“Besides, he has already begun his work in you, if you had not noticed. You are receiving visions and that is not something to be taken lightly. As for the vanishing door, do not believe for a moment a trip through it is ever wasted. Your entire journey since the day of your birth has been utilized to prepare you for what is to come.”
Wynn took a breath, releasing it slowly. She liked the prophet and trusted him more than anyone. Moreover, she was liking the sound of this Great One more and more. The prophet had mentioned details about him now and again and even Phillip spoke of him quite often. She had been surprised when the prophet had not immediately attempted to convert her to his beliefs, but she found learning what she could from these two and finding her own way quite rewarding. It gave her time to turn over the things she was learning and she had a great deal of time to think as the days passed, for the prophet was often away while she was left to manage the household affairs.
She was abundantly thankful for Phillip, for he had insisted to those he could that the prophet and his apprentice did not desire inane visits and they were expected to appear at the door only when in true need. Even so, if Phillip or even Terrance did not drop by while the prophet was away, she grew quite restless. As it happened, the longer she remained, the more extended the prophet’s trips became, as if the length of them attested to the degree of his faith in her. When asked, he denied it, insisting he trusted her more with the home than he did even himself. Even so, the longer he stayed away, the more unusual it seemed, for he took with him no more than a journal, quill and ink and his rake.
The rake enchanted her on the first occasion she saw him take it. Though it was customarily used to clear debris from the path, he preferred to employ it as a walking staff.
“Isn’t that for the trail?” she asked with an uncharacteristic giggle.
His eyes grew wide and he appeared mildly distraught. “Oh, dear, have you been needing it?”
“Of course not,” she soothed, “but why do you use it as an aid for walking?”
His face clearing, he replied, “An old man has got to get around somehow.”
She never questioned these outings aloud, for she did not like to pry and he rarely offered explanation. She assumed this had to do with his reasons for not yet training her—perhaps there were things she was not prepared to know. Nevertheless, the comments of Phillip’s sister festered in her mind until she was determined to ask about them before he departed for his next excursion. Subsequently, it was only the following day she discovered him packing his few things into the usual satchel.
“Just what is it you do while you’re away?” she confronted. “Where do you go?”
He peered up at her for a moment before stuffing a few papers into his journal. “A variety of things in an assortment of places, mother dearest.”
She pressed on, despite his teasing. “I’ve heard you called a wizard, but I’ve never seen you do anything ‘wizardly.’”
He grew mildly indignant. “And I hope you never do! Wizards receive their power from the enemy of the Great One.”
“But what is it you do that gives them the misconception?”
Fastening his satchel, he tossed it haphazardly over his shoulder. “You’ll see... one of these days.” He shuffled toward the door but returned his gaze to her once more with a brow raised. “You haven’t been paying much attention, have you?”
She was intrigued. Had he been performing curious acts without her realizing? Accepting the hint, she determined to pay closer attention in hopes of catching something that would shed some light on the rumors.
Before long, she noticed the people who came to the cabin with simple needs were left to her, but there were others who came with personal matters. These, he pulled aside to speak privately. When next she saw them, they appeared free.
After this, she began to listen in on what it was he said and learned he truly knew things any ordinary person could not… far deeper and more intricate details than anything she had ever seen in her visions. Sometimes, it seemed he could read minds, but if that was so, he would have scolded her time and again for the discourteous thoughts she sometimes had about Phillip (after all, he was a helplessly bungling man).
Following these instances, she noted a man who appeared with a missing arm departed with it wholly restored to him. Those who came dying of illness received a gentle touch and departed with exuberant energy. Initially, she was uncertain she could trust her own eyes, but when last she’d observed enough to be certain, she asked him about it.
“You’ve begun to pay attention,” was all he said.
By this time, she grew to understand there were many details she did not know about him. This only became more apparent when one day she inquired his age.
Writing hand frozen, he gazed into the rafters, considering. At last, he replied, “I cannot say that I remember, Wynnie dear.”
“Oh, do try,” she persisted.
Once more staring toward the ceiling, he eventually turned to her with, “I can say that all my years have not begun to appear on my physical form. Why, if I looked as I should, I’m quite certain no one would come to visit me and you would never have stayed.”
Naturally, she was disconcerted by the confession. She had always taken things as they appeared and rarely imagined they were not as they seemed. How old could he possibly be that he could not remember? Of course, she’d heard him go on about how terribly old he was, but to not even have an estimate? He had to be truly, unnaturally old. Then again, it was the prophet she was asking. He was a strange fellow, prone to forgetfulness even in the midst of conversation. But this was one of the inexplicable traits for which she adored him.
Nevertheless, the greatest reason she loved him was unwaveringly growing to be how he saw her in a way neither she nor anyone else ever had. He treated and spoke to her in ways she had never in her life experienced. Perhaps most significantly, she adored how he was coming to feel about her. Often, he stopped whatever he was about to gaze upon her. When she inquired what he was about, he replied with something along the lines of how grateful he was she had come to live with him, that he felt her the daughter he had never been fortunate enough to have and how the Great One must have chosen her because he knew the prophet could not bear to give so much of himself over to any other person in her position. This last statement was muttered more often than she liked and instilled fear in her soul she found increasingly difficult to ignore. She could not rightly understand what it meant—for he only became lost in thought if ever she asked—but it frightened her just the same.
* * *
“I don’t suppose you’d mind taking a message to Lord Valdren for me?” the prophet asked of Wynn.
Glancing at him as she swept up his pile of rejected papers, she surprised this was what had become of his brooding and writing upon parchment after parchment only to crumple up each one, toss it behind him and begin again.
“You have direct communication with Lord Valdren… of Valdren Castle?”
“Is there reason I should not?” he asked in bewilderment.
Apparently not. She recalled how often he had been called the “great prophet of the Kierelian kingdom” and was so revered by all. “Well… no,” she replied, “I don’t mind taking it. Do I entrust it to a guard or…?”
Wide eyes were turned upon her. “Oh, no. You must promise me you will give it to none but Lord Valdren himself.”
“But he will not see me!”
“Why ever not?”
“Because I’m, well… I’m not you, you know. I’m only… me.”
He merely chuckled and handed her a sealed letter. “You are too amusing, Wynnie.”
Wynn did not feel in the least like chuckling. She was to somehow gain entrance to the castle as well as a face-to-face with a lord. At least she was not wearing her trousers as she had so often noticed offended the standards of the land. Rather, she wore a simple olive-green dress stolen from the loft. Certainly, it was patched in places, bu
t her brown one needed washing and she had altered no others to fit her.
Throwing on her customary emerald cloak, she started for the door.
“Wynn,” the prophet called as he delved once more into feverish writing.
“Yes.”
“The back one.”
She turned to find the vanishing door’s reappearance. Yet, she had this message to deliver. She had assumed it important, but apparently the door could not wait. Oh, how she wished it could, for she was in no mood for its antics.
Opening it, a hectic passage was revealed as people dressed in Kierelian gentry scrambled by one another. The passers did not take any notice of the girl from another place standing in watch of them. Scrutinizing the hall, she worked to gather what place it might be. If she did not know any better, the walls might have been made from the same stone as Valdren Castle.
“Prophet,” she called. “Am I to enter Valdren Castle this way?”
He peeked his head around the corner. “Of course. I need that message delivered as soon as possible.”
Well, this was unanticipated. Furthermore, she uncertain whether this entrance would prove help or hindrance. The door had done her no favors thus far. With a shrug, she stepped through and heard it close behind her, disappearing as usual.
Overwhelmed and out of place in the midst of all these people, she meandered down the corridor. The busyness of her surroundings reminded of what a popular location the castle was, due to the occupation and popularity of the knights. She was further impressed by the abundance of drippy beeswax candles, more so for the fact they did set the castle ablaze everyday than for the extravagance of their use.
Having traveled down a series of passages, she came to the conclusion she would need assistance. Very near asking the next passerby for directions, she swiftly turned her face away as she recognized the haughty face coming toward her: Sir Rupert.
“Say there…” he spoke out in his cold tenor, though she could tell he was attempting to sound charming. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
So, he did not remember her… or not exactly. She let her hair fall over her face.
“Of course not. I am only a country girl,” she said meekly, working to prevent him from recalling the boldness of her former temperament.
He laughed softly, the sound sending anxious chills down her spine. “I am acquainted with many a country lass, believe me.”
Her heart pounded. Any other occasion, she’d have had her blade out and challenged him. But to do so in the castle, especially his own father’s castle, would be certain imprisonment, to say the least.
“Well, you don’t know this one,” she replied through gritted teeth. It wasn’t until his eyes narrowed that she realized her mistake. Unable to control her temper, she would pay for it.
She fled.
He followed close behind and the direction in which she ran grew exasperatingly unpopular. There were but a few servants about who looked on in bewilderment. Of course, they could not step into a situation which included the son of the castle’s namesake.
Full of terror as he shouted after her, she reached for the nearest door, flew through it and swiftly closed it behind her, holding the handle in place.
Despite her efforts, he was succeeding in forcing the doorknob when she heard the clearing of a throat. Turning, she released the knob. It was Lord Valdren himself. Immediately, she fell into what was likely the clumsiest curtsy he had ever received.
Sir Rupert threw the door wide, immediately catching her arm. “You won’t get away that easy!” he bellowed down at her.
“Rupert!” shouted the lord of the southern region.
Sir Rupert released her and it was only then he appeared to realize where he was. “Father,” he said with a blend of respect and indignance.
Lord Valdren made his way around the desk. “What goes on here?” His tone was heated.
Wynn hardly believed it was appropriate for anyone, let alone a girl of her standing, to have forced their way into his private headquarters this way. Undoubtedly, she would be punished. She had only to discover how severely.
“This waif assaulted me in the village some days ago,” Rupert stated.
Lord Valdren’s eyes moved smoothly from Sir Rupert to Wynn, where they remained a few moments before, “You mean to tell me a girl of this stature was able to harm you, my son?”
Wynn was certain she caught a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. She furthermore felt Rupert’s fury growing in bounds beside her.
“She carries a blade,” he replied through gritted teeth.
Lord Valdren verified this, his eyes falling upon the weapon sheathed at her waist. “Mhm...” he murmured thoughtfully. “Where is your wound?”
“She was unable to actually harm me…” Rupert replied grudgingly. “Sir Colten’s son stopped her.”
Lord Valdren’s brow went up at this and he appeared contemplative. “Rupert, you may go.”
“But Father—”
“I said,” he began with severity before calmly finishing, “…you may go.”
Her peripheral caught the fiery scowl she was tossed before the son obeyed, closing the door perhaps too exuberantly behind him.
“Now then…” the lord began, his full attention on her, “you are the prophet’s apprentice, are you not?”
She opened and closed her mouth several times before answering in the affirmative. Not only could she not fathom how he knew this, but she was surprised by both his easy tone and the fact he did not immediately question her about her “assault” on Rupert.
He smiled at her bewilderment. “I have heard reports of the young woman who carries a blade and wields it as valiantly as any man in my castle. Although… I must admit I had heard a rumor about tunic and trousers that I am rather disappointed to learn is false.”
She did not know what to make of this until a slow, mirthful grin crept onto his face. It was impossible not to smile in return. Although certain she could fight better than any of his men, she was flattered and relieved just the same. After having met his son, she could never have believed his father so pleasant.
“Oh, I…” She rifled through the inside pocket of her cloak until her hand fell upon the letter. “I have this message from the prophet for you. It is what brought me here.”
Taking the communication from her, he worked the seal. “And wasn’t it ever so helpful of my son to escort you,” he mumbled.
She froze, uncertain whether he was hinting this was the story she was to tell if asked about his pursuing her or if he jested with her again. She caught the nearly concealed smirk. Yet, this one was not entirely mirthful. Rather, there was a sadness behind it she was certain arose from thoughts of Rupert.
“I wish you would meet my eldest,” he muttered as he began reading. The expression on his face became first quizzical, then grave. But when he looked up, all traces of previous emotion were replaced with a diplomatic smile. “You would like him a great deal better.”
Both curious about the contents of the note and astonished he cared she know his eldest, she said nothing.
“But perhaps another time,” he continued, “as I am certain you’ve other matters to attend. Now, shall I have you escorted from the premises?”
A knot formed in her stomach as she realized this kindly man was upset with her after all. But the concern must have shown on her face, for he added, “I mean, so that you will be safe from the clutches of my youngest.”
“Oh,” she muttered. This lord was astonishingly considerate. “Er, well, I could use someone to see me to that hall with the…” She thought about how to describe it. “With the paintings of you and your family. I should be able to find my way from there.”
With a curious brow, he pulled a summoning rope. “As you wish.”
A servant arrived to accompany her. But just before they exited, Lord Valdren added, “It was a pleasure meeting you, young lady. You must tell the prophet I am impressed by you.”
She felt a
blush creep into her cheeks as she smiled and offered another poor curtsy before following the servant out. Indeed, Lord Valdren was a remarkable man. And here she had always judged noblemen so severely—had even criticized poor Phillip when first she’d met him. It seemed her prior suppositions were grossly mistaken.
- T W E L V E -
The Pains of Friendship
“WELL, I SUPPOSE THAT could have been worse,” Wynn huffed as she passed through the vanishing door. “You’d never guess who—”
“You’ve a visitor,” the prophet interjected.
“Oh?” She rounded the corner to find Phillip’s sister, Joselyn, sitting beside the fire.
The fine lady in fuchsia rushed over as swiftly as a floor-length gown permitted. “I simply had to see you. Might we speak in private?” She glanced about the place. “Outside, perhaps? Better yet, have you a private bedchamber?”
Wynn found herself affronted by this question, though in fact she had not possessed one until she’d come to live in the cabin. “Of course,” she replied. “Follow me.”
She was quite surprised to find Joselyn had come to see her. For she’d not felt they had connected in the slightest. In fact, she had found it difficult to like the girl.
“This is an agreeable room,” Joselyn cooed as she helped herself to the cushioned chair in the corner. Wynn pulled her wooden stool over.
Leaning in, the young lady whispered, “There is a man, you see.”
Oh dear.
“We have been meeting at social events for some time now and he has at last asked me… to marry him.”
“Oh. Well, that is wonderful for you,” Wynn spoke with as much enthusiasm as she could muster for someone she was hardly acquainted with over a man she knew nothing of.
“Yes, but you see, I…” Here, she appeared to be thinking how best to word her following statement. “I have been told… by some… that he would not suit me.”
“Ah.”
“But I believe… he does.”
“Then… there you have it?” Wynn could not comprehend why Joselyn was sharing this with her of all people.
The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) Page 15