The Magician

Complications

En route to Lille, France, December 1888

Complications

            The Magician watches the French countryside race outside the train window. The man in the grey suit sits across from him, his jacket clearly straightened last night and his short blond hair is combed evenly when it is frequently out of place.

            “What did I tell you,” he says, his spider-like fingers juggling a marble. “She’s perfect.”

            The Magician watches the green and brown hills roll through the glass, fingering the elegant curve of his cane. “We’ll see soon enough.”           

            The man in the grey suit smirks. “You’re a hard man to please, do you know that?”

            “I’ve been told,” says the Magician. “It isn’t anything new.”

            The train rumbles in a deep and resounding chorus, sprinting across the steel tracks that span across Europe like giant metal zippers, connecting the countries like a jacket. The man in the grey suit takes a long, meticulous look at the Magician, unable to breach his well-guarded disguise.

            “What is it then?” he suddenly asks, letting his marble spill from his hands and hang suspended in the air.

            “I thought you would try harder,” replies the Magician.

            “I thought it would be easier,” confides the man in the grey suit. “I suppose I was wrong.”

            The Magician nods in acceptance. “Most things in this world are hard, sometimes even painful. Nothing is easy.”

            “You sound very sure of that,” says the man.

            “Because I am,” says the Magician. “I have endured a lot.”

            “I am positive in that much,” says the man. “That much I have deduced. However, on what case you have endured, I am still void of.”

            “And I shall never give it to you,” says the Magician stiffly.

            A silence passes between the two magicians, broken as the marble falls sharply and pings the wood table between them.

            “How about a deal, then?” says the man in the grey suit with a wry smile. “A secret for a secret.”

            “I’ve had enough of your sneaky deals and wagers,” announces the Magician. “I will not be playing along any longer, I fear. I shall meet up with you when we reach Lille and not before.”

            The Magician rises, his coattails brushing across the table as he turns his back on the man in the grey suit, who sits still and silent. Before the Magician is able to place his top hat over his head, he fells a piercing pain spark on his finger. The pain becomes excruciating, and the Magician collapses to the floor of the train, unable to scream. The black ring, inscribed with the Latin verse begins to burn red as fire against his pale skin, clutching onto the bone mercilessly.

            “What did I say?” says the man in the grey suit slyly. “You cannot walk away. You are bound to me, and the Collegium. There is no escape through physical force. Not even death can release you from the spell that hangs around you.” The Magician fells the pain ebb back into the band as the iron cools and he regains his footing. “I know,” continues the man darkly. “I am under the same curse.”