Prologue: Another Bloody Chosen One
Athragast stood on the stoop of a rickety farmhouse and steeled himself for yet another monotonous, destiny-fulfilling day.
Wizards of his standing always got the worst jobs.
He leaned toward the woodworm-inflicted door and tapped the end of his staff just above the knob; any more force might throw the whole thing off its hinges.
Then, he waited. And fidgeted. And couldn’t help but notice the overripe turnips sitting limp and untended in the front garden. Irresponsible plant owners. He prodded the air with a bit of magic until the green tops swelled to a robust size. The wizard let out a self-assured toot, ruffling his silken robes at the expelled arcana.
Two squat figures, a man and a woman, threw open the door. They both had the plain, dirt-streaked faces of everyday farmers, down to the flat leathery caps and threadbare accoutrements.
Athragast looked about as wizardly as one might expect: a long grey beard, unruly eyebrows, midnight-blue robes, a knobbly staff, and hunched shoulders from years spent squinting at old books. The woman’s eyes widened when she took in Athragast’s appearance. Her gaze fell lastly on his staff, which pulsed with a faint glow. (The glow was insignificant, but Athragast found it had a rather good effect on a first meeting. It made people think twice about robbing him, for one.)
“Mrs. and Mr. Fallywop, I presume?”
“We pay our taxes,” the woman blurted out.
“That’s nice,” Athragast said, peering over their heads. He couldn’t think of a single wizard interested in tax collection, but peasants couldn’t be expected to know everything. “Is your daughter home?”
“Wha’ d’yer wan’ wit’ ‘er?” the father asked, then gave a little cough and swallowed the bread he’d been chewing. “Sorry. I meant, what do you want with her?”
“That’s a matter between myself and her, I should think. Young person! Come here!” Athragast barked over the peasants’ protests. “Come out before your parents get in a fit. I’ve got a job for you.”
“For me?” The girl’s face popped out from around the corner. She scanned the old wizard with the contempt reserved for those of the teenage persuasion. “What’s it pay?”
“Well, I—it doesn’t—look here!” Athragast pushed past Mrs. and Mr. Fallywop into the mostly bare, brown-shaded hovel and plopped into a simple wooden chair held together by sheer force of will. He leaned his staff on the worn table, which glowed to accommodate the dim space, kicked off his left shoe, and began massaging a bunion.
“You can’t just—” began the wife.
“Excuse me—” said the husband.
Ignoring the parents’ protests, Athragast said, “You’ve been chosen. Amongst all the inexperienced citizens in the kingdom, the Runes of Destiny have appointed you for a mission of grave importance.” Athragast glanced up from his massaging to address the girl’s blank stare. “In other words, you’ve got a world to save.” After decades of giving this speech to prospective heroes, Athragast might have worked it into a refined recitation. But after so many years of prattling the same old tale, he’d lost any care for propriety… or patience.
The girl’s eyes grew to saucers as she came to terms with the revelation. “You’re saying that I’m—”
“Yep. You’re the Chosen One, yadda cadabra. Now pack your things. Fall semester starts soon, and I have lessons to prepare.”
The girl mouthed Athragast’s words back to herself, then said, “I don’t know how to fight.”
“Yes.”
“Or use magic.”
“That’s obvious.”
The girl folded her arms. “Are you even going to ask my name?”
“No point, really.”
Silence filled the room.
“Are you her mentor, then?” the mother asked, wringing her hands.
“Me? Oh, no. Boppkins’ll teach the girl.”
“Boppkins?”
“Not to worry. He hasn’t lost a student in…three years or so? Since that time with the werewolves. And the kid ended up better off anyway—got adopted by a nice family and fed a healthy helping of kibble every morning.”
“You’re not my teacher?” The girl glanced at her parents for help, but their expressions were anything but helpful.
“As I said.”
“How come?”
“Cause I’ve got better things to do.” That wasn’t precisely true, but there was no need to get into the messy politics of academia with someone he’d just met—and likely wouldn’t ever speak to again.
Athragast gave the family one last critical look, shoved his foot back into his shoe, and stood (with the help of his trusty staff, which got very little action these days). “You have five minutes to pack and say your goodbyes. I’ll be outside.”
Things weren’t like they used to be. He hadn’t seen a dragon in decades—heck, he hadn’t seen so much as a disgruntled lizard since that field trip to the zoo went awry. Now, wizardry was all administration, education, and eventual aging-into-impotence-ification.
The girls’ parents turned tearful eyes to their only daughter as Athragast shoved out the door. “The Chosen One! Who knew?” they exclaimed.
Athragast waited outside, scowling at the pretty pink sunset.
Truth was, there were plenty of Chosen Ones. It really wasn’t that special.
