All Chapters of Foundling: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The heavens emptied. The earth shook. The rushing air whirled loam and leaf into swirling columns. Rain pelted rooftops with the din of a thousand drumming fingers. Lightening lit the sky and struck the earth with a deafening boom. Families huddled behind closed doors, wrapped in woolen blankets, beside blazing hearths. And no one slept.“I’m scared,” a plaintive voice cried after a blaze of lightening lit up the sky.“It’s only a storm, child,” said the boy’s grandfather, comfortingly, as the following thunder swallowed sound.“Quit bothering your grandfather with foolish notions, Malcolm. Afraid of a storm!” The boy’s mother said after the rumble subsided. She gave him a skeptical squint of brow and shook her head.“You be too old for such foolishness. I’ll not have it said my boy fears a little boom and clap and, certainly, not from his own lips.”The boy’s head drooped in shame, while the quick glance exchanged over his dark mop of hair belied her harsh tone.A blast of wind struc

Seasons turned apace and nothing of note occurred in the small hamlet until the appearance of the hunter. He came asking of rumor and legend, the story of a beautiful woman, a child, a storm. Met with suspicion and distrust from people not wanting to rouse ill-omened spirits that had been silent in the intervening years, the information he gathered came grudgingly and after much prodding. When in turn questioned about his reasons for disturbing things best left to their rest, he replied that he was a seeker after the unknown, a hunter of the mysterious and profound.Staying in the village two days, he gathered what information he could. Departing on the third day, he followed the trail of answers that led into the forest. He familiarized himself with the surrounding area, the trails and animals, the hillocks and dells, the tributaries and streams.It was during just such an investigation that he came upon the path of felled trees, the earth desecrated and blackened. Old wounds, yet st

There are many traits that trace the pattern of one’s life. Traits we are born with, traits that fill in the subtle gaps of what we would want to be and what we become. Then there are those traits we learn and develop over time. The Magi scrutinize closely those minute signs that gift a person with character and self. Those traits that argue mettle and worthiness they nurture and harvest. Those traits that argue dissent and discord they reduce and isolate like a weed laid on bedrock to dry and shrivel in the noonday sun. By tempering behavior and molding character, they channel latent skills and talents into disciplines that strengthen and reinforce beneficial qualities that develop right character. The Order charged with tempering the young, and molding the developing powers of the apprentice Mage, were the Guide. Few were deemed worthy of such a responsibility and even fewer chosen to serve. The Magister was Malcolm’s Guide, and today they sparred using slim steel and deft footwork.

CHAPTER SIXThe Magister was relaxing with a volume of Schectel’s Histories when he felt unfocused ki moving toward him. Power swirled, condensed and coalesced into an unruly cloud subject to the raw flows of unbidden emotion and desire. It was an irritating breech of discipline. He gave an exasperated sigh. Closing the heavy leather-bound tome, he reached forth to dissipate the unchanneled force leeching from those young minds. There would be a stern reprimand for whomever was screening the School.Irritated, discomfited, stern rebuke ready, he snatched open the door. The rebuke died on his lips. The Mage before him was haggard, his clothes were torn, wrinkled and hung loose on his wasted frame . . . and he smelled. Crammed behind him looked to be the whole of the School waiting with expectant, inquiring faces in the corridor. He recognized Mazel, this night’s warden among those inquiring faces. The boy was still young to the mantle of his duties of monitoring latent ki. The Magister

The Greater Conclave convened in a sparsely furnished room, and the tension was as pungent as the incense smoke that burned from censors hung beside the red lacquered door. Seven Magi discussed, and that was being generous to the nature and tenor of the conversation, their next course of action. Of the seven all but one sat at a round oaken table so old that groves had been worn into its surface over the intervening years from elbows placed on its top.“It’s foolish and dangerous,” Master Proush said. He slammed his goblet onto the thick oaken mantle. The warmed-over cider splashed onto the oiled wood, down the face of the mantle and into the hollow from which blazed a heady fire causing a puff of steam as the ocher liquid hit the flame. The other Magi returned his disapproving glare with equanimity from their positions around the oval table.Master Stephen sat in a plush chair covered in purple velvet inset with large silver studs on the arms and legs and a high round back to support