Page 3 of The Mage on the Hill
It used to bring him joy. Now it brought only information as he expanded his lattice of awareness out to the edges of his property. Squirrel. Fox. Owl. Mouse. Worm. Cricket. All part of him in that moment. Still, amid the riot of life, all was quiet. Nothing invaded his sanctuary uninvited.
Nothing…. Wait. He halted his aimless wandering of the lattice and focused his listening through the dendritic channels of earth. Footsteps. Bipedal. Their rhythm a broken syncopation. At the front edge of his property, coming up his drive. The intruder had climbed the fence, which irritated him. The steps came up the curving drive, though. Stealth couldn’t be the goal. If it was, supreme incompetence was involved.
Or he could be high as a kite.
The impression ofmalecame through quite strongly, echoing into the stones of the driveway with every footfall. He wanted to ignore the intrusion, let the trespasser do whatever he came for and stumble on. A kernel of possessiveness overrode his desire for inaction, though. This was an invasion of his land, his house, his privacy. With a slow intake of breath, he released the pole and shuffled toward the front door.
Another homeowner might have gone for the gun cabinet. Darius didn’t need it.
He flipped on the outside lights, the ones on the front porch and the floodlights lining the drive. A human silhouette flinched and staggered at the sudden illumination, righted itself, and stumbled on. The sharp gradient of the drive seemed to be giving the intruder issues, each step slower than the one before. Darius reevaluated his initial assumptions as the young man reached the circle of lights from the porch. He was gasping, frost-white, and weaving on his feet, close to collapsing from exhaustion rather than from some illicit high.
“Go away!” Darius called out, more roar than shout as his disused larynx fought him for modulation and pitch.
Instead of turning and walking away like a sensible person, his intruder fell to his knees, hands held up in supplication. “Please. Mr. Valstad. You’re, like, my Obi-wan here. My only hope.”
Darius growled wordlessly, but that did nothing to dissuade his unwelcome visitor.
“Please. My name is Toby Jones. I’m an unplaceable. Montchanin just refused to keep trying. They were the last guild who would take me.” Jones shook his head, the white streak through the middle of his black hair blinking in and out of the light like a strobe.
“No.”
“Mr. Valstad, I’m dying. My own magic is killing me. I’m desperate. Any terms, any—”
“No! I can’t!”
“You taught others. Unplaceables like me.”
“Go. Away.”
Jones stared at him, stricken. He put a palm down on the paving stones and tried to get his feet under him to rise. Instead, he fell flat on his face and lay there unmoving.
Dammit. Darius debated leaving him out there, but the boy looked like he was on his last breaths and it was starting to rain. He could no more turn his back on a failing young man fainting in his driveway than he could let his koi suffer in a choked pond.
With an aggravated sigh, Darius pulled his cardigan closed and shuffled out into the rain in his worn corduroy slippers. He shook the boy by the shoulder first. That got him nothing except wetter as he waited for a response. Finally, he slid his arms under Jones and carried him inside, disturbed by how little he weighed. Not that he was big to begin with, but he was too thin, his bones painfully visible at his wrists and clavicles. This was a young mage in the final stages of self-destruction. Old anger rose in him at the realization that the guilds had failed another one. Even if Darius had been able to teach him, it would most likely have been too late.
Chapter Two
I SUPPOSEI should try to feed him.
Darius bypassed the sofa in the living room. Like much of the furniture in the house, it had been Aunt Eva’s, and he preserved enough pride not to ruin the cranes-on-cream-background upholstery. Besides, the sofa wasn’t long enough. He carried his foundling to the back of the house and down the stairs to the rec room, where the furniture was dark and oversized.
Carefully, he set Jones down on the longer end of the brown leather sectional, pulled off his shoes, and covered him with all three of the fleece blankets that had been scattered about the room. He gazed down at what was still a beautiful face despite the dark circles under the eyes and the too prominent bone structure, and resisted the urge to brush that single white lock from Jones’s forehead. Stupid. He shouldn’t even have gone to the door. Should have pretended he wasn’t home.
Now it was done, though. He couldn’t take it back. Nor could he call an ambulance. An unplaceable near his end in a normal human hospital would lead to terrible tragedy. So. It wasn’t complicated. Merely wretched. He would take care of the boy until his final magical seizure killed him. Outcast, yes, but he was certainly capable enough to contain a wild magic surge safely on his own, and they were isolated enough on his hill that the damage would be minimal if he couldn’t, and damn the guild for driving the boy to such desperate measures.
Still need to feed him.
He made his slow way back up the stairs to the kitchen, where he stood staring at the contents of the refrigerator, unable to settle on anything suitable to give someone wasting away. He had food—eggs, yogurt, milk, some other things in containers—but none of that struck him as appropriate. The freezer wasn’t much better, filled as it was with microwaveable dinners. A bit of digging did turn up some pork chops. That would do.
Darius frowned at the pork chop staring up at him from the baking sheet. There had been a time when he enjoyed cooking. Living alone, he’d fallen out of the habit. Many days, eating for him was simply a chore like any other. Fine for him, but now he needed to entice someone to eat whose body desperately required extra calories.Pepper. Rosemary.Are there potatoes still?
No. The potatoes in the bin had reached the wrinkling, soft stage. Not something he could serve his impromptu guest. Still frowning, he shoved the tray into the oven, then sat at the kitchen table to wait while dinner baked with his head resting on his arms.
This was all a terrible mistake. How was he going to find the energy to deal with another human being?
WAKING UPafter passing out was something Toby thought he could turn into an art form. What sort of art, he wasn’t certain, but something to do with first impressions of new surroundings. This one he probably would’ve titledNeglected Man Cavewith its massive leather furniture, projection TV, and evenly layered dust that hinted at abandonment. He sat up slowly, grateful for the multiple blankets as he started to shiver.
Still Valstad’s house? Impossible to say from this one room. At least he wasn’t facedown on the driveway. He couldn’t even say what Valstad looked like, since he’d been backlit from the light in the hall. Toby retained the impression of a hulking, shambling figure with a hoarse, snarling voice but little beyond that.
