CHAPTER TWO

  The Secret

  III

  It had been seven years since that hot summer day when Gramma Fark had turned up unannounced, bearing the news that had broken Ez’s heart: Jack had been murdered by a gang of outlaws on the road to Redcherries, where he and his woodwind quintet were scheduled to perform. That was the story, anyway, which Ez had believed for seven years. Now she was sure it was a lie. She waited for Gramma to speak, but when she did, it was directed toward Wilburn.

  “Your father was a good man,” Gramma said. “Brave, and generous, and honorable. But...” her shoulders slumped, “he was a criminal. It wasn’t evil what he did —not really. He was a good man. It was the people he did business with...” she shook her head forlornly. “Jack was part of a, well, I suppose you’d have to call it a cartel. A sort of network of individuals with ties to the Islorian Guild. He didn’t talk about it much. Didn’t want Loy and me to be complicit if he ever got caught. Told us he was a courier of rare imports. Well, we could read between the lines. He was a smuggler, and no mere tariff ducker either. Banned materials is what I figure, magical narcotics like ibibjib or galaforite—stuff that makes whiskey look like mother’s milk. Of course Jack never told us what he brought across the border, or what happened to it afterward. He hinted that the Guild was the supplier, that he was one in a series of middle-men. Whatever it was, the product must have been extremely valuable, probably made in Isloria and trafficked through New Trapoban, then handed off to Jack in the Skhohazidak so he could sneak it into Argylon. A scheme like that was bound to backfire eventually. Jack swam with sharks, but he was never really one of them. And in the end, they turned on him.” Gramma stared glumly down into her cup, “I told it true, Ez. He was murdered by outlaws. I just left out the part about him being one of them.”

  Ez frowned. This revelation didn’t shock her as much as Gramma seemed to expect. Ez had been well-acquainted with Jack’s disdain for authority, his willingness, perhaps even eagerness, to break laws if he considered them unjust. In truth, she’d always found his swashbuckling ways rather attractive. Jack had hinted, all but outright confessed, that his woodwind quintet earned extra money via petty—and Ez had to assume victimless—crimes. Jack Fark an outlaw? It made perfect sense. Killed by his comrades though? Something was missing from that story. Ez narrowed her eyes at Gramma, who responded by jutting her chin subtly at Wilburn, as if to say, Not in front of the boy.

  Ez returned the tiniest of nods. She would force the details out of Gramma later, after Wilburn went to bed. For now, probably best not to fill his brain with further tales of his father’s crimes, given how badly Wilburn wanted to be like him. Gramma seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for she said, “Your father screwed up, Wilburn. He would want you to learn from his mistake, not copy it. I’m sure if he were here he’d tell you not to break the law; he’d tell you to choose better friends than he did.”

  “Okay,” Wilburn said. “Can we have pie now?”

  Gramma blinked at him.

  Ez had to hide her smile. She got up and set the pie in front of Wilburn on the table, saying, “Your dad was a fanatic about Gramma’s cooking, especially her pies, and especially her lemon meringue pies. He always insisted that he be the one to cut it; it was sort of a tradition. Here.” She offered him the handle of her hunting-knife, which had been given a promotion following the snapping of the kitchen knife. Wilburn took it from her solemnly and sliced into the pie with the air of a surgeon. While he worked, Ez said to Gramma, “Vexpids, did you call them?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Gramma started. She seemed to have been lost in thought. “Yeah, vexpids... What the heck those three were doing this far north beats me. You mostly find them in the desert.”

  “They obviously came because of Wilburn’s magic,” Ez said. “Don’t tell me it was a coincidence. They turned up within hours. And they aren’t natural insects, clearly. The physics wouldn’t work; they wouldn’t be able to stand under their own weight, much less fly.”

  “It wasn’t a coincidence,” Gramma agreed. “I’d wager vexpids have some way to sense kineturgic activity. It’s never been documented, but then, not much is known about them, even amongst vivopaths like myself. That explains why they were drawn to Wilburn—”

  “No it doesn’t,” Ez interrupted. “What’s kin—”

  “Kineturgy is locomotion magic,” Gramma interrupted back. “It’s what Wilburn was doing earlier. That must be why the vexpids were drawn to him. But you said it yourself, Ez: they turned up within hours. Closest hive I’ve ever heard of is clear down by Gratwohl, would’ve taken days to get here, or nights, really, because vexpids don’t fly when the sun’s out. So those three must have departed long before Wilburn became a wizard, and there’s no way that they could have known ahead of time...”

  “So they were in the area already for some unrelated reason,” Ez said, catching Gramma’s drift.

  “Exactly. What that reason might’ve been I’ve no idea. But I doubt vexpids will bother us again. Just to be safe, Wilburn, let’s not do more kineturgy tonight. I’ll send a report to the Vivopathy Department in the morning. Maybe they can sort it out.” Catching Ez’s eye, Gramma added, “vivopathy is life-force magic—plants and animals and so forth. It’s my knack.”

  “Your...?”

  “Knack, yeah. Every magician has an innate aptitude for one of the five arts of magic; the first spell usually reveals it. Kineturgy is Wilburn’s. That knack runs strong in the Farks. Jack had it, and Grampa Loy... You should have seen the games they used to play together... Ah, Wilburn, it’s not fair that you never got to know them. They would be so proud of you—” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, before continuing in a businesslike tone, “But you need to be more careful from now on. You came this close to killing yourself earlier: kineturgic exhaustion. You used up all your energy and your body started to shut down. Be grateful the enchantment broke when you lost consciousness, because if you had managed to keep flying another minute or two...” Gramma slid a finger across her throat. “I’d better never catch you doing that again, boy, or so help me I will whip your heinie raw.”

  “Gramma!” Ez said sharply.

  “Oh, hush. I just want to make sure he understands. Magic is dangerous. Too many young magicians wind up dead because they treat it like a toy. It isn’t. Magic is like fire. It’s useful when it’s under your control, but if it’s not, it can destroy everything, including you.”

  “Point taken,” Ez said. “Now I want to make sure you understand: it’s not your place to punish my son, or to threaten him. Ever.”

  The two women glared at one another. Finally, Gramma said, “How come you haven’t touched your pie?”

  Surprised, Ez looked down and discovered it was so. She quickly took a bite. It was, of course, utterly perfect: the crust crisp, the meringue foamy, the filling gelatinously yellow, bursting with citrus tang mellowed by sweetness and a delicate, buttery breadiness.

  “God Himself couldn’t find fault with this,” Ez admitted grudgingly. She cut another bite, then paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Hang on...” she said. “Did you make this with... magic?”

  Gramma winked at her.

  “That’s cheating,” Ez said, outraged.

  Gramma chuckled smugly. “It’s not a competition, Ezzie. You’ve got meringue on your lip, by the way.”

  It was so a competition, Ez thought, as she dabbed her lip indignantly, but she couldn’t pursue the subject further without making herself look pathetic. Gramma had outmaneuvered her with a chess master’s skill, and they both knew it. Ez scowled at her slice of pie. For a moment, she considered not eating the rest of it in silent protest against the older woman’s cheating. Then she ate the rest of it.