by Lana Axe
Plopping himself on the edge of the bed, he removed his boots and untied the lacings of his robe. Tossing it onto a nearby chair, he settled himself on the bed. Still clutching the vial in his hand, he wondered if sleep would come naturally. His disappointment at yet another wasted trip to the library would surely aid his rest. It would clear his mind and help him decide what to do next. Sighing, he realized it was the same conversation he had with himself every night. He had no idea what to do next. He’d already tried everything and was still no closer to unraveling the mysteries of the symbol.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he removed the stopper from the vial. Downing its contents in one gulp, he lay back on the bed, dropping the vial to the floor. Staring at the embroidered canopy over his head, he silently counted backward from one hundred. Before reaching ninety, he fell into a fitful asleep. Visions of fire invaded his dreams.
Chapter 2
Shortly after dawn, Taren awoke from his deep slumber. The disturbing images from his dreams were forgotten, and a fresh new day lay ahead of him. Today he would not waste time on the symbol. He would spend the day at leisure, relaxing in the garden. Of course, there was always time to dabble in the laboratory. Work could be surprisingly relaxing.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Taren rose from his bed. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet—too cold. The fire had died out in the night, and the window stood open wider than he remembered it. A sudden throbbing began in his head, spreading to his eyes. Wiping his hand against his brow, he was surprised to find it wet. His hair was dripping, and a look down at his clothes revealed that he’d been sweating in the night. The room was not cold. Taren was far too hot.
Stumbling to the basin, he poured water into the bowl and splashed it against his face and neck. A glance in the mirror revealed the face of a monster. Taren jumped back, frightened by the image of black scales on his skin. Sharp horns ran the length of each cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut and reached for a towel, hurriedly wiping it against his face. Forcing himself to look again, he saw only himself in the mirror. Plain as usual, he realized. His brown eyes stared back at him, strands of shaggy brown hair clinging to his face. Leaning toward the mirror, he studied the glass, searching for the image he’d seen. Was it a waking dream? Some sort of illusion?
As he set the towel aside, he looked down at his arm. The black marks of the symbol swirled and shifted, changing before his eyes. This was the symbol’s work.
“You’re trying to scare me now?” he asked aloud. He could not fathom why the symbol would want to frighten him. It had chosen him, after all. “You’re supposed to work with me, not against me,” he told it. The marks ceased to move, returning to the pattern he’d known these past two years.
Splashing more water over his hot skin, he wondered what might have caused his fever. He had not felt ill, but his mind had been under too much strain. Perhaps his defenses had been low, and some malady had found its way to him. After a bath and a change of clothes, he would select a potion to strengthen his body.
Deciding that a cool dip in the stream would be best, he grabbed a change of clothes and a towel and headed outside. The morning sun glowed pink overhead, the birds heralding dawn’s arrival. The spring air was fine and brisk, perfect weather for Taren’s condition. A clear spring-fed creek skirted along the edge of his property, providing irrigation for his gardens and clean water for the house. Though a well had been dug near the cottage, he much preferred a bath among nature. The short walk was good for the soul.
A thick layer of fog had settled in the night, concealing the low-lying areas. The world seemed to disappear behind him as he walked, his feet making no sound on the soft grass beneath his feet. A flash of movement at the corner of his vision forced his attention toward The Barrens. He stared a moment, silent, waiting. Nothing was there. Taking a few steps toward the woods, he peered between the massive trees. Inside lay memories, some he hoped to forget forever, others he would hold until his dying breath. Somewhere beyond those woods he’d made a friend, the truest he’d ever had.
Some friendships should not be allowed to fade, and too much time had passed. Taren yearned to see his friend again, wondering what adventures might await the two of them. Shaking his head, he realized that adventures weren’t really for him. He was a creature of habit, and his business was booming. He couldn’t simply walk away and leave it behind. A vacation, he decided, might not be out of the question. Time would have to be made to visit his friend, even if it was only for a few days. Finding him might prove difficult, though. He’d have to send out inquiries, and he barely knew where to start. Zamna wasn’t an easy man to find.
Adjusting his course back to the creek, Taren moved with hurried steps. The water was inviting, the sound of it echoing in his ears. Inhaling deeply, he allowed the fresh moisture into his body. With a slow exhale, he cleared all thoughts from his mind. Draping his clean clothes over a branch, he disrobed and allowed the dirty garments to fall on the ground. Stepping down into the water, he dug his toes between the smooth rocks. All of his senses tingled. The cold water was the perfect treatment for his hot skin, instantly cooling and relieving his discomfort.
Lying back in the water, he looked up at the morning sky. Lines of pink streaked across a pale blue canvas, a thin layer of gray clouds moving softly with the breeze. The fever faded from him, carried away by the soft current of the stream. The lines on his arm no longer moved, instead remaining settled in their familiar pattern. It was possible the fever had nothing to do with the symbol, but he couldn’t say for sure. It was unpredictable, but it had never before made him ill.
Touching his fingers to his face, he tried to decide if any heat still remained. It felt fine, but he would still consume a potion when he returned to the cottage. His thoughts turned to his inventory as he decided which one he should use. Sitting up in the water with a start, he chided himself. Why didn’t I think of it before? Could a potion be the answer? Was it at all possible the symbol’s mysteries could be unlocked through herbalism? It was far-fetched, but he’d tried everything else he could think of.
Standing, he partially dried himself before dressing and rushed back to the cottage. Nearly colliding with Vita, he stopped short of the door.
“What’s the hurry?” she asked, her demeanor cheerful. In her hand she carried a basket filled with strawberries.
“I was just thinking of potions,” he said, stumbling over the words.
“As always,” she replied. “Have some breakfast.” Lifting the basket, she added, “The first strawberries of the season. They’re delicious.”
Taren took one out of politeness and placed it in his mouth. The sweet juices delighted his taste buds, reminding him of simpler times, the days before the symbol had come into his life. With a sigh, he decided the potions could wait. It wasn’t as if he’d know which one to try. Nothing he’d crafted could be used for such a purpose. If there were a potion to suit his needs, it would take further study to discover it, and then he would have to master its creation. That could take years.
“Breakfast sounds wonderful,” he finally said.
The pair stepped inside together, finding their way to the kitchen. Olak, a plump older gentlemen, had jumped at the opportunity to cook for an herbalist. Such a position allowed him to work with the freshest ingredients, and he’d practically begged Taren to hire him. With a broad smile on his face, he carried a tray loaded down with bowls and plates.
“Porridge, cheese, and scones,” he announced. With a wink at Vita, he relieved her of her basket. “Strawberry jam, coming right up!” He dashed away into the kitchen.
Vita took a seat at the table across form Taren. “What did the messenger want yesterday?” she asked, nibbling at a scone.
“He brought a letter,” Taren replied. Lifting a spoonful of porridge, he blew on it before giving it a taste. Smooth, creamy, and full of flavor. He did not regret his decision to hire Olak.
“What did the letter say?” Vita wondered.
“I haven’t read it,” Taren replied honestly. It hadn’t crossed his mind since receiving it. “Probably just an invitation from some noble hoping to earn himself a discount.” With each bite, he ate more hungrily, thanks to skipping dinner the night before.
Grinning as she watched her employer wolf down his food, Vita said, “I’m heading to the College today. I’m going to take quite a few potions. They’re overdue for a visit, so I’m sure I’ll sell out.”
Pausing in his eating, Taren nodded. “I’d better get to work then.” There was always a need, especially for potions that regenerated a wizard’s magical stores. They also brought in the highest profit. If he was going to find a book on herbalism that he hadn’t already read, he would have to look far and wide. That would take money.
It was also a dream. He doubted such a potion existed, but it was worth trying. He was exhausted from searching libraries, and it was time for a change. Though the search would likely prove fruitless, he would still take on the challenge. Who knows what other potions he might come across in his studies? At least this could prove useful in his profession, even if it didn’t help him understand the symbol.
The two continued their breakfast until Myron stepped in to say he’d finished loading the cart. Olak appeared as if by magic, a selection of foods prepared for the travelers. He handed them a basket and wished them a fine journey.
Taren bid them farewell before heading back toward the staircase. Untouched on his desk lay the message he received the previous night, the candle near it burned to a nub. His eye fell on the green wax seal, and he decided the potions could wait a moment. Opening the letter, he found exactly what he expected, an invitation to meet with a noble lord. They were all the same, hoping to make friends with a wizard and earn special prices and favors.
Inspecting the signature, Taren thought he recognized the handwriting. The name, however, was entirely foreign. It was a Lord Ivdir of Bristor, a city just under two days’ ride to the west. Taren was well-aware another herbalist lived not far from there. Certainly he was closer to this Ivdir, but the two men might have had a disagreement, prompting the lord to seek out a new supplier.
Curious, he stepped outside where Vita and Myron were still preparing to leave. “Have you heard of Lord Ivdir of Bristor?” he asked them.
Vita shook her head.
“I have,” Myron replied. “And what I’ve heard isn’t good.” With a shrug, he added, “Of course, that was years ago and only rumors. The man’s son might be running the estate now, for all I know.”
Nodding, Taren waved to them before returning inside. Just as he’d suspected. Lord Ivdir had angered the local herbalist and hoped to form a better relationship with Taren. That was one meeting he could do without. Heading up the stairs, he entered his laboratory and tossed the letter aside on a table. Grabbing a vial of blue liquid, he lifted it toward the light. After swirling the contents, he lowered it back to the table. In a careless swipe of his hand, he knocked the vial over, spilling its contents onto the discarded letter. As he watched in shock, the written lines began to change, swirling into a familiar pattern. Laying his right arm on the table, he compared the two markings. They were identical.
A wave of emotion swept over him—first fear, and then anger, followed by elation. What did this Ivdir know? There was no time to waste. Taren had to find out.
Scrawling a quick note for Vita, he informed her that he would be gone for several days. She was to conduct business as usual, and he would send word when he had more information regarding his return. If Ivdir had knowledge of the symbol, it could take some time to explain it. Taren wanted to give himself plenty of time.
Returning to the kitchen, he instructed Olak to prepare him a meal for the road.
“Right away, my lord,” the cook replied. He was gone only moments before returning with a bundle. “Safe travels.”
Taren nodded his thanks and rushed to his horse. The horse whinnied his readiness as Taren placed the saddle on his back. Grateful that Wort was always ready for adventure, Taren climbed aboard and set off along the road. Wide enough for three wagons across, the roads stretching between his cottage and Bristor were faultlessly well-maintained. No pot holes or ruts would slow his pace, and he urged Wort to make haste.
The pair soon looked upon an aged pine forest, the scent of it making its way into Taren’s lungs. He breathed heavily of it, hoping to carry it with him. It was certainly better than what lay ahead. Shortly before nightfall they reached the farms, the stink of manure scorching his nose. Taren did his best to ignore it.
Night came too quickly, and though Taren yearned to press on, he knew Wort needed a rest. Removing the horse’s saddle, he placed it beneath a wide tree. He allowed the horse to graze and avail himself of the water in a nearby pond. The gentle mooing of cattle reminded him he was still in the farmlands, and sleeping on someone else’s property. Taren didn’t worry. No one would dare scold a wizard.
Lying awake in the darkness, Taren counted the stars in the sky. The song of a whippoorwill echoed in his ears, sleep eluding him as usual. Regretting that he had not thought to bring a sleeping draught, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Bringing his right arm over his eyes, he blocked out the light of the moon. The warmth of the symbol’s markings soothed his troubled mind, and eventually he drifted off to sleep. The crowing of a rooster alerted him to the break of dawn.
Eager to get going, Taren repositioned the saddle and climbed aboard. Wort snorted twice before charging ahead, dust flying around his hooves. Farm after farm came into view, but the horse and rider ran on without looking back. Eventually the countryside opened into a wide prairie, one free of any human construction. It was breathtaking. If not for the hurry to meet with Ivdir, Taren would have stopped to collect leaves and seeds. Natural prairies were a treasure trove to an herbalist. His heart regretted leaving it all behind, but meeting with this mysterious lord could not wait.
It was afternoon before he spied a sprawling estate straight ahead of him. Taren’s heart lifted. It could belong only to a noble lord. Slowing his horse to a walk, he observed the mazelike gardens. Instantly he recognized many of the plants, most of which were used in potionmaking. Could Ivdir have an interest in learning the art himself? Unlikely, he decided. The more logical explanation was that these herbs were used for cooking. But some of them were clearly not kept for their flavor. Rue, for example, tasted horrible and was also toxic. It could be used in a salve to treat snake bites, but eating it was out of the question. Taren tried to shrug it off, but he was growing more and more suspicious of this nobleman. Only trained sorcerers were allowed to practice herbalism or other arcane matters, and this man clearly knew something of the symbol’s powers. He could be dangerous, a man of magic practicing unchecked by the Red Council. His senses on high alert, Taren pressed forward, trusting in his own magic to protect him.
A figure approached, slight of build and quick. As he moved closer, Taren recognized him as the same boy who had delivered the message to his cottage. Somehow he’d arrived before Taren had. The boy said nothing, instead extending his hand to take Wort’s reins. Taren slid out of the saddle and allowed the boy to lead the horse away. Wrinkling his brow, he surveyed the property for any sign of danger. He saw only one other person, a man in a straw hat tending the gardens. Nothing out of the ordinary was immediately noticeable.
The manor house was only steps away, so the sorcerer approached with caution. Crafted of stone, the manor itself was excessively large. There was room for several families, as well as a multitude of servants. However, there was neither a carriage house nor courtyard for social functions. Instead, sheep grazed lazily on the plentiful grass, and rows of crops flourished in the fields. It wasn’t typical of a nobleman to turn his own living space into a farm. Normally, he would own the surrounding properties where others farmed. Ivdir was an odd man indeed, and one who had no intention of entertaining large crowds of nobles.
Steadying his hand,
Taren reached for the brass ring on the manor door and knocked twice. The door opened, but no servant greeted the wizard. A strong odor burned in his nostrils, similar to the smell of rain before it tumbles from the clouds, but much stronger. It was the unmistakable smell of air magic. There was no hiding the truth from Taren. A wizard lived inside.
Chapter 3
“Hello?” Taren called as he stepped inside the manor. A quick glance around the room revealed no servants or the man he’d come to see. “I was invited,” he continued. “I’d like to see Lord Ivdir.”
He stood a moment, his arms dangling loosely at his sides. No answer came. Frustrated, he began to wonder if this man was playing a game with him. The room before him was dark, save for hints of candlelight burning at each corner. A massive fireplace remained unlit, and the numerous windows were draped in heavy curtains. Taking a few steps toward a wide staircase, he traced a finger along the back of a chair. A layer of dust had collected there, proving this room saw few visitors.
Taren paused and cleared his throat, still hoping for someone to take notice of his arrival. The manor was far too large for him to go searching. “Hello?” he tried again. “It’s Master Taren come to see Lord Ivdir.”
A spark of silver appeared before him, rising from the bottommost step. He watched with interest as it swirled, approaching him and pausing at eye level. A crooked grin appeared on his face as the magic inspected him, testing the validity of his claim. He was familiar with such spells.
“I am indeed Master Taren,” he told it. “Is Lord Ivdir at home?”
The spark shot up the steps, leaving behind a faint path of silver. Taren followed the light, cautiously taking each step. The wood creaked under his weight, but his footsteps were silenced by a thick blue carpet. He kept his hands away from the rail, tucking them into the pockets of his robe.