Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  He stopped. He wasn’t in the mood to be soothed. She had to realize that.

  “Go down and get the potatoes for me.”

  He didn’t answer, but he did open the hatch.

  The root cellar was cold, colder than it had been for weeks. So much for spring. He brought up a canvas sack half-full of potatoes and put it on the worktable, but before he could leave, his mother handed him a cleaver. “Dice them up for me, nice and small.” She turned back to the stove and cranked the vent to reduce the heat.

  After a long pause, Graegor started pulling potatoes out of the sack and dicing them. He didn’t have to peel them—his mother thought they tasted better with the skins on—but it still took a long time. When he finally finished, he scooped them into a bowl, and his mother took the bowl and passed him a big paper-wrapped trout. “Fillet and slice this for me. Very thin.”

  Graegor took the boning knife to the pump and scrubbed it with powdered soap, leaving the wash water in the bucket for after dinner and returning to the worktable to attack the fish. He was carefully working the knife toward the outside end of the ribs when his mother said, “Would you like to know why your father is so upset?”

  He wanted to turn and look at her, but didn’t, and only shrugged. He heard the brick-oven door latch scrape open, then scrape closed a couple of seconds later once she’d put the flatbread in. At the table, Audrey had bent her head over her book again, but she had to be listening.

  “You know that your father grew up in Naben. He was thirteen when he left.”

  That was interesting. Had his father once wanted to see the world too?

  “Have you ever wondered why you never hear about his family?” she asked.

  “I ... figured they were dead or something.” He had wondered. But since his father had never talked about his own father or mother or any sisters or brothers, Graegor had never wanted to bring the subject up either. It occurred to him now that he could have asked his mother about it a long time ago.

  “From the time he was very small, his father—his mother too—punished him severely for everything. He and his brother rarely went a day without a beating.”

  Graegor didn’t answer. It was hard to get his mind around the idea of his father as a helpless child.

  “If it wasn’t for his grandfather, he never would have known any of the kindness and caring that children need. But his grandfather died when he was only seven, and there was no one to protect him or his little brother anymore.”

  “And so he ran away when he was thirteen?”

  “Yes. After his father beat his little brother to death.”

  He turned to stare at her in shock, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her mouth was set in a tight line as she pushed the diced potatoes around on the pan. He went back to filleting the fish, and after a moment she said, “He didn’t just run away from his father. Naben was not a nice place to live back then, and I’m sure it hasn’t gotten any better. Their duke does not care for his people the way Duke Richard and his lords care for us here. His taxes were exorbitant and did not pay for improvements to the roads or bridges or dikes like our taxes do.”

  Graegor repeated the removal of the ribs on the other side of the trout. He didn’t care about the Duke of Naben’s shortcomings. He wanted to go back to the part about the uncle he’d never known, beaten to death by the grandfather he’d never known. But she’d changed the subject so quickly it was obvious that she didn’t want to go any further. Or maybe she didn’t know anything more. Maybe his father had spared her the details.

  His silence didn’t mean anything other than that he was thinking about what she had said, but apparently she thought it meant something else, because after a little while she heaved an exasperated sigh. “Graegor, I’m trying to explain why your father acts like he does sometimes. He’s not being mean, and he doesn’t hate you, and he isn’t deliberately setting out to ruin your life.”

  “Then why doesn’t he try to understand me—why I act like I do sometimes?”

  “He does understand you,” she insisted. When Graegor snorted, she stepped away from the stove, and when Graegor looked at her, she looked back at him with her hand on her hip and a flash in her eyes. “You don’t understand. We remember being your age. We remember what it’s like. You, on the other hand, have never been our age. You have no idea what it’s like.”

  He said nothing, because she was right. She went on, “We know you better than anyone else on earth does, because we’ve been watching you every day of your life. You, however, barely know what our lives have been like. You barely know us. The only thing you can be sure of is that we always, always want what’s best for you.”

  Here, at least, was something he could answer. “I know, Mom.” He said it quietly, to give it more weight. “But trying to get out of that fight would not have been best for me. If they thought they could scare me ...” He trailed off, hoping she understood the point, and ran the tip of his knife along the fillet to find the pin bones.

  But she shook her head. “Fights do nothing but start more fights. If you can avoid a fight, you should. And now, the first time you faced the choice, you chose to fight instead of talk.”

  “How do you know I haven’t talked my way out of a dozen fights already?”

  “Have you?”

  Graegor looked at her for a moment, then turned back to the trout. Audrey had not moved. He was sure she was getting a stiff neck from holding it so still as she bent over the book.

  “Mom?” he said after a few minutes.

  “Yes?”

  “Does Dad even care that I won the fight? That they weren’t able to hurt me?”

  “He’d glad you’re not hurt. But it’s more likely now that you’ll get into another fight—and another, and another.”

  He didn’t tell her she was wrong. “Is he at least glad about the apprenticeship?”

  “Of course he is. All he wants is for you to find something you’re good at.”

  “Maybe I’m good at fighting.”

  She moved the pan to another burner. “That’s what we’re afraid of.”

  “Mom ...” He hesitated, then went ahead with it: “You’re overreacting.”

  “We won’t know that for a while, will we?—Just promise me that you’ll do your best to stay out of fights from now on. For your future. Master Jarl won’t like it any more than we do.”

  “I promise that I’ll do my best.”

  “And you’ll stay away from those boys? You won’t give them any reason to confront you?”

  “After tonight they’ll be staying away from me.”

  She made a tsk noise. “Humility is a virtue, Graegor.”

  “So is justice,” he muttered.

  “Odd thing to call it.”

  “Justice isn’t a virtue?”

  “What you did wasn’t justice.”

  “They deserved it.”

  “Maybe,” she surprised him by conceding, but then ruined it with, “That doesn’t mean it was your job to do it.”

  “I had to do it.”

  “You had a choice.”

  “Between winning and losing?”

  “Between fighting and talking. Try your best at talking next time.”

  He gave up. His mother had an answer for everything.

  She did everyone a kindness that evening by setting out the thin seared trout, potatoes, and flatbread on the warm stove and declaring that everyone could serve themselves as they finished their chores. It wasn’t a good time to force everyone to sit around a table together. Audrey followed him upstairs after they had both eaten and the apprentices were starting to drift into the kitchen. On the landing outside their rooms she asked, “Did you really thrash all four of them by yourself?”

  “All by myself with no help.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the phrase she had repeated so often when she was small, but she wasn’t really annoyed. She carried her candlestick and her book into her room, and Graegor went to his own room and shut the d
oor.

  He pulled the apprentice contract out of his shirt pocket, sat down on the bed, and unfolded the heavy paper to read it again. An apprenticeship, a real apprenticeship. The fight didn’t matter. Chervis would speak to the sheriff, the sheriff would dismiss the whole thing, Craig and Lukas and the others would avoid him, and it would all blow over. It was only a little over a month until he moved to Master Jarl’s, and he and his father could certainly contrive to ignore each other for that long.

  He found himself wishing he had his quarterstaff with him, though. He wanted to look at it again. Magus Paul hadn’t seemed to think the staff hadn’t been the source of the power he had felt, but Graegor couldn’t help thinking about it. Something had happened in the stable.

  Well, purpleheart was from far-off Toland. It could have a kind of magic that Magus Paul didn’t recognize. Perhaps there was a spell on it that protected anyone who used it!—That was a fun idea. Maybe Graegor hadn’t paid too much for the staff after all. Maybe the shopkeeper hadn’t known its true worth.

  He’d make sure to really look at it tomorrow at Pritchard’s. He didn’t know what his own eyes would be able to tell him, but maybe there was a mark on it, or something. Lukas had insisted that the staff had moved into Graegor’s hand by itself, and while Lukas probably lied all the time, that seemed a little exotic even for him.

  He put the unfolded apprenticeship contract on top of his clothes-chest. Yes. Today was a good day. He could forget his parents’ overreaction, and think about something else. Like Jolie. Like how soft her lips were, and how he could envelop her so completely in his arms.

  It was a nice thought, and easy to keep following.

  The next morning Graegor arrived at the schoolhouse later than he usually did, admittedly on purpose, since it allowed him something of a dramatic entrance. Nearly all the other boys were already there, and Master Rumstad’s table was vacant, so as soon as Graegor came in the door everyone clustered around him to ask about the fight. Had he really taken on six apprentices? Did Craig really get his teeth knocked out? Who’d taught him to use a quarterstaff? Did it really have a magical purple glow when he held it?

  Graegor enjoyed the attention, especially since he could answer the younger boys’ questions without exaggerating. The truth was impressive enough for most of it—but he did let the question about the magic staff hang, because who knew? Maybe it was enchanted, and it wouldn’t be lying to let the other boys think so. Besides, they wanted to think so.

  One of the boys was Lukas’ brother, who was as eager as the rest of them to hear all about it, but did seem disappointed that Lukas had escaped unharmed. Craig’s brother, about whom the entire incident had supposedly been about, wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for months, since Master Rumstad had expelled him because he never shut his fat lying mouth. It occurred to Graegor that this may have been when, and why, Craig’s father had asked Jarl about an apprenticeship for the boy—if in fact that had ever actually happened.

  When Master Rumstad arrived, the boys scattered back into their seats. The master only gave him a raised grey eyebrow before calling the school to order.

  Lessons that day were more wearying than usual. With only one month to go, he didn’t think it likely that he would actually learn anything else. Maybe he’d finally understand geometry if he really tried, but he wasn’t eager to try. Why would a saddlemaker—or a horse trainer, or a horse breeder—need to know geometry?

  The rain started during afternoon lessons. Graegor stayed an hour after the other boys had left, to finish the essay and the sums Master Rumstad had assigned. It was easier than lugging the books and the expensive paper around—twice now his carefully prepared schoolwork had been blown all the way into the lake. Finally he finished, stretched, shook out his stiff fingers, stowed the books on his designated portion of the back shelf, and brought his papers to the front of the room.

  Master Rumstad looked up from reviewing a stack of essays by the light of another oil lamp on his table. “I understand you’re to be apprenticed to Master Jarl,” he said, in as pleasant a manner as Graegor had ever heard from him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When will you be starting?”

  “One more month, sir, as soon as I’m fifteen.”

  “You’ve been a good student, and I’m sure you’ll do well.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Maybe that would make his father happy.

  “But try not to get into any more fights, all right?”

  Graegor got the distinct impression that although the master was acting as if he disapproved, he actually didn’t. For one thing, he could have sworn the old man winked. But he took the words at face value. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The steady drizzle pattered on Graegor’s head as he descended the stairs from the schoolhouse door and crossed the stickball field to the empty street. He was heading for Pritchard’s when he heard his name called, and he turned to see Master Jarl three shops up, standing on his porch and waving him over. Graegor hurried his steps, and the master saddlemaker gestured him inside and shut the door behind them.

  Unlike Graegor’s parents and most of the other craftmasters, Jarl did not maintain display windows, and his front door led directly into his workshop. It was dim inside, as it had been yesterday, with shutters over the small windows, a fire burning on the hearth, and two oil lamps hanging in the corners. Laid over all was the scent of leather and new wood and, today, wet dog—the pit bulls had come in out of the rain. Graegor crouched to greet one which had come toward them at the sound of the door, and the dog licked his hand and wagged its tail.

  “He likes you,” Master Jarl stated, and Graegor couldn’t tell if he approved or not. “He doesn’t like anybody.” Which was true. Master Jarl’s dogs weren’t allowed off his property because they had bitten so many people.

  Graegor shrugged as he stood up. He had once asked Magus Paul if magi were good with animals, and he had said that yes, most were, but by itself it didn’t mean someone was a magus. He was often at pains to remind people how rare magi were. “What do you need to talk to me about, sir?” He thought they had settled everything yesterday, and Master Jarl never invited anyone in for social calls.

  After an awkward pause, the master asked abruptly, “Do you have your apprenticeship agreement with you?” The creases in his forehead were even more pronounced than usual.

  “Yes, sir.” It was still too precious to leave anywhere.

  “Give it here.”

  Graegor drew the folded parchment from his shirt pocket and handed it to Master Jarl. Master Jarl unfolded it, then, with quick jerks of his gnarled hands, tore it into pieces. As Graegor stared, the master strode to the stone fireplace and dropped the pieces into the flames.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t even look at Graegor. Graegor himself couldn’t speak at first, but finally, as the silence stretched, he found his voice. It was an effort to keep a respectful tone. “Sir, I’m sorry, but why ...”

  “I can’t take you on as my apprentice, Graegor.”

  “Why not, sir?”

  “Two reasons.” The master was still watching the fire. “First, my memory must be failing me, because I did promise an apprenticeship to Rafe Baldwin’s boy last year. Baldwin came to see me last night and reminded me.”

  “But, sir, you hadn’t registered it with the guild.”

  “I hadn’t registered yours either,” Jarl snapped. “It’s my decision to make.”

  Graegor managed to speak without actively clenching his teeth. “Sir, if you promised apprenticeships to both of us, then you should apprentice both of us.”

  “I don’t like taking apprentices at all, and I’m certainly not going to take two!”

  The dog was whimpering and scuttling back behind Graegor. Graegor didn’t move. “Sir, with respect—you only made a verbal promise to Master Baldwin, but you made a written one to me.”

  “Not anymore.”


  Point. Graegor mentally reached for another arrow to fire. “I’m not sure you realize this, sir, but Master Baldwin’s son is only twelve. He’s not old enough for an apprenticeship yet.”

  “I know,” Jarl said between clenched teeth. “But he’ll be thirteen this summer. At thirteen a boy can be apprenticed.”

  “Yes,” Graegor allowed, “but usually—”

  “It’s my decision!” Jarl shouted, finally turning his head to look back at him. Shadows from the fire cut the wrinkles deeper into his face and swallowed his eyes.

  “Then why did you decide against me?” Graegor shouted back, a deep red anger choking off his common sense, overriding his need to stay reasonable. Craig’s brother was twelve, he didn’t need an apprenticeship, he should still be in school except he was such a little—

  “I will not have an apprentice who fights!”

  Graegor forced himself to take a deep breath. “I don’t know what you heard, sir, but I was defending myself. You can ask Chervis if you don’t believe me.”

  “I heard that you struck the first blow. Do you deny that?”

  “If I hadn’t, they would have thrashed me! There were four of them!”

  “You were armed.” There was a particular hardness in those words that made Graegor wonder what had happened to Master Jarl in his youth. Maybe he was siding with Lukas and Craig because he’d been a bully when he was an apprentice. And maybe someone with a weapon had taught him a lesson ... or maybe, like Graegor’s father, he’d been beaten, and didn’t want anything to remind him of it.

  You need this apprenticeship. You’ve already told Jolie about it. Get back on his good side. Apologize. Show him you learn from your mistakes.

  “Sir, I’m sorry.” Something his mother had said last night gave him an idea. “I know now that I could have talked to them some more instead of fighting. They were upset about the apprenticeship, so I should have told them I would ask you about it.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Jarl muttered, looking into the fireplace again.

  But that was all he said, so Graegor tried again. “You can count on me not to get into another fight, sir. You have my word. I’ll work very hard.”