Meredith, Simon thought. After a time, he said, “Maybe a short visit.”
Bernard grinned, leapt to his feet, and patted Simon’s shoulders. “That’s it. Now you’re talking.”
Later, after Bernard had departed, Simon hiked up to the highest branch of the tree, opened a small door, and strode out onto the balcony. For a long time he sat there in the darkness, clutching his wineglass absently and staring at the mist-shrouded hills, thinking of Meredith.
A month later Simon stood and regarded the tree of Victor Archimagus.
It was gigantic, its trunk as wide around as a castle wall. A good way up, the trunk split into a great V—the two branches that had grown upon the births of Victor’s sons, Franklin and Atherton. From there the branches continued to climb and divide—one for each legitimate male heir—and now over a hundred descendants of the late wizard resided within the tree’s luxurious chambers. (Female children were married off and sent away—Victor had never been a terribly enlightened sort.) The tree was a virtuoso feat of spellcraft, the first of its kind, and upon its creation Victor had been so impressed with himself that he’d taken the surname Archimagus—master wizard. Simon was the only one to have successfully replicated the spell. Families that possessed the rare gift of magic seemed always to be afflicted with low fertility, but the fact that Victor’s tree grew larger and grander depending upon the number of offspring had ensured a frenetic effort to proliferate his adopted surname, and had also—perhaps inevitably—led to a rivalry between the descendants of Franklin and the descendants of Atherton over who could produce the greatest number of male heirs. At the moment it happened that the two halves of the tree were in perfect balance. Today’s presentation ceremony for Bernard’s infant son would change that.
Crowds had come from all the surrounding towns, and other wizards had come from farther afield, and now several hundred people were gathered in the shadow of those soaring branches. The children of Franklin had spared no expense to ensure a spectacle. Wooden poles were set in the earth at intervals, with garlands of sweet-smelling flowers stretched between them, and tables were piled high with cooked quail and poached eggs. Simon made his way past dancers and jugglers and lute-players, and into the roped-off area that was reserved for members of the Archimagus family. Here all the men, and many of the women, wore swords.
Bernard appeared at Simon’s side and took his arm. “Thank you for coming, Simon. Here, mother wants a word with you.”
As Simon moved through the crowd, heads turned to watch him, and conversations halted abruptly, then resumed in murmurs. Meredith’s brother Malcolm, glowering, red-haired, black-clad, turned to confer with his gang of goonish cousins. Simon knew what everyone was thinking: The runaway returns, the descendant of Franklin who’s most gifted in the ways of magic. This changes everything.
Simon spotted his mother, still lovely as ever, dressed in an ostentatious blue gown. She wore her prematurely silver hair in a single braid, and her face had a few new lines in it, which only made her look even more conniving. She was engaged in an animated conversation with Meredith’s mother, a plump woman who had on too much makeup over a pallid complexion and whose wavy crimson hair was like a fiery halo.
When Simon’s mother spotted him, she waved and called out, “Simon, there you are.”
Meredith’s mother tensed. She glanced back over her shoulder at him, her face apprehensive. Simon’s mother wore an expression just a shade shy of smug. This scene was playing out, Simon felt sure, precisely as she had intended.
As Simon approached, his mother reached for him and said warmly, “Welcome home.”
He allowed his cheeks to be kissed. “Just a visit, mother. My home is far away now.”
“Yes, of course.” She turned to Meredith’s mother and said, “Have you heard? Simon lives in his own tree now. He managed to duplicate the very spell that produced our own arboreal estate.”
Simon smiled modestly, uncomfortably.
“Oh, how wonderful,” said Meredith’s mother, with dubious sincerity. “Is that what you’ve been doing, Simon? Studying magic? How nice. Your mother has been terribly lax about keeping us up to date on you.” She added, “You must be very dedicated, to have sequestered yourself away from your family all these years.”
“Oh, he is,” said Simon’s mother, her tone incrementally chillier. “And the results speak for themselves, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, indeed,” said Meredith’s mother. “You know, Simon, my daughter is around here somewhere. You two should chat. She’s quite the sorceress herself these days.”
“Yes,” said Simon’s mother, “we’re all so delighted to have Meredith back with us. She’s much too good for that silly duke.”
Meredith’s mother narrowed her eyes just a trace. Then she glanced over Simon’s shoulder and said, “In fact, I think I see my daughter now. Meredith, dear! Come here a moment. Look who’s back.”
Simon steeled himself, and turned.
She was taller than he remembered, more confident, her features sharper. She wore a red blouse and a skirt with a swordbelt, and her chestnut hair was shorter than it had been, now just brushing her bare shoulders. But she was still Meredith. He’d imagined this meeting so many times, and now here she was, before him.
“Simon,” she said, and moved to embrace him, somewhat stiffly, then backed away. She and her mother faced Simon and his like pieces on a chessboard.
Meredith’s mother said, “Remember how the two of you always used to play together?”
“Yes,” Simon said, watching Meredith, who stared back, her expression neutral.
“Yes,” Simon’s mother put in. “The two of you always were the most gifted wizards in the family.”
“A bit competitive about it too, as I recall,” said Meredith’s mother. “Though I suspect, Simon, that these days Meredith may have you beat.”
“Oh,” said Simon’s mother, “I don’t know about that.”
A moment of awkward silence.
Then Simon’s mother added, “We must arrange a little contest some time, to settle the matter.”
“Indeed,” said Meredith’s mother. “That would be most interesting.”
The mothers fell silent. Simon and Meredith eyed each other. Simon felt that he should speak, but couldn’t think what to say. Fortunately the trumpets sounded, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin.
Meredith nodded to Simon, then she and her mother strolled off, and were soon lost amid the crowds streaming toward the rows of benches. Simon and his mother found their seats, and for a time Simon exchanged a few words with various relatives.
Then Bernard made his way to the front of the audience, and behind him came Elizabeth, a slender, mousy girl, holding their infant son. The couple mounted a raised wooden platform and stood gazing up at the broad southern expanse of Victor’s tree.
Bernard shouted, “Victor Archimagus! Honored ancestor! Hear me!”
A great oval section of the tree rippled, as if its bark were a stretch of calm water suddenly disturbed by the movement of a lurking monster. The undulations became more pronounced. There was churning, swirling . . .
Then a giant wooden face appeared, extruding from the trunk like a man emerging through a waterfall. The face was handsome, bearded, vain. The face of Victor Archimagus, its eyes empty, alien.
It boomed, “I am here.”
Simon had always found the thing repugnant. It was just like Victor to leave behind this ghost, this ponderous, unfeeling simulacrum to ensure that his unhealthy domination of his family continued on down through the ages.
Bernard called, “I am Bernard Archimagus, and this is my lawful wife, Elizabeth. We wish to thank you, great wizard, for all you’ve done and continue to do for your family.” Bernard continued in this vein, praising Victor’s multifarious accomplishments and abiding generosity. Simon glanced across the aisle, to where the descendants of Atherton were seated, and sought Meredith’s face, but she was blocked from view.<
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Finally Bernard took the infant from Elizabeth’s arms, held him aloft, and cried, “I present to you, noble Victor, my firstborn son, Sebastian Archimagus. May he never fail to please you.”
For a long moment Victor’s face seemed to regard the child, though really it was impossible to say where those empty eyes were staring. Finally the face said, “I am well pleased.”
Then the whole tree began to shudder. Leaves shaken loose fell across the crowd like rain. Victor’s eyes glowed with an otherworldly light. The base of the tree bulged, as if a geyser were filling it from below, and this effect traveled up the trunk to the great V that marked the division between Franklin and Atherton, and from there followed the Franklin branch, causing it to enlarge. The magic flowed up branch after branch, tracing the ancestry of Sebastian, and everywhere it passed it was making the rooms within more spacious and extravagant, Simon knew. Finally the magic reached the branch that had grown on the day of Bernard’s own presentation ceremony, and from that branch a new growth sprouted forth, lengthening and thickening and blooming with windows and balconies and bright green leaves, all in the space of a minute. The crowd oohed and aahed.
The children of Franklin burst into raucous cheers. The polite applause from the children of Atherton was noticeably more subdued.
The celebration went on well into evening, and when it was over Simon followed his relatives back to the tree. They shuffled through the main gates and into the great hall—a vast, cavernous space filled with tables and benches, the far wall of which was occupied by a shrine to Victor. From there the families divided, descendants of Franklin to the right, descendants of Atherton to the left, climbing two giant staircases that spiraled around each other and which led back to their respective branches. Simon made his way up to his own branch and his old chambers, which as Bernard had promised had been kept exactly as he’d left them.
Then Simon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. After a time, he slept.
He was woken by a frantic pounding at his door. He rolled over and squinted at the window, and saw that it was morning. He crawled from bed and opened the door. In the hallway stood his sandy-haired young cousin, Garrett, who said, alarmed, “The baby. Sebastian. He’s sick.”
Garrett went scurrying off. Simon dressed and made his way down into the rooms of his late father, then up again into Bernard’s section of the tree. A newly-created archway framed the stairs that led to Sebastian’s branch.
Simon knocked on a door, which was then pulled aside, revealing Bernard’s face, upon which hope and worry warred. “Simon,” he said. “Come in.”
Simon entered the chamber, where Elizabeth sat in a rocking chair, clutching her son.
“A fever,” Bernard explained. “There were so many people around yesterday, all wanting to hold him. Uncle Reginald sneezed on him, I think. I’m sure it’s nothing, but . . . ”
Simon nodded. He greeted Elizabeth, then took a look at Sebastian, who seemed pale.
A short time later Garrett returned with Simon’s mother in tow. When she saw the baby, she froze. She was silent a long time before saying, “It’ll be all right. But he should have healing. Simon dear, I don’t suppose your talents at the gentler side of magic have improved any these past years?”
“Sorry, no,” he said.
Garrett piped up, “I’ll get Clara.”
“Wait,” said Simon’s mother. “No. Fetch us Meredith, please.”
Bernard was shocked. “Mother,” he grumbled, “we don’t need any help from her.”
Simon’s mother said, “She’s a powerful healer, far more so than Clara, and everyone knows it. She’s here now. We must take advantage of this opportunity.” She waved at Garrett and said, “Go.”
He went, and returned an hour later with Meredith. All eyes were upon her as she entered, crossed the room to Elizabeth, and said, “I’m sorry to hear that Sebastian is unwell. I’ll do what I can. Here.” She held out her arms.
Reluctantly, Elizabeth handed over the child.
As soon as Meredith touched him he began to cry. She held him to her chest and closed her eyes, then stood like that for a minute, murmuring, as Sebastian wailed. Elizabeth shot a worried look at Bernard, who glared at Meredith.
Finally Meredith looked up. “There. All done.” She returned the baby to Elizabeth.
“Thank you,” Simon’s mother said quietly.
Meredith departed, meeting Simon’s gaze briefly as she closed the door behind her.
Two days passed, and Sebastian continued to sicken, but there was nothing more to be done, as any further healing magic would simply disrupt the operation of Meredith’s more powerful spell. That evening Bernard came to Simon’s chambers and said, “Simon, I need you. Elizabeth has taken Sebastian up into his branch, and she refuses to come out.”
They made their way through the arch and into the newly-grown section of the tree. The halls were dim and deserted, and as they climbed Simon could hear wind rustling the leaves outside, as well as, more faintly, the sound of a woman sobbing. In an empty room they found Elizabeth sitting on the floor in the corner, holding Sebastian. Darkness hid her face.
Bernard knelt beside her. “Darling, please. Come downstairs.”
“No,” she said.
Bernard turned to Simon, who knelt beside her too and said, “Elizabeth, listen to me. We can’t stay here. If he dies—”
“He won’t!” she cried.
Simon said, “If the branch—”
She shook her head. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” Simon said. “Come on, give him here.” He took hold of Sebastian and lifted him from her limp arms. She trembled.
Bernard helped her to her feet, then held her as he guided her down the stairs, and Simon walked beside them, carrying the baby.
When they crossed the threshhold into Bernard’s section of the tree, Simon breathed easier. If a male line of the Archimagus family died out, the corresponding branches of Victor’s tree withered as well, which could be dangerous for anyone inhabiting them. Thus branches that seemed imperiled were generally abandoned.
Simon sat on a sofa with the baby while Bernard put Elizabeth to bed. When Bernard emerged, he said, “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“What?” Simon said.
“She’s such a great healer, but she can’t even help a sick child?”
“You think her talents are exaggerated?”
Bernard was grim. “Or she’s not really exercising them on our behalf.”
“No. I won’t believe that, not of Meredith. I know her.”
“You knew her,” Bernard said. “People change.”
Simon sighed. “Get some rest. You’re exhausted.” He nodded at the child in his arms. “I’ll watch him. He’ll be fine.”
Bernard hesitated. Then: “All right. Goodnight.” He walked over and kissed Sebastian’s forehead.
“Goodnight,” Simon said.
Two nights later, as Simon lay in bed reading, he heard a rustle from his desk. He glanced up and saw one of his pens jittering. Then the quill swept up into the air, stabbed itself into an inkpot, and began a wobbly dance across one of his parchments. Simon tossed aside his book and hurried over.
The quill lay itself down beside a few words of Meredith’s flowery script: I have to see you.
Simon’s heart leapt. He snatched up the pen and scrawled, Meet me in the garden, then set the pen down.
A moment later it came to life again, and wrote, I will.
So down into the trunk of the tree he went, and out the postern gate, and down the hillside, where the long grasses swayed, and across the bridge over the gurgling stream, to the garden where he and Meredith had played as children, and where they’d met in secret, later, on nights like this. The place was guarded by a high stone wall from which the ivy dangled, and the gates were all rusted partway open, and inside were cobbled walks that wound among the trees like the paths of drunken men, and shallow ponds ringed with lily pads, and hedge maze
s into which a boy and girl could vanish together and not be found by anyone.
He waited for her, by the marble bench beside the statue of the sad old lion, who was missing one ear, and it made Simon think of that other night, years ago. This time she came though, her dark form slipping along the pathway like a ghost. Simon hurried to her, and took her in his arms. “I missed you,” he whispered.
“I missed you too,” she said, into his shoulder.
He held her like that for a long time, there beneath the moon.
Then he said, “Come away with me.”
She drew back, staring. “What?”
“Did you ever love me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then come away with me. I was right, wasn’t I? We belong together. Not with them. No good will come of staying here.”
“Simon.” She pulled away, and sat down on the bench. “No. It’s impossible.”
“Why?” he said.
“I told you—”
“Yes.” He sat down beside her. “You told me. That you’d been promised to another. Well, no longer.”
“And that Victor would not be pleased—”
“But I have my own tree now,” he said, “so we wouldn’t—”
“And our families,” she said finally.
“We can live without them. I’ve shown that, haven’t I? If you ever loved me—”
She looked away.
“Meredith,” he pleaded. “Forget them. We’ll start our own family, and they’ll be the best damn wizards anyone’s ever—”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Simon. I’m not like you. I can’t just walk away and never look back.”
He stood, and scowled into the shadows.
After a time, she said, “Simon, we need to talk. About these rumors.”
“What rumors?” he said.
“That I’m only pretending to heal Sebastian.” She was indignant. “Or even that I put a curse on him. It’s absurd.”
Simon glared. “This is why you wanted to see me?”
Way of the Wizard Page 4