“I am so used to my house that I can find my way in the dark,” Oren said, tying up a leather flap. “Normally I keep this covered.”
Square and about the length of his forearm on each side, it was not a simple hole in the wall as Marc first assumed. Something filled up its space, something clear, like the ice that forms on top of puddles in winter. It even had fine bubbles in it like ice. Intrigued, he walked over and touched it, finding it smooth and as hard as stone. Through it he saw the distorted images of trees.
“Is this your magic, Master?”
“No. It is called glass. The Romans make it. It lets the light in and keeps the wind and rain out. I have more of it throughout my home.”
For some reason Marc felt a little disappointed it wasn’t magical. “Even so, it is a wonder.”
“Ah, yes. You will learn of many more wonders during your stay here.”
Moving around a clay urn, Oren started for the far end of the space. “This is my storeroom. Past here is the fire room where I spend a good part of my day.”
Marc looked about. Numerous sacks and bundles of all kinds and sizes were piled upon the floor or hanging from pegs on the wall. One corner held a number of small kegs that had a stack of folded skins heaped upon them. Suspended above were a dozen or so coils of rope.
Separating the storeroom from the next room hung a tall curtain made of hides from sheep with black hair. He knew such coloration to be rare and wondered if it had any magical significance. Following the wizard, he entered a rectangular room twice as wide as deep. Two of the walls each held two pieces of that intriguing glass, and opposite him a chest-high square recess sank deeply into the stone of the wall.
That puzzled him. Clearly it was made for some purpose, but what? A thick layer of ash covered the bottom and soot darkened the stones of the wall near the top of the opening. “Master, what is this?”
“It is where I light my fire.”
Marc studied the large niche again then looked up at the ceiling and saw no hole for the smoke to leave through. Odd. “Where does the smoke go?”
“Ah, look inside the fireplace. At the top you will find a chimney—a hollow column of stones that carry the smoke away.”
Peering within, he saw just what Oren described. “But why go through all this trouble?”
“With a hole in the roof, too much rain and wind get in while the heat easily leaves. The fireplace solves those problems. I stay quite warm in here and use much less wood. Why not light a fire to see how it works?”
Although dubious how well it might function, Marc was eager to give it a try. “Yes, Master.” From the nearby wood stack he selected a small, dry stick, peeling thin strips from it with his knife. After cutting some larger pieces, he cleared away the ash in the center of the fireplace and built a kindling pile. He glanced about. “Where is your flint rock?”
“No need for that in this house.” Oren slowly waved a hand over the pile and said, “Ārdē!” A tiny flame appeared at the bottom of the kindling and quickly spread upward. Amazed, Marc watched the first curls of smoke rise and vanish into the chimney.
Valeria cried out in delight. “Master, you must teach us that magic!”
“It can be most useful, especially in this weather. But—” He paused, his tone becoming more understanding, more apologetic. “I cannot teach magic to just anyone. Only those destined to command the great power may learn it.”
Valeria’s smile fell along with the cast of her shoulders. “Oh. Then I suppose the same is true for how you healed Marc’s arm.”
“I am afraid so, my child.”
A heavy blanket of regret descended upon Marc. Something about it made him associate it with Valeria, almost as if he could feel her disappointment. Hoping to distract her thoughts, he offered her a smile and a slender stick. “Help me with the fire?” Her soft gaze met his wherein he saw her emotion shift toward gratitude. With a nod she knelt beside him, took the stick and snapped it into several pieces, feeding them to the growing flames. Looking up at their master, Marc saw him watch her with a warm, almost parental smile. Oren’s gaze swung to him and he nodded approvingly. Embarrassed, Marc turned back to the fire.
After adding three larger pieces of wood to the blaze, Valeria stood and dusted off her hands. “That should burn for a while.”
The wizard guided them to the south side of the room. “Over here is the kitchen.”
They entered into a wedge-shaped space. Marc was surprised to see the arched top of a clay bread oven in the far corner of the room; never had he seen one built inside a home. To the right, a hip-high, slate covered work surface ran half the length of the glass studded outside wall. Opposite it, against the wall by the oven, stood an oblong wooden table. Atop it sat a large stone mortar and pestle for grinding grain. On the wall by the table ran four shallow shelves populated with many small containers. Much of the remainder of the room was crowded with kegs and barrels of all sizes, sacks, clay pots, and other stores. A glance at Valeria let him see that she, too, looked about the room trying to take it all in.
Oren gestured toward a narrow doorway near the table. “That is a small sleeping chamber. It will be yours, Marc.”
Marc stuck his head in there and saw it was indeed small, little more than a bed and a shallow ledge upon which to place a few belongings.
Retracing their path, the wizard led them to a third doorway on the northern side of the fire room. Stepping through a hide curtain smaller than the one to the storeroom, they entered into a short alcove having three more openings to other rooms, two on the right covered with floor-to-ceiling heavy wool curtains, one on the left holding a wide wooden door.
Oren pointed at the curtain nearest the fire room. “This is my chamber.” He then indicated the second curtain. “And this will be yours, Valeria. It is larger than the rest. Sufficient, I hope, for you to prepare garments in.”
Knifing her extended fingers into the gap between the fabric and the wall, she moved the curtain aside and looked within. “Yes, Master. It is more than enough for my needs. Why is a sleeping chamber this large?”
“Some of the past wizards had many children.” Turning about, Oren lifted the latch on the wooden door and ushered them into the third room. “This is my workshop.”
The room was quite spacious—easily larger than any of the others. Along the right wall four pieces of glass let in a fair amount of light. Under them sat a long, deep and sturdy workbench littered with tools, pieces of wood and metal, bits of leather and cloth. In the center of the room stood an elevated fire pit with an anvil to one side and a large copper hood suspended over it. Beyond that was a large table similar to the one in the receiving area. At the far end of the space, another heavy wooden door led somewhere, but this one was strange, its featureless surface having no handle or latch with which to open it. Left of the door, hundreds of scrolls were stacked neatly in an array of bins stretching the full height of the wall.
Marc pointed at the scrolls. “What are those, Master?”
“Knowledge. Remember, I said you would learn the wisdom of the great societies.”
Impressed, Marc attempted to estimate their number when Valeria’s gasp broke his concentration.
“Half of the room is made from solid stone,” she said in wonder.
He studied the workshop. Just past the fire pit the wall changed from mortared rocks to unbroken stone. Tracing the dividing line with his gaze, Marc followed it over the ceiling and down the other wall at the point where it encompassed the far half of the workbench. The wall holding the strange door was also a sheet of smooth rock. With a start, Marc realized what it meant. “This workshop extends into the hill behind the house.”
“It does.” Oren touched the rock overhead. “Hewn from the living stone with magic.”
Awestruck, Marc said nothing for a time, trying to understand the amount of magical power it took to cut away the hill so precisely. “And what lies behind that door?”
“A special room fille
d with secrets.”
Intrigued, Marc approached the door and studied it closely, seeking any hole or slot that might conceal a hidden latch. The even face of the wood revealed no such opening. “And protected by a door no one can open.”
“No one except wizards,” Valeria said, touching its surface with respect. “Will we be allowed in there?”
“Not today. Both of you, sit at the table.” While Oren rummaged among the scrolls, Marc and Valeria each perched upon a stool. “Ah, some Greek history. This will do nicely.” He plucked one from an upper bin and returned to the table.
Marc listened as their master told of a great leader named Alexander, followed by story of an epic war between the Greeks and Trojans. Marc found the tales so fascinating that the hours quickly passed.
Oren stood and stretched. “Enough. It is too dark to read any more. Time for our evening meal.”
Marc suddenly realized he forgot all about finding tonight’s dinner. Glancing at the glass in the wall he saw it was nearly dark outside. “Forgive me, Master. I did not go hunting.”
Oren gently shook his head and motioned for him to be calm. “There is nothing to forgive. During your time here there will be no need to hunt. I have more than sufficient stores to last the three of us for the next year. Later on, you may hunt from time to time to provide us a little fresh meat, but for now I want you to concentrate your efforts on your work.” He started toward the door. “I will see to our meal. Put those scrolls away then join me in the kitchen.”
Valeria reached for a parchment, her eyes bright. “That was interesting. Especially the story about the soldiers hiding in that horse. Very clever.”
“I bet they were surprised.” Marc rolled and tied his scroll. When Valeria had finished with hers, he picked it up. “I’ll put it away for you.”
She gently held his arm, keeping him from moving. “I’m sorry I injured you.”
“Injured me?”
“When I saw the skulls—” Her embarrassed gaze darted to his arm.
“Oh. Oren healed me so don’t worry about it.”
“Do they hurt?” she asked, running her fingertips lightly over the faint wounds, the sensation making his breath catch.
He tried to ignore the pleasure of her touch. Part of him wanted to believe the caress went beyond her regret over hurting him, but such thoughts were foolish. “No, just itches now and then.” Depositing the scrolls in the proper bins, he gestured toward the exit. “Let’s go eat.” With a demure smile, Valeria nodded and followed him to the kitchen.
During their meal, Oren spoke to them in Latin, testing the extent of their vocabulary. Marc thought he knew it reasonably well, but soon discovered he and Valeria had much to learn. That night, seated before the fire, Oren began their lessons in that language.
After being dismissed, Marc took care of his private needs and headed for bed. Just as he was getting comfortable, a presence loomed over him in the darkness.
“Sleep well, Marc,” Oren said softly, “for tomorrow you will begin to learn the ways of magic.”
Chapter 7
Marc slept poorly that night, greatly worried about what Oren had said. The shock of that revelation had yet to fully set in. Just being around magic put him ill at ease. The very thought of having to learn and then use it scared him. If only he could refuse his master’s wishes, but that was not an option. Resigned to his fate, he decided to learn what he must and, once his year of service had ended, forget it as soon as possible.
Stiff, sore and far from rested, he dressed and wandered back through the house and found Valeria sitting before the fire on a large, thick cushion. He yawned. “Morning.”
She gave him a bright, eager smile. “Morning. Ready to start your day?”
He knelt beside her and automatically held his palms toward the warming flames. “Not really. I didn’t sleep very well.” He looked about the room. “Where’s Oren?”
“He left for the hot springs a while ago.” She poked at the embers with a stick. “I’m excited for you.”
He studied her face for a several heartbeats, wondering if she were serious or making light of him. “Excited? About what?”
She playfully jabbed him in the side with a finger. “Marc. Learning magic, of course.”
His stomach fluttered. So, the master had shared that with her as well. With a single shake of his head, he looked away. “I’d rather not.”
“You are jesting, yes?”
“No. Why does he want me to learn it? You should ask him to teach you instead.”
“I will. I’d love to learn magic.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you had touched that haunted Tree.”
She leaned closer and gave him that sly grin he knew so well. “I will today.”
“Huh?”
Valeria stood and smoothed the fabric of her dress. “Oren wants us to meet him at the waterfall. He said you’d know where.”
His stomach tightened further, somehow knowing he would not like the reason for going there. “I do, but why—”
“He’s going to show us through the Forbidden Vale.”
Marc’s heart skipped a beat. This had to happen sometime, but why now? Regaining his feet, he let out a labored sigh. “When?”
“As soon as we get there.” She patted a small leather sack tied to her waist. “I’m bringing some nuts and dried fruit along for breakfast. Shall we go?” Without waiting for an answer, she headed toward the front.
Following, he collected his staff along the way. Outside, the chill in the air nipped at him. The ghostly image of the sun’s ruddy disk hung just above the eastern hills. Halfway to the gate, he saw the master had not left it open. “How are we to leave? The gate is locked.”
“Oren said it will open for us.”
He glanced at her, head cocked in doubt. “Just like that? Yesterday he needed a spell. Are we supposed to do anything?”
“He didn’t say.”
They walked on in silence, the crunch of the stone underfoot marking their progress. When they were ten paces from the gate, he heard the clunk within the pillar. Fascinated, he watched the gate slowly open on its own. Unsure how long it would remain so, he took Valeria’s hand and hurried under the arch. They turned about in time to see it close and lock.
“Marvelous,” she said with a grin.
Marc suddenly felt a subtle tingling wash over the surface of his skin. The sensation reminded him of being near the Tree or, even better, his encounter with the wolves, yet it did not seem threatening in any way. With a start, he wondered if it was magic’s presence. If so, it would be rude not to acknowledge its help. “Thank you,” he said to the air above him.
Patting the back of his hand, Valeria looked away from the gate. “Which way?”
Three paths converged at the arch. One ran northeast into a thickly wooded area. Marc knew only that it led to the village of Bitter Well and other regions north. The middle path led to the hot springs, Broken Rock, then on to their village. The other path briefly headed west alongside the wall then veered southwest into the forest, following the gentle slope down to Wiccan Creek, down to the Forbidden Vale.
“This way.” He headed west.
“Here.” She handed him a dried plum.
“Thanks.”
Taking a small bite of it, he barely appreciated the luxury of a morning meal, his thoughts too occupied with what lay ahead. He was to learn the ways of magic. What did that mean? And how quickly would the master expect him to learn it? Marc hoped he could suppress his fear of magic well enough to succeed. He did not want to displease Oren for he was indeed powerful, and that demanded both respect and obedience.
Soon they came upon a narrower path branching to the left.
“Where does that go?” Valeria asked casually.
“The hot springs,” he answered without even thinking about it.
She gave him a questioning glance. “It does? How do you know?”
Yes, how did he know? Had the Tree put t
hat knowledge in his head? He hoped not. Perhaps he erred in thinking he had never been on this trail before. Maybe when he was very young he traveled it with his father and had forgotten it until now. As much as he wished that to be true, deep down he knew otherwise. The magic, he feared, was having its way with him. But he did not want to tell her that.
“Well, it seems obvious. That’s the direction the springs should be in, and it’s important to Master Oren, so there’d be a path to it.”
Valeria accepted his reasoning and proceeded to ask many questions about what they would see in and around the Forbidden Vale. He shared all he could recall, much of it already told to her the week before. Still, he welcomed it for doing so eased his growing apprehension.
“I wonder how close we are,” she said. “I hear the creek quite well.”
Marc stepped over a small birch tree that had recently fallen across the path. “Very close. We’ll be out of the woods in another minute.” He helped her over the obstacle.
She gave him another questioning look, this one more intense than the last. “How do you know that? You’ve never been on this path, have you?”
“I believe not. Yet I know where to go.” It disturbed him how well he knew this trail. Damned magic.
“Is it the Tree?” She took his hand, concern in her voice. “I know it... bothers you.”
“It does. Even now it is with me, growing stronger with every step, but I cannot say if it is telling me how to walk this path.” Marc said no more, not wanting to further explain how the macabre beacon guided him.
Exiting the woods upstream of the large pool, they entered a wide, treeless area that bordered the eastern side of the creek for some distance. In several month’s time the green stubble would grow into a lush meadow rich with game.
Valeria gazed expectantly at the Tree across the way. “It’s huge!”
He reluctantly glanced at it. “It has grown fat on the souls of those unlucky enough to come under its spell.”
“It doesn’t seem so dangerous,” she said with a quick shake of her head.
“Why do you doubt me?” he snapped. Her confused and injured expression dissolved his burst of anger. Embarrassed, he hung his head. “Forgive me. I... I didn’t mean that.” He looked to the Tree once more, acutely aware of its power, its being, flooding into him. “If you had touched it before, you’d understand.” Without further comment, she took his right hand and laced her fingers into his, indicating all was well between them.
Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1) Page 9
