Mother had spent the morning in her garden preparing for her visitors. Just beside the cottage, she had cultivated an impressive variety of vegetables and herbs that were beginning to spring up. 

She had adorned the table with some flowers along with small bundles of herbs and leaves and roots. The visitors, a woman and a man I had not seen before, thanked my mother for her time. “Honestly, Gwen, we’d be absolutely lost without you,” the woman said, finishing her tea. “Maker’s blessing we have you to consult us in this journey,” said the man, beaming with his hand placed gently on the woman’s bump. 

“You’re both too kind,” my mother said with a warm smile. She handed them a cloth-wrapped bundle. “The petals provide comfort but should be ground just before making the tea. This should last you until the next moon.” She opened the door for them, but they continued to speak there in the frame of the entryway.

“Alright, Crow, choose a card,” my father said, a handful of cards fanned out in front of me. My attention returned to my father’s performance, and I looked over the selection he offered. 

This one seems inconspicuous enough. I placed my hand on the Three of Clubs, gripping the top of it less carefully than I intended and using it to balance myself from toppling forward. My father steadied me, closing the fan and allowing me to retain my choice. “Good! Now don’t show me what you have, but look it over and remember it.” My father was beaming almost as brightly as the visitors.

He rolled up his sleeves and instructed me to place the card on the top of the deck. Honestly, how they’d expect this level of cooperation from an actual baby was beyond me. Then he shuffled the cards with skillful speed that actually took me by surprise. He fanned the cards out on the ground, revealing my choice as the only up-facing card, before tapping it with a finger and changing it to a different card before my eyes. Hold a moment. Where did it--did he? Alright, the card was there, and then--

“Yes, it’s perfectly normal,” my mother said. “But I can come by and check on you as you get closer. Farewell now!”

The door closed, but my fixation remained on my father’s show. “Wait. What’s this in your ear?” He produced the card from behind my head, but the spectacle was not the source of my amazement. I had been watching both my father’s hands, and his mouth and eyes, watching for any gesture or mumbled incantation to produce a spell. Yet the entire time, not a single spell was cast; his skill was truly a show in sleight of hand that I could not follow. Obviously, he didn’t pull that from my ear. Right? 

It would have been quite a surprise if my father had called upon arcane aid to perform the trick, though. Aside from his stance against magic use, the possibility that he had been born Imbued was small. I did not fully understand the intricacies of magic availability in this world, but, in Zobrus, it was largely hereditary. Those who were born with the innate ability to tap into The Font, or control magic, were called Imbued. The hereditary correlation was discovered long before my time, and, as a result, noble sons and daughters who were born Imbued became a symbol of increased status. Alliances of Imbued nobles were made, and Imbued children were married to each other to keep the magical line strong. By the time I had been born, it was nearly guaranteed that the child of a noble would be born Imbued.

While not impossible, it was quite uncommon for a peasant to be born Imbued. There was actually a joke amongst nobility about it: It’s simply another trait that makes the commoners common. But I was more fascinated by the fact that my card was consistently produced without magic. “Is… this your card,” my father asked, again without failure.

How the hells did you do that? Again!

“Alright you two, I’m off to market,” my mother said. “I’m taking some herbs to Beverly’s and might stay a bit if she needs the hand. I’ll be back before dark, but stir that pot a bit so the stew doesn’t burn. Stay out of trouble, you two!”

She gave us each a kiss, and she was out the door. My father had moved on to other tricks, causing cards to disappear within his palm.

I demand explanation!

“Come on, Crow,” my father said, pleased with himself. “Let’s check your mother’s stew.”

The front door of the cottage opened as my father set me down near the pot. I expected my mother to come in and grab a bundle of herbs she must have forgotten. Instead, there were two men standing in the doorway, looking as shocked to see us as we were to see them.

“Ye said it was empty, ye moron,” one said angrily. “It were! The lady just left!” The other spouted.

The first brandished a dagger and pointed it toward my father who was already standing. “No trouble for ye and the boy. Just hand over your food an’ gold an’ we’ll be off.”

“Food’s scarce,” my father said in a cool tone. “And I’ve my family to look after.”

“Sod this! Just cut him up!” The men stepped through the threshold. My helplessness felt sickening, and I feared for my father’s safety--admittedly, even more than I feared for my own. 

As the first man brought his hand high, my father struck him in the nose with a quick jab, breaking it instantly. The second moved in and began swinging wildly, but my father moved clear from the assailant’s fists without effort, reading his moves as easily as a playing card. Where did Father learn to fight like this?

An over extension: the man had twisted fully around with a missed punch, allowing my father to kick him in his back and send him stumbling out the cottage door. The first had recovered by now, holding his bleeding face with one hand and gripping his dagger with the other. He moved in again, and my father dodged the slashes with similar effort.

It was when the assailant--whose ass had literally just been kicked--came back through the door that I became nervous. Father had fared easily enough when focused on one, but two could get the better of him. As the man stepped past me, I disobeyed my father’s rule. I flourished my fingers and traced my hand from the pot to the man’s cloak. A flame followed suit, leaping from the fire to his clothing and catching quickly.

He panicked, stamping at his burning cloak and caught the attention of his partner. The momentary distraction was all my father needed. He grabbed the blade-wielding hand firmly and brought his other arm up swiftly at the forearm, breaking it with a clean snap. The dagger dropped to the floor, and suddenly the cottage was filled with smoke and screams. The two stumbled out the front door and ran toward the woods as quickly as their feet would carry them.

My father and I stared at one another. Not a word was said, but it was clear we shared the same thought. Don’t tell Mother.