The Artan Legacy was far too potent for those not privy to its secrets to withstand. Magians quickly found that their abilities distinguished them from the common folk, and even the most imposing, well-armed soldier could be rendered as defenseless as a child if one wielded the proper sigils.

  Honorable magians, those with no malice in their hearts, were not long for this world.. The peril they posed, merely by existing, ensured that they were either subdued and imprisoned, or else conscripted by those in power who sought to harness their talents. It was commonly said that magians followed one of two paths: either they became official Magisters within the courts of the nobles, or they wandered as criminals, marked by bounties. Magians who would not align themselves with the established orders were presumed to have sinister intentions and were derisively labeled as mavericks—magian apostates.

  “Don’t move,” the old man calling himself Chelyo ordered us.

  In his grip, he held a crimson jewel, roughly the size of a child’s fist, encased within a gold setting. I recognized it immediately—a talisman of ignition, a weapon far deadlier than any musket or blade.

  “He is not bluffing, Princess. Obey him,” I warned. "What he holds is an instrument of destruction. It bears a sigil carved into its base, reacting with the gold and guided by the ruby. At his whim, he can trigger an explosion akin to an alchemical reaction with gunpowder. It could tear us apart with ease, rendering us little else than a faint, red mist.”

  Princess whimpered, her realization dawning.

  “You recognize this, do you?” Chelyo observed Princess’s expression. “Good. That will simplify matters. Untie that fat purse from your hip and toss it to your left. Now,” he instructed with a purposeful calm.

  “P-please… don’t hurt me!” Princess softly begged, complying with his orders, part of her driven by fear, part by the counsel I continued to provide. No sum of money was worth her life. Let him take it. What mattered most was ensuring her safe escape from this den of wickedness.

  “I will not harm you, so long as you do as you are told,” the magian apostate reassured her with a cold confidence. From within his robes, he withdrew a thin, square slice of wood and tossed it to the ground near us. Inscribed upon it was a sigil, one I could not personally employ, but which I nevertheless recognized. “The foolish rich children who come to my shop for remedies for their imagined ills at least have the decency to wear some earrings, a bracelet, perhaps a tiara—little things I can sell to eke out a living,” he remarked, gesturing towards our lack of adornments. “Yet you possess nothing but that cheap mirror. What kind of woman are you, anyhow? You wear costly clothes and paint your face like a noblewoman, but how did you know of my potion?”

  “Princess, the sigil on the floor is meant to erase our memory of this encounter. Let him do it. Understood?” I advised as calmly as I could muster. “Just let him take what he desires. It is not worth fighting him.”

  “You’re going to erase my memory?” Princess wondered aloud, which she should not have done.

  The man cackled stridently and humorlessly. “Quite a savant, aren’t you? How do you even recognize the sigil? Yes, I will play a few tricks on your mind.”

  “Shatter the mirror, cut yourself with the glass,” I urged, panic setting in as I realized his true intent.

  “What?” Princess was unsure whether she had heard me correctly.

  “I said cut yourself,” I repeated, my voice firmer. “Act panicked and drop the mirror. When it breaks, prick one of your fingers with a shard, and then pretend to clean the blood on your dress. Draw a cross with it; be careful not draw his notice.”

  Chelyo had not merely implied that he intended to erase the memory of this encounter; he planned to plant a suggestion within us. He would likely compel Princess to return to his shop, perhaps bringing valuables or jewelry with her, milking my hostess for all she was worth, and there were other sinister possibilities of how she could be exploited. If she marked her dress with blood instead, even if my memory were tampered with, I would notice the symbol. Drawing a cross would clarify that the action was deliberate. I would suspect the truth and avoid Princess returning.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “Ah! I’m… s-sorry!” Princess submissively apologized as she dropped the mirror, arriving at the same conclusion as I after a precipitated explanation. Alas, the soft soil below us did not suffice to shatter the glass. I could feel her dismay. What else could we do? What else?

  Chelyo did not deign to acknowledge Princess’s contrived clumsiness. “Tell me, my little prodigy, what is that you are wearing?”

  An idea occurred to me. Princess’s yellow and white ensemble was quite eye-catching. Even to the undiscerning eye like myself or possibly Chelyo, it would appear as remarkably valuable.

  “Princess! Your petticoat and shift! They are white!” I hoped the fallen mirror still reflected her eyes so I could relay my thoughts. “Use the dirt from the floor to draw a cross!”

  “T-this is an Arbinian dress, v-very expensive! They hardly make these anymore,” Princess caught on to my meaning commendably fast. Had she been so perspicacious when judging this criminal before, we might not have been in this conundrum. “P-please take it, just… let me go!” She began unfastening her bodice and corset, deftly loosening them to remove the garments.

  He did not stop us, thankfully. Later, I would surely wonder why our dress had gone missing and about the marks and take action. Surely. I had to notice—I had to!

  Princess’s fine yellow dress dropped to the dirt floor of the man’s dismal shop. She stepped out of it and draped it carefully over the small purse containing all our coin, stained a fingertip with the damp soil in the process and surreptitiously drew a mark upon the back of the petticoat.

  Chelyo studied us as if deciding what to do next. Drawing a conclusion, without his aim with the talisman of ignition faltering, he grabbed some cloth from the floor and threw it.

  “Change into these,” he commanded.

  Had he seen the markings? No, it was unlikely. The lighting was dim. I surmised he had concluded that a lady leaving his establishment in mere undergarments would attract too much attention. A simple, though humble, outfit would be less conspicuous.

  I doubted he cared much that the girl was forced to disrobe before him; he was far too ancient. As a magian, and one with access to a talisman as powerful as the one in his right hand, he could very well be over a century in age. Princess turned her back to him before undressing, visibly uneasy. We covered ourselves with a dusty, old, brown cloak that hung to the middle of our calves.

  This meager attire would be a glaring inconsistency, would it not? No matter how thoroughly our memories were altered, I hoped to notice. The cold soil beneath our bare feet sent shivers through us, and Princess hugged herself for warmth.

  “Step on that sigil I threw,” Chelyo ordered, pointing to the wooden platform with the sigil I had recognized. “Place either foot upon it.” Princess chose her right. “Now stay there; do not move until I say so.”

  The maverick briefly rummaged through his shop and retrieved three more slender wooden sheets, each bearing sigils. I recognized two, and Princess would surely know one—Mental Fragility, which we had employed on Raiya before.

  “Carithio!” he cried in a commanding tone, and the sigil beneath Princess’s foot activated, sending a jolt up our leg. “Amib du Forgouz!” he pressed the familiar sigil to our forehead while we remained stunned by the first hexerei that coursed through us. “Vallerac!” he invoked the third sigil, which I then realized was intended to induce sleep.

  Princess collapsed to her knees, her arms releasing their grip on her body. She toppled backwards, unconscious, unaware of herself. Chelyo was enacting something similar to what I had done to that poor maid in the halls of my home.

  First, he had used a sigil to disrupt the formation of memories. While Princess was incapacitated, her mental defenses were stripped away, and then she was put to sleep. With this combination, he could manipulate our recollections and reshape us to his will.

  “There is nothing to fear,” Chelyo soothed, having put his deadly talisman of ignition away. “Let yourself drift. Focus solely on my voice.” He attempted to guide the slumbering girl into a deeper trance. Kneeling beside us, he placed his hands upon our head.

  “Yes…” Princess murmured, her voice faint, caught in the web of her dreams.

  “I shall ask you a series of questions. You will answer only with the truth,” Chelyo intoned, his words flowing like the recitation of a well-practiced script. “First, what is your name?”

  Princess’s mind drifted away, detached from reality, impervious to the cold that covered her skin with goosebumps. She could not muster the will to resist—not Chelyo, not anyone. Her pride dissolved, along with her fear, her concerns, even the memory of why she had entered this cursed shop. She was becoming the ideal subject for his interrogation.

  Yet, as Princess’s mind weakened, mine was apparently unaffected.

  “What is your name?” he patiently repeated the question.

  Princess’s eyes, now fully mine, snapped open, unsettling the knave kneeling before me, who gasped and flinched. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, charlatan. You dare refer to me as a wandering spirit? Very well, Earn your keep and cast me out, if you dare! Amib du Forgouz!”

  full story:

  Amazon

  Apple Books

  Barnes & Noble

  Everand

  Fable

  Kobo

  The Palace

  Smashwords

  Thalia

  Vivlio

  Audiobook now available! Fully voiced for each character! Featuring sound effects:

  Barnes & Noble

  Google Play

  Kobo, Walmart

  Storytel

  Apple