Ben’s head spun with disbelief. “It’s too much,” he whispered to himself, the words hanging heavy in the air. Doubt gnawed at his mind as his hand instinctively went to his chest, feeling the bruise from the masked stranger’s kick.
The pain worked as a stark reminder of his newfound situation. It was useless to deny the tangible ache, the memory of the encounter—visceral proof of an undeniable attempt on his life.
Was it all a dream, a figment of his imagination, or a harsh reality? Wilhelm, perceptive of Ben’s internal struggle, fixed him with a steady gaze. “There’s no disproving what you saw, where they hurt you,” Wilhelm said. His words cut through Ben’s uncertainty. Words laden with an unshakable truth. The events of the past day were etched into his flesh and mind. Nut’s lifeless expression flashed across his mind’s eye.
Wilhelm opened his arms wide, silently pleading for Ben to grasp the gravity of their situation. “This is no game, Benjamin,” he said with conviction, his tone unwavering. “A number of fatal outcomes are even expected, it’s an inevitability. Sorcerers operate at stakes far beyond the mundane. The power we wield comes at a cost, a price we constantly pay in blood.”
The weight of Wilhelm’s words settled heavily on Ben. The enormity of his newfound abilities and the dangers they entailed began to dawn on him. The realization hit him suddenly and strongly. The situation he faced was undeniably real. He gripped the hilt of the wyrdknife tightly, its solidity reassuring him. All too real.
“You have another choice, lad.” His voice was low and steady. The room grew quieter. Everything held its breath except the now-dead embers. Ben’s heart raced with anticipation. “Reject the World That Is Not. You are not obligated to follow this path. Leave both Dunport-Salem and the Circle behind. As you grow older, your powers will atrophy, and your memories of magic will go along with them,” he said, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms, but not before he took another puff of his pipe. “You can return to normalcy, whatever and wherever that may be.”
Sybil’s eyes widened and her lips parted as if she had something to say, but she thought it best not to do so. Ben pondered the magnitude of the proposition laid before him. To reject this new world meant safety and the chance to forget about the deaths of Nut and Miss Wormwood and about the discarded corpses of their assailants in some musty alleyway. And yet…
Ben laughed out loud. This took both Wilhelm and Sybil by surprise, who looked at each other as if he had loosened a screw. “The World That Is ain’t all that. I was raised by witches and spent half my life locked in an attic eating gruel, while they ate us orphans in turn,” he gently put the wyrdknife on the table so that Wilhelm and Sybil could also see it.
“I always knew there was something going on backstage. This World That Is Not that you mention. I felt it in my bones. I’ve always sought answers, and now I have them in front of me. I’m not about to go around forgetting anything.”
Wilhelm’s lips curled into a half-smile, a glint of understanding in his eyes. Ben met his gaze; there was still the matter of staying here, waiting for who-knows-who. The idea of Miss Ratworth and Miss Toadwart combing the streets of Dunport-Salem for him didn’t sound too appealing. “Can I come with you?”
Sybil looked at Wilhelm expectantly. However, he shook his head. She put her hands on her hips with an annoyed gesture. “You’ve both seen the nature of our circumstances. Sybil and I are being followed. It would put everyone involved in unnecessary risk. Do not worry; for all its faults, the Circle will take care of your lodgings and tutelage far better than this orphanage you speak of.”
Wilhelm noticed the discontent etched on both their faces. He sighed profoundly. He sat back in the chair with one leg on top of the other. His attitude suddenly became very serious. The joviality vanished, replaced by a weighty solemnity that demanded their attention. He scratched his chin, deep in thought, and then his face brightened with an idea.
“Listen closely, Benjamin,” he said. “Our destination is a city named Dool. It is the seat of the Circle and the heart of the World That Is Not. As you witnessed firsthand, there are forces at play that would keep us from our goal. We find ourselves in the midst of an old conflict, secret even to most of those you will meet in this realm. Avoid mentioning us. There is an old saying in the Circle: All roads lead to Dool. If you embrace your role as a sorcerer and make it there, seek us out. I promise that, if you still seek answers, I’ll provide them without reservations.”
Ben absorbed Wilhelm’s words, hook, line, and sinker. A magical city that lay at the heart of the World That Is Not? Just by knowing such a place existed, there was no way that he could ever go back to his old life in the World That Is. “I’ll find you in Dool,” Ben said, his voice resolute. “I won’t let my friend’s death go to waste. I refuse to be at the mercy of witches anymore, so to speak,” he added with a weak smile.
“That’s the spirit, lad,” Wilhelm said, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. He stood up as he rubbed his hands, a sly expression on his face. “Now, time for parting gifts, then.”
“Hey, you didn’t give me any parting gifts!” Sybil exclaimed.
“Still together, aren’t we darling?” Wilhelm replied. And then he approached Ben and grabbed the wyrdknife. He spun it in the air and caught it effortlessly from the tip, offering the handle to him.
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“The first gift is a piece of advice: guard the wyrdknife with your life, and it will do the same for you,” he said with a sense of gravitas. “This is no ordinary weapon. It was crafted by the foul cursespells of witches, a product of the dark arts. You’ve seen its power and its ability to transform into other weapons. Learn to use it well, but be cautious. Keep it hidden, and reveal it only when absolutely necessary. Never flaunt it openly. Let it be a secret ally.”
Ben nodded, understanding the importance of discretion. He accepted the wyrdknife and, once sheathed, slid it back into the inside pocket of his tattered jacket.
“Now, for the second gift,” Wilhelm said. His voice dropped even lower. He placed his hands on Ben’s head, and immediately a strange sensation washed over him. His body hummed as if charged with electricity.
“What are you doing?” Ben asked, startled by the unexpected touch.
Wilhelm’s eyes were closed. He ignored the question and pressed his fingers against Ben’s temples. “Tapping into your latent abilities. The spell you cast when you crossed was no coincidence. It should belong to the school of magic you naturally have an affinity for. So, if I provide you with some of my own power—” Ben felt a sudden surge of energy, accompanied by a strong, sudden migraine. “You should be able to cast that spell at will. It was a highspell, by the way. Easy there, it’s done.”
The migraine immediately subsided, and Ben felt tremendously exhausted. He collapsed back on the couch. As the weight of the day’s events bore down on him, Ben’s eyelids grew heavy. He felt a deep weariness settle in, with his muscles aching from exhaustion. The surrounding room seemed to blur and distort, with the edges of his vision growing fuzzy.
His mind, once racing with thoughts and questions, had now become a haze of fatigue. The last remnants of his consciousness clung to the image of Wilhelm and Sybil, but their voices faded into the distance. He succumbed to the overwhelming tiredness, his body relaxing into the cushions. The embers in the hearth died, and Ben fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
⦶⦶⦶
Soft morning light filled the room at the Ivy Lodge, accompanied by the distant chirping of birds. Ben woke up and felt more refreshed than he had in ages. He touched the side of his torso. The swollen bruise wasn’t there anymore. His body was miraculously intact. He attributed it to whatever Wilhelm had done to him the night before—that second parting gift of his. Speaking of the Devil, he thought as he looked around the room.
Ben shifted to his side. The blankets slipped as he sat up. Confusion clouded his mind momentarily as he snooped around for any signs of his companions. The fireplace was now cold and lifeless, its warmth replaced by the chill of daybreak. The brown paper bags, remnants of their impromptu feast, were gone, leaving an empty table in their wake.
A pang of loneliness tugged at his chest as he realized he was alone again. Sybil and Wilhelm, his unexpected guides, were gone. With a sigh, Ben decided to search for any clues to their whereabouts.
It wasn’t long before something caught his eye. Next to the couch in the carpet was a lonesome letter, with no sender or recipient; Ben hadn’t seen it when he initially woke. He grabbed it and sat back on the couch, ready to open it. He slid a single sheet of paper from within, neatly folded in half. The moment he started to unfurl the letter, it jumped from his hand midair, possessed by a life of its own.
Ben was startled by the unexpected reaction of the letter. Contracting violently until it caught fire, it turned to ashes in a matter of seconds, accompanied by a colorful smoke that filled the room with an earthy aroma. It reminded Ben of the contents of Wilhelm’s pipe. He didn’t know if it was a hallucination or not, but as soon as the fragrance suffused his nostrils, Ben began to hear his voice. It reverberated like an echo in his head.
Listen, Benjamin; you will not hear this message a second time. So, pay attention to what you’re being told. It might just mean the difference between life and death. And boy, do I wish I meant that figuratively.
Ben raised a hand to his temple. It was a funny sensation. Almost like a tickle under the skull. Wilhelm’s voice continued its speech.
I have shared some of my own magical prowess with you. You should now be able to cast the single spell that you have manifested so far. Through practice, study, and repetition, more spells should reveal themselves to you. As for the wyrdknife, I wish I could say the same, but its workings are beyond my expertise. This being said, I know that you will figure it out. Again, do not speak of it to anyone. Lastly, your goal: Dool, the City of Wonders. Like I suggested yesterday, you will have a better time of it if you wait for the Circle to send its people. But you seemed determined to make your own way, and I have struck a deal with you, young man. A deal I intend to keep. If you still mean to carve your own path to Dool, I advise making your way into the Blackwoods. There, in the heart of the forest, lives a Two-Faced Man who’ll know what to do. Only he can deliver you to our destination.
He distinguished a second voice in the background, Sybil’s, though he couldn’t make out her words. She had probably been telling Wilhelm what to say.
Yes, I already told him about it. No, he will not forget to—Oh, he’ll know what to do. Let me finish the message, Sybil. There was a brief silence. Ahem. Sorry about that, Ben. One last thing. A sorcerer should not be dressed shabbily; appearance holds importance in our world. We got you a fresh change of clothes, and there should be running hot water in the bathtub. Once you’re done and return the key to the reception desk, you’ll be given some provisions we managed to scrounge up for your journey. Good luck, and may Fortune smile upon you.
Another silence, but this one was definite. He went into the bathroom and started the water, then took a good look at himself in the mirror—he was caked in dirt and grime, but his bruises and scratches were truly gone.
His clothes, if they could still be called that, were indeed ruined. Probably since he fell into the bush outside Miss Wormwood’s office. It wasn’t long before a cloud of steam covered the room. Ben slipped out of his garments and soaked his whole body in the hot water. His body instantly protested, but a pleasant sensation soon replaced its complaints.
After half an hour, Ben emerged from the bathroom, his skin tingling with warmth and relaxation. He looked remarkably transformed wearing his new clothes. Clad in a pair of well-fitted trousers that cinched at his waist with a leather belt and a crisp white shirt to boot, he felt a strange mixture of comfort and elegance. A green waistcoat and brown jacket completed his ensemble. A pair of sturdy leather boots waited for him beside the bed.
He strapped the wyrdknife safely in his jacket and took one last look at himself in the mirror. He scarcely recognized the reflection staring back at him. The bruises and scratches were still faintly visible, but they no longer defined his appearance. Running a hand through his freshly washed hair, a surge of newfound confidence welled up within him.
With that, he left the Ivy Lodge’s room behind him and thundered downstairs, where he was met with a knapsack full of non-perishables and preserves by an amiable middle-aged woman. The gracious hostess Wilhelm had mentioned the night before. Ready as can be, Ben thought. He stepped outside the hotel and back into the streets of Dunport-Salem, thus embarking upon his quest.