Everything was so huge, she was overwhelmed by it. She walked around gawking at it all. Most of the buildings were made of stone, not wood or plastered brick like they were in the Quarters. They ought to have blotted out the sky, they were so big, but as she lifted her eyes toward the rest of the town it seemed to fall into proportion.
The townsfolk didn’t seem surprised or upset to have a smallfolk in their midst, but she found it daunting. Heavens, it’s like being a child again, she thought, as she dodged a huge terrier who came up to her waist. A cat nearly half her size wriggled, pounced, and came up with a struggling rat as long as her arm. A nearby man with a red, pockmarked face praised the cat, and gave Tildi a crinkled grin.
“How may I help you, small stranger?” he asked.
“I’m looking for …” She paused. Wizards might be better respected in human circles than they were in the Quarters, or at least she hoped so. Otherwise, the kindly man’s smile might turn to a scowl. She’d have to risk it. She was hopelessly lost. Even the street signs were far above her head. “I seek a wizard named Olen. Have you … ever heard of him?”
The grin grew wider. “You’re having me, right?”
Tildi shook her head.
“O’ course I’ve heard of Olen. Been here since before the city. You could say it grew up around him.” His own words seemed to strike him as funny, and he shook with laughter. “Mmmph, mmmph, ever heard of Olen! Ah, little one, I haven’t had the finest day, but you’ve improved it for me a mile!”
Tildi gave him a quelling glance, the one she used on Marco when he raided the sweets before supper.
“Ah, yes, of course. And you want to find him, do you, er, boy?” the man asked.
“I do.”
“Good, then, good.” He put a big rough hand on her shoulder and steered her to the downhill side of the road, which had a waist-high, whitewashed wall to prevent accidents. She could just get her chin over the top edge. “Go down to that tree, the pale gray one down there. You’ll find him.”
Tildi peered out at the mosaic of treetops below, until she picked out a round spot that as a courtesy she could call pale gray when compared with the green or yellow-gold of the surrounding foliage.
“He lives near that tree?” Tildi asked. That set the man off again. He tried to speak, but his face kept convulsing in merry chuckles. Shaking her head, Tildi shouldered her pack and trudged down the road to the next gate leading downward. Teldo would probably have gotten the human’s joke.
Ah, but then she had it! The letters she carried had the return address of “Silvertree.” That must be the name of Olen’s great house, named for the tree in his garden. It lay about two-thirds of the way down this side of the city.
She turned down the next flight of stairs, only to find they were too high for her to descend them while carrying a pack. Grudgingly she returned to the cobblestoned road that spiraled downward through the several levels of the city. It was by far the longer way to descend, but at least the slope was one she could manage.
“At this rate I’ll need to check into an inn halfway down,” she said ruefully.
Each turn took some time to negotiate. Tildi began to feel accustomed to the scale of human habitations, and almost at home with the people themselves, for all they were as tall as trees. They lived just like smallfolk, going between their shops and houses with their burdens and their gossip. Tildi listened frankly as people chatted or argued loudly over the noise that filled the endless street. A crowd of gigantic children ran out of what had to be the local school as a tower bell tolled out the noon hour. In the Quarters, smallfolk children would be finished with their lessons for the day so they could help with the vital fieldwork. Here, perhaps, they went to assist fathers and masters in stores and workshops while the girls went to assist their mothers at home.
She found it curious that, except for a few who wore hats to protect them from the hot noon sun, most of the women and girls went bareheaded. Their hair floated loose or was tied up in nets, buns, or plaits. Their dresses, too, seemed just to cling to their shoulders, leaving necks and the top curve of bosoms bare. It was clear from the way that the men treated them that this was considered respectable dress. She found herself blushing on their behalf. Her red cheeks earned an indulgent chuckle from the women she passed, who thought she was a callow stripling seeing the big world for the first time.
When a gap overlooking the river valley presented itself, Tildi peered down the hill to make sure she had not gone off track in her search for the silver tree. She was pleased to see it was directly below her current of vantage point. It loomed up so large that it could not be far now. Narrow lanes bordered it front and back. If she missed the one path, she should easily be able to locate the other.
As she descended, the bright green blobs of foliage divided into individual tree crowns, but the silver globe never did. In fact, it seemed to be larger than ever. Tildi realized that she had not properly taken in the scale of it, when on one of those tiny paths that ran near it, she saw a wagon drawn by four draft horses disappear underneath the lip of the circle, like an ant running under a leaf. Silvertree must be one immense single tree, bigger than any in the Quarters or possibly any other in the world.
A sound like an intake of breath made her jump and turn around. This stretch of road was the site of a public fountain, with water trickling out of pitchers held by white stone statues of slender young women barely draped to save modesty, and a public garden, the gate of which was well overhung with thick, dark-green leaves. Someone was watching her! The humans walking up or down the street seemed unconcerned beyond mild curiosity regarding the smallfolk in their midst, but Tildi had the uncomfortable feeling of eyes on her back. It couldn’t be a thraik. Their arrival was never subtle. Harshly, she quashed, at least for the moment, her fears of being swept up into the air and torn to pieces. Was it a more ordinary peril? A cutpurse, or worse? Compared with these humans she was a child, in both size and strength. She started out walking again, and listened carefully. Footsteps paced hers, slowing when she slowed, stopping when she stopped. She began to walk faster, and noted that the sound increased in tempo.
Now that she had become more proficient at creating the magical fire, she felt it would be an effective defense, should her pursuer turn out to be mortal. She thought the words, concentrating upon her left hand. The tiny ball of flame winked into being. She closed her palm around it. It no longer burned her if she willed it not to. The tongues of flame licked out between her fingers as if reluctant to be imprisoned. She would be safe where she went. Once in a while the people making their way along the steep street glanced at her curiously, but no one frowned or looked threatening. After a mile or so she was prepared to put the feeling down to imagination, but she could not explain the echo in her footsteps. She sped up. There was no time to be lost in reaching Olen and safety.
One more hairpin twist of the roads, and Tildi at last saw the great pale dome of leaves rising above the houses and shops of Overhill. She hurried toward it, ignoring the ache from the tops of her shoulders where her pack rubbed, the holes in her socks that let her feet be eroded by the inside of the heavy shoes, and the stealthy presence always just out of sight behind her. What would the wizard’s house be like? Could it be a sprawling mansion, all knobby towers and little gardens like the fine manor three levels above? Would he live in a tiny cottage underneath the grand sweep of leaves? Nothing in his letter even suggested what she was to expect.
When she reached the ornately wrought gate, she let out a breath of astonishment. Silvertree was not the landmark to designate the wizard Olen’s home; it was the wizard Olen’s home.
Silvertree was more than a mere woodland plant. It was nearly the size of a smallfolk town. Its thick, silver-green crown, growing in a dome shape from pale gray branches many feet or even yards thick, covered more than a city block. The trunk itself was more than a dozen times as wide as Tildi’s farmhouse, and the cross-section of a branch could conceal her
home and barn. This was a marvel, the king of trees, the absolute of trees. It stood within the grounds of a huge park. Other trees clustered about it, looking rather like chicks pecking around the feet of a hen.
Tildi had never seen anything even a tenth as large. The biggest tree in the Quarters wouldn’t have made a toothpick beside it. Its roots must have reached all the way down to the center of the world. One would never know when it rained. The leaves were so dense that what light penetrated was tinted the palest greeny gray. It ought to have looked bilious, but Tildi found it as beautiful as a jewel. It was a wonder, beyond the range of Gosto’s tales or any bard’s imagination. This, she hoped, would be her new home.
Tildi washed away the wizard-fire in a small public fountain that bubbled in the square opposite the gate. People coming and going along the street paid no attention to the glorious tree. They were used to seeing that marvel daily. She hung onto the gate with both hands to study the house, for house it was. The living quarters were sized to the inhabitants, not to the scale of the giant tree itself. Round or oval windows scattered about its surface resembled tiny knotholes, and little balconies were half-moon-shaped bumps on the satiny bark. The front door was a high, pointed arch in between two vast roots that humped up to either side of pale blue stairs. Figures in livery trotted up and down, going about their business.
The grounds had been lavishly planted with beds of flowering plants that were separated by bushes trimmed into lacelike sculptures and joined by bowered arches. Brightly colored blossoms as large as her head nodded on stems edging the wide path. The path itself consisted of the palest blue-gray flagstones, smooth as skin. There were outbuildings around the perimeter of the estate, but they were artfully concealed among shrubbery and behind high hedges. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer and the whicker of horses could be heard, but neither anvil nor animal could Tildi see.
The gate itself was as interesting. More than twelve feet high, the portal looked as though it had been wrought intricately of metal, but she identified it as a kind of stiffened vine or wood. Instead of being carved, it felt as if it had grown, and was still growing. She sighed with awe. This was a marvelous place.
The gate thrummed under her hands. Tildi staggered back as the flowing lines divided in the center and drew back like parting curtains. She gawked at the opening for a moment, then realized that she was being invited in. Hastily, she bobbed a curtsey, the pack making the gesture awkward.
“Thank you,” she said, though to whom she had no idea.
The path felt as long as the trek from the edge of the city. As soon as she was past them the gates swung silently shut at her back. Tildi trembled, wondering who was watching her from the tiny windows set in the tree trunk.
When at length she reached the great doors, they swung inward. In between them, like a tree himself, stood a huge man in pale gray livery. Thick, ruddy hair had been forcibly scraped back into a queue, leaving his thick, ruddy face free to glare at her. His nose took up most of his face, and his beady black eyes had to peer around it. Tildi swallowed deeply. He stepped forward to loom over her.
“Arrr?” he said, a cross between a question and a gurgle. “State your business?”
“I …” Tildi tightened her fists out of sheer nervousness, and the parchment crackled in her hand. The noise reminded her she had the right to ask. She straightened her back, and thrust her chin up. “I must see the wizard Olen. I have business with him.”
“Do yer?” the man asked. Was that the suggestion of a twinkle in his eye? “State your name.”
“T-Teldo Summerbee. I have a letter from him bidding me to come here.”
“Do yer?” the man repeated, holding down a broad hand for it. Tildi hesitated. “I’m no’ stealing yer correspondence, smallfolk. I work f’r the wizard. M’ name’s Samek. G’e here.”
Very reluctantly, Tildi surrendered Teldo’s letter. The large man turned smartly and marched away, leaving the door open. She peered inside, not daring to proceed further without permission. She didn’t feel the same magical compulsion against entering that had been around Rushet. It was the sheer awe that the tree castle, for this was no mere house, engendered in her.
In a moment not one, but two equally gigantic men in livery appeared. The top of Tildi’s head was level with the hilts of the swords they wore on their hips.
“Please come with us,” they said in unison. One of them relieved her of her pack and handed it to the other.
Goggle-eyed, Tildi followed them. Once inside, they gestured for her to precede them. Uncertainly, Tildi ventured along the polished floor. They moved so silently that she had to glance back occasionally to see if they were still there. They nodded for her to go on.
The hallway, as broad as her farmhouse kitchen and about eight times as long, had a gorgeous polished floor that appeared as though it was made of a single piece of wood. Of course, she chided herself. It was cut into the wood of the tree! This elegant entry terminated in a broad, smooth staircase covered with a gorgeous carpet patterned with millions of tiny flowers stitched from every color under the sun. The first tread seemed too high, but the second step was just the right height for her, and so were all the rest. Could they be adjusting themselves to suit her smaller reach? It wouldn’t be impossible, in the house of a great wizard. It was a long way up, but she had had several days of hauling a heavy weight up and down slopes. Her cheeks were warm by the time she got to the top landing, but she wasn’t breathing hard. The footmen hurried ahead of her to open the white-and-silver paneled doors at the end of the corridor. Feeling like a clod of mud at a wedding, Tildi marched past them.
She found herself in a study filled floor to ceiling with bookcases on every wall. A globe of the world sat in a handsome chestnut-colored stand with models of the sun and both moons hovering around it. She felt a faint twinge of surprise to note that the daystar cast light over the portion of the globe it was near, and the two moons appeared to be playing a stately game of tag around the belt at its center. No wires or threads supported them. Just under the window was a crystal table with spheres of crystal standing upon it, catching the afternoon light. Each transparent orb was a different color. As she watched, the hues deepened or paled. She wondered what they were for.
The noise of a throat being cleared brought her attention to the center of the room. Before her stood a great carved chair whose upholstered back soared up and curled back over on itself like a parchment scroll. Seated in the chair was a lean human male with weathered hands and face, long white hair, and a silky beard that started under high cheekbones and fell down past his waist. Tildi could not even begin to guess his age. He was clad from neck to ankles in a soft silk robe with wide sleeves, almost exactly the same color as Silvertree’s bark. His eyes were the most exceptional thing about him, piercing, bright green, with long, black lashes and curling gray eyebrows like storm clouds. He was tall for a human. Even seated he looked down upon Tildi.
“Well, I’m Olen,” he said. “What is it you want?”
“I …” Tildi’s mouth went dry. The wizard held out the letter. She pointed at it, all her assured and practiced phrases deserting her. Words rushed out. “Yes, that’s me. I’m here to take up my apprenticeship. As you offered. To learn to be a wizard. Too.”
“I see.” Olen regarded her owlishly as if she was an interesting specimen of insect. “Didn’t know you were a girl. I thought Teldo was a boy’s name.”
Tildi started in alarm. “I’m not a girl, I’m a boy.”
The green eyes narrowed. “Nonsense, I know a girl when I see one. I may be old, but I’m not blind. Or …” he offered, a bit more gently, “perhaps you were raised not knowing the difference? Children with an inclination toward magic are often backwards in other ways.”
Tildi felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. This must be one of those times to take Irithe’s advice to let go of a secret. Above all things she did not want to anger the wizard. “No, sir. I know the difference.”
> Olen’s eyes widened again, and the hint of a smile lifted the silky mustache. “Good. Then let’s not have any more argument on that front. Life’s confusing enough, and magic requires precision. You must know that from your reading. Ah ah ah! Who brought that inside?” He glared suddenly. “I do not like that kind of thing here. Silvertree dislikes them.”
“What?” Tildi asked, turning around hastily, but she saw nothing.
“Why, this creature,” Olen replied. He spread out his fingertips and pointed. Beside Tildi the air began to glow. An outline etched itself in tongues of red flame. She jumped back.
“The heuren!” she exclaimed.
“Ah, so you’ve seen it before, have you?” Olen flicked his hand and the creature rose in the air and revolved slowly before him. “You know its name?”
“Irithe told me. She is an elf. I came part of the way with her, from Rushet.”
“Did you? How interesting. They rarely find smallfolk interesting. Nor humans, for that matter. You must be a remarkable young woman. Or she is, having the patience to speak with outsiders. I don’t know if I’ve ever met her. Must check my daybook. Oh, no, I can’t have that.”
The heuren had flared out suddenly, its flames threatening to engulf them both. Fearing another burn Tildi dodged away from it. Olen did not flinch at all. He closed his hand slightly, and it receded to its original size. Tildi watched with fascination. Containing the creature seemed to give Olen no trouble whatsoever. She was determined to learn how to do that.
An Unexpected Apprentice Page 11
