An Unexpected Apprentice

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “My name is Tildi, honored one.”

  “Greetings, Tildi. I am Edynn. I apologize for bursting in, but as you can see”—Edynn gestured with the long staff in her hand—“the doorstep is becoming very crowded. I knew Olen would not want us standing in the street.” Tildi gawked. Behind the old woman was a crowd spilling down the stairs and down the path, all most distinguished and clad in gorgeous clothes of brilliant colors and winking gems. They were too dignified to press forward, but quite a few of the people looked impatient and peevish. They were not precisely in the street, which was a distance behind them, but the courtyard was filling up fast.

  “No, of course not,” Tildi stammered, gesturing feebly at the hall behind her. “Please enter and be welcome. May I have your cloak?”

  “You are not a door ward,” Edynn said, divesting herself of her own outer garment. She undid the white ribbon, and the cloak lifted itself away from Tildi’s hands, making for the endmost peg. “What is your place in Olen’s household?”

  “I’m his new apprentice, honored one,” Tildi explained. The wizardess beamed and extended a long hand to her.

  “Ah, then we are colleagues! Call me Edynn.”

  Tildi was abashed and gratified. She would not dare address such a grand lady by her given name, but she accepted the hand with pleasure.

  The next person in the door was a younger, slimmer version of Edynn. Her hair was as black as her eyes, and filled with golden pins winking with blue stones. Peevishly, she draped her ochre silk cloak over Tildi’s outstretched arms and swept in, leaving the scent of a heavy floral perfume in her wake.

  “Mother! This way.”

  Edynn’s shoulders lifted slightly in apology.

  “My daughter, Serafina.” With a small smile, the older woman followed the girl through the towering doors and toward the stairs that led up to the great hall.

  Tildi’s arms soon became filled with the outer garments of the visitors who streamed into the foyer in Serafina’s wake. Elegant men and women streamed in, laying cloaks, capes, and shawls on top of the heap. Some of the visitors greeted her. Many strode past without looking down. Tildi was too fascinated to complain. It was like watching a pageant or a wedding, with everyone wearing their very best to impress one another.

  She had never seen jewels like those, or such fine clothes. As she made common homespun for work clothes on the family loom she knew a little about weaving. The visitors’ garments were made of fabrics with complicated weaves and must have cost a great deal. A lot of the cloth looked coarse by her standards, but cut exquisitely, better than by any tailor who lived in Clearbeck. Some of it, she was sure, must have come from the Quarters. With a start of surprise she recognized the fabric in one swirling cloak as having come from her own village, made by Gorten. It was absolutely unmistakable. Tildi and her friends had lusted after that very fabric with the oak leaf pattern repeated over and over, with a touch of genuine golden thread as fine as hair that had been imported from over the sea. Gorten had been justifiably proud of the complex loom he had made, which could produce intricate motifs in five or six colors. She and a few of her friends had priced a length or two, but Gorten had been asking so much for it that it would have been a wrench even to pay for enough to make a sash. Not long afterwards the bolt had disappeared, no doubt in the pack of a passing peddler who knew he could find a market for it among the wealthiest patrons in the human lands. Linens, woolens, and even silks from the Quarters were known to be much in demand for their fine web. Now Tildi had the proof of it. She gave the fine tunic a fond glance before turning to the next guest over the threshold. Even being reminded of a story with an acrimonious argument in it made her homesick and glad at the same time. Though the cloak was covered up in the next moment by a shiny damask capelet in dark red silk, she felt contented to know it was there.

  Humans, elves, werewolves in their dormant phase, and some stocky people she imagined must be dwarves, all passed into Silvertree’s halls. The parade of guests seemed to be never ending. Every time Tildi thought she could withdraw and begin to hang up the cloaks in her arms, someone else whisked in through the door.

  “Greetings, honored one,” she repeated over and over, feeling like Olen’s talking bird. “Welcome to Silvertree. Greetings. Welcome. Greetings.”

  One wag of a gentleman with bright blue eyes took off his peaked, feathered cap and plunked it down on Tildi’s head. The brim went right down to her shoulders, encasing her head in a felt bucket. Now she was immobilized with the weight of her burden and she was no longer able to see. What was the polite thing to do in this case? If she had been at home she would have nodded off the hat onto the nearest bench, dumped the heap of cloaks on top of it and started firmly directing the men to hang up their own coats, if they hadn’t the sense to figure that out for themselves. Her face was hot with shame. She didn’t want to make Olen angry, but she did feel that she was entitled to some consideration.

  “What have we here?” asked a pleasant tenor voice. “That’s no place to put one’s hat!”

  The hot cap was removed, leaving Tildi, flushed and embarrassed, gazing up at her rescuer. A young man smiled down at her with bright yellow-green eyes. His long hair was a riot of color, white, chestnut, and black. Tildi was surprised to realize she had seen him before. He had been riding into the Quarters on the day she had left. Her thoughtful gaze brought an unwitting grin to his lips, which startled her into recalling her manners. He could not possibly have seen her that day. It was unthinkable for her to behave as though she knew him.

  “Forgive me staring, honored one,” she said, flustered. “May I take your coat?”

  “Thank you, little lass,” the handsome youth said, swinging his cloak up out of her reach and hooking it onto a peg. “I’ll hang it up myself. No need for you to climb a ladder just to show courtesy. Looking at the size of you I can’t imagine what my fellow guests were thinking. Where is Samek?” He hoisted the armload of coats away from her and tossed it into a corner.

  “He’s gone to the stables, sir,” Tildi said, scrambling to retrieve them and Samek’s pride. What would her master say to her if his guests’ things were damaged? Would he hold her responsible?

  “You mean down in the wine cellar,” the youth said, with a humorous nod. “Sampling the vintages before we do. Just to make sure we’re not poisoned, and all. Oh, leave those alone, lass. Let Samek clear them up when he returns. I’ll wager it’s not your responsibility.”

  This young man was clearly a habitué of the house. He tossed his fine velvet cap toward a peg. It caught by the band and rotated almost a complete circle before settling to hang flat. He grinned at Tildi.

  “Party trick,” he said. “I’ve won many a drink in a pub betting I can do that. Very useful when one hasn’t the price of a pint about one, and they won’t accept a song in payment. I like to keep in practice, even when it annoys my betters.”

  That last was aimed at a regal man just behind him, who had a thick gold circlet holding down his curling yellow hair. This man’s clothes were of the finest silks, scarlet and white, embroidered so finely that Tildi could find no fault, and he wore a single glowing yellow stone set into a medallion that hung by carved golden links about his neck. Behind him stretched a string of courtiers and soldiers, each wearing a badge of scarlet and white with the image of a winged horse pawing the ground.

  “My lord Halcot,” the young man said, with a deep bow. He swept his hand along the floor and came up in a graceful flourish. King Halcot seemed unimpressed.

  “Magpie, what do you do here?” he asked.

  The young man smiled at him impishly. “I am bidden to the council, the same as yourself.”

  Halcot snorted. “This was to be of the highest ranks only. I will speak to Olen about that.”

  Samek returned at that moment, just in time to catch the fur-lined cape that Halcot pushed off his shoulders before it hit the floor. He gave Tildi a sheepish look.

  “You won’t tell, will y
ou, lass?” he asked, leaning close to whisper to her. She could smell the wine on his breath. His eyes were somewhat bloodshot.

  “I won’t have to, will I?” Tildi retorted. “Olen sees everything, and what he doesn’t see the house will tell him.”

  “Aye, so yer right,” Samek agreed sadly. “Sorry to leave yerr mindin’ the door.”

  “It’s all …” Tildi glanced out of the open portal, and forgot what she was about to say. Standing on the threshold were the most exotic creatures she had ever seen in her life.

  With dark brown skin, large, lustrous eyes, and thick, flowing hair, Tildi might at first have thought that these tall beings were kin to the messenger who had visited two weeks before, but the resemblance ended at the waist, for they were only half human. The bottom half of each was that of a horse. Centaurs! Tildi had heard many stories of the fabled herds of Balierenn. Their eyes were large and lustrous. Not all brown as most of the ponies in the Quarters had been, but hazel-green, dark brown, black, and a rare dark blue. Their hair—or ought Tildi to say manes?—whether wavy or straight, was thick and springy, bound around the brow with fillets of leather or gold. The lengths were braided or woven, some with brightly colored ribbons and beads. One female’s black-streaked hair had been divided into countless small braids each terminating in a faceted, glittering bead. Their horse halves were mainly black, but frequently striped, streaked, or spotted with a pure silver-white. One beautiful lady had silver hooves set off by jingling bunches of silver bracelets around her fetlocks. Their human halves were clad in fine silks, leathers, and velvets, breathtakingly embroidered in gold and silver.

  Again, she found herself speechless, but Samek, having fortified himself for the occasion, did the honors.

  “Wailco’ to Silvertrree, my lords and laidees,” he said with a bow. Tildi broke off her gaze, ashamed of staring. “Enter, pray.”

  “Thank you,” the leader said, a handsome male with a deep chest, silver-shot, wavy black hair and beard, and an equine coat to match. He swept off a short silver cloak and placed it in Samek’s upstretched hand. “I am Lowan. My sister, Rin. It would seem that we are just in time.”

  He nodded toward the ceiling, where brightly colored dust was swirling. As if it had understood that it had gained the visitors’ attention, the whirlwind formed itself into the shape of an arrow that pointed toward the upper chamber.

  The grand centaur and his retinue clattered over the fine wooden floor. With a sigh Tildi watched them go, admiring the swish of their beautiful tails, silky, wavy, braided with beads or tied with ribbons, and made for the stairs. If this was a grand council, then she would be in the way.

  The cloud of dust had other ideas. Before Tildi could set foot on the first tread, a brilliant red ring looped around her waist, and the other pigments formed a rope that pretended to tow her in the centaurs’ wake. She had no choice but to follow.

  “Ah, there you are, Tildi,” Olen called, as she made her way shyly into the room. The wizard sat in his high-backed chair, which had been set upon a small raised platform at one end of the huge chamber. The other guests turned to see whom he was addressing. Tildi felt her cheeks flame red. He held out his hand to her and beckoned.

  She felt embarrassed about joining such illustrious visitors in her humble clothes, but she was too curious to let her natural reticence allow her to retreat. As she passed by each of them, many stared with frank, though friendly, curiosity. She held her back straight and walked with a seemly gait. If Olen wanted her there, then she belonged. Not that her twisting stomach believed it! As she passed the piebald-haired minstrel, he winked at her. He must have guessed what nervousness she was suffering.

  Tildi had explored the grand hall some weeks before, when it was empty. The plain silver-gray wood of the walls was carved into scenes from Melenatae’s history. It was interesting, but scarcely spectacular. Between Liana’s careful preparations and Olen’s wizardry, the great hall was now fit for any number of kings and wizards. The images had been limned with brilliant jewel colors and gilded in shining gold leaf, and acres of shimmering tapestries hung overhead. The pillars of the high-ceilinged grand chamber glowed with golden light, illuminating the whole room brightly and lending a warm sparkle to the visitors’ ornaments.

  The atmosphere was not unlike a meeting back in the Quarters, with Olen presiding in place of the elders. Beside him was a table heaped with papers, tied scrolls, and at least one of the crystals from the table in his study. Before him, instead of benches set in rows, upholstered couches and chairs had been arranged in small groups for each retinue. The golden-haired king in scarlet and white was in the tier nearest Olen’s dais with a blond young man who must be his son and a handful of well-dressed noblemen and noblewomen. To one side of the Rabantavians was a cluster of black-haired elves surrounding a tall, austere woman in a simple blue gown, and on the other a semicircle of warriors in padded tunics with their swords laid across their laps seated behind their lord, a man with red-gold hair who looked younger than Gosto. The centaurs, tallest of all, congregated near the back.

  “Now,” Olen said to himself, as he gestured Tildi toward a small stool near his feet. “Where are those documents?”

  “Are they in your study, master?” she asked, leaping up. “I will get them for you.”

  “No need,” Olen said with an indulgent smile. “Please be seated, Tildi. Ah, here they are.” He unearthed a cluster of scrolls from the middle of the heap of documents and put them in his lap. Tildi sat down and put her knees together with her hands neatly folded. “Let us begin.”

  “Is this the representative from Ivirenn?” asked the chestnut-haired lord, clearly annoyed at the notion of Tildi being given precedence over him in terms of place. “I thought neither the smallfolk nor the dwarves could be bothered to attend this conference.”

  “Tildi is my apprentice,” Olen said, raising his voice to carry to the rear of the hall. “As such, she belongs by me. Are there any objections?”

  “None at all,” the young man with the mixed-color hair said, his clear tenor voice rising above the murmurs.

  “Never seen a female smallfolk before,” added a man in one of the groups.

  “Not outside the Quarters, anyhow,” said a short woman with thick blond braids, with a smile for Tildi. “That’s not the wonder you called us to discuss, is it?”

  “No, Lakanta, it’s not,” Olen said, though he clearly appreciated her good humor. “Though we can talk about her later. She’s a most interesting person, very worthwhile to know.”

  Tildi lowered her gaze to her knees.

  “Let’s get to it,” said the man with chestnut hair. He kicked a chair out in front of him and swung his muddy boots onto it. He noticed Tildi’s disapproving glance. “Don’t like my carelessness, do you, little mother?” The lad, for he was a lad in spite of his outlandish size, exchanged smug grins with his cohort. Tildi glared at him.

  “Stop annoying my apprentice, Balindor,” the wizard scolded. “Pay attention.” The heap of scrolls chose that moment to cascade off the table. Tildi sprang up to catch the ones she could. “Tildi, you need not pick those up. You pay attention, too. This is important. Will you take notes?” He waved his hand, and the papers tidied themselves back onto the table. The young man continued to gawk at her with amusement. Tildi knew who he was now: Balindor, and his sister Lindora, representatives of their father, Salindor, lord of Melenatae, the country in which Overhill lay. One would think a prince would be raised with better manners. Why, even the merchants and troubadours in the room were better behaved!

  “My lords and ladies, I bid you welcome. To those of you who have not visited Silvertree before, I invite you to enjoy its hospitality. To the rest of you, welcome back. You will be looking around and wondering what such a varied group has come to hear. There are representatives here of several royal households, the guild of scholars, the fraternity of wizards, merchants, peddlers, craftsmen and teachers, bards and poets, of many different races. I
promise you, what I and my fellow students of the world must reveal to you is of the greatest importance, to your safety and to the well-being of the entire world! Whatever your station on the outside, within these walls we are colleagues, and we must be allies, for the sake of all our futures.”

  On a fresh roll of parchment Tildi wrote as quickly as she could, hoping she got the list down correctly. Collective nouns were easy, but there were so many, and they were surprisingly similar in design.

  “What’s this I hear about a book, Olen?” Halcot demanded, one of the few guests whom Tildi could now identify by name. He tilted his chin back so his golden beard pointed directly at the wizard. “Hauled all this way when your messenger could have explained it in words of one syllable in my private study. I’ve got more pressing concerns within my own borders. We are still not at our full strength.”

  Olen acknowledged him with a polite nod. “My lord Halcot, your war has been over for two years. I respect that you are still rebuilding, but I need to warn you about the possibility of another war, this one waged across every realm. This summons has some urgency, because if my fears were true, then we are all in danger. If they were not … well, my lords and ladies, they are. I have had confirmation.

  “It was a message from a fellow wizard in the south lands that has recently come to me that caused me to call for all of you. I could not tell the whole story to you in a mere message, my lord, and you will hear why. It takes a great deal of telling, and these here with you have the right to hear it as well.

  “You will have heard of the legend of the Makers, the great wizards of a hundred centuries ago, who called themselves the Shining Ones. That was somewhat conceited of them,” Olen added with a quirk of his mustache, “though their accomplishments most certainly allow them to claim great renown. We know some of their names, which are taught to every seeker who comes to learn magic, carrying on the oral tradition that gives those eight wizards a measure of immortality among humankind.”