when she waved. And when the first onslaught of terror gripped her heart, the flames cowered together and shrieked, the eerie cry adding to Olivia’s fear. She shrunk back, alleviated from the emotion’s damaging crush within William’s embrace.

  Slowly the fire returned to normal, feeding only on dry driftwood.

  “Last night was real,” she said, whirling to broken pieces that were slowly beginning to fit together. “You toyed with me then and you do so now.”

  “You suffered only the pain of birth,” he whispered, tightening his embrace, sensing she might try to flee. “Your gift has taken its first breath.”

  Olivia was drowning with questions, yet he held her, keeping her from being crushed by the weight of confusion. Lulled by his stroking thumbs on her neck, the warmth of the fire, the rhythm of the sea, she sighed, floating in expectation.

  “I have traveled from afar to claim you as my own,” he cooed. “We are as one, you and I. Do not fear what you know to be true. Close your eyes. Search your heart. There you will discover the answer to every question. Let it be so.”

  She walked through the lacy veil of a lucid dream. Her own image greeted her there, a gown of shimmering gold, her hair woven with jewels. The throne on which she sat drifted on a silver cloud, beside her, the man she loved. Long thick locks curled over each shoulder onto a breastplate of encrusted gems, his crown no less adorned. He held a walking stick as a righteous scepter and it, too, glowed, as the light of fulfillment did around his face. They clasped each other’s hand, for to loosen the grip meant destruction, their enemies waited for the bond to be broken, their power to falter. Jealous hearts darted malignantly amongst the shadows but the two remained steadfast, loyal to the other, confident in their union. Two as one. Bound together.

  Olivia saw. And understood. Peace infiltrated her being.

  She shook the dream away and turned. His eyes were at peace as he returned her stare. In them she saw sincerity. Again she lifted her finger, not to command a tiny flame to flutter, but to tease a lock of hair that draped his temple. It danced to her command, across his nose, over parted lips. This gift was one of sheer delight and she had him to thank for awakening this luxurious endowment. She wished to give in return, a token of appreciation, and leaned forward, never releasing his gaze from hers.

  His lids widened in surprise and then fell as she kissed him. He reacted with subservience, permission to do with him as she pleased. Her lips lingered on his, a feathered touch, one drenched with adoration that whelmed from within her as an eternal spring. As she withdrew, he followed, a silent plea for more, his thirst far from quenched.

  This request she could not honor. Not yet. She barred his mouth from hers with the enchanted finger and his face contorted with agony of refusal. His pain stabbed into her as deeply as it did him. “Please,” she whispered, praying he could forgive her cruel resistance. “There’s so much I don’t understand.”

  “I am content with your kiss, Olivia,” he whispered, drenched with gratefulness. “It speaks of promise.” He bowed, creased forehead against her cheek. He took her palm to his lips, a low moan of compliance wrought with grief. “Allow your vassal the indulgence of but one request,” he said, his voice quaking to the strain of passion. He lifted his mournful gaze, clasping her hand to a thrashing heart. “Hold the key to my prison with care. For only your touch can set me free.”

  “A poet, William Talbot,” she teased, breaking from his embrace. “A poet and a gentleman, a magician and a thief.”

  “A thief?” he asked, the shadow of a worried smile on his mouth.

  “Yes,” she said, skipping backwards so she could tease him just once more. “A thief. Because you have stolen my heart.”

  This pleased him. He nodded, and watched her as she made her way down the beach.

  “See you soon,” she called back.

  He lifted his hand to gesture a reluctant farewell, and the sand beneath her steps danced.

  * * * *

  “Ah, Talan. Remember the nights we feasted on wild fowl over an open fire? Why, it seems like only yesterday,
does it not?”

  “Yes, Dietrick. Like yesterday.”

  “Remember the peasant girls who danced for us then? So young. So innocent. So sweet. I hear their laughter yet.”

  “She is mine, Dietrick. All else has passed away.”

  “Sadly true, my brother. Those tender sighs shall be no more. Their lovely bodies are dust. How sad that even the fairest joins their sleep.”

  “Not so. She awakes. She dreams of pleasures now that only I can procure. She stirs to my calling.”

  “Then sorrow will crack her feeble bone. What happens, Talan, when she finds only the coiled serpent of repugnance within your breast? What happens when she sees the blackness of an empty pit where love no longer resides?”

  “I shall not be foiled. Dagaz left on her the mark--your crest--my claim--she is his revenge, my dowry. With her birth he assured that I would awaken. My greatness lived in him. Now he lives in me. She shall be won!”

  “Not by you, brother. Dagaz is dead. Prepare your sword. Prepare to join your only son.”

  * * * *

  Olivia kept her gift a secret. Secrecy added to the mischievous thrill, the tickle that fluttered through her each time she lifted her finger to make a command. She practiced--the edge of the duvet on her bed to fold back and forth, the corner of the curtain to twitch up and down, the drawer of her cabinet to open and close--and the delight grew. It had to be a telekinesis of sorts and why she hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon the capability earlier in life was a mystery. It took the gentle touch and the wise words of a certain teacher to bring the gift to the surface. And the skill was up to her to refine.