1.2 PUPILS DIE LATE
⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅
As soon as he left Master Willow’s tower, Glim ran to the basement of the fortress. Down a long ramp, through a metal gate long ago rusted open, he emerged into a humid chamber with a gently flowing channel of water set into the floor. Well-worn stones lined the hot spring, which sent curls of steam into the air. His footsteps echoed from the wet stone walls with a strange vibration.
Glim took a quick look around and then shucked off his cloak and tunic. He hopped into the water and dunked himself clean of the muscheron chicane, scrubbing at his hair and face. Not because Master Willow thought he reeked, but because Glim was terrified of what the raw essentiæ would do to his brain. If that goo was so important to the mage’s stupid potions, who knows what it might do to him.
The warmth of the spring and the privacy pressed in on him. He slumped over the edge of the channel, placed his cheek against the cool flagstone floor, and wept. He kept reliving the sickening feeling of his balance tipping. Slimy rock scraping his arms as he rushed into the void of the sky. One more moment and he’d have died, screaming all the way down into the valley.
Glim shuddered, and moaned at the memory.
All for a handful of glowing slime that had nothing to do with him. The unfairness of it overwhelmed him so much that Glim didn’t even picture any gruesome scenarios to perk himself up. He’d grown up a lot in the last hour or so, and had no stomach for such childish games now. One thing was certain: that would be the last time he ever did an errand for Master Willow. He’d march right up to his father, tell him what had happened, and it would end there. If anyone could put Master Willow in his place, it would be the Captain of the Guard.
His tunic alone would be evidence enough. Grime and goo, and a tiny hint of blood, stained its sleeves. Not enough blood to be really convincing, unfortunately. But it would have to do.
Glim draped the rough linen over himself in disgust and walked back up the ramp into the fortress basement. He passed stacks of old crates and a handful of newish ones, then emerged into the orange light of evening.
Glim steadied himself then walked towards his own tower. Unlike Master Willow’s, this one had no fancy doorpulls or strange devices inside. Just a cheerful fire, a couple of bedrolls, and blissful peace and quiet.
“How did it go?”
Glim’s father looked at him over the cooking fire in the tower chamber they called home. Just one of a hundred abandoned circular rooms that dotted the guard wall of Wohn-Grab. His father liked it because it provided a clear view of the main entry gate and the surrounding mountains. Glim liked it because it didn’t smell like old hay, mold, or spilled beer.
Father had let his long black hair out of its braid. His clear, dark eyes and ready smile typically reassured Glim. But something about his question and his expression made Glim wary.
How should Glim answer? He knew his father well. How much he valued honor and a job well done. His father’s tone cautioned against the outburst Glim had been planning to unleash.
“I got the mushrooms, father. Enough to satisfy Master Willow.”
“That’s my boy! I made us some stew. It’ll help you warm up.”
Father hummed as he scooped the beige goop into their bowls. As he ate, Glim wondered how to bring up what had happened. But father seemed happy, and he’d made it back, so maybe the less he said about it, the better.
After they’d rinsed their bowls, his father cleared his throat.
“There’s something I need to talk with you about.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s sit.” The request was unnecessary. Aside from crude shelves for their clothes, the chamber held only their bedrolls and two crates next to a larger one which served as a dinner table. Their only choices were to sit or lay down.
Glim took his seat, but father paced the room.
“Tomorrow you’ll begin formal training with Master Willow. These last few errands have been initial tests. He’s agreed to teach you.”
Glim’s stomach plummeted. “Do I have to?”
“I know you’re intimidated by the man. But he is the only tutor capable of honing your gift of using essentiæ. I can merely sneeze snowflakes…” Glim’s father trailed off, looking at him strangely. “This is the only way I can honor your mother’s wish.”
Pain darkened his father’s face. As often happened when he recalled Glim’s mother. She’d left Wohn-Grab just after Glim had been born, and had never returned. As long as he could remember, his father had seemed unsure whether or not she ever would. He didn’t seem to know himself.
Glim felt his chin tremble. He tried to stay strong, but the day had overwhelmed him. His shoulders shook as he started to cry. He felt his father’s arms enclose him. He tucked Glim’s head under his chin and lay a comforting hand on his back.
“It’ll be ok. It’s an honor, even if it doesn’t seem so to you now.”
“I almost died! I almost fell from that stupid cliff.”
“Almost died? Like the time the owl spooked your horse and you fell into a snowdrift? Or when you got the popples last year?’
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“No!” He shrugged free of his embrace. “Really! I almost really died!”
“But you didn’t. You survived to hunt mushrooms another day.”
Glim cried harder. But there was no way for his father to know his tears were real this time. Glim regretted all the other times he’d drummed up tears. Now that it really counted, they had no impact at all.
Glim left his seat and stormed over to his bedroll. He flung a blanket over his head.
“I’ll give you some space,” his father said, and left the room.
Glim brushed his long black hair with his fingers. Not as long as father’s, though. Only long enough for his face to hide behind. Glim had no such opportunity today. Father braided his hair and tied it off with a snippet of twine.
“Keep an open mind. You can learn much from Master Willow. Plying essentiæ will open up a world of opportunity for you.”
“I don’t want a world of 'portunity. I just want to join the guard.”
“You say that now. But you might feel differently years from now. By then it will be too late. You have to trust me. And your mother, who is quite skilled in the arcane.”
Glim’s feet felt like rocks as he trudged in his father’s footsteps towards the tower. It loomed dark and cold in the morning sky. Seamless black stone, with shimmers of gray sparkles deep in its veins, it rose high above all the other structures in the town. Alcoves and dark windows dotted its walls. The very top had some sort of patio on it. Glim knew that much from staring at it from the rampart towers.
Like his beard, Master Willow kept the grounds around the tower carefully trimmed. Glossy brown shrubs in neat lines led to a garden. Row after row of purple leaves, some with white berries, and some with spiky black cones, grew from curved stone beds. Glim heard the trickle of fountains somewhere in the maze of pathways.
His father pulled the silken rope to ring the doorbell.
Minutes passed. His father shifted uncomfortably. Just when Glim hoped they might turn around, the door swung open.
“In here.” The words were neither question nor invitation, but command.
Glim followed his father into an octagonal antechamber. Tall shelves along the stone walls held all manner of tomes and trinkets. Glim had been in here many times. It’s where the mage managed his transactions, selling potions and salves to the townspeople. Or where he sold off the Elderkin devices he had no further use for to the wide-eyed traders that showed up every summer.
The mage wasn’t in this chamber, but deeper inside. Glim couldn’t tell who was more anxious: him or father. Nervously eyeing the contraptions around them, he walked past the antechamber. Outside of this tower, his father was among the bravest men in Æronthrall, and his clear eyes never wavered. In here, he became timid. The dimples that ran like gashes down each of his cheeks seemed gaunt instead of heroic.
They walked through an archway into a dimly lit chamber. When they entered, lights flared inside of sconces on the wall. Shadows flickered across the walls, and also in Master Willow’s cowled face. The lights settled and he stepped towards them.
“Hold out your hand.”
Glim’s father extended his arm.
“Not you! The boy.”
Glim held his hand out, palm up. Master Willow waved a silver rod around his hand. Silvery wisps of light snaked from his palm to the wand. He stared at the silver shimmers radiating from himself in fascination.
“You have some modest measure of essentiæ. By the time we’re done with your training, you will light up this room with it. Like this.”
He handed Glim the wand and held out his own palm. Glim waved the rod over Master Willow’s outstretched hand. White light seethed in the space between, blinding Glim with its light. The spectacle stunned Glim.
“Now then, let’s clarify things. Come with me.”
Master Willow led them through the entryway into a large sitting room. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, although the fire inside it was modest. The orange light flickered over a cozy collection of the nicest furniture Glim had ever seen. Plum-colored leather seats, overstuffed with some sort of cushioning, flanked a polished wooden table. An intricate mosaic pattern, carefully crafted by a skilled woodworker, gave the tabletop a three-dimensional effect.
A silver tray sat on the table, with a teapot that sent wisps of steam into the air. Master Willow poured three cups.
Glim sat on one of the huge, soft chairs, feet dangling. The delicate perfume of the tea wafted into his nose, evoking all kinds of flavors he hadn’t even known existed until now.
His father seemed quite uncomfortable. He looked around the room at oddly shaped vases with unusual flowers. He peeked into the next room, one with racks of vials and intricate brass instruments, and shuddered. Even the tea seemed to make him ill at ease. Taken together, his body language seemed to be saying something like “Get me out of here and give me something I can understand, like a sword or a spear.”
But his words said something much more reasonable. “What can I do for you, Master Willow?”
“Have a seat. Jarl, thank you for coming. It is important that we all understand what is going to happen.”
Master Willow looked at Glim with an expression he could not interpret, except that it chilled his blood. It struck him as sympathetic; offering apology for what was to come. But also, irritation, which seemed to be the mage’s default outlook.
“Plying essentiæ is grueling work. If we start now, you might be plying ice within a few years. There is so much you must know before you even summon your first snowflake. Otherwise, you risk everything. Your sanity, or even your life.”
He leaned forward in his seat.
“I refuse to begin unless I hear from both of you. Jarl, I need you to acknowledge that Glim’s training will be thorough and exhausting. And Glim, I need you to affirm that you will do what I ask of you, without question or resistance. Because I have very little patience for having my time wasted.”
That I believe, Glim thought grimly.
“I know what plying essentiæ entails. You do not. So if I ask you to scrub vials for weeks on end, or to walk to the top of a mountain to fetch a twig, there are reasons for it. You will know why when it is time, and no sooner. Telling you the purpose of such things defeats the purpose of such things.”
Glim’s father cleared his throat. “I understand. Allora spoke of such things herself.”
“Yes, I know,” Master Willow scowled, “I was there. Now, as for you?”
The two men turned to face Glim.
He could not possibly be less enthusiastic. He hadn’t asked for this. His mother had never spoken a word to Glim, so her words carried no weight. The only thing Glim knew for certain was that his refusal would disappoint Father. No, disappoint wasn’t a strong enough word. It would break something in him. With a sword in his hand, father was the most fearsome warrior in Æronthrall. When it came to plying, he became fragile, like the snowflakes he sneezed.
Glim heard himself speak, though the words felt like campfire ashes in his mouth.
“I will do as you say, Master Willow.”