The Magician's Brother, page 1
The Magician's Brother
HDA Roberts
Copyright © 2018 HDA Roberts
All rights reserved.
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is unintentional.
Cover by Warren Design
Chapter 1
My brother threw a fireball. His opponent raised her hand, and a single gesture sent it ricocheting back towards him. He waved his hands frantically, trying to dispel.
Idiot.
The ball was moving too fast, and his counter-spells have always been too slow. He should have dodged and cast another attack spell; his only advantage in the match was his raw power. Belle was just too quick and far too smart to fence with. Ah, he's got the fire out and... Belle hits him in the face with an ice-ball.
Desmond's shield glowed, but enough force was transferred that he hit the floor (with an amusingly solid thump), match over.
They were in the bigger gymnasium, the standard room for a practice duel, with bleachers along one wall and a neglected set of basketball hoops at either end. The difference between this gym and the ones that 'normal' students used was the heavily enchanted metal circle built right into the wooden floor, which surrounded the two combatants and kept their spells contained. Both of them were dressed in P.E. kit, with a heavy black leather vambrace strapped around their left forearm and hand, a focus tied to the circle designed to absorb offensive magic and prevent anyone getting hurt (the cuff was the only reason there wasn't a ice-ball shaped hole where my brother's head used to be).
There was a small crowd in the stands, mostly girls, mostly staring at my brother, the lucky bastard. I sat at the far edge, away from the crowd, waiting with barely disguised impatience for the farce to be over with.
The room finally broke into applause, and somewhat muted at that. Belle beating my brother had become something of a habit by this point. The girl took a bow, offering Desmond a cheeky grin before offering him her hand. He took it with a smile and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, lingering in Belle's proximity just a little longer than necessary; his free hand running over her thigh in what I am sure was meant to be a subtle gesture.
Subtle is not my brother's strong suit, as you may have guessed.
He was tall and broad at the shoulder, though more wiry than beefy, he had high cheekbones, guileless bright eyes and a good chin that gives his face a certain gravitas.
He's also my twin, and while we had technically started off identical, that had been a very long time ago. His hair went golden blonde when his powers manifested; we both have one blue eye and one brown, but my blue is left, his is right. My hair is dark and short, he wears his like an 80's rock icon, which is to say, tacky. I'm also shorter, less muscular.
He's also a Wizard. That is the technical term, by the way, there are categories based on power level (the government made the categories, I think they're stupid). Wizard is the middle one, I won't bore you with the details of the others, they're not important right now.
Ever since Magicians (their word) came out into the open fifteen years ago, the world has gone from loving to hating to loving them again several times. At the moment they're loving, because of the duels.
No, excuse me, that's !DUELS!, as the marketing ads like to call them. Think along the lines of the Ultimate Fighting Championship with fire and lightning and you are maybe one tenth of the way there. Of course, everyone wears Mage-designed safety gear that is supposed to prevent serious injury, but occasionally "accidents" do happen.
Naturally my idiot brother thinks he's going to be the next great champion.
"Well Matty, someone has to hold up the family honour, and since you can't use magic, that leaves me!" that's what the brain-donor says whenever I try to point out the fact that duelling is dangerous.
He's also quite wrong.
I just choose not to use magic, that's all.
Well, nothing flashy anyway.
See, I have a problem.
Every magician has a specialty; for your adept (the lowest rung on the magical ladder), it's often little more than a single spell, lighting a fire, for example. For your Wizards and Sorcerers, it can be an entire element or even two. For the less powerful, that's often all they have, but your stronger mages are able, with enough practice, to cast a wide variety of spells, as long as you have the skill to craft it and the power to charge it. But your specialty will always come easiest to you.
For me, it's Shadow.
Otherwise known as Umbrakinesis. Now, that sounds fun, doesn't it? The very darkness itself jumps up and does what it's told, what could be more fun?
Very good questions, and of course I might well agree with you... if I wasn't afraid of the dark.
It's a holdover from my youngest years, when I was lying in the darkness, and the shadows started creeping towards me, and the more afraid I got, the closer the shadows came, responding to my fear, moving to protect me. Naturally, I discovered this in (relatively) short order, but by then it was too late, I was terrified and my affinity was the cause.
And here is where I discovered the difference between an affinity and a speciality. With a speciality, the spell comes easily, but it's still an effort to cast it; with an affinity, the effort is more in stopping it from responding, as the power ties in heavily with the subconscious, making the power more versatile, but also more prone to inadvertent action.
So I kept it quiet, afraid someone might try to make me use the thing, and I guess the secrecy just stuck, well past the point where I'd (mostly) got over my phobia. So now my brother is a budding battle mage and I am the class bookworm. Which is good for Desmond as I help him study his magical textbooks and prepare for duels (though he has no inkling that I read, absorbed and mastered those same books some time ago).
I'm a quicker study than my brother, definitely smarter, but he has magical power coming out his ears, he only barely missed the grade for Sorcerer, and he'll likely make that in a few years when he get older and stronger. If it ever came to a fight, he'd mop the floor with me, I simply don't have any practice at battle magic, in fact I'd always thought it a little vulgar.
Which is why I'd dropped an Asimov in his head.
Mind magic is a hobby of mine. It's fun because I can use it with hilarious results and complete anonymity. Focus, link, enchant; easy as that, but it takes finesse, and practice, to do it without causing an injury. I learned by practicing on my Uncle Thatcher. Don't worry, he's not a nice guy (wife beater, doesn't do that anymore), and he's more or less fine (I'm told that he still has to be reminded to take off his underwear before using the loo, but you can't have everything).
Anyway, an Asimov. Named after Isaac Asimov who created those three rules for robotics. Well, I put the same basic thing in Desmond, buried deep in his motor cortex. It's not that I don't trust my brother; it's just that I'd rather not have to worry about his hormonal exuberance getting the best of him.
Take today for example. Desmond's speciality is Light magic (the worrying polar opposite of mine), and a single blast of light would have dropped Belle like a bad habit, but since he's... oh let's call it "in a relationship" with her he lets her win. Bad practice, bad thinking, bad precedent in a duel. I've read every book there is on the subject, and he who hesitates over a shapely opponent isn't just lost, but found, charred and served up as an aperitif to the loser's table.
Dumbarse.
She likes him too, and that was adorable, but she was getting a false sense of her own skill from the practices, these two being the strongest of the schools five mages (out of eight hundred students, not including me), which meant that there really wasn't anyone else for them to practice with. They'd won a couple of matches against rival schools, but they were against acolytes (one down from Wizard), so they'd never had to face someone on their own level in earnest. Might end badly for one (or both) of them.
Might also be funny for me.
So maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for him to take a loss or two...
I know, I'm a terrible person, but you try listening to your brother's variations on "I'm a conduit for the universe's awesome majesty" for seventeen years and see how saintly you turn out.
Anyway, the bout was over and it was time for a little chat with my brother.
He'd finally separated from Belle, who was still grinning. She was pretty and tall, with delicate features, black hair all the way down to the small of her back and a pair of dazzling green eyes. Smart too; not as smart as me, but who is?
Yes, I realise I'm just as bad as Desmond in my own way, but we are twins, there have to be some similarities, and at least I have the decency to pretend to be modest.
"Matty! Did you see me?"
"Yeah, Matty, did you see him?" Belle chimed in.
Never liked that girl. She takes liberties, and is a snarky cow if ever there was one. I chose not to rise to the bait... this time.
"Yes, I saw you, but that's not why I'm here. You're five prep assignments behind and your teachers are hassling me again. They say that if you don't complete these by the weekend, they won't let you compete next Wednesday."
I dropped the assignments into his hands, glared once at Belle for form's sake, and turned around to leave. The teachers won't yell at Des, he's simply too useful to the school. Would you believe that magicians have an equal rights group? That's right, people who control the elemental powers of the universe have a group who complain about equal rights. As a Wizard-class magician, and a competing one at that, Des gets a lot of posit
Bleuch.
Anyway, because they won't yell at him, that means that any bad news (such as detention, late work or incomplete nonsense) gets dropped in my lap to pass on. And like a sap, I often end up just doing the work for him. I'm pretty sure that's it's only due to extreme luck (and a very tricky set of memory enchantments that took me a week to perfect) that he got enough GCSEs to continue on at the school.
Today though, I was in a mood, and Belle had irritated me, so he could damn well do his own prep for a change. I stalked off, vaguely in a huff, and was making a pretty good exit of it too, when the wooden floor in front of me froze for a few feet in every direction. I stopped abruptly, nearly slipping and falling on my arse.
"Where do you think you're going?" Belle asked, a nasty edge to her voice.
"Annabelle," said a low, menacing, gravelly voice from the far corner of the gymnasium.
You may wonder how safe it is for hormonal adolescents with magical powers to be among normal children (or Pureborn, if you prefer. That's the Magical Community's polite name for regular people; there are others, less polite), what with the worry of potential immolation due to hurt feelings.
Well, the government was worried too, and thus was born the Magical Supervisor, which kids have been calling "Leopolds" for years. Named after that scary teacher's assistant from an early episode of the Simpsons, a Leopold is a designated member of staff, trained in a special course by the government to deal with, and provide discipline for, the magical kids.
He was a great ox of a man called Mister Koenig. He wore one of the vambraces around his wrist for the practice and carried an amulet around his neck. These are very special amulets; they're made by Sorcerers, (which is to say the mystical equivalent of Mike Tyson), to absorb and stop dead any spell cast at the wearer.
I have a couple of theoretical ways around that thing, but I've never actually had a chance (or the need) to test them, and Koenig's always been nice enough to me; I think he realises that living in my brother's extensive shadow is not great fun for me.
"Sorry Mister Koenig," she said, glaring at me. I ignored her, nodded once at Koenig, a gesture he returned, before heading towards the main doors, my brother hot on my heels. As I walked through the doors, moving at the back of the small crowd, Des kept up, trying to keep the stack of papers and folders in some sort of order.
"Matty! Will you wait up?"
I sighed, knowing that there really wasn't much point in trying to outrun him now that my dramatic storm-off had been interrupted. I slowed to a halt, the rest of the kids moving off and away. We'd just exited the gym and were standing in one of the smaller squares. The sports building was behind us, and the other three sides were occupied by large Edwardian buildings, red brick with dark grey slate and delicately carved stone decorations running along the edges and roofs.
"Yes?" I asked, trying to keep the irritation from my voice, and mostly succeeding.
"I can't do all this by Saturday, there's too much!"
There was maybe four hours work there, not an insignificant heap, but hardly an insurmountable one. It was only Wednesday evening, for heaven's sake.
"And why would that be?" I asked, trying to be reasonable about the whole thing.
"Not enough time, I already have an essay due, and I haven't even started my art project yet."
"Des..." I started, rubbing my eyes, my brother was going to give me an ulcer if he carried on like this.
"I know Matty, I'm sorry. Can't you help, please? I can't miss that match next week, I just can't."
I already had a heap of my own work to do, and the teachers didn't cut me any slack if it was late.
"Give me the English and the History," I said with a resigned sigh.
Des flashed me a smile and pulled a pair of folders from the pile.
"That's art," I pointed out in exasperation, handing one back.
He handed me the correct one and smiled again.
"I owe you, little brother," he said, smacking me on the shoulder before running off after his girlfriend.
I'm exactly six seconds younger than him, but he still calls me that.
"Do that essay!" I yelled after him, trying to salvage some part of my dignity, "Tonight!"
"I will, scout's honour!" he called back over his shoulder.
He was never a scout.
Chapter 2
An hour later, and I was sitting on the roof of the chapel, hidden from the wind and sight by the crenulations and statuary. The door leading up here was pitifully easy to magically unlock and then relock behind me, and a small alarm spell would let me know if I was about to get caught.
I loved it up there, especially on warm nights like that one. I had Des' English prep leaning up against the roof, and I had a pair of reference books open next to it. His class was three sets below mine, so the work wasn't difficult, just time consuming; more so because one has to show an argument to these sorts of analytical questions. Our handwriting is quite similar, and questions about Romeo and Juliet aren't exactly tasking as long as you've read the damned book, so we can get this sort of thing by his teachers quite easily. The only catch is making enough deliberate mistakes so that he passes, but not by so much as to arouse suspicion.
I groaned in irritation, and more than a little frustration, and dropped my fountain pen on the pad I'd been using, leaning back against the roof to rub my head. I was thinking of taking a little nap when I was distracted by a rumbling noise followed by a weary sigh.
"Doing the brother's homework again?" asked a voice that rightly belonged to an aristocrat or a judge, but was actually coming from a moving statue. A gargoyle to be precise.
Have you ever walked under the eaves of a really old church? Ever looked up at a gargoyle and asked "Is that creepy little thing watching me?"
Well, some of them are. They're quite harmless, well most of them, and they are great illusionists, they can appear like worn little statues of monsters, blending in with the aged stones. They don't do any harm, they just like to watch the world go by, and they're terrific gossips. There are about three of them flying around the school grounds at any one time, and to date no one ever noticed that they rarely appeared in the same place twice.
Except me.
This one's name was Jeremiah (his real name is both difficult to spell and impossible for a human to pronounce, so he always insisted I call him Jeremiah). He was about three feet tall with grey skin, there were four small, bone coloured horns protruding from his skull above his orange eyes. Two large, bat-like wings protruded from his shoulders, exiting through two neat holes in what appeared to be a Savile Row hand-tailored suit.
Jeremiah is my friend, and he loves to show off. He's a great one for an "I know something you don't know", and his information is always bang on the money. He's helped me to avoid having my head forcefully introduced to a toilet on more than one occasion.
"Yes, but he has a good excuse, this time," I replied as the dapper little creature dropped down into the little cubby I was hiding in. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and dusted off a small step before sitting on it gingerly.
"Doesn't he always?" he countered, a sardonic look on his face.
This wasn't the first time we'd discussed my brother, or my perennial inability to just leave him to it. The gargoyle does not approve of my coddling him. Can't say I really like it much either, but if anything ever happened to the half-wit, it would upset my mother.
"He's working hard tonight, writing an essay," I replied, picking a chocolate bar out of my bag and offering it to him, "I'm just helping to get a couple of the little things off his plate while he's dealing with the big stuff."
Jeremiah stared at the chocolate with naked desire. Gargoyles have something of a sweet tooth, and Jeremiah's was worse than most. He took it from me as fast as decorum would allow, offering me a muttered thank-you before pulling the wrapper off and swallowing it in a couple of bites.
"You quite sure about that?" he asked finally, using his hanky to wipe a small spot of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
"About what?" I asked, turning back Romeo's misadventures in romance.
