The Deacon's Illusion

Author's Note: The stories of Tcharo the Illusionist are many in the lands about the Sea of Fallen Stars. While such stories are popular in the coastal cities of Algarond, that does not necessarily suggest that Tcharo is of that land. Indeed, the actual individual seems as elusive as the character in the tales.

During a year rife with mist, the master illusionist, Tcharo, came to reside in a particular hut by the coast. The vacant cottage was dilapidated and long-neglected, and no one objected when the arcanist moved in and began refurbishing it.

Of course, the presence of a wizard is not something that can be kept quiet. Word spread of the hut's new occupant. Soon, Tcharo had his first guest there.

The deacon of the local parish was a middle-aged man whose years had crept up on him. He was a man of ambition, whose desires outsized his rank

With his old, sway-backed mount hitched in the yard, the deacon knocked on the door. He was greeted by Tcharo's assistant, a freckled boy, scraggly and unremarkable. The Deacon, wielding all the gravitas that his humble station offered, asked to see the renowned illusionist, Tcharo.

Tcharo emerged in his faded robes, and bade the deacon enter. An ancient clock sounded the gong of the sixth hour, and Tcharo clapped his hand thrice. He bid his assisant to set a pheasant in the oven that they might all dine come supper.

The deacon wasted no time, speaking to Tcharo of business before the two even sat down. It was clear that the deacon was dissatisfied with his lot in life, and wished to have the cooperation of the illusionist, that he might advance his career. Tcharo listened to it all, and asked but one favor.

"My assistant, dimwitted as he is, is ill-suited to learn the arcane. Yet, he is of good heart and hard-working disposition. I ask, when you ascend beyond your station, that you leave the position of deacon open to him."

To this request, the deacon readily agreed. He gave his word. The deacon was already excitedly expounding on his plans when a knocking was heard on the door. It swung open to a breathless messenger from the nearby county.

The priest is dead, exclaimed the messenger excitedly. The deacon was to ride to the abbey immediately.

And so he did, with barely a chance to wave back at the illusionist Tcharo and the young assistant whilst mounting his ragged old horse. The wizard called out a reminder about the promise as the deacon rode off under a roiling, clouded sky.

The events at the abbey were a whirling series of political declarations and plotting whispers. To his surprise, the deacon found himself the favored choice to succeed the late priest, gaining the support of many peers disillusioned with the two front-runners' bickering.

He was sitting in his office a week later, the priest of his very own county, not believing his good fortune. Townsfolk and deacons from outlying parishes came to call upon him, and he fondly dispensed blessings and favors as it suited him. His coffers filled.

One day, just before the morning sermon, two guests called upon him. To the priest's embarassment, he saw the weather-worn robes of the illusionist Tcharo sweep over the polished floor of his abbey, trailed by the shuffling figure of a young, freckled apprentice.

The priest ushered them quickly out of the public eye into his office, away from the townsfolk that were already whispering to each other in scandalized tones. Tcharo promptly reminded the priest of his promise.

The priest vacillated, eventually confessing that he had reserved the position for a cousin in the next county. But he renewed his promise, saying that when his priesthood opened up, he would reserve a deacon position for Tcharo's dull-looking assistant. He managed to sneak them out the back door before the sermon began.

And when it did, the priest was nearly struck dumb. For he saw in the front row none other than three bishops of the capitol, in a visit that no one warned him about. He gave his sermon nonetheless, a nervous oratory fired up by all the theatrics he could muster.

A month passed before he saw the result. The three was so impressed that the priest was invited to succeed one of their brethren, a bishop of the capitol so late in his years that he could barely rise out of bed to address his flock.

The priest was in the capitol the very next day. His predecessor was still in bed, lacking the good grace to die in a timely manner. Nonetheless, the priest took on the raiments of bishop and began his work immediately. The crowds at the capitol gathered in his tall temple, where he presided over a host of acolytes and an entire chorus of virgins.

The bishop filled his new position readily, in a manner quite literal. His girth expanded to occupy all of his holy vesture. He particularly enjoyed it when visitors would come to kneel and kiss his signet ring.

What he did not enjoy was a scene a year later, when a dusty wizard and his young apprentice tracked mud into his temple. Under the outraged stares of noble parishioners, they ascended the steps to his altar and addressed him in a scandalously familiar manner. Again, Tcharo inquired about the promise.

The bishop pulled them away quickly, whispering in curt tones that the deacon position was already filled by the son of an influential Marquis and that another is expected to open sometime soon. Perhaps next year. He swiftly had the guards see to their departure.

But it was ten years before they next crossed paths. The High Priest, formerly a bishop, formerly a priest, and formerly (though he rarely spoke of it) a humble deacon, presided over a ceremony in the court of the King himself. His figure draped with the finest silks, trimmed in intricate muslin and lined with metallic thread, he shined as brilliantly as the gemmed rings adorning his fingers.

The ceremony was rudely interrupted. The court was astir as a dirty-looking figure in ragged wizard robes suddenly appeared amongst them, trailed by a book-bearing young man notable only for his freckles. Tcharo asked the High Priest about his promise.

The High Priest rose to his full height. (A lengthy process as his legs struggled with the weight.) His voice boomed outrage at the interruption, stating that he knew neither the wizard nor his mutt-like apprentice. With a sweep of a robed arm, he bade them to leave his presence.

Tcharo held up his hands, and clapped thrice.

The ancient clock sounded the gong of the seventh hour. The small hut was filled with the scent of baked pheasant, and a young boy poked his head out of the kitchen to announce that supper was ready. Tcharo turned to the stunned deacon and spoke.

"I must refuse your offer, but I am not without hospitality. Come, and eat with us. There is enough for three."

But the deacon did not linger, instead fleeing the hut shame-faced. He rode off on his sway-backed horse, never to return.