An Unexpected Apprentice

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Like the best of his profession he had little imagination, which meant he had no patience either with children’s fancies or such affairs as magic. He had openly disapproved of Teldo and his studies, but as long as Gosto, as head of the family, permitted it, Jurney had nothing to say about it unless Teldo committed a crime.

  “All right, order,” Mayor Jurney said. “I hereby open this meeting.” Everyone obediently bowed their heads. Tildi tucked down her head and studied her folded hands. “We ask for the bounty from those forces who give all blessings, Mother Nature and Father Time, whom between them encompass all existence.”

  “Give us your blessings,” the assembly recited.

  “So mote it be. Secretary Mazen, announce the date.”

  Everyone glanced at the smallfolk scribe who sat at the foot of the council with pen and ink on a stool at his side. Mazen taught the upper grades in the local village school, and was an artist by inclination.

  He carefully drew the rune for the day, season, and year in ochre-colored ink on the top of the page in the huge annal open on his knees, and turned it toward the assembly.

  “This is the ninth day of Haymonth, in the year of 15,268 since creation began,” he said, his clear voice reaching to the rear of the hall.

  Tildi nodded as she translated the complicated mark. Those lines in the center described the month and the season, half-spring, half-summer, and the tick marks were the day itself. The year formed a wreath around the rest. It was a pretty design. Each sign stood for a letter, a word, or an entire phrase. Workaday words were the simplest, for speed in setting them down on paper, probably a throwback to when they had had to be carved in stone or wood. More complex concepts required more complex pictographs. She remembered thinking before she could read that a page of text looked like a garden of flowers, each a complex blossom. Or …

  With a feeling of shock, it occurred to her it looked like a simple version of the design she had seen in the eye of the thraik. The golden mark had been a word! But how was that possible? Thraiks weren’t intelligent, not as smallfolks counted intelligence. Surely they could not read. And what did it mean? Tildi tried to bring back the memory. What had it looked like? She remembered what she could of the configuration of the design. Her mind’s eye followed all the complicated whorls and crooks, as intricate as the tiny pattern on the tip of her fingers. The configuration was unfamiliar to her, so it wasn’t a word or phrase she had ever come across before. Did that mean that the thraik had been looking for something specific, and thought she was part of it? She had been saved when others had been carried off or killed. Would it come for her again? She was called out of her worried reverie by the sound of her name.

  “ … Tildi?” Mayor Jurney said, with a touch of impatience. He must have said it a few times.

  “I am sorry, Mayor,” she said, sitting up straighter. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Hmph.” He pursed his full lips. “Well. That’s understandable, girl. It’s been a hard day for you. I wish you to know that until matters are settled for you, you can count on everyone in the quarter to assist you in any way you need. You have our deepest sympathies. That’s official. And personal, from all of us, I might add.” He gathered nods from the rest of the council.

  “Thank you, Mayor,” Tildi said. She had to press her lips together so she wouldn’t begin to cry. One could depend on smallfolks, she thought gratefully. They were a conservative breed, rule-bound and suspicious of outsiders, but healthy and hearty and willing to throw themselves into work to help friends and neighbors.

  “You’re very welcome. Now, about the business of what occurred today, can anyone give a good report to those of us who did not witness it?”

  Mirrin rose to his feet among the elders sitting on the padded benches along the back of the dais. “I can.” He paused.

  Tildi felt hands on her shoulders. She glanced up. The miller’s wife, Derina, looked down kindly on her. “There’s no need for you to sit and listen,” she whispered. “We’ll just go out for a moment until they’ve finished.”

  “I can endure it,” Tildi said stoutly. “I was there, Derina.”

  Derina shook her head and put a firm hand under Tildi’s elbow. She escorted the girl out of the hall and nodded to Mirrin from the threshold. The door boomed solidly closed behind them.

  Tildi sat on the edge of the hard bench with her arms folded, stolidly ignoring Derina’s attempts to draw her into conversation. Out of the corner of her eye she could just see the pale circle of the woman’s face under her white cap. The moon, just a day past full, hung in the eastern sky. She stared at the white disk until a black afterimage swam in her eyes. How did they think that not making her listen to an account of what had happened would be worse than living through it? She was the one who had to go back to an empty house! She clenched her jaw until it hurt.

  At last the door behind them opened. Tildi rose with dignity and stalked back into the hall, avoiding Derina’s motherly hand.

  “I’ve heard that those thraiks are attacking more than ever,” Arnot Driever was saying from his seat at the left side of the dais. “Like they’ve gone wild.”

  The mayor nodded. “I’d heard that myself. The bards have said the same has been happening in the lands of humans, elfkind, and others. I thought we could be spared. Secretary, when did the thraik last attack here in the Morningside quarter?”

  Mazen wound the book back on its spindle. “Two years and three months, Mayor.”

  “Uh-huh. We’ll have to take precautions, in case they come back again. We will be more prepared. Build burrows where we can run to earth if needed, set up a warning system so we can come to one another’s aid … .”

  “What good does all that do?” Thom Holt demanded, rising to his feet. “There’s nothing much we can do to protect ourselves from them! Look what happened! Three killed! Dozens wounded. Four strong lads in the prime of life carried off to be eaten—”

  At the sudden gasp of outrage from the assemblage, Holt shot an ashamed look in Tildi’s direction. “My apologies, lass, but I have to state the facts. I’ve heard the same as Arnot Driever, that the demons are raiding more places. They hardly ever killed people before, mostly animals, until now.”

  Driever, the wine merchant, nodded firm agreement.

  “They got Gosto’s parents,” Sotheny spoke up.

  “That was years back,” Mirrin said. “Spare the child the repetition of that story.”

  “Probably aiming for the horse,” Holt said firmly. “They’re no more intelligent than a wolf.”

  “That’s intelligent enough,” Sotheny argued. “I’ve set up trap after trap to get the pack that’s been threatening my herds for years, and I’ve never caught one single wolf.”

  “He ought to check the sheep in Wilnam’s field,” a voice muttered behind Tildi. “Not all wolves have ears and tails.” Tildi found a smile trying to force its way to her lips. Everyone seemed to know about Wilnam except Sotheny. It was part of an ancient grudge match that went back decades. He always declared that he’d give them back if he was asked. Of course, he never was.

  “Still, it looks unlucky,” Sotheny said. “All four boys—the family’s about wiped out!”

  “It’s not wiped out,” Tildi protested. “I’m still here.”

  “But no male heirs,” Mayor Jurney reminded her gently.

  “I know, but I am a Summerbee! My ancestry is just the same as theirs.”

  Mayor Jurney frowned at her. Tildi quailed at the thought of displeasing the elders, but she stood her ground. Gosto and the others would want her to. Yet, she was at a disadvantage disagreeing with the council. Three disadvantages, if one counted being under the age of majority and female, but they ought to let her have her say. To her chagrin, Jurney went on as if she had not spoken.

  “We’ll send notice to the other quarters asking for other descendents of the Summerbee line. Unless another male relative comes to the fore, we will have to consider the family extinguished
, leaving relicts and property.”

  Tildi opened her mouth in outrage at the word relicts, but a quelling glance from Mayor Jurney made her shut it.

  “That brings up an important point,” Migel Sundstrand said. “The property must not suffer. We’ve already discussed helping to get the hay cut, but there are other crops ripening, and orchard fruit to be picked soon. Not to mention some fine cows that need to be milked daily.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Jurney said, nodding. “A man ought to step in to run the farm as soon as possible. That means marrying the heiress, of course, not taking it over outright. That’s not legal,” he added, with a glare at the man to his left. “Any recommendations on who would be a worthy steward, who would take good care of that land?”

  Tildi rose to her feet. “Mayor Jurney, I protest! My brothers haven’t been dead six hours! I can’t make any decisions so soon!”

  Jurney looked at her with deep sympathy. “I know, my child. We are very sorry for your loss. We know that you are too young to make a decision like this now.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Tildi said, sitting down heavily.

  “Therefore, as your elders, we are making it for you.”

  “What?” Tildi yelped, springing up again. “Mayor, you can’t mean that. Choose a husband for me?”

  “Sit down, girl,” Derina hissed, putting her hands on Tildi’s shoulders.

  “Please, I have to speak,” Tildi said, twisting away. “This is not like deciding what to do with a bolt of cloth or a horse! Can’t you give me time?”

  “Now, I think Lucan is the best choice,” said the smith. “He’s strong, never complains, and he keeps track of what needs to be done. Methodical.”

  “You would recommend your own boy,” Migel Sundstrand snorted.

  “I can’t just marry someone just like that!” Tildi shouted, trying to be heard over the discussions breaking out all over the room. Jurney gave her a sad, paternal smile.

  “Better this is settled right away, to give you some stability. It’ll be good for you to have someone in the house. You wouldn’t want to be alone like that, Tildi. It’ll be for the best, I promise you.”

  “But, Mayor, may I not speak for myself?” she protested.

  “Well, not to promote my own interests, but I have considerable experience—” Migel Sundstrand began.

  “Oh, come on, the girl deserves a young husband.”

  The smallfolk man drew himself up. “I am not yet in my dotage, you whelp. There are considerable benefits to wedding a man of experience.”

  “Experience losing a fortune,” the baker said, with a bored wave of his hand. “This is a wealthy property of respectable age, and we would hate to see it dispersed out of carelessness.”

  “Carelessness!” Sundstrand exploded.

  “This is wrong,” Tildi said, marching down to stand directly in front of the council.

  “I know,” Wilnam said, snapping his fingers. “Bardol. He’s the younger son of Georg Bellfield, the stonemason. He’s strong as can be. He moved to the Eveningside quarter to find work. He can be back here in three days easily.”

  “Bardol!” Tildi said, her voice rising. “He’s a troll. I won’t marry him.”

  “The ideal solution,” Sandro Cartner said. “A strong man.”

  “That’d be a good idea,” the others agreed. “That’s what we need here. And it’ll be good to pry him out of that mountain hole he’s living in. It’s barely a hut, do you know? He hates it. It’s so far away from civilization that it takes him half a day to get to meeting. Every time I see him he’s angrier.”

  “Well, his brother ought to have treated him better, but there’s only so much business in that town, you see? I’m not saying I agree with the decision, but it was either a decent living for one or a poor living for two.”

  “I think it’s a disgrace,” Elina Driever, the merchant’s wife, put in. “The boy ought to have gone for a journeyman elsewhere, if there’s no work where he lives, not hide himself away.”

  “Smallfolks belong in the Quarters, woman,” the miller said sharply. “I admit the lad could have shown some more initiative than he has. What do you say, Mayor?”

  “I agree with the proposal.”

  “I protest!” Tildi said. “I don’t want to marry Bardol!”

  The mayor paid her no attention. “The motion is seconded. All in favor of Bardol? Ah. Well, that’s decided. Any more business? Well, then, who wants to start the singing? Tildi, you’ve got a good voice,” the headman said kindly. “How about you? Give us a ballad, girl.”

  Outraged, Tildi remained silent.

  “All right, who else will sing for us?”

  The headman paid little attention, but went on to the first raised hand.

  “Monci, good! Did you bring your lute?”

  Before any of her would-be suitors could ask her to dance—not that they would, now that the prize had been withdrawn—Tildi excused herself from the room. Derina glanced up at her as she made for the door. Tildi nodded and pointed subtly. Derina nodded understanding. Tildi went out into the night and headed toward home. What of it if the miller’s wife was deluded into thinking she was going to the necessary? She was in no mood to dance or socialize. No one certainly expected Jinny’s family to be rejoicing this evening. Feeling as if she had been run over by a wagon then flayed with a spoon, Tildi followed the scant moonlight to the path leading home.

  For a moment, setting out in the open, she glanced nervously at the swirled silver dots on the black sky. What if the thraik came back? In her misery she would have welcomed the sudden relief. Let them come, and carry her off, too!

  Bardol!

  Tildi wrapped her light cloak around her and held it tightly furled. How could she go from being among the most comfortable and well-situated smallfolk in the whole of the Quarters that very morning, with her books, brothers, and studies, to an unwilling bride with no family to look after? She trudged across the common by the faint light, hoping no one would come out of the hall and see her leave. Even deprived of the chance for a fortune, some of the young men would insist on escorting her out of gallantry. She did not want company at the moment.

  Bardol!

  Among the young men in the Quarters she could have thought of half a dozen who would be good stewards of her family’s holdings. A couple she might not have minded getting to know to see if one day one would suit her as good husband material. But this! It harkened back to the bad days of the early recorded smallfolk history, when lads and lasses were paired for desirable traits, like so many horses or sheep!

  Bardol. The very thought of marrying him made her shudder. He was strong and hardworking, yes, and not even bad-looking, in an overmuscled, brutish way, but from what she recalled of him, all good things were always his idea. He did not brook competition in any thing. And all ill that befell was never his fault. Mirrin, for one, wouldn’t stand for an employer like that. He and his daughters would find another family to work for, and Tildi would be left alone in her big, old echoing house with a lout.

  It wouldn’t even be her house any longer. She stamped down the path, as if grinding this injustice into the gravel.

  To live and die by the harvest and the turning of the seasons—too dull, but it was a burden she bore gladly for the sake of her beloved brothers. All that they had had would now pass to a non-Summerbee, some stranger who would put his mark of ownership on the land and on her. She would have to bear her unwanted husband countless brats, and have no one who respected her grief. She’d have no one to play music for her, to laugh at her little ways, or to teach her magic. The hole the thraik had torn in her heart had widened so much that she gasped suddenly from the pain. Where were they now? Had they died swiftly? Were any still alive? Oh, merciful Nature and Time, let it have been quick! She dashed away tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  The furious energy that had driven her feet homeward was draining away, leaving her feeling despairing and longing for familiar things. Let m
e be near home, she pleaded.

  Chapter Three

  At last, there was the tiny golden light of the lantern she had left burning hanging from the porch post. She took the bronze cage, each screen wrought into the form of lilies and irises, down from its hook, and let it light her way into the big dark house.

  She had never been anywhere so silent before. A dog barking in the distance was louder than her footfalls. Tildi crept to her own room and lighted every lamp and candle. The flickering flames made the room feel not quite so lonely. Though the night was warm, she wrapped herself in the quilt made for her by her mother and huddled in her deep armchair. There ought to have been voices, laughter, and Marco playing something he had composed on one of his collection of flutes or guitars.

  She missed her brothers so much.

  She missed her parents.

  Tildi let herself cry, alone.

  The women and men would be at the meeting for some time to come. After a shock like they had all had that day, there would be a great need for the relief to be found in song, drink, and the company of one another. Tildi had no one. Her practical streak took over and informed her she had better get used to it. That fact would not change. She had to take care of things as they came. Perhaps life ahead would not be as bad as she feared. In any case, the only way to go was forward.

  She changed into her nightdress, braided her hair under her nightcap, and settled in beneath the light summer coverlet. A few pages might help her to sleep, but her mind refused to translate the ornate runes into letters, syllables, words, concepts, or phrases. One after another she rejected all the books that lay within reach of her bed. She was too angry to settle down.