Minor Mage

by T. Kingfisher

Oliver was a very minor mage. His familiar reminded him of this several times a day.

“You’re a cynical kid,” said Trebastion. “You make harps out of dead people,” said Oliver. “Yes, but I haven’t allowed it to taint my basic optimism.”

Well, that was the thing with humans. They liked to be around each other and cram themselves three or four in a den if they could, then cram their dens in together as close as house martin nests. Leave a human alone for too long and it would get weird and sad.

“Surprised you didn’t do it before now,” said the armadillo matter-of-factly. “Humans need to let stuff out or they get weird. Better now?”

trunk and tried to straighten his back with a hiss of pain. “This trip has been nothing but people wanting to murder us horribly.”

When kindness came from murdered ghosts and lost pigs, and the adults that were supposed to help you were monsters that walked like men… What was he supposed to do? It wasn’t right. He wanted the world to be different.

Oliver tied his shoelaces together with as much venom as he could muster.

“I am tired of being young,” said Oliver, because he was thinking it loudly enough that it probably didn’t matter if he said it out loud. “It didn’t matter that I was young, my village sent me anyway.” And he still resented that, but love and pity and resentment were all mixed together and he didn’t have any way to untangle them.

She raised an eyebrow. “No trick. How did you survive the trip here, anyway?” “Mostly by tying people’s shoelaces together and asking for help!”