“Fill us with your primal power,” Benjin continued, “your knowledge of the infinite, as we call forth your essence in this place so that we may pay homage to the Old Ones. Come forth from your sleep….NOW!” Benjin began reciting the foreign words again in a sort of mantra, over and over, the same unfamiliar phrase. But already a wind was whipping up in the clearing, rustling leaves and branches, tossing Ailianne’s long golden hair back from her face and feeding the flames. The great book’s pages rifled and flipped about. For a moment, Ailianne looked confused, as Benjin continued his recitation unfazed. In seconds, the wind had intensified, accompanied by a deep rushing sound that drowned out the young man’s endless droning. And then, without warning, something rose up in the center of the circle, something that was there, and not there, like a dark mass rearing up from the earth; a tear in the fabric of the air. Black, formless – a widening, bottomless space devoid of light, or hope, or joy. Tvrdik thought he heard laughter again, but not the little tuned bells he knew and loved so well. This was a laughter that froze him to the bone and turned his legs to quivering jelly.
Somewhere in the expanding dark patch appeared two hungry red eyes – eyes with no sense of soul behind them. Benjin had stopped chanting. His strong, young body began to shake. The power he had so carelessly invited to possess him was streaming into the fragile container of his physical form and overwhelming it. Ailianne was by his side in an instant.
“Drop the book, Benjin. This is all wrong. You cannot control it…let it go.” she shouted over the roar of rushing air and booming laughter that surrounded them.
“I can’t!” he responded, looking more surprised than anything, “It won’t free my hands.”
Alarmed, she grabbed at the other end of the book with her own hands to wrench it from his grasp. But, at her touch, sparks flew from the tome, and her hands became fixed to its cover. Trapped, the two of them stood together in the circle, facing each other, the ancient volume between them holding them fast. Hair and clothing blew about furiously, and the rushing noise rose to deafening levels. The fragile mortal frames of the two young students convulsed violently, as raw power they could not contain coursed through them. Ailianne cried out. This was too much for Tvrdik, who leapt from his hiding place and ran toward the circle, shouting, “Ailianne. Ailianne!”
“Stay back!” she ordered, recognizing his voice, “I cannot hold it.” She turned her face toward him and their eyes locked. In those beloved eyes, which had always been bright and beautiful to him, he now saw agony and abject terror. His own eyes widened, recognizing the depths of fear and despair in her lovely face. It was to be his last memory of her, seared into his soul for all time, for as he lunged forward to drag her out of the circle, some force knocked him off his feet and a commanding voice rang out, “No! Do not touch them.”
Tvrdik collapsed on the ground. A flash of light more brilliant than a dozen suns blinded him for an instant, and he lay there with his hands over his face. When he could once again open his eyes, he saw Xaarus, his Master, standing nearby like an avenging angel, tall and imposing, brows drawn together in concentration, sharp eyes darting fiery purpose over his crooked nose. His staff was raised high in the air, a stream of light pouring from its tip straight at the dark mass in the circle. The old man was shouting out spells and incantations, his voice almost eclipsed by the roaring sound that filled the wood. His face was set in grim determination, power and light exploding from every part of him, pushing back the hostile blackness, and trying to surround its hapless victims with some sort of shield.
Tvrdik closed his eyes again in exhaustion and relief. Xaarus was here. Everything would be alright. There was another flash, several soul-wrenching screams, the sound of an explosion, and then, silence – a silence rendered more profound by contrast to what had preceded it. Breathless moments passed. At last, the pale, thin youth opened his eyes and let them focus on the Master wizard, standing stock still before him. “Master,” the boy ventured, his voice breaking, “Master, I followed them, but I did not try to stop them. I should have stopped them. Thank the gods you are here.”
“No, Tvrdik,” came the whispered answer through the stillness, “I have come too late.”
As the meaning of those words washed over his frayed consciousness, Tvrdik turned his head toward what had been the circle. In the light of Xaarus’ glowing staff, he saw. There was no fire, no book, no goblet, no carry-sack, no objects placed around the edges. There was no sign of Benjin or Ailianne. Just a patch of scorched ground, and wisps of smoke still twisting and drifting up toward the starry sky. The ice-blue eyes stared in disbelief, then turned back to Xaarus, who stood rigid, staff in hand, a stricken look on his ashen face. Tvrdik had never seen his Master with such an anguished expression…the look of defeat.
“We have failed them, boy,” the old wizard said. “They are gone.”
TWO
Twelve Years Later
THIS PART OF THE ANCIENT forest was so remote, so untouched, so close to the heart of the Great Woods, that tree fairies and water sprites still played openly in the changing light. They were rarely seen in the inhabited lands, edged out by civilization and harassed by the curious and the cruel alike. But here was deep quiet and security. Here an intruder rarely stepped, and the little naïve nymphs delighted in their daily games without even the thought of being alert or cautious. Only one of them noticed the tall stranger, hooded and cloaked, approaching the waterfall with silent tread. Her name was Ondine, and she was by nature more curious than most – more aware, it seemed, of a greater landscape beyond the confines of her tiny world, and of the dramas that might play out there.
She paused in her pirouette and regarded the man. Old he seemed, like the trees she knew or the stone shelf on which her waterfall splashed. Old, but strong, like those things. The part of his face she could see was lined, she couldn’t tell from laughter or care, or maybe both. As he approached, he tossed back his hood, and she noted the full mane of pure white hair, the slightly beaky nose, and eyes as deep as the pools below in which she made her home. Dark eyes, into which one could fall and be lost…. She shrank back in terror as he leaned into the streaming water inches from where she hovered, sure she would be discovered. And yet, she could smell no aroma of malevolence about him, no cruelty or darkness. Only a deep sadness that hung all around him, and perhaps …yes…a whiff of urgency. Ondine darted behind a nearby leaf as the man splashed his face with sweet, cool water, and filled his large hands with its goodness to quench his thirst.
He ran those hands over his face and hair, as if smoothing away disturbing thoughts, and then, replacing the hood, backed away from the falls and picked up a gnarled walking stick. Ondine could not take her eyes off of the stranger as he strode away between the ancient trees. Just before he turned the corner following the cliff face, she started, as he momentarily winked out of existence completely! The little nymph gasped, blinked…but no. There he was after all, heading around the bend. Ondine furrowed her tiny brow. She must have imagined it. But how, when she had not even shifted her gaze for an instant? All around her the rush of the water, the music of birdsong, and the laughter of her sister naiads combined in a natural symphony. The sunlight filtered down in warm patches that described a perfect, lovely spring day. And Ondine shivered as she sensed to the depths of her core that nothing would ever be the same again.
There was no mistaking that waterfall. It was exactly as it had been described to him – idyllic, powerful, and sonorous in its rush over the rock face, three times the height of a tall man, and broad. Swollen now with early spring thaws, it formed a sparkling curtain over the cliff-side on its journey to the wide pools below, and eventually into the stream that carried its waters away to far-off realms. Surrounded by supple young birches and scented flowering vines, it passed the day in a sort of filtered green haze, interrupted by rainbows, where patchy sunlight shone through droplets bouncing off the rocks below. Only a few
moments in this place, and the rhythmic falling waters, the colorful lights and sweet fragrances, the warm sun on one’s face would wash away burdens, soothe tired muscles, and lull troubled dreams to sleep. “Perfect,” the old man muttered to no one in particular, “the perfect place to escape, or to hide.”
He splashed his face with the welcome coolness, and drank his fill of the sweet water before picking up his walking stick and continuing on his way. It could not be far now. His source had said to follow the cliff’s edge around behind the falls, and then to bear right through a stand of tall oaks until you came to a giant old tree with three trunks joined as one. From its shelter, he had been told, you could see the little clearing, and the cottage would be there. The old man found his instructions to be quite clear, and only a few moments later, he was peering around from behind the great triple oak at a small hermit’s dwelling so in harmony with its woodland surroundings that it was scarcely distinguishable from its environment. It was round in design, constructed of stones and logs which were well-matched, and mud-chinked. There was smoke puffing from a hole in the woven branch roof, suggesting a hearth of sorts, and a woodpile stacked in neat bundles before what looked like the vine-covered front door. Several homemade buckets of various sizes stood about the forecourt, some empty, some upended as sitting places, and others filled with water. There was an assortment of flat stones that looked as if they might have been used for table and chairs, mortar, pestle and drying surfaces. Beyond the cottage spread a small rectangular garden, walled about with sticks and stones, and showing first shoots of what might be potatoes, leeks, squash, beans, peppers and various herbs. Everything looked neat and tidy. Cozy, the cloaked visitor observed, and then, resourceful.
He pulled back behind the tree as vines parted and the cottager appeared in his doorway, engrossed in his chores. He was wearing soft ankle boots, extremely worn, and a long, rather threadbare tunic that reached below his knees, belted about the waist with a length of thick vine. Some sort of leggings, ingeniously patched with pieces of ancient blanket, closed the gap between the torn robes and disintegrating shoes. From this distance, his head seemed enormous, if you counted the huge bush of pale, uncombed hair, and the straw-colored beard, untrimmed and weedy. The hermit’s age was impossible to determine. He was tall and dreadfully thin, but moved with surprising grace and strength, attending to his tasks with the energy of a younger man. But his shoulders seemed stooped, pressed down by some terrible weight, and his face was almost totally obscured by the cloud of white hair that surrounded and covered it. And was it the white of advancing years, or a pale gold such as denizens of northern climes boasted? No, thought the old man, peering out from behind his tree. This cannot be the man I seek. It is not possible. I have come all this way and wasted precious time for nothing. But at that precise moment, the cottager, checking the sun’s progress across the sky, turned his face up and squarely toward the concealed visitor, revealing piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. That face was unmistakable. The man in the cloak thrust the back of his hand up against his mouth to muffle the involuntary sound that escaped him. In a few heartbeats, his control was restored, but as he continued to watch the threadbare hermit in front of his hand-crafted little house, silent tears overflowed his dark eyes and slid down both sides of his nose.
The sun was already well along on its homeward journey when the weary hermit strode out of the woods into his forecourt, carrying a bark sling full of dried kindling collected from the forest floor. The woods were always generous to him in their yielding of a thousand needful things, and he remembered to thank the trees for their bounty as he approached his simple dwelling. So wrapped in this meditation was he that he almost failed to notice the visitor sitting on an overturned bucket beside the woodpile, until he nearly tripped over him. Startled, the hermit dropped his load of sticks and then scrambled to retrieve a few before seeming to remember that some sort of greeting was in order. He could not recall a visitor ever passing through these parts in the entire time he had been living there, and this one had appeared in a most unorthodox manner.
The stranger sat, cloaked and hooded, very still and straight-backed, two hands resting atop a gnarled walking stick. The hermit reached out a calloused hand. “Sir,” he sputtered in a voice cracking from long disuse, “please pardon my confusion. It is so seldom that my home is graced with visitors out here, and you took me by surprise.” His words and syntax gave him away. This was no simple woodsman. The intruder neither spoke nor moved. The cottager tried again. “Is there something I can do for you, sir? Are you lost? Is there someone or something you seek that I may help you to? Or perhaps you desire some rest after a long journey. Food? A stopping place for the night? Speak up. My home is humble, but such as I have I am happy to share.” No response. The hermit threw up his hands, “Oh, where are my manners? You must be thirsty from the trail. Let me get you some cool water…it is quite sweet here…” He bustled about inefficiently trying to find a cup and a ladle. The visitor rose in one slow movement, leaning on his cane, and stood tall and erect, a somewhat intimidating sight. The hermit froze, blinked several times behind his spectacles, then took a step backward, almost toppling himself over a stone in the yard. A commanding voice emerged from somewhere within the black hood, “I have need of the services of a wizard. I was told that a very good one lives here, in this place, and I have made a very long and difficult journey to find him.”
The hermit let the wooden cup he had just found fall from his hand. He stood very still for a moment, pulled his spectacles from his face and mopped his brow with his other sleeve. Staring at his shoes, he replied at last, “I am sorry to tell you, you were misled. There are no wizards in these parts, nor, to my knowledge, any at all in the world anymore. They say the last of them vanished over twelve years ago and has never been seen since. I regret you have come so far for naught. But you must share a meal with me and rest awhile before you head for home.”
“It is a matter of great urgency. I will not be put off lightly,” the stranger spoke again. “Would gold, perhaps, help my cause?”
The hermit frowned, “Sir, I do not test you, nor do I want your money. I only tell you truthfully that there are no wizards here, and I cannot tell you where you might find one.”
“Tvrdik,” the stranger’s tone became tender, familiar. He reached up with one hand and pulled back the black hood from his face. In his other hand, the walking stick he carried began to grow, thicken, elongate, until it was a sturdy, seven foot staff. He spoke again, “Tvrdik, do you not know me? I confess I scarcely recognize you…”
The hermit’s mouth fell open with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes were blinking as if to erase some unbidden mirage that refused to vanish. His lips tried to form words and failed. Then slowly, he sank to his threadbare knees before the tall figure. “Master,” was the only word he could utter aloud, “Oh, Master…”and he buried his face in his hands.
“Tvrdik, Tvrdik, it is I who should be on my knees to you, though I confess at my age, I do not think it a very wise course. I was the one who left you, at a very crucial time in your young life, and now look in what a state I find you! Can you ever forgive me, son?”
Tvrdik did not raise his eyes. He was shaking bodily. “How can you ask me that, Master? ‘A wizard’s ways are inscrutable,’ you always said. It is not for me to question, to forgive or not to forgive.”
The older man crossed the distance between them, and hooked his left hand under Tvrdik’s arm to raise him to his feet. “What nonsense! Did I teach you that? Feh. Honestly, if I were you, I would be more than a little disgruntled. Would it help if I told you that I never, ever intended to leave you alone here, nor have I ever for a single moment stopped trying to get back to you these entire twelve years?”
“Master?”
“Come, come, you are a man now. My name is Xaarus.”
“Yes, Master…Xaarus. But then, why did you disappear? What happ
ened? Where have you been all this time? And why are you here now?”
“Slow down, boy. That is a story of classic proportion, and I promise to tell it to you. But for now, it seems to be getting darker. I do find myself a bit weary, and would welcome a chair by the fire and some of that food you offered.”
Tvrdik seemed to come to life. “Of course! Come in, come in, and welcome. Let me see what there is to offer…” And he took the arm of his old teacher and escorted him through the vine-covered entry into the little stone house.
THREE
Reunions and Tales to Tell
INSIDE, THE COTTAGE SEEMED MORE spacious than it looked from without: a square-ish, single room, furnished simply with a few homemade wooden benches, a small table, a straw pallet in one corner with a few threadbare blankets, some makeshift shelves with a few supplies and a number of dog-eared old books. Tvrdik had built the place with great care, perhaps even a little magic, but the early spring nights could turn chill, and Xaarus was very glad of the fire. He sat, eyes closed, absorbing the welcome warmth and considering how to plead his case, as Tvrdik bustled about the space, preparing some sort of meal for them and apologizing for the rudeness of just about everything in the process. Xaarus smiled. It was good to know that at the heart of things, not much had really changed between them. But just how deep did the young man’s wounds go?
The Last Wizard of Eneri Clare Page 2
