It was just before dusk when Charlot called a halt to their march, and all the members of his party were glad for it. Relieved of his burden, Korak shook from tip of his nose to tail, and then rubbed his back against a gnarled old sycahee tree on the riverbank.
Charlot’s eyebrows rose, afraid the tree would be uprooted but the ancient tree’s roots ran deep enough to withstand the assault. What a stroke of fortune! The long, drooping leaves of the sycahee draped around the tree like a veil. There was enough space beneath it for the whole party to sleep. It was as close to shelter as they were likely to find. This little knoll was a solid campsite. The sycahee dominated the rise overlooking the river, thanks to the herbicidal action of its pollen there was no undergrowth surrounding it.
“A good place. Still, I ought to have stopped a bit earlier to allow us time to hunt,” Charlot chided himself. They’d all eaten their fill of blueberries and ripe crabapples, but that had been hours ago. He could hear hungry gurgling from the stomachs of both youths. The wolf snuffled around fruitlessly at the fringe of the clearing while Lak stood aloof.
Korak lowered himself against the ground, swiping toward his neck with a paw, and Charlot obliged and removed the makeshift saddle. Holding it, Charlot wondered what would become of the Widow Giselle who’d made it for him.
News of what they’d done in Billibee would surely reach her. What would she think of him? The villagers were sure to paint him as a vile murderer. Perhaps the widow’s mind was broad enough to appreciate the necessity of the act. Or perhaps there was no necessity at all, and he was merely fooling himself.
Charlot was drawn from his rumination by a tremendous splash as Korak dove into the river. A moment later, he saw a shining blur flying through the air and, suddenly a fat trout flopped and gasped on the riverbank. Shortly after, the bear flipped another fish into the air with his teeth and swallowed it whole on the way down.
Before the gasping trout could flop its way back into the river, Charlot was upon it, delivering a swift quietus with a whack from a stone.
“Well done, Korak!” Charlot called, inspecting the catch. It was a cutthroat trout with its namesake slash of red beneath its chin. Charlot lifted the fish by its spotted tale and guessed it weighed nearly five pounds. What a friend he had in Korak!
He waited to see if more fish were coming, but Korak’s plunge had scared the rest off. The bear was now romping in the river, paddling around in a deep pool, his nose twitching just above the water.
“You two! Gather a bit of firewood!” Charlot instructed Shaharzarat and Sylas in their respective tongues. He planted Flaccaro in the earth and went down to the riverbank to look for herbs.
Another stroke of fortune, he found the distinctive triple-cattails of soapweed. Carefully, he prodded around their roots with his fingertips, dismissing two plants as immature and leaving them intact. The third had a fully developed tuber, and he dug it up and inspected it to make sure it was ripe.
An immature soapweed tuber would produce a sticky, stinging juice of little use. As they ripened, the flesh turned milky pale and basic. A slice of soapweed was an acceptable substitute for soap. He judged this one mature, and with Vitserpadag he sliced it into three pieces and took one to the river and striped down to bathe.
Korak lounged atop a rocky strand and dipped his paws to cool them after the long march. From time to time, his eyes would peer into the rushing water, alert for more trout.
Though the water was bracing at first, Charlot quickly got used to the cold. How good to scrub the dust of the road from himself! The soapweed stung a bit, but it was a small price to pay for feeling clean.
The slice of tuber foamed and fizzed, and he hastened to scrub his smallclothes clean before it completely dissolved. Charlot emerged from the river, and the bear trundled after him, water streaming from his sides. Charlot waited to say the words of drying, well aware of what was to come.
Korak shook from tip to tail, and it was like being caught in a downpour. His stubby tail wagged like mad afterward. Korak gave Charlot an expectant look, and Charlot cocked his head in bemusement. The bear had learned to expect the drying spell!
Charlot obliged and spoke the cantrip. Steam drifted up from the pair and, within a few moments, both man and bear were perfectly dry. Korak leaned back in a stretch and rolled his head on his broad shoulders, his jaws parted in a grin. The damn bear was spoiled rotten. Soon, Korak snuffled in the direction of the soapweed slices, but Charlot clicked his tongue in warning.
“Don’t eat those unless you want to be sneezing bubbles for the rest of the night,” he cautioned, grinning at the image. The reality would be much less humorous. Soapweed was nearly as potent an emetic as the inanis powder he’d once used to save Siyabros’ life.
The children had the good sense to give him privacy as he bathed, and by the time he’d dressed and climbed back up to the sycahee, they were just returning, laden down with firewood. Charlot looked to the young wolf and the war dog, who lazed beneath the tree.
“Lak! Take young Siyabros, see if you two can catch us something,” Charlot ordered. A single trout was surely not enough to feed so many hungry mouths. The war dog nodded, and after a bit of nosing at the young wolf, she convinced him to follow her.
“Now, you two! I presume you know how to bathe, though surely there’s no evidence of it. Take this soapweed, care you don’t get it in your eyes. The sting is fierce. You first, Sylas. You’re the worst offender. Wash those rags you’re wearing as well. When we return to the tower, I’ll have to get you both proper clothing.” The boy eyed the pale slice of tuber dubiously but did as Charlot bade.
“How fares the viper’s egg?” Charlot asked, and Shaharzarat revealed the intact egg she’d carried all day. Holding it up to the dying light, he judged the texture had grown slightly more pronounced.
“Marvelous. If it survives the trip, perhaps I can learn the secrets of its venom,” Charlot mused aloud. He had begun speaking his thoughts aloud in Aranic, trying to get the children used to the sound of it.
With Vitserpadag, Charlot expertly cleaned and deboned the trout. Shaharzarat tilted her head, wanting to know more but, at that moment, Sylas returned to them, his rags dripping wet. With a word, Charlot made him dry, and then he pointed to the soap, then nodded at Shaharzarat. Her golden brown eyes narrowed. She did not want to bathe. The girl was nearly feral. Charlot hadn’t expected defiance so soon, but he was certainly prepared for it.
“Those who do not bathe shall not eat,” Charlot pronounced, hefting the gutted trout. At once, the defiant look was erased. “Be thorough. I shall hold the egg whilst you bathe.” He held out a fishy hand for the serpent’s egg as she hustled toward the river.
“Now,” he said, switching to Terhaljatani, “a test for you, Apprentice Sylas. Turn this firewood into an actual fire.”
“Master, I haven’t got a flint,” Sylas said, turning his palms out in lame apology.
“A flint is unnecessary. Create the fire.“
Sylas looked at him, trying to guess his trick.
“How?”
“What sort of a test would it be if I told you what to do? Apply yourself,” Charlot instructed, and he sat on a flat stone and continued to debone the trout, happy to be off his feet for the first time in far too long.
Sylas busied himself collecting stones, stripping bits of the bark they’d brought for kindling, arranging the wood they’d gathered into a very acceptable start for a campfire. Charlot looked on, his face impassive, offering no sign of approval.
Taking a deep breath, the boy selected a branch as thick as his index and forefinger together, and then with a sharp piece of stone, he ground a shallow depression into a piece of dry jackpine wood. Gathering a puff of flayed bark near him, he sat cross-legged and turned the branch between his palms as quickly as he could.
Charlot observed for some minutes until Shaharzarat returned, and he cast the drying cantrip on her, surprised to find that her hair was a far lighter auburn once the dirt had been washed from it. He’d half-suspected she would do a poor job of bathing and he’d have to send her back.
“What is he doing?” she asked in Tonipatrua, looking dubiously at Sylas.
“He endeavors to make a fire,” Charlot said, careful not to grin. With Vitserpadag, he cut notches into the stick he meant to use as a spit so the trout would not slip on it as it turned.
“Why is he using his hands?”
“Because he knows no other way.”
“Couldn’t you just make one with your magic?”
“Of course,” Charlot said. “Could you?”
“Yes. Should I?” she asked. Sylas had not even managed to create smoke yet.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“No, let him try,” Charlot said. “Where did you learn magic?”
“From my mother.”
“She taught you magic but no language save Tonipatrua?”
“I have two older sisters. Other tongues were kept away from me to keep my voice pure. I was meant to go to the Sylbidon.”
“Ah! What a waste! In the olden days, only the blind and crippled were sent to the Howling Halls. Back then you would have been a war witch, riding upon the storm, flinging lighting at your rivals! Though, in all likelihood, you would not have lived to see your twentieth year.”
“Nothing is promised,” Shaharzarat replied.
Charlot nodded. Much was said in those three words. It had been the same way with Rhian. She could say more in a line than he could in a page.
As his thoughts drifted into the past, he left the children there to make the fire and went to the river to wash the smell of trout from his hands.
The light was failing fast, and he had to step carefully to keep from stumbling. With much protest from his joints, he bent beside the pool to wash his hands as the last light of day caught the water as he stared at his reflection.
For an instant, it was not a half-blind old wizard who peered back, but a young man with wild head of coal-black hair and sharp eyes, dark and serious. As if he could have scowled the world into the form he desired! Only his eyebrows had not changed much. They were nearly as wild then as they were now. The sun dipped beneath the trees to the west, and the memory faded with it.
Now, he was nearly blind. He was a fool for leaving Flaccaro out of reach. Charlot washed his hands in the darkness and wondered if his eyes would adjust or if he would need to conjure a light.
Instead, he peered through the planes seeking magic, thinking to get his bearings by the position of Flaccaro. He could see the roiling flame-aura of the staff, then at the campfire a brilliant white spark that was Shaharzarat. She hadn’t lied about being Named. What a worrying intensity!
From Sylas, he could see not even a flicker of talent. Like as not, his dream of being a wizard was hopeless, but Charlot reminded himself one could not always tell. Sometimes great reserves of strength were hidden in people.
For an instant, a glimmer in the trees caught his attention, but when he strained his eyes to see, it was gone. After a moment, he was not sure he’d even seen it, but he did not forget it.
Watching the flow of the arcane currents, Charlot made his way toward his old friend Flaccaro, moving slowly so he didn’t trip on an unseen stone. If only the world was still young, every surface would have glittered the echoes of the forging!
He could have peered into the planes and seen by means of Art alone. But creation had faded long ago, as all things must. He made his way to where Flaccaro had rooted itself in the earth and gripped the staff, feeling comfort in the power thrumming beneath his hand.
“A little light if you please, Flaccaro,” Charlot asked, and the clearing slowly filled with a pleasant amber glow from Flaccaro’s opal eye. Charlot made his way to the unlit fire and sat with the children, taking some pieces of wood from the kindling they’d gathered to build a frame for his spit.
Korak’s ears rose with interest, and he made a few longing sniffs in the direction of the trout, but he seemed content to lie flat on his stomach with his chin on the ground. Charlot could not blame him. It had been a long march.
“How goes our bonfire?” Charlot asked, though he could see for himself Sylas had nothing to show for his efforts but sore hands.
“I nearly have it,” Sylas said with trickles of sweat running down his brow. Charlot watched him carefully. If the boy failed at anything, it would not be for want of effort. Shaharzarat raised her dark eyebrows, but Charlot gave a minute shake of his head. They would let the boy try.
“Tomorrow, I shall begin teaching you two Aranic. Shaharzarat, you will find the going far easier than Sylas, Aranic is the root language of Tonipatrua.”
Shaharzarat opened her mouth to interrupt, and he held up a finger to stop her anticipating her protest.
“No, I don’t care what your legends say. They’re backward superstition. Tonipatrua is clearly an offshoot of Aranic, not the other way around. Within the Crimson Citadel, I can show you volumes that will explicitly prove my argument. For now, you must simply accept that I am right. Proud as they are, you must understand that the Toni are barbarians with a limited understanding of the world.”
“We are not barbarians!” Shaharzarat hissed.
“No? As I recall, the Tonipatrua do not construct fixed structures. They do not farm, rather, they tend herds of cattle which they migrate alongside. They supplement their nomadic lifestyle with occasional raids on the homesteads past the Verse River. They worship their ancestors, and honor is valued above life itself. They practice polygamy because so many males die in feuds and duels. They seldom bathe. What of what I said is false?”
“None of it,” Shaharzarat conceded.
“Well, there you have it. Classic barbarians. We never need to revisit this argument. As you are far, far from your native land, I will presume you have abandoned those wild ways. I will teach you to be civilized if it is your desire. If it is not, we shall part ways. I do not consort with wild animals.”
“Those people back there tried to burn me alive. Is that what you call civilized?”
“Those were uneducated rubes, waylaid by a huckster. Some of them are decent enough, beneath the heavy burden of ignorance. You cannot expect too much from frontier folk. They’re here because they have no other options.”
“Why are you here, then?” she retorted.
Charlot narrowed his eyes at the girl’s supercilious tone. What a terror she must have been back at home!
“That is a question and tone you might take with an equal. But I am not your equal. I am an archmage, and you will address me with the respect I am due,” Charlot said, his voice full of warning.
“I will not—“ Shaharzarat began, and then Charlot snapped his fingers. Her mouth opened and closed emptily, no sound coming out. Suddenly, her eyes were wide with panic.
“I feared you might say something you would regret, so I have borrowed your voice. I will return it when you are prepared to be civil.”
Hatred burned in those golden-brown eyes, and he met them with his own cold stare. “It need not only be your voice. Your sight, your hearing, your very breath. I can take any of them from you with that same simple cantrip, and none of your primitive witchcraft will help you if you don’t know how I’ve done it.”
He let it sink in, expecting her to be cowed, but she showed not even a flicker of fear. What a wild one!
“Now, would you like to know how to defend yourself from this sort of attack?”
She nodded, wary of a trick.
“Then, you will need my instruction. Learn from young Sylas here! He walked two thousand leagues to beg to be my apprentice! You were moments from death when I found you! You are in my debt. Do not test me again!”
Charlot’s voice had risen, and Sylas looked up from his efforts at the sound of his name. Shaharzarat’s head lowered, and he felt a fool for shouting at a child. Yet, it had to be done. The talent she possessed would be her doom if she did not master her temper.
He snapped his fingers again, releasing her voice.
“I am sorry,” she said, with her hair fallen over her face.
“All I do has reason. The time will come when you may challenge what I say, but it is far, far away. If you wish to learn, I will teach you, but I will brook no defiance. Will you accept this?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We have a long way to go and much to learn. I will have my hands full with this one here. He may be a hopeless case.” Charlot nodded at Sylas, who was still doggedly turning the stick. “The young fool is lucky you were there to save him.”
The corner of Shaharzarat’s mouth turned. It was almost a smile.
“Shall we teach him how to make a spark?” Charlot asked her, and she nodded.
But, at that moment, they were both startled by a whoop of joy. Sylas was bent low, blowing on the shredded bark to coax the smoldering ember into flame.
“I have it!” he cried, beaming at them both. All were surprised. Even Korak lifted his head to peer at the fire.
“Well, so much for the lesson I intended. When I was learning Ignis, I spent all day with the stick and never got so much as a puff of smoke,” Charlot said, more than a little impressed at Sylas’ determination. Though, he remembered, he’d been only six years old when his father had tested him the same way.
“It’s all in the wrists,” Sylas grinned as he wrung his hands, his palms worn raw.
Charlot shook his head slowly at Sylas, not for the first time and, certainly, it would not be the last. He drove the sticks for the spit into the ground, and they built up the fire, preparing to roast the trout. Lak and Siyabros had been gone a long time, and Charlot was just beginning to wonder what had become of them when he heard rustling in the bushes.
“Flaccaro!” Charlot said, and the staff burst to life, illuminating the clearing into near daylight. Out of the woods, a young stag walked with an awkward gait, the staff’s light mirrored in its eyes.
For an instant, Charlot feared the stag was rabid, but then the shadowy outline of the Asyndagrim formed over its face. The black crystal mask rose from the stag’s muzzle, and then it fell to the ground, stone dead.
The crystal mask hung thirteen feet above the ground, and shadows spilled from it, melting into a man’s shape stretched twice as tall, with long spindly arms and legs. A pair of eyes blinked open, alternating rings of red and black that smoldered with light as if they were aflame.
For the first time, the children beheld the sïthur’s true form. Charlot noted she had healed completely from the terrible punishment that morning.
The air was suddenly charged with power, and at his side, Charlot could hear a high-pitched whine.
“STOP!” he bellowed just as Shaharzarat lifted a hand to channel her power. “That is our ally. Do not attack.”
Shaharzarat looked at him uncertainly, and the energy she’d summoned crackled away into the air. Charlot drew a deep breath at the waste. He had so much to teach these two! A few long strides brought the shadow to sit beside their fire.
“She could not have hurt me,” Lak said, grinning with her mouth full of black needle teeth. The children were both rigid with fear. “She shows promise. If only I’d had such a talent!”
“What of the dogs?” Charlot asked. Lak held up a spindly finger that tapered to a sharp point. Soon, Siyabros and the war dog bounded into the clearing.
“The dog follows you even when she does not bear the mask?” Charlot asked.
“I am her master now,” Lak said. It was impossible to miss the pleasure in her tone. “The bonds linger. In Urth’Wyrth, I had a veritable army of shades at my beck and call.”
“What a dire artifact! I should have left you both buried,” Charlot mused. The demon shrugged at him.
Sylas and Shaharzarat were both silent. Charlot was surprised to find it was the boy who dared to speak first.
“What is that?” was all he could manage.
“This is a sïthur, and her tale is a complicated one. I shall explain the children of the moon in detail once you have learned more of the Art. Telling you now would merely confuse you. Suffice to say, she is our ally for now. Refuse any deal she offers you,” Charlot advised, and he repeated the explanation to Shaharzarat.
“Now come, I shall show you how to butcher a deer,” Charlot instructed the children, and they hastened to obey.