An uncommonly cool breeze stirred dying leaves across the cobblestone paths of the village. Lamps within windows were snuffed; only the torches at the bridge and before the tavern cast any light upon the ground. Shadows were plentiful, and within those shadows strode the Spectre That Walks.
Bagdemagus enjoyed this time of night, when the village was quiet and nearly all were slumbering peacefully beneath the magnificent edifice of Castle Vix. Of course, on this night, the majority of the villagers were enjoying the once-in-a-lifetime chance to enjoy the splendors of the castle, celebrating their Queen's birthday.
Bagdemagus snickered.
A good ploy
, he thought,
welcoming the tattered and torn, the lowly and lackluster into your midst for the week that encompasses the celebration of your birth. But will they love you for it, Evelyn? Or will they resent you for having shown them the luxury they will never again enjoy . . . and which you will, at least until your tragic passing.
Ultimately, it means naught
, he mused darkly.
Have your parties, rally whatever support you may. Live the good life while you can. It is about to come to an end.
The wizard grinned with anticipation. It had been decades since any true threat had existed in the kingdom; peace with neighboring lands had been sealed. The only thing merchants and villagers ever had to worry about were the occasional bandit and deadly wild beast.
Until now.
Bagdemagus grinned, impressed with himself. He had missed the notoriety his mere name invoked within the kingdom. Now, as it had been decades before, the simple mention of him in casual conversation set guards on edge and made women weep. Bagdemagus did not have to really do anything; he ruled these people through fear and supposition.
I am more of a king for these people than Richard ever was, or Alfred before him, or Maxwell, or Gabriel . . . who rules these people, if not I? Certainly not the girl queen . . . she can barely get the nobility to recognize her.
He stepped into the avenue from between the blacksmith's shop and the apothecary, both with darkened windows. The sounds of laughter -- not quite as loud as it had once been -- drifted to his ears from the tavern across the way. He watched their silhouettes in the windows, listened to their crude jokes.
My subjects
, he thought with a wicked grin.
"Pardon me, sir," came a small voice from his left.
Bagdemagus frowned, looking over and down, seeing a young boy -- who had seen perhaps only seven or eight summers -- beside him. The boy sported tousled hair and dirty cheeks, and his clothes need a couple of good patches. Wide eyes stared up at the wizard with innocent wonder.
"Yes?" asked Bagdemagus.
"Could you spare a shilling for me mum?" he asked. "She's in quite a bad way, sir, and can't support us."
Bagdemagus cocked his head with an amused smile. He lowered himself to a squat, bringing his face level with the child's. "And what has put her in such a bad way?" he asked.
The boy shuffled his badly-shod feet. "I don't really know, sir, but she's bedridden and can't be on her feet much. Her face is always red, and it hurts when she breathes. Can you help us, sir? Just a shilling. I've got a brother and a sister, and I'm the oldest, so I have to look out for them."
Bagdemagus smiled in an apparently affectionate way. His fingers dug into the purse at his waist and came out with a shiny gold coin. "How about a royal, instead?" he asked.
The boy's eyes widened. "Oh, sir! That would feed us all for a week!" he held out his hand.
The wizard chuckled, palming the coin and closing his fingers around it. "Not so fast," he said. "Let us have a chat, you and I."
Bagdemagus rose and lead the boy to a bench beneath a large, ancient oak. He hoisted the child onto the warped wooden slats and sat down beside him. "Now," said the wizard. "What is your name?"
The boy sat with his hands clasped between his knees. He kicked his feet and kept his back straight, as was expected of a proper young lad in the presence of an adult. "Thomas, sir."
"Well, Thomas," said Bagdemagus. "Tell me about yourself."
The boy frowned, thinking. "I ain't got much to tell, sir," he said. "I'm just a boy."
Bagdemagus and touched the child's forehead. "Ah, but a boy with dreams," he said. "What is yours?"
The boy sighed heavily, working his jaw. "Right now, I only dream about mum getting better," he lamented. "Begging for shillings is the pits!"
Bagdemagus chuckled, touching his lips a moment. "Then perhaps our meeting was destiny," he said. "I may be able to help your mum."
Thomas' eyes lit up. "How?" he asked.
"Well." Bagdemagus leaned over the boy, as if about to share a secret. "Don't tell anyone, but . . . I'm a wizard."
Thomas gasped and covered his mouth. "A wiwarh?" he asked, his voice muffled.
Bagdemagus' dark eyes glittered as he smiled. "Yes, a wizard. But don't worry; I'm a good wizard."
Thomas lowered his hand and frowned as he looked Bagdemagus over. "But . . . you're wearing black," he said. "I thought good wizards only wore white."
Bagdemagus chuckled. "Even us good ones have to hide in the shadows. Otherwise, we would be hounded all the time by people wanting love potions and glimpses into the future. We'd get no rest."
The boy shrugged. "Umm . . . I guess that makes sense," he said, then turned on the bench. "Can you really help my mum?"
Bagdemagus ruffled the boy's hair. "Of course I can," he said. "In fact, it already sounds to me that she has a simple ailment that I can readily cure with a potion. And I just happen to have one upon me."
"Really?" shouted the boy, his young face glowing with hope and excitement. "Oh, please, sir, do help her!"
The wizard took Thomas' hands and patted them. "All in due time, young man," he said. "Don't fret; your mother will be fine. But I do want to know more about you."
The child blinked. "About me?" he asked. "But I've nothing to tell."
Bagdemagus smiled as an uncle would upon a favored nephew. "Of course you do," he said in a way that was both encouraging and patronizing. "Don't you want to be something when you grow up?"
The boy grinned slowly. "I want to be a knight," he proclaimed. "Just like Sir Cedric!"
Bagdemagus' smile froze for a moment at the sound of the young knight's name. "That is a very noble goal," he said after a moment. "And Cedric is, indeed, a model for young boys such as yourself."
Thomas regarded the wizard with typical boyish effervescence. "Do you think I really could?" he asked. "I mean, I know one has to be of noble birth to be a knight, and I'm not. But . . . well, Cedric wasn't a noble either, and look at him now!"
Bagdemagus patted the boy's head. "That's very true. But if you want to be a knight, you have to do some very special things."
Thomas sat poised, expectant, ready. "Anything, sir wizard, anything!" he exclaimed.
"Well . . . a knight has to be prepared to make sacrifices. No knight ever slew a dragon without thinking he might not survive. Anyone can take up arms or ride a horse. It takes a special sort of man to be willing to sacrifice himself, or others, for the good of all." He leaned closer to the boy. "Are you that sort of man?"
The boy swallowed nervously, intimidated by both the wizard's words and his chilling, steel-colored eyes. Mutely, he nodded.
Abruptly, Bagdemagus straightened and stood beside the bench. "Let us go see your mother, then."
***
After Thomas had crawled through a small window within the shambled house and unlocked the door from within, he led Bagdemagus through tiny, darkened rooms to the back. The wizard wrinkled his nose at the smell of the dwelling; mildew and rotting food fought for prominence over the scent of unwashed bodies.
"Sir wizard, this is my sister, Elizabeth," Thomas said, introducing a girl of four or five years, clad in a soiled and wrinkled gown. The girl stared with wide, inquisitive eyes. Wordlessly, Bagdemagus squatted low, studying the child's face. A smile slowly stretched his thin lips. He glanced to Thomas and nodded.
The boy lead Bagdemagus into the bedroom, where the stench of the unwashed was most powerful. The odor was nearly overpowering, yet Bagdemagus did not let it bother him. Instead, he focused upon the shadowed bed, upon the wasted form laying atop the covers.
A flickering light cast umber-colored shadows through the room as Thomas lit an oil lamp and set it upon a small wash table. Bagdemagus looked upon the young woman, perhaps halfway through her third decade. From her breathing, the redness of her face, the sweaty sheen that coated her body like oil, he knew she suffered from nothing more than a bout of consumption. The right herbs would remedy the illness within a day or two. All it would take would be a simple trip to the apothecary . . . or the right application of the contents of Bagdemagus' bag.
"Can you help her, sir?" queried Thomas.
Bagdemagus touched the unconscious woman's cold, sweaty forehead. "Of course I can," he said. "Fetch me a drinking cup, fill it half-way with water."
