by K. C. Julius
But his unexpected apprenticeship with the wizard over these past months had given him renewed hope. Perhaps he was meant for greater things.
Still, if he couldn’t even remember a simple riddle…
In his distraction, he snagged his cloak on an overhanging branch. He pitched a few steps forward, and when he tugged the worn garment around to examine the damage, he found a long, jagged tear.
“Oh, hang it!” he exclaimed.
Gran would have kittens when she saw it, as she’d just mended it last week. He reached into his pocket for the comforting warmth of the meat pie, and decided he’d only tell Gran about the rip after she’d had a bite or two.
For these were lean days, and months of the same stretched ahead. The harvests in the south had been poor, and old farmers were predicting heavy snows throughout Drinnglennin this winter. Lurkers, who seldom ranged into the northern realms, had been preying on solitary travelers in Valeland. Just last month, Iver Fronsen was set upon by two of these rovers on the road to Findlindach. The Lurkers, being landless, were feeling the pinch of deprivation more than most. Hunger was abroad.
Not for the first time, Leif wished Master Morgan lived closer to the village. But the wizard was a solitary soul, and most folk were glad the old man kept to himself. Valers distrusted anything to do with magic. Leif’s grandda had been one of the few to scoff at their suspicions. “Master Morgan was once the most powerful wizard in the land, before he left the capital to roam the wider world,” the old man had once told Leif. “Folks forget that in his younger days, he served with two High Kings.”
“Why did he leave?” Leif asked.
Grandda shrugged. “Perhaps he’d had enough of court life. It’s none of our business, in any event. Folks should just let folks be.”
As he thought of his grandda, Leif felt a wave of regret. It was worse for his gran, for it seemed as if a part of her had died with Pren Landril, although she did her best to hide it. Sometimes, when she sat knitting by the fire, he could see the stamp of her grief on her lined face.
She would be waiting and worrying, as she always did when Leif was out after dark. His breath streaming before him, he hurried over the ridge and began the long descent to Tonis Vale. In the valley below, their croft was already shrouded in deep shadow. Grandda had told him—not long before he made the Leap—about bygone times when folk in the Vale had kept signal fires burning to light the way for anyone passing through. Leif wished he could see one beckoning him home now, but few outsiders traveled this way, and the villagers had no desire to attract strangers.
As he paused to catch his breath, a sharp, acrid smell made him gag. The hairs on his neck prickled as he imagined a filthy Lurker skulking behind the dense bracken. His fear kept him rooted in his tracks, peering into the gloom.
Crack!
A dark shadow fell over him, and with a strangled cry, Leif plunged downhill, heedless of the shifting stones under his feet and the thin branches snapping in his wake. Only sheer luck kept him upright as he lurched forward, flailing his arms in panic. When he reached the place where the path leveled out, he pushed himself to run faster, his breaths tearing away from him in heaving gasps.
He felt a small surge of hope when he saw the light from their neighbors’ farm below. He had only a half a mile or so to go before he reached Malgly’s croft, and half as much again before reaching his own.
But as the light surrendered to gloaming, his luck ran out. He never saw the root that hooked his boot and sent him sprawling, wrenching his knee in a blaze of pain. With a cry, he pitched to the ground, his lungs emptying on impact.
For a moment, he lay stunned and struggling for breath. But when he heard something heavy crashing through the brush above him, he jackknifed upright, dragged his trapped foot from under the treacherous root, and pulled himself shakily to his feet. He took a step and was brought up short by a jolt of pain in his knee. Casting about in panic, he spied a narrow opening between two large boulders just off the path. There was no telling how deep it was, or where it might lead, but he hopped toward it, white stars blooming before his eyes with each jarring step.
He dove through the hole into utter darkness. If whatever was out there was still coming in his direction, he could no longer hear it over the sound of his hammering heart.
He inched forward, biting his lip against the pain, praying that his hand wouldn’t land on the pelt of a wintering cave bear. His clothes were damp with sweat, and he began to shiver.
When he felt he was far enough away from the entrance so as not to be seen from without, he curled into a ball and gingerly felt his knee. It had already begun to swell, but he could extend his leg, albeit painfully.
There’ll be no more running for me this night.
Seconds, and then minutes, passed in the dense silence. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, and the thunderous pounding of his heart slowed as he listened.
Gran always claimed he could hear birds molting, and it was true that his ears were sharp. Now, in the darkness, he became aware of small scratching sounds coming from deep in the crevice or cave, whichever this narrow place might be. Bats, he told himself. Or maybe cave swallows.
His joints were cold and stiff, and he knew he was likely to catch a bad chill if he didn’t head for home before long. Still he waited.
The scratching started again, and a fresh rush of adrenaline flooded his veins. It seemed to be coming from behind him now, and he told himself perhaps sound did funny things inside a cave.
Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch.
After a few moments, the insistent scratching stopped. It was still for so long, Leif drifted off.
When he awoke once more, all was quiet. It was probably just a wild dog, he thought. Feeling a bit foolish over how frightened he’d been, he grinned in the dark. All he wanted was to get home and watch his gran relish the pie in his pocket, no matter it was now as cold as a stone, while he warmed himself before the fire. Buoyed by these thoughts, he re-examined his knee, and thought the swelling might have gone down a bit, although it still throbbed like it had been whacked with Blearc’s cudgel. He’d have to walk slowly, but he’d get home in the end. He leaned back carefully on his scraped hands and let his head drop, easing the cramping in his neck. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up to test his weight on his injured knee. The sudden pain made him gasp, and his throat filled with the bitter burn of brimstone.
Then the world exploded.
A blast of rocks and heat propelled him across the darkness in a shower of rubble, slamming him against the wall. Deafened and battered, he struggled for breath as something massive hovered over him, pinning him fast with a suffocating pressure. Its glowing crescent eyes blinded him to all else, so he didn’t see the cruel point of the creature’s talon aligned over his breast.
But he screamed in agony as the dragon plunged its claw through sinew and bone, deep into his thundering heart.
Chapter 2
Avis
Avis Landril rose stiffly from her knees and dusted the cinders off her apron. The fire wasn’t exactly roaring, but by the time Leif got home, the cottage would be warm and cozy. Gods knew, there was little else here to welcome the lad. His supper would be a thin gruel she’d scraped together from the ends of root vegetables put up for the coming winter. The bread was still edible, if softened with a bit of broth. An egg would have been nice, but Gertrude, the last hen, wouldn’t lay again until spring.
Sighing, Avis settled herself with her knitting by the hearth and closed her eyes. She was weary to the bone, for she’d spent the whole day dragging windfall from the forest for Leif to chop.
I’m getting too old for the work, she thought ruefully. But there was no one else to do it, not if Leif was to continue his lessons with the wizard. To study with Master Morgan was an honor that couldn’t be refused.
She savored the wa
rmth from the fire and tried to resist the familiar worry that gnawed around the corners of her mind whenever her grandson came home from his lessons after dark. She reminded herself there hadn’t been any Lurkers sighted in the past days, and it was more than likely they’d all drifted back down south for the winter. In any event, Leif knew the path well enough.
Avis had certainly been taken by surprise when the wizard issued his invitation to the boy. He’d never offered an apprenticeship to anyone since he’d taken up residence high on the ridge, for he was a reclusive fellow, often disappearing altogether for months on end. That he’d chosen Leif… well, no one would have predicted it. It had made Avis quite proud, for to become a wizard, one had to be a truly learned man.
In truth, Avis couldn’t recall anyone who’d actually seen Master Morgan display his magical arts. Some whispered that he’d once been a member of the Tribus, and had advised the High King himself before being forced to leave the post over some trouble or other, but others claimed he was nothing but a charlatan. She’d heard that awful boy Erle scoff at Leif for wasting his time with the old man, and although she’d been cheered when her grandson defended the wizard, she sometimes wondered if Erle hadn’t had the right of it.
In any event, when Master Morgan appeared at their cottage in the last days of summer, Avis shyly invited him in. The three of them sat by the hearth, the silence lengthening, until the wizard at last shifted his thoughtful gaze from the fire to Leif.
“So—you’re to come every day, as soon as your chores are completed,” he said abruptly.
Avis dropped the skein of yarn she’d been winding. The boy just sat in stunned silence, so it was left to her to reply. “Begging your pardon, Master Morgan,” she said. “You want Leif to come to…?”
“To learn!” the wizard announced rather loudly, causing both of them to jump in their seats. Then he raised his bushy eyebrows and stared intently at Leif. “You do want to learn, don’t you, lad?”
The boy had straightened his thin shoulders and given a solemn nod.
Avis didn’t know what to think. Her grandson seemed an unlikely candidate for spellcraft, or whatever it was the wizard wished to teach him. Leif was a kind-hearted boy, and as curious as a cat, but he tended toward flightiness. She often found Gertrude parched from thirst because he’d forgotten to set out her water. He far preferred roving the forest to schooling, filling his pockets with all manner of treasures—tiny shells, nests, old arrowheads and such. He’d be gone for hours and would come back with cobwebs in his hair and grass-stained knees.
Back when Pren was alive, Leif would spend long hours gazing into the fire, begging her husband for tales of the Before. Avis smiled at the memory. What a spell the man could weave with words! He’d have me as captivated as the boy, until I half-believed I was right there with the dragons and their dragonfast, and all those elves and giants, goblins, dwarves and trolls!
Pren used to claim these wondrous folks had ranged the mountains right here in Valeland. According to him, the forests had teemed with magical creatures in the Before, and you were just as likely to find a unicorn grazing in your garden as a deer. Avis had loved the tales of the elves best, with all their wild cavorting and haunting songs. It seemed to her they’d led a most enchanted life.
Not that she would have traded hers for theirs. She and Pren had married young, and she was grateful for every day of their years together. He’d been a fine, loving man, and though it had been two years since he’d passed, she still felt a pang of loss when she woke to his empty place in their bed.
Of course, they’d shared hard times too. Pren’s eyes had never quite regained their sparkle after they lost Lira. Their daughter was born to them late in life, and she’d been as steady in nature as Leif was fey. Even as a wee bairn, Lira would gaze at them with her father’s deep-sea eyes, quietly considering them while they tickled her tiny feet or made silly faces in an effort to make her smile.
Aye, our Lira was a solemn child, but she lit up our world like fireworks at the Gathering.
As soon as the girl could walk, she toddled after Pren everywhere, studying him as he worked their little patch of land. She was quick to learn, and she was good with her hands. Avis taught her to weave, and it wasn’t long before her baskets were superior to her mother’s. When Lira found the old lute in the loft, she taught herself to play, plucking out little melodies she made up herself. But she was happiest when she was set to a task, working alongside Pren. She grew willowy and strong, and could mend a fence and hoe a row as well as any man.
And she was a natural beauty—although she made little of her looks. She wore her chestnut hair scraped up in a careless knot at her neck, and preferred her father’s old coveralls to the simple dresses Avis sewed for her. Plenty of village boys circled by to court her, but they were soon discouraged by her pointed indifference.
Which made it all the more surprising when she came to them one evening and told them she was with child. She wouldn’t say by whom, and they didn’t press her to reveal her secret. Pren was aghast, but he managed to hold his tongue, and a few evenings later, he brought Lira’s old cradle in from the shed. Together, father and daughter sanded and oiled it until the dark wood gleamed.
As the child grew in Lira’s womb, the three of them shared a happy anticipation. But that feeling waned as the pregnancy extended well beyond the baby’s expected arrival. Lira grew ashen and weak, and when she was more than a month overdue, she took to her bed with a burning fever.
“She must’ve been mistaken about… as to when…” Pren whispered to Avis as he held her close in their bed, while Lira muttered in feverish dreams in the loft above.
“I suppose so,” Avis replied. But in truth, she doubted it. Something told her Lira knew exactly when new life had sprung up in her womb. She had never complained about the endless waiting, as if she’d known the baby would take its time.
Avis feared her daughter would lack the strength to bear the child, but when the birth pains began, Lira fought for two grueling days and nights to bring Leif into the light. And when at last Avis laid the boy in her exhausted daughter’s arms, she prayed the young mother’s bond with the baby would give her the fortitude to recover her good health.
But her prayers were in vain. A few days later, Lira drew her last breath with Leif at her breast.
Avis didn’t think they’d ever recover from their sorrow. But the baby helped. Leif made it necessary to carry on, and in time, they were able to count their blessings again. Their grandson had such a bright spirit; they couldn’t help but be drawn to him. And through him, they were reawakened to the simple pleasures of life. Avis couldn’t call it joy—no, not ever again, not after they’d lost their precious girl—but the three of them shared a quiet contentment, which was its own gift.
And then, when Leif was nearly eleven, Pren made the Leap.
A log rolled on the hearth, and the old woman came out of her reverie to poke it back against the andirons. She threw on another, and watched the fire leap up as sap hissed amidst its flickering tongues.
Oh Pren, how I miss you.
* * *
Avis awoke to glowing embers. A nameless fear drove her to her feet, and she had to grasp the table to steady herself against a rush of dizziness. As she waited for the vertigo to pass, she noticed that the door was barred, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The boy was home.
“Leif?” she called up to the loft.
There came no response.
The soup on the cookstove was untouched, and the bread hadn’t been sliced. Surely the child wouldn’t have gone to bed without his supper? He had a ravenous appetite—although she suspected he often didn’t eat his fill so there would be more for her.
She lit a candle on the table and pulled herself slowly up the ladder to the loft where the boy slept. In the flickering light from below, she made out her grandson’s inert form on his bed.
The poor lad had been too weary to undress and get under the coverlet. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she drew a blanket over him.
She bent to retrieve his cloak, which he’d left in a heap on the floor, and caught a whiff of a scorched smell. As she gathered it up, something fell from a pocket and rolled over the edge of the loft. She climbed back down and found what appeared to be a lump of coal under the table.
But when she lifted it to the candlelight, she saw that it was a pie—charred to a crisp.
“What in the name of…?”
She tossed the blackened thing onto the embers and scraped the glowing ash over it. “There,” she muttered, although she was not at all sure why.
Then she lay down on her bed, her arm stretched across to where Pren should have been, wondering why her fingers felt singed. It was a long troubled while before she slept again.
* * *
Avis opened her eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the narrow window. What in Blearc’s name was she doing in bed when the sun was so high in the sky? All the same, she lay for a moment, savoring the unseasonable warmth upon her face.
Then the previous night’s events came flooding back, and she sat up abruptly. “Leif?”
From her alcove, she could see that there were no scattered crumbs on the kitchen table. If Leif hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, was he too still abed? For a moment, the eerie stillness in the room kept her anchored in place. Then she willed herself to her feet and up the loft ladder, the bitter taste of dread on her tongue.
The bedclothes were barely wrinkled. Leif was gone.
* * *
That evening, Avis sat dry-eyed by her cold hearth, struggling to make sense of the day’s revelations. Her neighbor, Malgly, had come by at midday to tell her the news.