by Sever Bronny
Augum strained to see. “How many dots beside it?”
She leaned closer and started counting. “… eight … nine … ten. Ten dots.”
“Ten—?”
“Well, it is a castle,” Bridget said.
Augum adjusted his grip on the book. “Now we just have to learn how to pronounce it. Netsookiu. No, that’s not right. Netsokio …”
Leera soon joined in. It took them a while but they finally agreed on a pronunciation.
“All right, flip to chapter one,” Bridget said. “We need to find out how to pronounce numbers.”
“Fine, but I’m putting this monster down; arms are getting sore.”
They sat on the floor, crowding around like eager schoolchildren. A short while later the trio was practicing how to say “lito”, the arcane word for five, agreeing a number right in the middle was appropriate to start with. Soon they were trying to pronounce the two words together.
“Net sukio lito,” Bridget said for the tenth time. “Ugh. Anything?”
Their breath still fogged.
“Don’t think so.” Leera returned to the diagram, scratching her head. “Maybe we’re supposed to be in the foyer or something.”
Augum would be glad to leave the dank cellar. “It’s worth a try.”
They ventured back upstairs and into the foyer, where they noticed Mrs. Stone slowly descending the steps, clutching the banister with a veined hand. Her eyes fell on the book. Augum tensed. Were they in for a rebuke?
“Mmm, sensible. I compliment you all on your initiative. How are you faring?”
Augum glanced at the girls. “Oh, uh … we’re still working on it, Mrs. Stone.”
“Net sukio lito,” Leera blurted, but nothing seemed to happen. Mrs. Stone’s brows rose ever slightly as the trio exchanged an awkward look.
“You try,” Leera whispered out of the side of her mouth.
Augum and Bridget tried next, to no avail.
“Your pronunciation is perfect,” Mrs. Stone said, descending the rest of the steps, “but that is not the problem.” She stopped before them, the book once again open in their hands, the trio desperately re-reading the lengthy paragraph, absorbing nothing.
“Ah, the impatience of youth. Tell me—what are you thinking when you speak the words?”
The first thing that popped into Augum’s head was the king’s throne. “Lions—?”
“Flowers?” Bridget said, wincing.
“Cleaning?” Leera’s face contorted in an I know it’s the wrong answer look.
Bridget and Augum glanced at her.
“‘Cleaning —?’” he mouthed.
Leera spoke through her teeth. “Well, it’s what we were reading about, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Stone held her hands behind her back, the wrinkles on her face molding into a look of annoyance. The three of them stood at attention, quiet as mice.
“If you had the good sense not to rush, and if you had bothered to read the introduction to runes and runewords, you would have understood that in order for a runeword to be effective, one must visualize not only the symbol in one’s mind, but also the effect.”
An admonished silence fell over the hall after the echoes of her words died.
“Mmm.” She turned her back on them and began shuffling up the marble steps. “I am going to take a nap. When I awake, I expect it to be to a warm castle.”
“Kind of hard to impress her,” Leera said when Mrs. Stone had gone.
Augum closed the book with a smack that echoed throughout the foyer. “Welcome to my world …”
“Well, she was Headmistress of the Academy of Arcane Arts for thirty-five years,” Bridget said. “She had a reputation for being the strictest they ever had. We’re getting off easy, I think.”
“By the way, Leera—” Augum said, holding back a smirk, “‘Cleaning—?’ Trying to give her ideas?”
“No! I was just—I don’t know …”
He chuckled and turned to Bridget. “Think Mrs. Stone could teach her a sense of humor?”
Bridget laughed.
“Oh, you’re going to get it—” Leera began chasing him around the foyer.
“Mercy—!” he said between snorts of laughter.
Bridget finally put a finger to her giggling lips. “Quiet you two or we’ll get in trouble again.”
Leera stopped chasing him and returned to Bridget’s side, watching him with narrowed eyes.
Panting, he clambered back down from the landing where he had taken shelter. “It was worth it.”
Leera snapped around like an angry chipmunk. “What was that—?”
“Nothing—just saying we need to get back to work, that’s all.”
“Right …”
By her secret smile, he knew she was only pretending to be mad. He was happy to have diverted their attention and made them laugh, even if just for a little while.
“All right, seriously now—” Bridget said, putting on a scholarly expression and sitting down on the floor beside the book. “Let’s try this again, all right?”
He and Leera joined her. Then, just when he thought he was safe, Leera punched him hard on the shoulder.
“OW—! Mercy already.” He rubbed his sore arm.
Bridget gave them a disapproving look.
Leera, a smug expression on her face, nodded that they could now begin. Yet after much recitation, she sprawled on the floor as if suffering defeat in swordplay. “This is hard …”
“Maybe we should find a fireplace; getting a bit chilly …” he said.
Bridget shoved aside a stray lock of hair. “And what, get comfortable? The cold will keep us motivated to make it warm.”
He could not argue with her logic, but he was not about to let Leera off easily. “Get up, Lazy.”
“Do I have to …?”
“You have to,” he and Bridget chorused.
Leera expelled a long breath before sitting up. “Fine.”
At last, with only a sliver of sunlight left, Augum somehow managed to speak the runeword properly. They knew it was a success because there was an immediate click and a hissing sound. The castle soon began warming. They looked at each other and threw up a shout of victory, dancing in the middle of the foyer as if finding a large stash of treasure, then racing up the steps and bursting in to the bedroom, shouting “Mrs. Stone! We did it we did it we did it—!”
Mrs. Stone stirred in the canopy bed, the fire long extinguished but the room quickly warming from their efforts. They held their breath while awaiting her verdict. She took her time sitting up, grumbling something about the exuberance of youth, before falling into thoughtful silence. At last, she surrendered a nod. “You have completed the task.”
They beamed with pride. Their first runeword successfully spoken—what an achievement!
Mrs. Stone stood, straightening her robes. “I suppose you have earned your supper.”
The Memorial Ceremony
Mrs. Stone surprised the trio at the table with fresh grapefruits, apples, buttered and salted chicken breast (still steaming), boiled broccoli, rosemary and pepper for spice, a flagon of fresh cider, and chunks of chocolate. Newly-arcaned cutlery and china sat spotless and immaculately positioned.
Augum gaped at the luxury. “Mrs. Stone … where did all this food come from?”
She gestured for them to sit. “Teleportation is a highly rewarding spell. The warlock markets in Antioc use it to great effect, though the prices can be … exorbitant.”
Bridget claimed the chair beside her. “But Mrs. Stone, aren’t you afraid of being recognized?”
“I use a particular spell to conceal my identity. Does anyone know which spell I am referring to, and what degree?” She swept them with a professorial eye.
Augum shook his head while Leera examined the table as if suddenly finding the carving interesting.
“Um, is it the 16th degree Spell of Legend Metamorphosis?” Bridget asked, cringing.
“Partially correct.” Mrs. Stone mad
e the motion for Augum to pour everyone cider. “That is the right spell, however Metamorphosis is of the 15th degree, and therefore not a Spell of Legend.”
Bridget frowned.
That would make it an advanced spell, Augum thought, remembering the spell hierarchy.
Mrs. Stone picked up a fork. “Now let us put aside lessons for the day and eat.”
For some time, the only sounds were the clank and clatter of cutlery as the trio devoured almost everything—except the boiled broccoli, which nobody wanted to touch. Mrs. Stone, meanwhile, conservatively picked away at the food.
After the meal, they munched on some chocolate and told Mrs. Stone all about their earlier adventure. She only nodded, toning out “Mmm” or “Is that so?” but not explaining anything about the castle—not the crypt nor the dungeon, as if expecting them to figure it out for themselves.
When conversation died, Augum found himself peering at the ornately carved letter “A” on the back of the throne. Just as he was going to ask what it stood for, Mrs. Stone broke the silence.
“Now then,” she said, dabbing her lips with a napkin while leaning back. “I do believe it is time. Follow me, please.” The trio exchanged curious looks as they stood. She gestured for them to leave the table as is and led them back to their room, where she opened the wardrobe revealing four black velvet robes. Additionally, there were three identical burgundy robes; new versions of the patched one Augum already wore, except with a new mustard leather belt instead of hemp rope.
“I was able to acquire these in town,” Mrs. Stone said, removing one from the rack to show it off. “Burgundy is traditional for apprentices of the first few degrees.”
Augum wondered what was more ancient—the castle or the style of those robes. Judging by the girls’ faces, they must have been thinking along the same lines.
“—and these are traditional mourning robes,” Mrs. Stone continued. “Please don the apprentice robes underneath. Augum, take your garments and excuse yourself from the room.”
He did as he was told, re-entering when called, gladly putting aside his old rags. The new apprentice robe fit better and did not itch, whereas the black mourning robe was far too large; his arms disappeared and the hem dragged, though he realized this was probably by design.
“Let us go.” Mrs. Stone departed the room, robe trailing, the trio close behind.
Augum had to be particularly careful not to trip. What he did not expect was suddenly getting choked as Leera accidentally stepped on the back of his robe.
“Ack—sorry!”
This pattern continued. Someone would yelp then receive a prompt apology.
At last, they stepped outside into a cloudy night. The Ravenwood stood sentinel around a fresh pile of wood in the center of the clearing, branches drooping with snow. Flakes blew about in a gentle breeze.
Mrs. Stone politely gestured at a spot on the other side of the woodpile. “Please stand facing west.”
They did as she asked, snow crunching underfoot. Standing in the cold air, head bowed, Augum wondered what the ceremony did. It certainly could not bring back the dead, he thought. Then he realized that is exactly what his father was doing as a necromancer—bringing back the dead. Those lightning eyes, filled with hatred and covetousness, swam before his mind. He only hoped his deranged father would spare those murdered at Sparrow’s Perch.
You have your mother’s eyes and nose …
Augum scowled. Murderer …
“I call upon the spirits of the dead to listen to the cries of the living,” Mrs. Stone began, “and to remember those they left behind, those that still breathe the air and walk above ground. Dearly departed, allow us a final goodbye as we mourn your passing from this life.”
She held a hand before the woodpile until it burst with an unnaturally high fire, eventually settling to a guttering blue flame. She spoke once more into the night, head raised and eyes above the blaze. “Hear the cry,” and began to sing.
It was the most beautiful melody Augum had ever heard, a wavering tune without words seeming to come from a very long time ago, a time when things were far simpler. As she sang this primitive song, he could not help but stare into those blue flames which blurred before him. Then, from the heart of the fire, form began to take shape.
He squinted, trying to make out what it was, unable to tell if it was in his mind or if it was real. The picture gradually widened until he was staring at a hazy image surrounded by a white light. A blurred shape stepped forward, edges sharpening as it approached. It was a woman holding a babe in her arms. She was delicate and lovely, with long locks of coffee-colored hair, light blue eyes and sharply arched brows. He did not recognize her. Nonetheless, something about her stung with familiarity.
She gave a radiant smile as a young man soon appeared by her side, cooing at the babe in her arms and giving her a peck on the cheek. He too seemed oddly familiar. The couple played with the babe, silently teasing it, until the man lost interest, staring beyond her at something unseen. She reached out to him but he shrugged her off, before abruptly walking off into the white, leaving the woman standing alone with the child. She watched his fading form, tears trickling down her cheeks. Then she slowly brought the babe to her lips, kissed it on the forehead, and began to whisper into its ear.
Augum strained to hear what she said, but it was too quiet. There was a stinging throb in his heart. “Mother—?” he asked softly.
The angelic woman raised her head and smiled through her tears. That smile … he numbly touched his face.
She slowly retreated, edges fading until she was gone. Distantly, the ancient song ascended an octave. He watched as a new figure emerged from the white, dressed in a worn steel breastplate, greaves and chainmail shirt, a mop of curly, unkempt gray hair on his head. A sword hung snugly in its scabbard by his side.
“Sir Westwood …”
Sir Tobias Westwood kneeled down to talk to someone beside him, the figure blurred until Augum focused on it. It was a boy—himself, but younger. Suddenly he remembered how Sir Westwood would often talk to him like that—on his level. It brought a pang to his heart.
When Sir Westwood finished speaking, the boy produced a wooden sword and made a slashing motion, the man approving with a nod. Augum remembered that sword well—Sir Westwood had carved it himself. The sword was well-balanced and fun to hold, the handle a perfect fit for Augum’s hand.
Sir Westwood spoke again and pointed towards older Augum. An eager smile lit up young Augum’s face; he hopped forward and waved with a skinny arm. Sir Westwood smiled softly from behind, raising a hand in salute. Augum could not help but feebly wave back.
Sir Westwood’s attention drifted to young Augum, his face hardening. After a moment of watching the boy swinging the sword, he raised his firm gaze back to older Augum. With a final slow nod, he backed away into the white, disappearing in a smoky blur.
“Sir, wait—” Augum whispered, hoping he would return to counsel him, to finish the sword training …
Only the young Augum remained now, chewing on a finger while staring at older Augum. The boy glanced about and smiled uncertainly, rocking back and forth on his heels. Augum smiled at his younger self, who abruptly turned and skipped off, only to reappear guiding a whole group of people.
There was the ebony-skinned Sharpe family—Tyeon, grandmother, blind grandfather, father, mother and sister—all looking distinguished and peaceful; and there the Burns’—the tired-looking grandma that smiled nonetheless, the mother with the same long cinnamon hair and pert nose as Bridget, the burly father with the bushy mustache, and two grinning chestnut-haired brothers. Then a smiling couple with raven hair stepped forward, the mother freckled, father with protuberant eyes. Leera’s parents … Augum recalled that pungent drink and the love that had come along with it.
There were others too, people he had not met personally but remembered from the village. Young Augum was at the front the entire time, smiling that innocent boyish smile.
&nb
sp; Seeing the group together, it dawned on Augum what he and his friends had lost. Tears began flowing freely down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …” he whispered. “Goodbye to you all …”
They smiled at the older Augum. Then, one at a time, they departed, some waving goodbye, some nodding, and some simply smiling.
Augum slowly waved back, knowing he would never see them again, knowing this was indeed the final farewell. The group gradually blurred until disappearing into that blistering white haze, leaving him to watch an empty space, listening to a distant song, heart at peace.
He had had his chance to say goodbye.
The song abruptly ended and the white disappeared, the blue fire with it. It took a while for his eyes to adjust back to the night. He watched smoke tendrils curl skyward. Silence passed, the world appearing cold and sharp.
At last, Mrs. Stone quietly returned to the castle. He stood a long while before glancing at Bridget and Leera. Their cheeks were wet, hands folded in front. He departed with bowed head, feeling it was appropriate to leave them behind to mourn on their own.
Back inside the warmth of the castle, he clambered up dark steps. Finding it oddly comfortable, he did not light his palm, letting the cool marble banister guide the way. When he reached the room, he found the canopy bedstead fully repaired, draped with sheer netting, and made with a floral red velvet duvet. Laid out on top were three sets of nightwear—two gowns and a long nightshirt.
Mrs. Stone stood before the fireplace, gazing into the flames, hands behind her back. “Now that the castle is warm, Augum, you shall have your own room, as will the girls,” she said in a weary voice, gesturing to the wall. “Yours is the next room over. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Stone.” He picked up the nightshirt and left her staring at the fire. His new room had a single ornate oaken door that creaked upon opening. A low fire guttered in the hearth on the left side. Mrs. Stone stood just on the other side of that wall, staring into a fire just like it.
The room was about half the size of Mrs. Stone’s. There was a small wardrobe, three windows as opposed to six, and a canopy bedstead with the same sheer curtain and red-velvet duvet.