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

Galen.
    “ Aha ,” said Obscuro, pointing at him. “One of the best, most wonderful of magic words. Now, let us see what these words have wrought,” he finished with a flourish, plunging his hand deep into the smoke-gray hat.
    The first item he pulled out was the first item that went in—the silver comb. “Who does this belong to? Speak up, please.” An older woman seated near the bar raised her hand. “Thank you, madame,” said Obscuro, flinging the comb into the air, where it spun and shone in the dim light as it arced gracefully into the outstretched hand of the woman whom it belonged to …
    … who suddenly became Obscuro, Zen Illusionist.
    The speechless crowd stared at the spot where the woman had been, where the illusionist now sat fingering the silver comb. The change had been instantaneous—one moment she was there, the next she was Obscuro …
    … who continued his act onstage. Where there was one, there were now two.
    “Next,” he said as if nothing extraordinary had occurred, and it was perfectly natural for one self to be performing while another ordered a drink at the bar, “we have the gentleman’s gold watch.”
    “And fob,” offered the large Bavarian merchant who had contributed it.
    “And fob,” said Obscuro, tossing it underhand to the merchant, who, the moment he touched it, transformed into Obscuro.
    Again and again, the stage Obscuro continued pulling objects from the hat, each of which he endowed with arcane pronouncements, before throwing it back to its owner who invariably turned into another Obscuro. When nearly an hour had passed, the room was full of identical illusionists, all drinking creme soda, eating Twinkies, and generally being a very appreciative audience.
    Finally, the last item was returned, the last Obscuro transformed, and the room grew quiet waiting to see what would happen next. The four who remained from the original audience sat transfixed, with more than a little trepidation and the beginnings of fear. The illusionist onstage looked about, the fatigue and strain of the performance beginning to show in his features. “Very interesting,” he said quietly as he surveyed the room, “so much here that I thought to be interpretation, when it was contact after all. Look around, you four—what have you seen tonight?”
    “I saw a miracle,” said the woman with the wooden leg, “and a part of me I didn’t know I could still have.”
    “I don’t know what I saw,” the stout man admitted honestly.
    “Well,” said Michael, “I think I’ve seen the difference between illusions and magic.”
    “I see,” said Galen, stressing the tense and glancing about the room, “a Zen Illusionist.”
    “Well done,” said Obscuro. “And that is the end of our show.” With a twist of his hand, he donned the hat and in an instant, the lights dimmed to near darkness. When they flickered up again a few seconds later, every person, every duplicate Obscuro in the room, vanished. Michael, Galen, the woman, and the man sat alone among twenty empty tables.
    The lights dimmed a second time, then flared, and all was as it had been—a roomful of people eating, drinking, and trying their best to enjoy a performance that was at once confusing and terrifying.
    Michael and Galen looked at one another with equal expressions of stunned shock. Before either of them could speak, the spotlight appeared once more on the center of the curtains, and the illusionist’s now familiar hands reappeared holding the hat. “Ah,” came the smooth voice, “but we have not quite finished, have we? Every good performance requires an encore, and I think this has been a night that will not be soon duplicated.”
    The curtains parted and Obscuro moved to the front of the stage, then to one side and down the steps. Hat atop his head, he wove through the tables directly to the woman in the corner, who was smiling bravely, but was visibly trembling. The illusionist smiled gently and locked her eyes to