LITTLE THINGS - Prologue (Patreon)

Here’s how it starts.

One thousand years ago, five heroes defeated the demon king and, in his wake, the shattered kingdoms pulled together and united to help rebuild. Three great kings stood above all others and ruled Lysim together.

Centuries later, only the humans still have a King who can be called great, the others lost to schism and lack of heirs, and each of them went to great lengths to earn that epithet.

King Lawrence created the All-Temple of Celsus, and by his efforts all gods worshiped by the people of Lysim are honored.

Queen Alexandria gifted the wizards of Mount Astrum their University, and donated her own library to theirs on her deathbed.

King Drake II drove the dragons out of Lysim, even slaying four entirely on his own.

Even in living memory, King Arland squashed unruly rebellions and ensured that the various city-states all still served under Celsus. It wasn’t a popular decision, but it was a great endeavor regardless.

His son is King now, and old. He has no great feats. He has won no battles, conquered no lands. He has not expanded the borders, he has not improved trade, and he hasn’t even ever insulted a visiting diplomat from across the sea and started a decade-long war.

His hair is gray now,  and he has done nothing.

He came to this realization suddenly, in the middle of the night, waking up in a cold sweat and falling out of bed with such a racket that the guards outside his door assume an assassination is happening.

I need to do something, he thinks. Anything, anything. A reign where nothing happens is one that history forgets.

For the briefest of moments he considers taking up arms like his father did… but the only places to go are dead, dry land, even dryer desert, unclimbable mountains, and Faerie-infested forest. He wouldn’t send his worst enemies against the Fae, and so no wars will be fought in his name.

It’s after the sun comes up, when his beard is being trimmed, that he looks down at the device that his barber is using and asks what it is.

It’s the first time he’s ever spoken to the man, and so it takes a moment before he’s told that the razor was a gift from Astra University. He’s told that it works by creating a magic blade that only cuts through dead material, so it cuts through hair but not skin, but the King has stopped listening.

At lunch, he watches the napkin by his plate wring itself out and fold itself after he’s done eating, and he asks the manservant where it came from. His father’s court wizard enchanted it some years ago. It’s a shame, the servant says, because it used to clean itself as well, and now it’s very annoying to clean because it keeps trying to return to the table, but the King has stopped listening.

In the afternoon, while seeing to matters of state, he watches the inkwell on his desk slowly refilling itself while he isn’t using it.

“Where did this come from?” he asks suddenly.

His advisor, standing across from him, stares blankly in confusion. “I’m sorry, sire?”

“The inkwell,” he repeats, tapping it. “How does it refill itself.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Magic, I assume, sir. If I recall correctly your aunt purchased it for King Arland one winter. Of course, it used to be full all the time, but the spellwork has degenerated since and now it merely refills--”

“Are these common?” He picked it up and, on a whim, poured it into the empty mug on the corner of his desk. The glass vial was empty for only a moment, and before his very eyes drops of ink came into being.

“Er, no, sir.” The advisor sighed. “The wizard who made that one passed away a few years ago. They aren’t an uncommon artifice, but most magicians don’t sell their works and the ones who do charge an exorbitant fee.”

“I see…” The King furrowed his brow, concentrating. “Sounds like… a never-ending inkwell would be useful for a lot of people. Good for merchants doing bookkeeping and anyone else who needs to write often.”

“I suppose,” she said, in the tones of one unused to thinking about other people.

“And the razor. It would make things easier. And the napkin is odd, but I bet the same idea could be applied to, I don’t know, clothes, or blankets.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Possibly.”

“But only mages can make them, and there’s never been very many of them.”

“For good reason,” the advisor agreed.

He steepled his fingers and smiled. Aha, he thought, so this is how I will make my legacy. “I think it’s about time to change that, don’t you?”

She blinked. “Change what?”

“Get a scribe in here. I’m going to make more mages.”

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“You want me to do what now?”

Behind the desk, the man chuckled good-naturedly. “I don’t see what the problem is, Simmons, I thought you wanted to teach?”

He ran a hand through his hair, thinking furiously. “Yes, but sir, this is way outside of my wheelhouse.”

The other man harrumphed, and sorted through a stack of papers on his desk.

The little plaque said “Sir Mumford Hemsworth,” which was the most puffed-up and pompous name Simmons could say he’d ever encountered in the wild. Sir Hemsworth had more hair on his chin than on his scalp, and the lull in conversation let Simmons hear the sound of the buttons on his petticoat straining to contain his girth. He looked exactly like what one would expect of a paper-pushing bureaucrat.

Simmons wasn’t inclined to feel generous at the moment. “Sir Hemsworth, I don’t know the first thing about--”

“Relax, boyo.” Hemsworth made an ‘aha’ sound as he found what he was looking for. “Here it is, forget my own head next… By order of the King, His Majesty Tarik the Forward, first of his name, has decreed that all children born in the Kingdom of Lysim must receive, at the very least, a rudimentary education in the magical arts in addition to their traditional schooling.” Hemsworth slapped the document down onto his desk and gave Simmons a winning smile. “Now, obviously, the infrastructure for such a thing can’t be set up overnight, old chap, so we need to go about this gradually.”

“But why me?” Simmons asked. He did not whine, he was certain, and yet the overstuffed turkey in noble dress smiled condescendingly. “Sir Hemsworth, I don’t have any magical education myself. I’m trained in the education of the sciences, I wouldn’t have any idea where to start.”

The clerk nodded, rubbing his chin. “That is a tricky problem, sure enough. But the teachers were chosen randomly, out of fairness. And you at least have the benefit of scoring high on your MAAs, so learning the basics shouldn’t be too difficult. You don’t need to know more than that, since that’s all you’ll be required to teach.” He started rummaging through his desk for something.

Simmons sputtered. “But--That--Sir, I wouldn’t have any idea where to begin. I’d have to start from scratch--”

“So will the kids, so you’ll be in good company.”

“--construct my lesson plans from nothing--”

“No preconceived notions to get in the way.”

“--And I’ve only gotten my teaching license this past year, I haven’t even taught a class yet, and you want me to figure out a new curriculum from scratch?”

Hemsworth leaned forward, smirking. “Yes, I rather think we do.”

He pulled what he had been searching for out of a drawer and slid it across the desk for Simmons to see. The scroll unfurled itself, and the King’s seal shone up at him from the document. Simmons read through it once quickly, then twice slowly, heart sinking. It was all official, signed by the King, his three advisors, and the Grand Master of the Teacher’s Guild. There, at the top, was his name.

Embossed in gold leaf, no less.

Declaration of Status

This document, in accordance with King Tarik the Forward’s Magical Education Reform, appoints recent graduate of the College of East Merinbrook:

Oswald R. Simmons

As the seventh of ten randomly-selected educators in Preliminary Magical Education.

In the course of this assignment, the ten selected will be expected to accrue sufficient knowledge and resources to adequately tutor children in the art of basic thaumaturgical skills that can be used as the basis for further education at dedicated magical institutes such as Astra University and Havenswel Academy.

You will be given a stipend provided by the Royal Treasury to be put towards your lessons, as well as for housing and comestibles.

You will have six months to prepare your lessons before being assigned your first students, and a further six months afterwards before they are tested on the strength of your teaching.

So it is written, so it shall be.

Tarik Lysinian I, King of Lysim and Surrounding Lands

Lady Oriole Corvus of Thistledown, First Advisor

Lord Blanc Masque of New Hallows, Second Advisor

Count Jeremy North of Celsus, Third Advisor

Baron Thomas Darner, Teacher’s Guild Grandmaster

There was a line underneath, clearly meant for his signature.

Simmons looked through the scroll a fourth and final time. It wasn’t a terribly long document, but he was still having trouble understanding it. “Is this it?”

“Is there a problem?” Hemsworth asked cheerfully.

“Many, in fact,” Simmons said, agitated. “You expect me to do all of this in a single year? That’s insane! How can I possibly teach myself enough to--and another thing, this makes no mention of what precisely I’m expected to teach the kids!”

For the first time since summoning him, Hemsworth’s casual air broke. His eyebrow climbed up his forehead as he took the scroll and scanned over it himself. “...Well, how about that. It really doesn’t, does it?” He hummed, perplexed, then shrugged. “Well, that’ll be a challenge, sure enough.”

A challenge? “A challenge?” Simmons demanded, slamming a fist on the man’s desk. “This goes beyond a challenge! You have to know that this is an improbable task, and it’s… it’s not fair! I won’t… won’t…”

He trailed off, distracted by the way Hemsworth stared pointedly at his fist on the desk. Much more distracting than that were the spears being pointed at him by Hemsworth’s guards, who had been so silent and still Simmons hadn’t fully registered their presence until now.

Simmons swallowed. “I’m not… allowed to refuse this, am I?”

Something almost like sympathy passed across the clerk's face, and he sighed. With a wave of his hand his guards withdrew, and Hemsworth stood with a grunt of effort. “Look, Ozzie--can I call you Ozzie?”

No. “I suppose.”

“Ozzie, you’re the seventh person I’ve had to give this news to, and they’ve all said pretty much the same things. Hell, the one before you was a dwarf, and I thought for sure she’d try to strangle me when I broke the news to her, so you’re actually taking this pretty well.”

He walked around the desk and put what was probably meant to be a companionable arm over Simmons’ shoulder. “I understand that you’re… apprehensive,” he said, drawing out the word like he was unsure of its meaning, “about all this. But we must do as the King orders.” His grin returned full force. “Besides, you said it was only ‘improbable,’ right? I know what that word means, it’s only difficult instead of impossible, right?”

Simmons winced. “Not… precisely. But broadly, I suppose that’s true.”

“Then you’ve just got to have confidence, right?” Hemsworth gave him a rough pat on the back and made his way back to his seat.

Simmons eyed the guards, who were eyeing him right back. “...how much is this royal stipend, exactly?”

Hemsworth beamed. “That’s the spirit! You’ll get your first check the minute you sign the dotted line and agree to this little experiment.”

He handed Simmons a quill and turned the scroll back around for him. Simmons reluctantly inked the feather and hovered over the line.

A drop fell onto the parchment, and he hesitated. “...Out of curiosity, what would happen if I refused?”

Sir Hemsworth chuckled. “Your teaching license would be revoked and you’d be blacklisted from ever applying for a new one, for starters.”

Well, that simplified things, he supposed. Oswald Simmons signed his name and accepted the assignment, taking from the clerk an envelope holding his first check, a copy of the decree, and a headache.

Dear gods, how am I going to do this?

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It wasn’t a large town. In fact, it was barely big enough to be a town at all. Less than a hundred people called this place home.

And yet it was busy, constantly, abuzz with visitors and merchants seeking to get a glimpse of the residents as they worked. Over there, a circular building’s roof was spinning, and circus music could be heard faintly from within. Across the street was an empty lot blocked off with ropes and warning signs, because the building could come back any moment and you didn’t want to be standing there when it did. Down the road, a dark gray shed exploded, sending smoke out of its chimney and windows, soot painting the wood a shade closer to black.

It wasn’t the safest tourist spot, but you could be sure that the sights were something to see.

And wherever there were sights to see, there were other things unseen. Less interesting, less pleasant, or even just less loud, which vanished beneath notice as though they weren’t even there.

This suited her just fine. When the tourists weren’t here, it was so much harder to get away with digging through the trash.

Less than a hundred people called this place home, but quite a bit more than that lived underneath it.