THE GAMBLER’S GRIMOIRE • by LR Li

I was blessed to cross paths with Magus Bender a few decades ago. We sat in the lounge with four others. His fingers trembled as he showed his cards. Looking at the stooped magus and his gilded monocle, I felt a sinking in my chest and a simmering in my ears.

My ten crowns were gone. I shot up and began mouthing incantations to singe the doddering man’s beard off.

A floor guard, the size of the carriage, stepped forward and held my shoulder until I untensed. He was right — I would be expelled from the academy.

The next round, the dealer flashed a jester — meaning all winnings would be doubled by the house. I put in five crowns after the first card, then another five later. On the final card, I pushed in, without much thought, the last of what I had — forty crowns.

Nonchalant, Magus Bender showed. I must have screamed like a flayed shaman, because the guard came over and patted my shoulder firmly.

One hundred crowns. I scraped them towards me.

The night ended after a few small hands. I asked the smartly-dressed barman for the most expensive fish and wine, whatever it was. Shortly after, Magus Bender limped over. We exchanged pleasantries, and soon he pulled out an etched leather book, thicker than my torso. A mesmerizing silver-and-gold pattern criss-crossed every inch.

“I’ve got to run, Magus Kyrsik,” he told me. “But you seem like a promising young man.

I’ve been looking for someone with that youthful passion. I owe a lot to this grimoire, see. Almost all of the money I own, in fact. I’d like to pass it along to someone worthy.” I leaned forward.

He continued, “The stochastic incantations here are powered by the passions of clever magi like you and me. Some materialize one gram of gold, some ten, and so on — the powers of ten. Most yield nothing. Exactly one will conjure ten thousand grams of gold.”

“Ten kilograms.” My throat tightened. “Can’t you just tell me which one it is?”

“If only it were that easy! No, the incantation that gave me one gram of gold might give you ten, or nothing, or everything.”

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Sorry for almost burning you there.” I smiled sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it, we love that young energy. And thank me later.”

I came home drunk and immediately read ten incantations. Nothing happened. Ten more. Still nothing. I had already spent twelve hours at the lounge, so I closed the grimoire and slept, formulating a plan. I would do at least one hundred on academy days. Fifty in the morning, fifty in the evening.

The next day began with vigor. On the thirtieth incantation, I wondered if Magus Bender had played me for a fool. On my thirty-sixth, there was a low buzzing. A bead of gold materialized in the book’s gutter, then it rolled into my lap.

Barely larger than my nail, I immediately understood it was a mere gram, worth no more than a few crowns. Still, a rush seized me, as if I had won one hundred crowns. I placed the bead down and began speeding through more incantations. After two hours, another gram rolled out.

That was my first yield, thirty-two years ago. I remember it fondly. But even a year is hard to summarize; how can I explain three decades?

My studies continued normally for two years. I have always been a man of habit, in both studies and games. I read one hour of incantations upon waking, and one hour before sleeping.

Lower yield outcomes were more common, it seemed. I won one gram too many times to count, and soon a meager gram was a joyless occasion. Many times, I was on the cusp of giving up, but every few months, I landed one hundred grams. The adrenaline surge, combined with visions of a ten-kilogram lump, fueled my ambitions.

By the fourth year, I read for three hours in the morning, three after lunch, and three before sleeping. The academy asked me to leave. I did so with pleasure; I had no time for them.

Twice I lucked into a full kilogram. One was six years in. With trembling hands, I held it, knowing that I wouldn’t work for the next decade. Unfortunately, some bad luck at the lounge meant that it lasted me only four years.

The other kilogram came five years ago. I flipped my table in delight, then spent extra time reading that day.

I say with pride that I missed very few days — only when I lost my voice from sickness or strain. As I said — good habits. Many girlfriends berated me over the years, claiming that the line between good habits and obsession is thin. Luckily, I lived the last decade in solitude, without distractions from reading.

Last Monday, shortly after sunrise, a grainy, ovular cloud formed in the book’s gutter, no larger than my palm. Even before it materialized fully, I knew that this was it. The ten kilogram bar slid into my lap soundlessly, without ceremony. My body numbed. I wondered if it was real — if I was real. I fondled every crevice of the gleaming rock — my gilded meteor, my message from the powers above.

Humming, I removed my trusty bookmark from the book, slightly past the halfway mark, and crumpled it.

Since free time abounds, I showed up to the lounge earlier yesterday. A scrawny magus, with only the wisp of a mustache under a bulbous nose, took two hundred crowns from me. Upon seeing my cards, he howled in delight and punched a hole in the table. The floor master cuffed him on the back of the head, but winnings were winnings, and he pocketed his money.

After the game, I approached him at the bar, where he lounged with a blissful, dreamy smile.

“You seem like a promising young man,” I said. “I’ve been looking for someone with that youthful passion.”


LR Li is a writer. Originally from California, he moved around often over the past four years, working as a teacher and writing — in Moscow, Istanbul, London, and now Tallinn.


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