Jonis - Rowan Erlking (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📗

books on tall shelves that nearly required a ladder to reach them all. Three large loveseats sat in strategic places between the bookshelves under the windows, where in the daytime the sun would provide ample light for reading, but where he also installed electric lights to use at night. The carpet was a deep red, spread over the shining wood floor. A glass-faced clock, with all the gears ticking visibly behind the hands, hung on the far wall over the desk where Mr. Farren sat, studying even more ancient texts than he had on the shelves. The desk itself was situated near the middle of the room, leaving only a wide walk space between it and the reading benches and bookshelves. Behind Mr. Farren stood a large locked cabinet so old like the wrought iron fence, and so ornate that it did not look Brein Amon style. Again Jonis got the impression that his home had once been owned by more powerful magistrates than their simple village elder.

“Ah! Much better!” Mr. Farren smiled one he spotted Jonis standing in the doorway. He waved him over. “I am sorry, but we have no clothes your size in the house at the moment. Tomorrow I will have the village tailor come and make you some suits. Now come here, and let me teach you how to make a seal. You may find this one skill very useful in the future.”

Jonis padded barefoot over to the desk, feeling the change from the wood floor to carpet under the soles of his feet. He stepped on to the rug next to the desk, peering at the scroll. The writing was difficult script and in ancient style. Normally, Jonis would not have been able to read it. But now that his head was packed full of memories and knowledge from his ancestors, he could read the paper with ease.

“It says here,” Mr. Farren pointed to the scroll, “that we must have a strip of red paper as long as the writing needs to be. I have here a roll of spell paper I bought in Danslik last spring. It will do. We can cut off what we don’t use.”

Jonis nodded, remaining silent. As far as Mr. Farren knew, he was somewhat of a weak student. He did not know how the magistrate would react to him knowing so much more now so quickly. He thought it best not to let on that he could read the instructions.

“Now,” Mr. Farren lifted over a long handled writing brush. “We need some ink and a brush and a steady hand.” He put the brush into Jonis’s hand. “I hope you have studied your penmanship. The writing must be precise.”

Setting the brush in his fingers, Jonis nodded to him. “I can do it. My writing is not too bad.”

Mr. Farren’s eyes glittered, connecting with Jonis’s gaze. “I bet it isn’t. Now write exactly what I tell you, repeating the words as I say them. Understand? Write it from the top downward.”

Jonis nodded again, swallowing. He dipped the brush into the ink, carefully dabbing off the excess.

“Sealed. Secure. By the hand of Jonis Macoy.” Mr. Farren watched him as Jonis placed the brush onto the paper.

“Sealed….” Jonis wrote it. “Secure….” Jonis took care in his letters, stroking just right. “By the hand…of…” He drew in a breath. “Jonis Macoy.”

His signature scribbled down to the last.

“Now before it dries, carefully lift the paper up by the edges. Don’t say anything and don’t smudge the ink.”

Mr. Farren lifted the dirt-crusted sword in its scabbard from off the table, standing it on its tip. Jonis did exactly what was instructed.

“Now lay the strip over the hilt so that it crosses to the scabbard on both sides. Do it gently, and watch the ink.”

It was harder this time. The ink was still very wet, and Jonis’s sleeve threatened to smudge the writing. He had to turn and face the scabbard end on. Placing it carefully, Jonis made sure both ends of the paper touched smoothly and taut. Mr. Farren tore off the excess red paper from the written spell. “Now say: Only I. Remain until awakened.”

Taking a breath, Jonis repeated, “Only I. Remain until awakened.”

The paper snapped flat from his fingers. It stuck to the hilt and the scabbard as if pasted on. The ink instantly dried.

“There!” Mr. Farren patted him on the shoulder. “You have done excellently. That sword now will remain sealed until you want to open it. Only you can cut the seal. That is a promise.”

Jonis peered in amazement at his handiwork. It was the first spell he had ever cast. Magic was not dead after all.

Mr. Farren seemed to read his thoughts. “Yes, it is quite amazing. A lost art, I tell you. In the days when the world was nearly half demon, magic was a household skill. Today, I daresay that one in a million know the craft. Though I am glad I don’t live in the terror of that era, I do miss the freedom that magic knowledge had given us.”

“That was before the Sky Lord sent his armies to take over, right?” Jonis asked.

“You have been paying attention in your history class.” Mr. Farren grinned in approval. “Good. And yes, that is right. Of course, after the Sky Children’s abilities began to diminish and they were defeated, our new era took their science to replace magic. It was science in the end that defeated them, not magic.”

Jonis looked at the floor. Yes. In his new memories, he had learned a great deal about these Sky Children, whom up until then he had only seen as poor slaves punished for their ancestors’ crimes. Now he knew how dangerous they had been. His ancestors remembered and hated them. It was unsettling, feeling emotions that were not his. Even now, he could not accept them entirely. Remembering the facts made his head spin. It was easier to block them out entirely.

“So, my boy! Let’s get you fed and into bed. We have a long day tomorrow.” Mr. Farren tucked the roll of red paper away into his drawer and stood up. He picked up Jonis’s sword, carrying it to the locked cupboard. He opened it up. He leaned the sword inside next to other mysterious articles. Jonis peered in, but Mr. Farren shut the doors before he could get a good look. He caught only a glimpse of shiny things and mysterious jars.

“Come on, Jonis. You must be starving,” Mr. Farren said.

Jonis turned and let himself be led to the kitchen. The cupboard would still be there tomorrow.

Chapter Two: From the School

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Written spells have more potency than spells merely spoken”

 

 

 

 

The tailor was not happy to be summoned so early in the morning. And he was even unhappier when he saw whom he was clothing. Standing uncomfortably in the front room, Jonis decided to remain silent to avoid an argument.

Mr. Farren handed the tailor gloves. “Put these on, please.”

The man gave the magistrate a testy glance as he opened his supply bag. “My hands aren’t going to dirty your precious charge if that’s what you think.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Farren replied, glancing at Jonis. “It is for your protection.”

The tailor blinked then looked up at Jonis’s bare legs as he stood on the low stool Mr. Farren had provided for him. They were as white as death. The man quickly pulled the gloves on. “What? Does he have some sort of skin disease?”

“You could say that,” Mr. Farren said, keeping his eyes on Jonis. The boy had nothing on but a sleeveless undershirt Mr. Farren had dug up from his own closet. He had set the nightgown aside on Jonis’s pillow in the boy’s new room. Jonis had slept on the floor, unable to even close his eyes while he lay on the large bed. Of course it was almost impossible to wake him up in the morning. He was wrapped like a sausage bun in his blankets, clutching his pillow in his arms rather than under his head. The maid wouldn’t even touch him, grunting to herself about the boy’s ingratitude. Of course, Jonis had also been reluctant to even leave his room. The idea of seeing another person besides the magistrate had filled him with dread. Everyone from the maid to the cook flinched at the sight of him.

The tailor decided not to linger longer than he had to. In a way, it helped the situation. He ordered Jonis about as if he were any other customer, making him lift his arms, stand straight, and endure the inspection of his crotch inseam so his pants would fit. He snapped his measuring tape a few times and jotted down all the information that he needed.

“Ok, now we don’t need the boy. If you will please send him off, we can discuss your purchase,” the tailor said, turning from Jonis.

Jonis hopped off the stool, just as eager to leave the room.

Mr. Farren merely smirked at the both of them. “He will remain. They will be his clothes, and therefore he will have a say in it.”

The tailor blinked. “But I don’t think he is needed here. You know better what he needs. Send him away and tell me your order.”

“Jonis,” Mr. Farren said with a mild nod. “Tell this man what clothes you need.”

Both the boy and the tailor looked at one another with surprise. Jonis was the quicker to recover. He cleared his throat and answered, but mostly to Mr. Farren. “I need a pair of pants and a shirt. I lost everything I owned in the fire, and you burned my last pair.”

Mr. Farren smiled benignly at him. “So humble. Really, Jonis. Is that all you want?”

Jonis looked up at him and nodded. “That’s all I need.”

Raising his chest and nodding to himself, Mr. Farren patted him on the head. “Alright, you go off to the study and find a book to read. I’ll discuss the details with the tailor.”

Obeying with gratitude, Jonis hurried out of the room—anything to be away from there. As he left the room, he heard Mr. Farren say, “I want him to have a school uniform. He has been the only child without one, and I want him to fit in.”

“Are you crazy?” the tailor answered without even lowering his voice. “Why do you want a demon to fit in with the other children?”

“Jonis is not a demon. You misunderstand him and his abilities….”

Jonis did not stick around longer to hear. There was enough reassurance in what he had already heard that he did not need anything else. Mr. Farren did not see him as a monster.

 

Mr. Farren eventually joined Jonis in the study when the tailor had gone. He found the boy sitting cross-legged on the far loveseat with an enormous book in his lap. Blinking once, the magistrate crossed the floor quietly, peering at the title on the cover. It read: History of the Last Century, by Meril Batis. The magistrate cleared his throat, folding his arms. “That is quite a hefty book you’ve chosen. Your schoolmaster claimed that you only had an average score in Reading, let alone in History. Are you trying to catch up with your classmates?”

Jonis looked up and blushed. He