The Choice of Magic - Michael G. Manning Page 0,130

the conversation returned to serious matters. “Have the reinforcements arrived yet?” asked his uncle.

Will scowled. “No, and from what I overheard there won’t be any.”

“That’s insane,” growled Johnathan. “Doesn’t the king realize that won’t be enough?”

“They seem to think the attack here is a diversion,” said Will. “Lognion is sending the bulk of his army to Thornton to fend off an attack there. Supposedly the Darrowan fleet is going to make a landing somewhere near there.”

Unable to contain himself, Will’s uncle got to his feet and went to stand by the door. “The fool! I haven’t risked getting close, but I’ve seen enough to know this isn’t a diversion. There are several thousand men camped around Barrowden, and they’ve spent the winter clearing and widening the road. The Patriarch is obviously planning to march the rest of his army through here in the spring.”

“Someone has to warn them,” said Will, thinking aloud.

“Shouldn’t that be you?” asked his mother. “You’re going back this evening, aren’t you?”

His uncle shook his head. “How? He can’t just go up to one of the officers and tell them he used magic to get here and return. Even if they believed him, he could be arrested for being a warlock.”

“I’m not a warlock,” insisted Will.

“A sorcerer then,” said Johnathan, waving one hand dismissively.

“I’m not that either,” said Will. He was beginning to understand why his own questions had irritated his grandfather so much. “But you’re right. I could be arrested as an unlicensed wizard.” An idea came to him then. “I don’t have to report it in person, though.”

“What do you mean?” asked his mother.

Rising, Will headed for the door that led to the back room of the house. “I’ll write a note. I think I know someone with enough power to get the information into the right hands.” Opening the door, he was surprised to see that the room had changed. The bookcases were still there, heavily laden as before, but the top of Arrogan’s desk was covered with clothes. “Where’s the parchment and ink?”

It turned out that his mother had taken to using the desk as a worktable while mending their limited supply of clothing. “I put everything in the cabinet there,” she said, indicating a cupboard built into a stand next to the bed. While Will brought out what he needed, she cleared away the top of the desk.

Will found the inkwell, several quills, blotting sand, and a small but valuable stack of parchment. Considering its cost, Arrogan had only let him practice his writing with actual parchment on a few occasions. Usually he had to make do with slate and chalk. He hoped the person who eventually saw his note wouldn’t discredit it simply because of his poor penmanship.

On top of the parchment there was a large, leather-bound book. Unlike most of the books he had seen, there was nothing stamped on the cover or spine. He could also see a strange haze of magic hovering around it. Curious, he opened it. The first few pages were blank, but the fourth page seemed to be a title page, for written on it in large bold letters were the words, ‘Journals Are Stupid.’ The calligraphy was crude compared to what Will had seen in other books. Almost as bad as my hand, he thought with a smile.

He turned the page, and on the back close to the bottom, he saw something else. Studying it carefully, he realized it was another line, written so small as to be almost illegible without a magnifying glass: ‘and so is Aislinn.’ Did Grandfather write this? The lettering was far different from what he had seen in the past. Arrogan’s penmanship was neat and precise, completely unlike the clumsy writing on the page.

The next page held the first entry:

Y98 Earrach, Feabhra 10

To whoever finds this, know that I am writing under duress. My teacher insists that writing is good for the soul, but that is in fact simply an excuse for her torture of this unfortunate prisoner. I have been encouraged to use this time to record notable events or lessons so that I can reflect on them in the future. Therefore, I will make this a record of my abuse at the hands of that cruel woman.

Feabhra 11

Nearly died last week (before starting this journal) but I decided I should make a mention of it here so I wouldn’t forget. She (who should not be named) put me through a period of torment unlike anything ever experienced