Phony Potions

Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

My mind twisted back to Mallow. That innocent sounding laughter in the center of all of this chaos, which now included no less than a dozen rainbow colored doves, was the one who kidnapped her. He might have her locked up somewhere unpleasant and dangerous this very moment.

Having fun with him was like betraying Mallow.

Grudgingly, I crawled my way over to the end of the rolling stage. I stepped off onto the ground. The entire building was filled with whooping and cheering. I hadn't realized how very much a sorcerer could change reality itself. The properties of everything were shifting at Winsor's utterances. Sometimes he had to start over, getting halfway through a rhyme and being overtaken by giggles. But still, the dancing girls were flying, the stage was like a sea, the torches twinkled like multicolored stars, and as the music of the lackluster band was enhanced, I saw the notes swirling through the air like snowflakes. Throughout all of this, he hadn't miscast once. Was it just nerves that made his spells fail? Was he actually a good sorcerer?

I made my way back over to Sir Osoro, whose brow was furrowing in concentration. I pulled up a seat next to him and spectated. If he could influence Winsor, maybe he could get the brat to tell me where Mallow was.

I swatted some notes out of my way, and as they exploded against the back of my hand, a loud burst of noise sung out.

Sir Osoro glanced down at me.

"Keeping the spell up difficult?" I asked.

Sir Osoro shook his head.

"No. Avalon's don't lose heat. It's more that I'm worried about him."

I held my hand up in the room. It was pretty warm to me. The breeze created by the show girl's wings was refreshing. When he caught my perplexed expression, Sir Osoro cleared his throat in disdain.

"A sorcerer's power comes from their own bodies. The energy is tied to their core temperature. If a sorcerer casts too much, he becomes unwarm. If he gets too..." Osoro hesitated, before continuing in a quieter tone, "... cold, his body cannot recover from the shock and he dies."

"Winsor's doing good," I said. "In fact, he looks flushed."

"Yes... he does, actually." Osoro took a step forward. Unlike usual, where his armor would have shifted and clinked, the step was silent in the fine clothes he wore. "If he's not tired yet, I suppose that all the time he spent studying hasn't been ill used."

"What shall I do now? Which fancies and dreams do you desire to see manifested?" Winsor called out to the crowd. I saw the adoration on the faces that peered up to him.

"Fireballs! I've always wanted to see a good ol' fireball like they use on Provings!"

"Ya, a fireball!"

"An inferno please! Uh, but don't burn us!"

"Unimaginative, but I supposed it cannot be helped in those of so little schooling. A fireball it is then."

Winsor laughed, mockingly but not maliciously, as he twisted his pale hands together for show.

"Betwixt my fingers a barrage,

shard of cosmos do I sow.

Form a flame engulfed mirage,

travel close with molten glow.

Fiery ball of harmless light,

drop some small transient gifts.

Enhance this fine crowds delight,