Free The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One by James A. Owen

drolly.
    “No?” said Obscuro, feigning surprise. “Very well—I am not walking on the ceiling.” He bowed deeply, and before another heartbeat had passed, the room completely turned upside down.
    Several women and more men than would later admit it screamed; most of the audience, jewelry and eyeglasses dropping from open pockets to the ceiling below, now clutched desperately at their tables, trying not to fall to the where the illusionist stood staring up at them with a hint of amusement in his eyes.
    Michael, a little dizzy and trying not to vomit, peered at the floor above his chair. “Hey,” he asked, chewing on his lip, “what’s keeping the chairs down? I mean, up?”
    Galen answered him coolly, “They remain because he is walking on the ceiling. His interpretation is strongest.”
    “That’s right,” said Obscuro. “My interpretation, thus, my magic.” He snapped his fingers and suddenly the room was reoriented. Still reeling, the patrons scanned the ceiling, now in its proper place, for the illusionist—who was now seated back in the chair onstage.
    “And now,” he continued, arms open, “For my final illusion, I’d like to ask for some volunteers—not to participate so much as contribute.” He reached into the air above his head and pulled down a stovepipe hat; it was a bit beaten, much as if it had come directly from Lincoln’s head. The illusionist turned it over and blew off the top, producing a small tempest of dust.
    “Forgive the hat,” he said, a dapper smile on his face, “it’s not seen much use lately—no proper use, that is. But I’ve found that the things which come out of hats are often more interesting than what went in—or are, at the very least, more enlightened.”
    Obscuro gestured broadly to the crowd. “Now what shall we put in first? I have it—does anyone have a silver comb? Anyone? Ah, yes, here we have it,” he said as the item was passed to the stage. “Thank you. Now, I need a man’s watch—preferably a very expensive one? Do we have…? Ah, yes … thank you.”
    This went on for nearly a quarter of an hour, until the illusionist had obtained an object from everyone in the room, with the exceptions of Michael, Galen, the woman with the wooden leg, and the stout heckler in the front. “Very good,” said Obscuro, pleased. “This is a fine mix, an excellent mix.”
    He began to reach into the hat, then paused, hand upraised. “But,” he said, “this is also a magic show, is it not? And how can I perform proper magic without the right magic words? Does anyone know a magic word I might use?”
    The crowd, enthusiastic to participate since the show had become interactive, eagerly volunteered the usual suspects: “Abracadabra!” “Open, sesame!” “Ala-peanutbutter-sandwiches!” but Obscuro waved them all away. It was obvious he was not going to proceed until he had satisfactory magic words. Members of the audience began shouting out names of favorite pets —”Molly!” “Thurber!” “Ginger!” “Mocha!”— and common items —”Carrots!” “Doorknobs!” “Windowpane!” “Seawater!”— and even nonsense words —”Fermal!” “Micsel!” “Arrabord!” “Flurkle!”— but the illusionist was having none of them.
    Suddenly, he slapped his head as if he’d realized the error of a novice. “Of course! Of course none of these words work—interpretation is an illusion, and through your contributions I’ve made contact with too many of you who might see past it. No, to make the magic work, I need words from someone who will see nothing but the illusion—you!” he exclaimed, pointing at the stout man. “A word! Quickly!”
    The man looked about for a moment, then said “Portrait!”
    “Good! Excellent! Another! You!” This time pointing at Michael.
    “Ah, primeval?”
    “Wonderful! Marvelous! Another!”
    “Backwards,” offered the woman with the wooden leg.
    “Remarkable! Fantastic! One more!”
    “Beginning,” said