Bequeath My Estate

Magical items belong to their wielder in a very real sense. Possession, for the arcane, is not a question of simple ownership. I could hold my brothers Atheme, run my finger along the blade, pierce my skin with the sharp tip and incant the words: It would not answer to me.
This is not a natural feature of magic, but rather the effects of a long lasting spell cast centuries past. Legend tells us that before the binding, mages sought to increase their collections through any means possible: A magical war was the result, it’s resolution the casting of a spell that bound all magical items to their owners. Passing between one and another now takes place through ritual, or in the case of a death among the cunning folk, by bequest.
The executor’s office is a beauty who has not aged well. A layer of dust lies deep in the curlicues of picture frames. Sunlight has long ago stolen the vibrancy from the drapes. The cushions are skeletons of their former plumpness, the couches bowed in the shape of so many behinds sat where I sit now.
‘Thank you for coming,’ the Executor says, peering over the top of his half-moon glasses to give an avuncular smile. It would be comforting if we hadn’t sat in these same seats, hearing the same greeting, year on year as more of our long-lived family wheezed their last. ‘Your Uncle Pallando was, as you know, a collector of rare beasts-’
‘Really!’ Saracasm drips like poison from my brother’s sharp edged words.
‘Those of you who had not visited him in his dotage,’ the Exector peers over the rims again, reproving Blaise for his interruption and his neglect in a single expression, ‘may not realise that he arranged for the release of his menagerie some years ago.’
‘What!’ Blaise rounds on me. I watch the pulse in his forehead throb his impotent fury. ‘Did you know?’
‘Yes,’ I say simply, clearing my throat and inclining my head towards the Executor again, ‘Do, please, continue.’
‘No, don’t. How did you know?’ I can see Blaise’s indignant quivering in the corner of my eye. I pretend I can’t.
‘I visited.’
‘Oh, did you! Trying to charm the old man were you, Jadis? Trying to cheat me out of what’s mine?’
I school lips that long to curve into a straight line. My brother would never understand the joy of finding a kindred soul, even one so ancient. His life is measured in transactions, value determined by profit; what profit is there in an old man’s stories?
‘Pallando did, however, bequeath several magical objects. His instructions were that all, bar one, were to fall to you, Blaise.’
My brother crows in triumph; he actually crows. Whenever I had read that expression before, I had assumed it meant to take on a puff chested position, raising ones head. Blaise adds an audible caw of glee as punctuation to the Executors statement.
‘You wasted your time, Sister!’ His finger wags towards me, I imagine I am still, like water. No ripples on the surface, warm currents beneath. ‘What is in the collection?’
‘The Collar of Commanding, several lengths of binding rope, a few small enchanted items…’
Blaise has stopped listening after the collar is mentioned. I glance and see his eyes misted, I need no Seer Stone to tell me that he is imagining himself putting the collar around a sleeping dragon’s neck and bidding it fly. He sees himself, carried into the balcony of the Council as the promised Beacon, striding to take the empty throne. He sees himself sitting down, lauded, applauded, the master of all he surveys.
The Executor lifts a wooden chest, its surface pitted with decades of protection sigils. He speaks the words of transfer, and hands the whole to Blaise, whose greedy soul forbids him even this moment’s satisfaction. Avarice gleams as he says, ‘What did she get?’
‘A jar of ashes, of unknown origin,’ the Executor reads, arching brows before giving me a small moue of sympathy.
‘Poor sister. I wish you well,’ Blaise says, bereft of sincerity. He turns, stalking from the room clutching his inheritance.
The Executor waits for the thud of the external door before he says, ‘Jadis, your Uncle feared your brother’s ascension to the throne greatly. He confided to me that his hope was that you would be the beacon. But if your brother has the collar…’
‘He still needs to find something to wear it,’ I say.
‘But…Pallando gave you ashes?’
My smile will no longer be contained, it spills across my face as I gesture to the leather pouch the Executor still holds.
‘Hope is at hand.’
He stares at me for long seconds. Parting his lips to ask a question, he recalls himself to his duty and quickly speaks the words of transfer for the second time.
The pouch smells of pipe smoke and herbs, memory transports me to my Uncle’s chamber. I feel his presence as I become his legacy, kneeling on the floor to spread out the small pile of ash.
The Executor rounds his desk with flushed cheeks, lips parted to admit rapid breath as I pull from my pocket the small vial of clear liquid.
‘The tears?’ he asks, reverently.
I nod, as I let the liquid drop into the grey mountain beneath.
All of existence holds its breath. A second stretches into eons, releasing in a glory of light and warmth. The Phoenix springs, casting off ash as it soars to the ceiling, calling out with a voice that carries throughout the land, delivering a clarion call to each ear.
I am its wielder.
It is the beacon.