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, worried any more force might throw the whole thing off its hinges.
Then, he waited. And fidgeted. He glanced around toward the garden. Turnips look overripe. He prodded the air with a bit of magic and the green tops swelled. He smiled and let out a self-assured toot that ruffled his silken robes.
Two squat figures, a man and a woman, threw open the door. They both had the plain, dirt-streaked faces of your everyday farmers, right down to the flat leathery caps and threadbare accoutrements.
The woman’s eyes widened when she took in Athragast’s midnight robes and pointy hat. Her gaze fell lastly on his staff, which pulsed with a faint glow. (The glow was insignificant, but Athragast found it had rather a good effect for 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 breathed.
“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 demanded, 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 lady!” 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-paletted hovel and plopped into a simple wooden chair that looked to be 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. Call it destiny, or whatever you will… Well, you’ve got a world to save.” Athragast glanced up at the girl. (You’d think after decades of giving this speech to prospective heroes that Athragast might be accustomed to it. But after so many years of repeating himself, he had lost any care for propriety or patience).
Her eyes grew to saucers as she came to terms with the revelation Athragast had grown all too used to. “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.
“Hm? Oh, no. Not me. Boppkins’ll teach the girl.”
“Boppkins?”
“Not to worry. He hasn’t lost a student since that time with the werewolves. And the kid ended up better off anyway — got adopted by a nice family and fed kibble every morning.”
“You’re not my teacher?” the girl asked.
“As I said.”
“Why not?”
“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 just yet. Athragast gave her a critical look, shoved his foot back in his shoe, and stood. “You have five minutes to pack and say your goodbyes. I’ll be outside.” Another administrative task to slot in the ‘done’ pile.
The girls’ parents turned their tearful eyes to their only daughter as the wizard shoved out the door. “The Chosen One! Who knew?”
Truth was, there were plenty of chosen ones. It really wasn’t that special.
Athragast waited outside, scowling at the sunset.
