Note: There are magicians in this book. That does not mean I support witchcraft in any way, shape, or form. There are no spells, no magic. Well, there is magic. But the kind that is in fairytales. A pancake that flips itself, a talking animal, an enchanted ball. I believe witchcraft to be evil. Please understand this before you read any of this story.

Part One: The Magicians’ Plight

You are a lone traveler. Behind you lies a dusty plain. Before you lie the gates of the city of Erazel. You are relieved to see them. You know you will reach the city by noon.
The reason this is important to you is that the gates close at sunset, and you have had so many delays that you feared you would have to spend the night outside the wall, which is very dangerous. Besides, you need help and rest. Your feet are dusty and sore. Your tunic is frayed and torn. Your cloak is still soaked from a storm two days ago. You need a new bandage for your left arm, which was wounded in a fierce battle with a pack of starving wolves. The wound is not deep, but it may become infected without treatment or a clean cloth to bind it.
Being a single wanderer is dangerous.
You had to abandon your staff ages ago when it snapped while fending off an angry innkeeper who mistook you for a thief that had been plaguing him for months. Oh, well. It was a lousy staff anyway. You can buy a better one in town. No, wait- most of your money was eaten by a donkey you rented, which then died of indigestion. (Your horse went lame weeks ago. You left him with a friend.) And you don’t trust your sword to protect you all that well- you haven’t had a truly dependable weapon since your bow was burned in a wildfire.
Yes, being a lone traveler is definitely dangerous. You are looking forward to going to Erazel’s famed Square of Fountains and not worrying about all of that.
You enter Erazel’s gates within the hour. Erazel is a busy trading city situated on a high cliff above its harbor. Erazel gets a fair amount of trade, and this is the time of year when the citizens are preparing for the many merchants, tradesmen, farmers, and travelers who will flock to their gates.
You head straight for the Square of Fountains. You have longed to see it your whole life. It has well earned its name.
All over the white cobblestones are laughing, bubbling fountains, made in all different shapes and from any different stones. Where do they get all the water? You think, bewildered and delighted.
You find one small, pleasant fountain and sit on its rim, thankful for a seat. You ease off your sandals, moving to wash your feet in the fountain.
"You can’t do that," says a voice behind you. You turn and see a young woman sitting next to you.
She is tall and thin, but not so much tall as long, the way a tree is tall and a yardstick standing on end is long. She has long, wavy black hair, and long black lashes surrounding bright, wide hazel eyes. Her hands are long and slender, with long, tapering fingers. She is wearing a long, dark purple dress, with a thin golden sash hanging low on her waist. Hanging on the sash are many leather pouches. In her hair is a coronet of golden stars.
She takes a pouch from her waist. "If you want to wash your feet, I can help you." She reaches an and takes out two large droplets of what appears to be golden dew. She spills one on each foot.
Warm, golden moisture spreads over your filthy feet. Now they are soft and cleansed. You stare at the girl in wonder. "How did you do that?" you ask, gasping.
She doesn’t seem to hear you. "I hope you aren’t planning to set out right away," she says with a hint of a frown. "If you do, I will have wasted more of that ointment than I can afford to."
You assure her that you have no intentions of leaving immediately. "And thank you," you add, still puzzled.
She smiles. "You’re welcome," she replies, looking pleased. "As long as we’re both here, I might as well help you more." She grins. "No offense, but you look like you could use some."
You smile wryly. "I know." You swallow your pride, knowing she could give you much-needed aid. "Mostly I just need a place to rest- and-" you hesitate- "my arm-" You bare your left arm so she can see your soiled make-shift bandage.
She jumps up. "Why didn’t you show that to me in the first place!" she cries. "Why, you must stay with me until you’ve healed. I’ve got plenty of room."
"No, I’m fine, I just need a new bandage is all-" you protest, but the strange girl insists, and you are finally compelled to go. You hope you can trust her, but you don’t have much worth stealing anyway.
You find yourself in a cozy, roomy house. There was at least one clock in every room, you notice. "Time fascinates me," explains the girl. "So, naturally, clocks do too."
The woman treats your wound with the most care and tenderness you have ever seen. But more striking to you is the careless way she handles things, even tossing them around and catching them again with carefree ease. You keep flinching, waiting for a crash of pouches and jars (which she had more of than clocks), or a shatter of phials, but none comes.
Evening comes. You are under strict orders not to move your arm, so you are confined to a chair. You don’t know why you can’t move it, but you’ve decided to trust the girl, so you obey. She lights a fire in the hearth and sits down in a chair across from yours.
In a low voice, she begins, "You have been very patient. You did not press me about helping you, you did not distrust me when I said I wanted to help you, and you didn’t argue with how I did it. I think that’s the most trust I’ve ever been shown. So I’m going to trust you with something. It’s a story. A story that may be dangerous for you to know. Will you listen?"
Very quietly, you say, "Yes."
She lets out a long breath. "Here goes. Once upon a time…"

"A long time ago when the world was young, there were many magicians.
These magicians were not those who claim to be magicians now, with their white rabbits and magic tricks and "abracadabra"s. These were the true magicians, and they used to help mankind with their magic. You might say they gave the rest of us a running start.
The magicians made many wonderful crafts, but they most delighted with helping along human trades according to the humans’ different talents. They made magical needles and magical thread, magical hammers and magical nails, magical saws, magical shoemaking tools, magical paint brushes, you name it. These tools were made to draw out and develop certain talents. If a person picked up the magical needle but had no sewing talent, it was useless to them, but if they picked up the saw and had carpenter talent, they would be able to carve beautiful things with the saw’s help. It would act sort of like a teacher- for who knows a craft better than a tool? If someone trained with their talent’s magical tool, they could become famous for their work, the best of their trade.
But sometimes people came to the magicians who didn’t fit into any talent. The magic needles, magic hammers, and magic shoemaking tools did nothing for them. So the magicians sat down to think.
They thought and they thought about these people. They were quick and agile. They could catch things that were thrown at them with lightening speed. They could balance and stand on their hands and turn cartwheels. They could jump off rolling carts, swing from high places, or stand on running horses. The magicians thought and thought about these traits. And they finally came up with the perfect livelihood for this new, exciting group of people: sikra in the magician’s tongue, or circus.
The people became acrobats, tightrope walkers, people who could walk on their hands, jugglers, and animal trainers. The magicians loved them. They made magical ropes for the tightrope walkers that would always stretch tight, never snap, and guide the ropewalker’s feet. They made trapezes for the acrobats that would always swing smoothly and ease out twists and flips as though they were nothing. They made special powders for the people who walked on their hands that would keep them from slipping or getting blisters. But their most precious invention was so carefully crafted, so tenderly, perfectly fashioned that they called it their finest. And this was the Magician’s Ball.
The magicians made them for the jugglers. The spheres were perfectly round, perfectly smooth. They would bounce without breaking, roll without stopping. They came in all colors, though usually each was painted with the symbol of the individual magician who made it, such as silver with yellow moons, or something magicianly like that- though there was tell of one that was red with pink hearts.
Now, there are two kinds of jugglers. The first is the typical kind, who juggle as many balls are they can in a circle for as long as they can. For this talent, the Magician’s Ball would regulate the normal balls, help the circle flow smoothly and quickly, and make it look nice. One juggler who trained with a Magician’s Ball was said to have juggled forty balls at once!
But the other kind of juggler is extraordinary, with an extraordinary rhythm. Instead of the regulated throw-catch-throw-catch of the normal juggler, it is something crazy, unpredictable, and unique. These are the jesters.
For them the Magician’s Balls reacted the best. They would adapt to the wild rhythm the way a regular ball has no ability to. They can draw the jester’s hand to catch them as they go out of range. It is for the jesters they were made, so the majority of them fell into the quick, capable hands of jesters.
But the magicians were in danger. They were dying out. Some say that as more trades sprang up, under the Magicians’ guidance, fewer people became magicians, and so the Magicians brought on their own downfall. But contrary to popular belief, being a magician is not a trade but something you are born with. It is a race of extraordinary human, not something you can learn. And the reason they began to disappear is this: there were too few fairies.
Now when I say "fairies" I don’t mean tiny, winged pink creatures. Those are sprites and pixies. "Fairy" is just the term for a female of the race of Magician. (The males are wizards.) And there just weren’t enough fairies. Wizards died unmarried or childless. Most married late, if they married at all, so they died before their children found out that they were Magicians. Some grew up misled into thinking they were this talent or that talent because of a magician-crafted tool.
The thing about magician tools are, magicians can use all or any of them with the ease of a regular human of that talent. As a result, many orphaned magicians thought they were tailors or shoemakers or carpenters, and they never found out the were Magicians. And as magicians disappeared, so did their magical, marvelous tools. Now trades are mediocre and no talents can be developed as they once might have with the help of the Magicians. But every now and again a tool- or someone of Magician blood, a Fairy or Wizard- will surface. Once, not so very long ago or faraway, a Fairy and a Magician’s Ball surfaced together, unfortunately at a time when they were outlawed. That is our tale today.
Welcome to my story.