Author's Note: The long overdue third chapter has arrived! I've been tied up lately, but I seem to be on a writing streak the past week or so, so hopefully chapter four won't take long. Enjoy!

The Magus Chronicles

Book One: Nightsong

Chapter Three: Deception

"Pardon m' curiosity, sir, but where did ya happen to find such a strange child as that girl?" Iriwinn was glancing over a list that Magus had handed her.

"Out on the road several nights back," he answered offhandedly. He was glancing through a small leather-bound book, where he kept all his notes and leads about his sister. His sister's disappearance in their own time had led him to believe that she must have been thrown through a gate herself, and he'd decided he needed a more systematic approach than combing every inch of the world throughout history. "Why do you ask?"

"'Tis only that…" The servant hesitated. "Well, she's odd," she finished.

"I see…" Magus looked up. He found Sharlot odd, as well, but he had little experience with young girls, and any additional information could serve him well. Besides, it was necessary to appear relatively normal to this woman. He didn't need the sort of trouble he often found in Guardia in recent years. "How so?"

"She… doesn't want anyone else near ya."

Magus frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I think she was tryin' to threaten me yesterday."

Magus pursed his lips. "That little slip of a girl? Don't tell me you're afraid of her."

"No, but 'tis abnormal. She's not a relative or anythin'?"

"I have no relation to that sprite, and I wouldn't claim one if I did," Magus told her flatly. The child was useful, but she was foolish, and he'd never connect himself with anyone so lacking in basic common sense.

"Then, she certainly isn't your lover…"

Magus bristled. "What are you insinuating?" he snapped. "By the Void, no! I've had no relations with her beyond the communication necessary for her to guide me through this country." His eyes glistened coldly as he glared at the woman.

"I'm very sorry, sir!" The servant bowed her, deeply apologetic. "'Tis only, she's almost jealously protective of you. She tried to chase me away, like I was somehow interferin' or somethin'."

The sorcerer's scowl deepened, but he turned his gaze to the floor. So, Sharlot didn't want anyone to come near him, did she? She hadn't shown any affection toward him in particular, but she was overly willing to trust him. "What did she say exactly?"

"She told me she wasn't 'too friendly' to those who got in her way. For the life o' me, I don't know what she meant. To be quite honest, she belongs in an asylum."

"Perhaps," Magus remarked, half to himself. "You may go, now, but if anything else strange happens, let me know."

The woman nodded her agreement and slipped out the door, muttering to herself about lunatics.

Magus could easily admit that his guide was strange, but she wasn't a lunatic. He'd spent enough time around lunatics to know. Iriwinn believed she was a stalker, a perversion of a love-struck schoolgirl, but her demeanor toward him left no indication of a romantic obsession. There was no reason for it, either; she couldn't have possibly known anything of him before he came to Imarn.

No, the behavior the servant described was more indicative of someone who was hiding something. If Sharlot didn't want anyone near Magus, it was because she wanted to keep a secret, not because she feared losing imaginary affections. Then, she was most likely trying to manipulate him in some way, whether for her own purposes or those of another. His instincts told him that it was another's.

Magus shook his head, turning his attention to the food Iriwinn had brought him. In another time, a suspicion would have been enough that he could have dragged his information from Sharlot by torture and killed her before sunrise. But she was too young for it to have ever been a settling concept to him, and he had seen Schala too recently not to sense the heartache such a thought would have caused her.

No, bloodshed wasn't the answer – at least, not now. He would discover who Sharlot was aiding, then decide what to do with her. And deal with her leader.

"I may not know you, Magus," Sharlot said in the sorcerer's native tongue, "but I can tell something's happened. You're shorter with me than usual. You haven't spoken to me in four days. I don't think you've even left this room in three."

"I've told you," Magus growled, sitting up straighter in his chair. "It's none of your concern. Now, leave!" His patience was wearing thin. His head throbbed with a nearly unbearable pain, and his throat felt raw enough to bleed. Magus, who had only on rare occasions ever fallen ill in his life, was certainly very ill, now.

"Magus, what's wrong with you? Don't tell me there's nothing. I've never seen you so pale as now. I didn't think it possible."

"I tell you it's nothing. Now, go!"

Sharlot sighed resignedly. "Alright, if that's what you want. Only, promise me you'll at least get some rest. You need sleep."

"Anything if you'll remove yourself from my presence," Magus muttered darkly.

With a silent nod, Sharlot left the room, her shoulders slumped. She glanced back at him as she closed the door, a deep frown upon her brow.

Magus went to the door and locked it, leaning heavily on the wall for a moment, his head resting in his hands. He was dizzy; he couldn't remember feeling so ill. He could feel the fever burning through him, a wildfire in his veins, but he was freezing. He'd never been so cold.

Taking slow, unsteady steps, Magus made his way to the single bed in the room. He may not have been able to trust Sharlot, but her advice was sound; he needed rest. Pulling every blanket on the bed up around his shoulders, the sorcerer drifted off into a deeper sleep than he'd known in years.

Janus stared at the marble floors of the halls of Zeal Palace. The stone felt cold under his bare feet, but comfortably so. But somewhere in the palace, he could hear water rushing. Its whispers echoed through the hall, and the Black Wind had begun to howl.

Water began to seep from the walls. It rained from the ceiling. It flowed down the stairs. But, no, not water. Blood – so thick it was almost black – and cold as ice. The scent of iron was overwhelming, and he could taste it in the back of his throat. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't remember how; he no longer knew how to be afraid.

A slender figure lit the doorway atop the stairs, and Janus knew the angelic form before he turned. "Janus!" Schala cried in anguish. The boy whirled to face his sister, his heart pounding.

The blood had soaked into her icy blue hair and stained her fair skin. Tears streaked her face, leaving lines in the crimson spatters. "Schala…" Janus whispered, reaching toward his only companion. He moved for the steps, but something caught him by the ankles, dragging him down. He tried to scream again to scream, but no sound escaped his lips.

Schala raced down the stairs, gripping the railing with white knuckles. She stretched her hand toward him, her fingertips brushing his. But his captor dragged him down, pulling him under the dark, crimson river. He choked on the blood as he tried to inhale. It filled his lungs…

Magus's eyes snapped open as he startled awake, and he sat up quickly. The world spun wildly, and the sorcerer experienced a rare sense of vertigo. He clung to the bed post, shutting opening and shutting his eyes tightly several times until the whirling in his head ceased. It had been years since he'd been so ill.

The sorcerer tensed as he caught sight of Sharlot, the little Elfgirl frozen in a look of unmistakable shock and fear. She clutched his leather-bound book in her hand, the page flipped to somewhere in the middle. She closed it with a snap, returning it to the table gingerly. She stepped back, watching him cautiously.
"What are you doing in here?" he demanded in a hiss, the threat in his tone emphasized by the dark accent of the Zealan tongue.

"Nothing," she offered meekly, clutching her hands before her. "I was just curious."

"Curiosity is dangerous," he growled, dragging himself to his feet.

Sharlot eyed him cautiously. "So it seems," she replied, the tension apparent in her voice. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Magus leaned heavily against the bed frame, a wave of nausea washing over him.

Sharlot took a step toward him, observing him carefully. "You aren't well, Magus."

The sorcerer didn't respond, choosing instead to rush toward the window. He threw open the casement and was immediately violently ill onto the grass below. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of Sharlot's slender hands pulling his hair back from his face. They felt refreshingly cool as they brushed his neck.
"You have a terrible fever," she murmured.

Magus spat, trying to rid himself of the taste of bile. "Don't ever go through my possessions again," he whispered harshly.

"I promised I wouldn't, and I won't. I wish you'd trust me."

Magus straightened, shutting the window and turning back to Sharlot. He leaned heavily against the wall.

Sharlot stepped back, looking up at him. "I'm taking you to a Healer tomorrow morning. No arguing."

"No arguing," Magus agreed wearily. "Now, leave."

With a nod, Sharlot made her way to the door and slipped out of the room. Magus waited until the door had clicked shut before he made his way back to his bed. He barely pulled the blankets up around himself before sleep claimed him once more.