The Impossible Wish

By Pamela Love

As the Imperial heir, Sergei received virtually all within our mother’s possession upon her death: title, wealth, lands—even the loyalty of her Court and Council. She ordered them to raise their hands and vow over her deathbed to support Sergei. Such an oath holds more power than any law.

Yet to my mother’s great regret—and likely Sergei’s, although he never admitted it—there was one thing she had no choice but to bequeath to me, her younger son. Though he is gifted in nearly every other respect, my brother is no magician. Few are, in this age. The Imperial Wand wobbling in her fingers, she whispered with the last of her strength, “Swear to me you will obey your brother!” I hesitated, jealous of her love for him even at that moment. “Swear to me you will protect Sergei, at least!”

I gritted my teeth. “I, Piotr—” Stepping closer to her side, I stumbled against her bed. The Wand slipped from Mother’s hand into mine. She died before she could take it back or even protest. I tightened my grip on the only inheritance Mother had left me—and even that with strings attached, had her heart beat for one minute more. But it didn’t. My power was unencumbered.

Sergei closed her eyelids, then looked at me, his eyes brimming with tears. For the loss of Mother? Regret that we had barely spoken for months? Nervousness about his new responsibilities? I neither knew nor cared. “Brother—”

I held up my hand. “Never ask anything from me. I did not complete any oath of obedience. I hereby vow to give you nothing, no matter how dire your need. Surely you now possess enough to manage without my assistance.”

There was a faint hiss of shock from the courtiers as I swept out of the room. My brother, however, remained silent.

I have moved to the other side of the Empire. Out of curiosity, I look in on my brother and the Court a few times each year. Today, with a flourish of the Wand, I cast the spell of Sight. Sergei has slipped out of the castle alone to ski. He glides over the snow with no guards following him. He boasts he has no reason to fear his people. He may be correct.

But nature cares not for how beloved an emperor may be. Nature swore no deathbed oath not to harm Sergei. I suck in my breath as I spy an avalanche surging toward him. Less than a minute after finding him in my Sight, I watch my brother racing down the mountain, crouched over his skis, fleeing white death roaring behind him like an immense ocean wave.

I bite my lip. From earliest childhood, I have never cared for Sergei, nor he for me. Yet I have never wished for him to die. If he were any other man, I could prevent his death in a thousand ways. I could transport the snow and ice that threaten him back to the mountain’s summit—or to its foot. I could lift him into the air like a dandelion seed, letting the wind blow him back to his castle’s courtyard. I could transform the avalanche itself into mist.

But because he is Sergei, I cannot. For when I vowed to give him nothing, no matter how dire his need, I did so over our mother’s deathbed. Among our people, such an oath is unbreakable. Magic itself will prevent me from helping him.

Helpless to interfere, I grip the Wand as the avalanche engulfs him. My knuckles turn as white as his frozen prison. Sight reveals that he is panicking, flailing his arms, and being enveloped even more by the snow.

I could speak to him. Yet deep down I know anything I say would count as a gift, whether advice on which way to dig or even a word of encouragement.

My memory dredges up images of Sergei dancing with his wife and flying kites with their daughters. His death would devastate them.

I leap up from my chair. “Let me save him! I regret my selfish vow! I withdraw my oath!”

The Wand speaks with a voice I didn’t know it possessed: “You can give him… nothing. Yet even that would destroy me.” It shudders and twists in my hand.

“You talk in riddles, Wand! How can ‘nothing’ destroy you? What power does ‘nothing’ have?” Frustrated, I picture “nothing.” Darkness, emptiness—I suck in my breath. Emptiness?

Sergei’s struggles grow weaker as he uses the last of the air around him. Hoping I am interpreting the Wand’s hint correctly, I point it at the Sight. “Wand, give my brother nothing between himself and safety.”

The Wand heats up. Cracks run along its sides. A splinter pierces my hand, and the Sight shrivels away. My last glimpse of Sergei is him crawling out of the tunnel the spell has created and collapsing on top of the snowy heap.

By pushing the boundaries of Magic too far, my sole inheritance shatters, its fragments littering the floor at my feet. But perhaps a broken Wand is better than a broken heart. And perhaps, just perhaps, I may visit my brother. Only to compare how Sight varies from sight, of course.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

---

More Stories | Twitter