by Sever Bronny
Bridget gave him a don’t be silly look. Then she smiled. “I’m proud of you,” and drew him into a hug.
“Thanks,” he said, before they caught up to the others.
“What brought you this far east, Mrs. Stone?” Mr. Goss asked as they began following a near-frozen stream snaking through a wooded valley.
“I have travelled much further east than this, Albert, well past the Muranians, although I daresay teleporting to those places would hardly help us find Occulus’ castle. Nonetheless, I once travelled here with my old companions in search of Castle Arinthian. The villagers were kind enough to point us in the right direction. Milham is a mining town that brings a diverse kind of folk. You can say its isolation has a certain appeal.”
The stream eventually crossed a path. “Yes, this way,” Mrs. Stone said under her breath. She stepped onto the trail, its pristine surface marred by recent footprints. Soon they came upon a snow-covered sign. She raised her hand and the snow arcanely slipped off, revealing the words Village of Milham. In the distance, they could hear the sound of children playing.
The path led past a log cabin with a steeply pitched roof, and behind it stood a small village surrounding a well. Some adults looked on and clapped as children with various skin tones threw snowballs at a wooden charger. An Endyear game, Augum realized.
A man dressed in heavy furs chopped wood beside the log cabin. He looked up, revealing an ebony face, short curly black hair, and a long beard, both flecked with gray. His eyes were shiny and bloodshot, as if they had seen too much sun.
The man’s great black brows crossed as he gave them an appraising look. After a moment of contemplation, he raised an arm. “Happy Endyear. No harm?” He spoke with a slight foreign accent.
“No harm,” Mrs. Stone replied, “and happy Endyear. We come seeking shelter, supplies, and the comforts of a warm fire. Does the Miner’s Mule still stand?”
The man rested his hands on the top of his axe. “It does, my dear lady, though Huan has been fighting an uphill battle keeping the place upright.”
“Would Huan be the innkeeper?”
“He would.” The man looked past Mrs. Stone to the trio. “Would some in your party, including yourself, be warlocks?”
“They would.”
“Then take heed—a Legion herald came through here recently with proclamations. He said all warlocks had to report to Eastspear—”
“—for the war effort, yes,” Mrs. Stone said. “I am sure he also said that scrolls and spell books were banned.”
“That he did—”
“—and would I be correct in assuming there was also a proclamation all able-bodied men were to present themselves at the nearest Legion office, in this case, also Eastspear?”
The man studied Mrs. Stone a moment. “You are indeed correct.”
“Then I shall expect no complaint.” She resumed the trek into the village.
“That is not all the herald proclaimed—”
Mrs. Stone stopped.
“They search for a group consisting of an old woman and three children, one of whom would be the son of the Lord of the Legion himself.” The man’s shiny eyes fell upon Augum.
“Perhaps it would be wise for our stay to be a short one then.”
“Perhaps that would be wise indeed.” The man buried his axe in a log. “Let us make a bargain. Some here mistrust arcanery, but that some does not include me. Healers are very hard to come by in this day, if not impossible. My son broke his arm in the mine. The bone has not set right. He cannot work. If you can heal it, I promise you safety in my own home, away from prying eyes.”
Mrs. Stone stared at the man a moment as if contemplating his character.
“It would mean a great deal to me, and a great deal more to my son.”
Mrs. Stone at last surrendered a nod. “Let us call it a bargain then.”
The ebony-skinned man smiled and reached out a hand. Mrs. Stone took it. He pulled her hand to his lips and bowed slightly. “It is an honor, my lady. Kwabe Okeke at your service. My home is this way.”
He took his axe and led them through the forest to another log cabin set between the trees. It also had a high snow-covered pitched roof. Saws, iron-strapped barrels and rope were stored against the log walls. Soft gray smoke rose from a stone chimney, dissipating into the towering evergreens, where the Muranians loomed in hazy outline.
“Please come in,” Mr. Okeke said, opening the plank door.
The group filed in, immediately hit by the aroma of smoked meat. The place was roomy and warm, decorated with strange colorful furs, the mounted heads of unfamiliar animals, and ebony carvings of what looked like malformed figures in agony. The windows had real leaded glass, as well as outer shutters pushed open to let in the light. Two doors led to other rooms, in between which sat a great hearth. A fat Endyear candle decorated with holly sat on a ledge above.
Mr. Okeke eyed their torn and charred robes. He gestured at a thick trestle table made of yellow pine. “You must be weary from your travels. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Stone said. “But first allow me to present Albert Goss and his son, Leland Goss—”
Mr. Okeke nodded while Mr. Goss said, “Greetings.”
“And this is Bridget Burns and Leera Jones—”
The girls curtsied politely.
“It is a pleasure, young ladies,” Mr. Okeke said.
“And this is my great-grandson, Augum Stone.”
“Augum Stone. Most unfortunate for you, young one, to be the son of the man that murders many.”
Augum tilted his head respectfully but said nothing.
“And I am Anna Atticus Stone.”
“Yes of course. I am honored to share my home with you.” Mr. Okeke gestured for them to sit at the table before taking off his heavy fur coat, revealing loose trousers and a belted chestnut smock covered in soot and oil. His arms and neck bulged with veins yet he was remarkably thin.
“And when will we have the pleasure of your son’s company, Mr. Okeke?” Mrs. Stone asked, taking a seat.
“I sent him to purchase potatoes. He should arrive soon, that is if some dramatic catastrophe does not befall him along the way.”
“I am certain he will be quite all right in his own village—”
“The boy is over two barrels tall yet believes the tiniest cut will lead to his death. When he broke his arm, he made it sound like the world was ending along with his life.” Mr. Okeke sighed. “I fear I have been too protective of the boy since …” His eyes fell upon the ebony carvings.
“Those are most interesting,” Mrs. Stone said.
“They are nightmare carvings. We Sierrans carve them when a bad dream clings to our nights. It is supposed to make them stop.” He picked one up, slowly revolving it in his hands. “My dream is always the same,” he said to himself. “You have been to Sierra before?”
“I have indeed.”
He returned the figure. “Few in the north travel so far south. I myself came here with my wife when my son was but a boy.”
“And what brought you, Mr. Okeke?” Mr. Goss asked.
“A search for a new life.” The man glanced up at an expertly painted portrait of a comely ebony-skinned woman with bushy hair. “Alas, my beloved died years ago to a northern sickness. A most painful disease.”
“I am so sorry to hear that,” Mr. Goss replied quietly. “It seems suffering is a mark of these times. My own wife was murdered by the Legion, as were the friends, mothers and fathers of the girls here. My son still bears the scars.”
Mr. Okeke glanced at Leland, who moaned quietly, before sweeping them with his gaze. “Troubled times indeed. They search for you now. They search for the boy and the scion.”
Mrs. Stone rested the staff against the wall. “They do.”
“They say if the Lord of the Legion attains all of these artifacts, he will bestow eternal life to his followers.”
“A lie told by a liar. His heart is as twisted as …”
Her gaze fell upon the carvings.
Mr. Okeke nodded and paced to the kitchen area, where he began preparing strips of salted meat, bread and butter. As his veined hands tore the bread, Augum’s stomach rumbled, Leera licked her lips,, while Bridget stared hypnotized.
“And what brings you to Milham, Mrs. Stone?” Mr. Okeke asked, sprinkling spices onto the meat.
“We are in search of a castle lost to history.”
“I am afraid I know very little of castles around these parts. My son probably knows more than I, for he has an arcane yearning which, all things considering, I simply cannot support.”
“Has your son studied at an academy?” Leera asked.
“He very much wants to attend the one in Blackhaven, but he does not seem to understand it is under the control of the Legion. His only option there would be to become a necromancer. This, of course, I forbid him. Besides, I fear the moment he sets eyes on a real necromancer—”
The door opened and in walked a very tall and gangly ebony-skinned boy of about the trio’s age, wearing a fur coat much too small for his size.
“Ah, this is my son, Jengo.”
The boy froze upon seeing the group at the table, .
“Jengo—”
“Father, it’s them!” His eyes darted about. “They’ll execute us for sure—”
Mr. Okeke took a deep breath. “No such thing will happen. They are here by my invitation. Please welcome them as guests.”
Jengo dumped the basket to the ground. A couple potatoes fell out and rolled under a chair. He was much taller than anyone Augum had ever seen. His face was oval with a large scar on his chin and he seemed to favor his right arm. Like his father, he possessed short, curly black hair.
“That’s the Lord of the Legion’s son right there. They’ll burn the place down with us inside—”
“Enough, Jengo!”
There was a marked silence. “Hello, uh, I’m Jengo. I mean, obviously, yeah. But, uh, Happy Endyear … I guess.”
“Happy Endyear,” the group replied.
Mr. Okeke wiped his hands. “This is Mr. Goss and his son, Leland. Over here we have Bridget, Leera and Augum. And this is Anna Atticus Stone—”
Jengo inhaled sharply. “Impossible, Anna Stone died—”
“—battling Narsus the necromancer,” Mrs. Stone finished. “Let me assure you, young man, this is not a walking corpse you see before you.”
Jengo gaped.
“Manners, Jengo. Please boil the potatoes for our guests—and mind you recover the ones under the chair.”
“Yes, Father,” Jengo replied in persecuted tones. He withdrew a cloth from his pocket, reached under the chair and gripped the potatoes with it, holding them as if diseased. He then retrieved the basket and hurriedly walked to the kitchen, head bowed.
“Your coat, Jengo.”
“Oh, right.” Jengo rushed to take off his coat and hang it by the door, but in doing so, he snagged it on a chair and tripped, nearly skewering himself on a figurine. He swallowed, mumbling something about death at every turn, while the trio quietly snickered.
Mrs. Stone cleared her throat, silencing them immediately. “May I remind my young companions that I expect them to observe the highest courtesies as Endyear guests.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stone,” they mumbled. As much as Augum had grown since meeting Mrs. Stone, she still managed to make him feel young and immature.
Jengo’s cheeks reddened as he hurried to scrub the potatoes in a washbasin by the fire. When he thought his father wasn’t looking, he readied to throw the wrapped potatoes into the hearth.
“Those ones too, Jengo.”
“But they fell on the floor—”
“They have skin. You will wash them and then they will be boiled—”
“All right, Father, I get it,” Jengo said, blushing while giving the trio a furtive look. He carefully unwrapped the two potatoes and threw them in the water. His face twisted in disgust as he resumed scrubbing.
Mrs. Stone leaned toward the trio. “Perhaps the three of you would deign to find the time to help our new young friend?”
Augum, Bridget and Leera scrambled to join Jengo around the washbasin, leaving Leland and the adults at the table. “Your hands don’t look clean,” he whispered. “If you don’t mind, could you just pretend you’re washing? I mean, don’t actually put your hands in the water.”
The trio exchanged looks.
“Guess so,” Leera finally said. “So, uh, your father speaks formally, like he’s—”
“Highborn? He was brought up in the royal court of Sandorra.”
“Is that the Sierran capital?” Bridget asked.
“It is. Even though it annoys him, I prefer to speak in a more … common fashion.”
“How did you get that scar?” Augum asked.
Jengo gave his chin a dainty touch. “This grievous injury I sustained in an epic fight in the mines, one that almost brought down the place. It was I against the largest beast of a boy you’ll ever see. He said things about my mother I wouldn’t repeat to my worst enemy. He doesn’t much like people that are different, which is weird because he’s very different himself.”
“So he’s even taller than you?” Leera asked.
Jengo checked to see his father was busy in conversation before throwing a particularly scabbed potato into the fire. “Not taller, but certainly bigger. And meaner. And stupider.”
“Augum’s mother is from Sierra,” Leera replied.
“Oh?”
“Her name is Terra Titan,” Augum said.
Jengo stopped what he was doing to stare at Augum. “So your father is the Lord of the Legion, and your mother is a Titan?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look Sierran.”
“I’m not. Born in the Black Castle.”
“Your father is the Lord of the Legion, your mother is a Titan, and you were born in the Black Castle.”
Put that way, it sounded ridiculously improbable to Augum too. “Uh huh.”
“But he’s a farm boy first,” Leera said with a smirk.
“Was,” Augum corrected. And never will be again.
Jengo tossed another potato into the fire. “I heard the Titans feed their children wine to make them stronger.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bridget said. “And please stop wasting potatoes.”
“But they’re … I’m sorry, I’m being insensitive and crass and tactless again.”
Leera’s brows rose. “Those are words Bridget would use.”
Bridget and Jengo reddened.
“So we hear you want to become a warlock,” Leera went on.
“Father told you, huh? You three are apprentices, right? I recognize the robes from a book. What elements?”
“My element is earth, Leera’s is water and Augum’s is lightning,” Bridget said. “What’s yours?”
“Oh, uh, I … I don’t actually know.” He dropped his voice to a whisper again. “But I know a couple things about arcanery. I … I even know a spell.”
“You mean you learned one wild? Which one?”
Jengo checked over his shoulder before shoving the bowl aside—slopping some water onto a bear hide rug—and holding his palm out. His face strained as his hand flickered to life with a white light before fading out.
“That might be healing—” Bridget said.
“Really?”
“For someone with no formal training, it’s very impressive. The healing element is three times rarer than the other elements. I think our class only had one healer.”
Jengo smiled proudly. “I’ve been practicing. One day, I’m going to join the academy, but I have to convince my father to let me go first. Maybe you can help me—”
“You don’t want to go to the academy right now,” Augum said. “Not while the Legion runs it. Trust us on that.”
Jengo’s face fell. “I thought that’s just something Father told me to scare me into not going.”
“We had to flee the aca
demy when the Legion came to power,” Bridget said. “I’m sorry, but your father was telling the truth.”
All the joy faded from his eyes. He dragged the bowl back before him, took up the brush, and resumed scrubbing. “Great, how am I to become a warlock now?”
“Well, we’re on our way to learning our 2nd degree,” Leera said, “and we’re not even attending an academy.”
“How is that possible?”
She glanced back at Mrs. Stone, talking in hushed voices with Mr. Okeke and Mr. Goss. “We’re lucky to have a good mentor.”
“Good? Try legendary.” Jengo’s eyes lit up again. “Do you think … you know …”
“You’d have to ask her,” Augum said, “but you just have to make sure your father is all right with it, because I doubt Mrs. Stone will mentor you without his approval.”
“Not to mention we’re in the midst of travel,” Leera added.
Jengo shot to his feet, almost knocking the basin over. “Father! Are you all right with me training with our guests in the arcane way?”
The table fell silent. Mr. Okeke slowly stood up, face grave. “That is a very presumptuous thing to ask, son. I am ashamed of such a question and I apologize to present company.”
Mrs. Stone used her staff for support to stand. The trio politely stood as well. “We have precious little time for training, I am afraid.”
Jengo’s head fell.
“However—”
His chin rose.
“—if Mr. Okeke sincerely desires his son to follow the arcane path and permits us to stay a few extra days—”
Jengo could barely stand still.
“—then I shall endeavor to impart what lessons time permits.”
Jengo brought his hands together. “Father, please …”
Mr. Okeke studied him carefully. “On one condition.”
“Anything, Father …”
“Swear you will not attend the academy until it is free of the Legion.”
“I swear.”
“Then so be it.”
Jengo was so excited he ran to hug his father, dwarfing the man in his clutches. He then bowed deeply before Mrs. Stone. “I am so eternally, blessedly, ever thankfully—”
Mrs. Stone took a patient breath while he rambled on, and paced around the table to stand before the boy. “Your father has informed me your arm was not set correctly. Unfortunately, it will require re-breaking before I can heal it. Oh, do not look so frightened, child, I shall put you to sleep.”
