Chapter 1
HARPINE KINSLEY
I walk through the tight bazaar with a smile plastered on my face. After weeks, if not months, I feel so carefree. Not even the spasmodic jostles and shoves from the haggling ladies and indifferent gents can wipe the joy off my face. Windermere, our otherwise lonesome town seems uncharacteristically busy tonight. The sun is setting down in the distance and golden, moth-alluring lanterns are throwing dancing shadows on the cobblestone street. Small stalls are set up on both sides of the alley but do not let your eyes riddle you. The antiquated stalls are actually very capacious once you step inside. You can buy all sorts of things around here in Obsidian Lane. From honey dipped apples to self stirring pots- everything is available here, and for cheap. I pass red bell peppers juggling themselves in the air around a fat marvelling lady and wait to look as self writing quills fill up yellowed parchment paper on my way. “1 for 8 Lams and 2 for 15!” They write and the ink disappears once they reach the end of the page. They start again at the beginning and I finally look away and walk again.
In Windermere, everything has a mind of its own. I have spent all of my life walking down these same bazaars and watching these same shows, and yet I can not help but feel mesmerised even at the age of twenty three. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if there were no magic to breathe life into objects. Would the bolts of fabric stop unspooling and wrapping up around wooden poles on their own accord, every time a potential buyer touched them? Would the rows of sandals not tapdance on their spots or the flutes not fill the air with euphonious music, unless someone physically blew air into them? Everything would drop dead… I suppress a shudder at the thought.
After a little searching, I found what I was looking for. Sandwiched between Madame Tuksana’s Malmal Boutique and Frozen Frostybites, there’s a small oak wood door with a metallic knocker attached to it by a hinge. The knocker is shaped like an owl’s face with closed eyes and a sharp hooked beak. When I caress the brass head, the owl stirs and opens his forward facing eyes. I stand a little straighter as it fixes me with a piercing gaze. The feathery head takes its time to access me with its luminous orbs but once satisfied, the owl hoots softly and the door opens itself slowly. I bow my head in gratitude to the little gatekeeper and it closes its eyes again.
I latch the door behind me as I enter the Enchanted Library of Windermere. Mr. Eldar, the owner, is sitting behind an overladen desk in the right most corner. His table is barely visible under the load of wax dripping candles and scrolls of parchment. Some books are hovering in the air in front of him as he envelopes a letter and seals it with a red stamp. While he works, I get rid of my weatherbeaten cloak and fix the billowy sleeves of my blouse. Once he hears the door close, he looks up to see me with a warm smile. Mr. Eldar is an old man, at least a hundred of age, with white handlebar mustache and a balding head. He is an immensely powerful warlock with the ability to do wordless magic. He bows his head slightly in greeting and shifts his attention to the mess around him. With a flick of his wax seal stamp, his instrument of magic, he sends the books flying into their respective shelves. The cupboards behind him open and the scrolls huddle inside swiftly.
“Look who’s back after so long!” He exclaims as I walk up to him. The cupboards close with a synced click in the distance and Mr. Eldar rests his face on his hands as he watches me. “Hi, Mr. Eldar. How’s it going?” I ask him. He is right, I am really visiting after a long time. With my uncle’s declining health and the gazette, I barely have any time left for myself. I take in the sight of the library as he drones his answer.
The Enchanted Library of Winderemere is the biggest library in the whole of Orrindale. In the centre, big rectangular tables are set up with everburning table lamps mounting them and at least twenty chairs neighbouring per table. Rows of bookshelves are crammed into both the left and the right sides. Some bookshelves are even circular in shape- almost the size of a house itself and spiral staircases wrap around them. The ceiling of the library is not visible to the naked human eye as the stacks are so high. There’s a walnut, carved fireplace near Mr.Eldar’s desk and leather armchairs that smell distinctly of spice are arranged at a respectable distance from the fire.
“-under the new political regime.” Mr. Eldar finishes. Some of the last words of his sentence register in my head and I immediately tear my eyes away from the thousands of oil lamps levitating in the air.
“Sorry, what were you saying, Mr. Eldar?” I ask guiltily. I had zoned out after a while of hearing about his cats and the gardening gnomes in his backyard.
“Oh nothing that is not written in here.” He says, pointing at the stack of newspapers he has assembled on the mantelpiece. “The paper boy just delivered these.” Evening mail rarely ever brings good news, I think to myself as I grab the top one. It’s a copy of The Mage’s Mag, a periodical that publishes the most sordid articles in the whole of Windermere. Forgetting the book I came here for, I throw myself on the nearest armchair and begin to read thirstily. Mr. Eldar brings a cup of steaming hot milk tea for me and disappears again to get some bickies. I lift the fine China to my lips as my eyes travel across the periodical.
FOLLOWING THE FOOTSTEPS OF HIS FATHER
The First Son of Orrindale finally makes a long awaited decision.
Theodore Harforde, the son of Warlock Rudolph Harforde- The Minister of Enchantments, has decided to accept the position of Warlock State Secretary.
What?!
The porcelain cup slips out of my grip and falls onto the floor. It hits the checkered tiles with a sharp ringing noise, but not without spilling scorching liquid on my skirt first. I curse out loud at the burning sensation and hastily pull at my dress, where it’s sticking to my legs. With a wince, I grab my locket and perform a spell. “Arificus!” I point my locket at my silk skirt. The skirt dries instantly. “Frigus Effectus!” I cast another spell and it cools down the burns. Mr. Eldar comes hurtling to inspect the crashing noise.
“Should I get you another cup?” He asks once he cleans the floor wordlessly. I shake my head in denial and apologise profusely. He only waves it off and asks again, “Concerning, isn’t it? But not entirely shocking either. I had hoped that the apple would fall far from the tree.” He sighs sadly.
“It can’t get worse than it already is, right?” I ask like a child. I know it possibly can’t mean anything good, but hope- it’s a stupid thing with feathers.
“Ought to. Too much power in a single family is barely a good thing. Harforde’s have basically taken over Orrindale. First Rudolph, then Sean, then Wilkas, now Theo-" The rest of his sentence is cut off by the loud blaring siren outside. It is a shrill, sinister sound, like the call of a peewit has been amplified a thousand times. Tiddy Mun’s laughter. Every night, when the clock strikes eight, Tiddy Mun’s laugh fills the air like helium fills up a deflated balloon. It is a warning of sorts, curfew starts in an hour and anyone who stays later than that is sent for questioning. Tiddy Mun is a small spirit, no larger than a three year old child but his white tangled hair and matted beard are the telling signs of his age. He is the manipulator of mists in Orrindale and every night, he cloaks the state with murky brumes, ghostly and damp.
“I should leave,” I say to Mr. Eldar with a quiet hurry. A simple onceover out of the oriel windows forewarns me of the already collecting silvery mist outside.
“You should,” he says grimly, “and take these.” He dumps a handful of newspapers into my arms.
The walk home is bleak. The bazaar that was bursting at the seams just a few hours ago, is so deserted that I feel like I have stepped out in a whole different world. The shop owners have packed their inventories and left Obsidian Lane. The only remnants that hint at their presence are the moth eaten tents in which they set up their shops every morning. The cobblestone street is littered with paper bags, food wrappers and other debris. Without the crowds, the foul smell of the nearby sewer is even more prominent than usual or maybe my senses are just heightened at the moment. I think about the news of Theodore Harforde and feel more anxious than ever.
People avoid stepping out on the roads past the siren, and for good reason. The wispy streaks of mist start forming once the laughter subsides and in just an hour, the town is so cloaked, one can barely see five steps ahead. Creatures of night patrol the streets. Mothers tell their cubs that if they indulge into further mischief, the boogeyman will snatch them away. It started out as an apparent safety measure, as our Minister of Enchantments very finely put it. To curb the crimes against Warlocks, he had said. He hired Lemporas- winged humans with talons for feet, a snaky tongue and knives like teeth, to do his bidding. These creatures can not understand human communicative methods but if they see anyone that doesn’t look like a traditional warlock, they take them away to the ministry. Warlocks are supposedly safe, but stories of their disappearance are not uncommon either. Some people even claim sightings of Ogres and Gorgons. “They are why the town is full of statues!” Or so I have heard.
Once out of Obsidian Lane, I take a shortcut through Central Park. It is my favourite part of the town. The only good thing that our government has given to our town is this one beautiful garden. Moss coats almost every surface and thick vines climb the stone walls and wrap around the railings. There must not be a single category of flowers that grows in Orrindale and is not at our disposal here- bleeding grass, blossoming feathers, golden merricons and even pink moss. But the cynosure of my eyes, in this garden, in the whole of Windermere are the otherworldly statues.
Central Park is built around an old temple that is no longer a home to any God. The building still stands though. I walk into the old ruin, past the stone archways and climb down a flight of stairs. I reach a courtyard with a large fountain erected in its centre. With quick strides, I walk towards it and glance into the swirling vortex. It is bright purple and looks like a supernova has exploded inside to birth thousands of nebulae. This particular magic portal connects the park to Stagrotun Hollow, a colony housing some of the poorer magical families. I dip a hand into the whirling fluid and feel a familiar tug inside. The sensation starts at the tip of my fingers and slowly, the portal sucks me in.
There’s not much to travelling through a magical gateway. It only lasts a few seconds anyway. It is like stepping into a painter’s water cup until the portal spits you onto the other side. I land on the ground with a small jump. The mist, I notice, is thickening rapidly. As minutes trickle by, it is getting difficult to see ahead. The flickering street lamps are barely helping at all. “Ignis!” I cast a spell even though I live only a short walk away. A small ball of fire appears in front of me, lighting my path. I would never admit it to anyone but the fire eases some of the fear in my heart. I carry it until I reach home.
