The Chronicles of the Myrkron: Book 01 - The Nine Keys of Magic

by Timothy Woods

  "Mourning toilet? I’m sorry, but some of the language here is as strange to me as the world itself. It’s English, but it’s not my English," Michael said grinning.

  Martin chuckled again.

  "Aye, your way of talking is a bit odd to me as well, but morning toilet is simply the term for washing, shaving, dressing, and other various personal needs."

  "Ah, ok. Where I come from, a toilet is only the stool you sit on in what you refer to as a garderobe. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll go and take care of that toilet thing," Michael said grinning.

  "Of course. I will wait here."

  Michael returned to his room and closed the door. He went immediately to the garderobe and relieved himself.

  "One toilet down, one to go." He pulled off his clothes and set them on the foot of the bed. He filled the wash basin from the pitcher and picked up what he hoped was a bar of soap. It was white and squarish and was sitting next to the basin. He splashed water onto his face and hair while he stood leaning over the basin. He scrubbed with the bar and it bubbled up like soap, but was not as smooth. It was kind of gritty actually. Michael washed up quickly, since it was cold, and scrubbed his hair with the bar. Then he dunked his head into the basin to rinse his hair and, finally, rinsed the rest of himself as best as he could. He toweled off quickly, combed his hair with a conveniently provided comb, and took the basin into the garderobe. He poured the soapy water down the shaft and returned the basin to the table.

  Michael went to the wardrobe and pulled out a grey robe. It was too short, only hitting at about mid shin, so he pulled out another one and held it up against the first. It was longer, so he put it on and it fell to his ankles.

  "Perfect."

  Michael saw four pairs of boots in the bottom of the cabinet, and he grabbed a pair to compare to the bottom of his foot. The first two pairs were too small, but the third seemed close. He pulled them on and they fit relatively well. A little narrow but plenty long enough. They were fashioned from soft black leather and had what looked like felt on the bottom of the soles.

  "Not much for arch support around here I guess." Michael grabbed the sash off the bed where he had tossed it and headed for the door, raking his fingers through his hair.

  As he opened the door, he saw Martin leaning against the far wall.

  "I’m ready."

  Martin turned and started walking up the hall. Michael fell into step beside him.

  "Oh wait, I need to talk with Micah first," he told Martin, stopping in mid-stride.

  "I’m afraid Lord Micah is not in his room. I checked."

  "Hmm, that’s odd. I wonder where he went?"

  "I am sure I could not say. The only one around here who knows him is Merric. Last night was the first time I had ever seen him. I will admit to being awed by him. He is a legend, and I have never met a legend in person before," Martin confided to him.

  "He is something. You know, even after having had the opportunity to talk to him for several days and travel with him, I must admit, I think I am in awe of him, too. To have seen the sights he must have seen and done the things he’s done. Wow! I can’t even begin to image what his life has been like."

  "Aye, most here feel the same way or else they fear him. I am not sure which is more prudent."

  "Knowing what little I do about Micah, I don’t think anyone but an enemy should fear him. I mean, he went out of his way to help me. Hell, he literally traveled across worlds to make sure I was safe. No. I don’t think I would ever fear him, but that doesn’t preclude a healthy respect for his abilities."

  "Well, we better get on with your tour, at least some of it. Let’s start with the kitchen. I’m hungry," Martin suggested.

  "Sounds good to me. I’m starving. What do you eat around here?"

  "Well, it changes from day to day, but porridge, fruit, eggs, beef, pork, vegetables, fish, and fowl. I would assume the same foods everyone eats."

  "In my world, different cultures eat different foods, and if the food itself is not different, then they may have different ways of preparing it. I’m not especially experimental when it comes to my food. A lot of the food on my world, I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole."

  "Why would you use a ten foot pole to eat?" Martin asked puzzled.

  Michael looked over at him and, seeing the serious expression on Martin’s face, burst out laughing. He tried to get his laughter under control, but each time he looked back at Martin, it started all over again. Finally, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands, he tried to explain.

  "That’s just an expression from my world. It is meant to convey the notion that one would not go near something." Michael had to stifle another laughing fit as Martin merely frowned at him.

  "People on your world have an odd way of expressing themselves," Martin replied.

  "Aye, some do indeed."

  "So, do you not eat these same foods?"

  "Yes, especially the fruit and beef. I only eat certain vegetables though."

  "Is there some reasoning for that?"

  "Taste. I dislike the taste of some of them."

  "Oh, that, I think, is the same all over. I thought there might be some magical or social reasons."

  "Some people on my world will not eat certain meats for religious reasons, and I’m sure there are social ones somewhere, but as for magical reasons, you would know far more of that than I," Michael assured him.

  "There are no magical restrictions on food here. Merric eats the same foods all the rest of us eat." Martin chuckled a little.

  "He does hate porridge though. He is distinctly absent every time the kitchen serves it."

  "What is porridge exactly?" Michael asked.

  "It is a soup-like dish made from oats. They mostly serve it at breakfast."

  "Ah, ok, it’s probably something like oatmeal then. I can’t say I blame Merric much then. I’m not too fond of it myself."

  "Then you may want to skip breakfast on Thursdays. That is when it's served."

  "Thanks for the tip. By the way, who does the cooking? I mean, do we all take turns at it or something? Because, if we do, you may want to skip whatever day they have me cook. I’m terrible at it."

  "No. We have a cooking and cleaning staff that live here in Kantwell. They are mostly women from the nearby villages. There used to be an entire wing for their living quarters, but that was before the Purging. Kantwell required far more staff back then. Now, they all reside in the same wing as the women magi. There are so few of us now that, even with the serving staff in the same wing, there are many empty rooms.

  They came to the end of the hall and stood on a wide balcony overlooking the Great Hall and its massive statue. Even from the third floor, Michael could see its raised arms. Walking up to the railing, he noticed it was carved from the same granite as that which made up the rest of Kantwell. He looked over the edge to the floor more than thirty feet below. He looked up and saw another balcony overhead.

  "This place is huge," Michael commented, feeling a little small.

  "Yes, Kantwell was built to house many magi. I am told that, in times long past, it was filled almost to capacity. That was long before even Merric’s time. Now, there are less than thirty people in residence, including the serving staff and yourself."

  "How many actual mages live here now?"

  "You met all but one of them last night. The only one who was not there was Mathis. He does a lot of research and runs practically all of Merric’s errands."

  "He’s the other instructor isn’t he?"

  "Aye, there are only three here who are not apprentices. Merric, of course, is Headmaster. Mieka is the head instructor, and Mathis is our head researcher. Of course, those titles, except Merric’s Headmaster designation, automatically fall to them since they are the only wizards here. Merric, however, was Headmaster before the Purging."

  "What was the Purging?"

  "The Purging was the beginning of this war. Mortow and his followers tried to wrest Kantwell f
rom Merric and the other instructors. There was a great battle that cost the lives of many magi. I was a new apprentice when it happened. I did not see exactly what transpired, but I saw the aftermath. We lost over fifty magi that day. Mortow fled with what remained of his followers. Of the twenty of them, only Mortow and three others left Kantwell alive. We lost even more, and would have lost Mieka as well, if it had not been for Merric. Mathis swears Merric nearly killed Mortow, but had to break off to aid Mieka or she would have been killed, too."

  "How did Mortow and his followers even get in here?" Michael asked shocked.

  Martin seemed a bit confused by the question, forgetting that Michael had very little knowledge of Thelona or events in its history.

  "Why, Mortow was an instructor here. So were two of the ones who managed to escape with him. He was actually the head instructor at the time. I had taken lessons from him on occasion. He used to scare the wits out of me. Those cold blue eyes and that deep voice of his, not to mention the sheer size of the man."

  Remembering the face in the mirror, Michael replied.

  "Yes, his eyes are cold, ice blue, and that stern countenance. I can see why he would frighten you."

  "You have seen him?" Martin asked stunned.

  "Aye, and I will never forget those eyes. I only wish I had been able to permanently close them for him," Michael sneered with loathing.

  "Michael, you were lucky to get away alive. Mortow is a very powerful, eighth key wizard. Where did you see him?"

  "On my world," Michael said with a little hesitation. He realized his anger was making him rather loquacious again, and he could hear Micah’s voice in his head warning him about saying too much.

  "I don’t want to think about him right now. Let’s get some breakfast."

  "Of course. The kitchen and dining halls are on the ground floor. Follow me and, after we eat, I will show you to the classrooms. We only use one of them now. There are only ten apprentices, well, eleven now," he said looking at Michael’s gray apprentice robe.

  "So we have no use for the other classrooms."

  Martin led him along the balcony to the left where they went down a flight of stairs. Turning, they walked under the stairs to the next set down. Michael’s eyes were again drawn to the statue as they reached the ground floor.

  "The dwarves must be incredible sculptors," Michael commented, gesturing towards the statue.

  "Aye, they are the best stone workers in all the land and the best smiths."

  "That’s right. I forgot Micah told me there were two different sects of dwarves. I can’t seem to recall what he actually named them."

  "Delvers and Forgers," Martin prompted.

  "That’s right. Incredible craftsmanship. She seems almost to breathe as I look at her," Michael said with awe in his voice.

  "Were you a sculptor in your world?" Martin asked with interest.

  "Me? No. I have about as much artistic talent as a rock."

  "So what was your profession?"

  "Well, writing mostly."

  "So you were a scribe."

  Michael laughed.

  "Not exactly. I wrote articles for travel brochures. I love studying about ancient and exotic locations, so I would write about the unique and interesting sites and give general facts about them."

  "What is a travel brochure?"

  "It’s a small booklet that gives a description of sites at a certain destination so people can decide if it is a place they would like to go see."

  "So you traveled around a lot?"

  "No. I wanted to, but traveling, at least in my world, is very expensive. We had our first trip planned when all of this happened," Michael grabbed a fold of his robe and held it out.

  Martin merely nodded in sympathy and changed the subject.

  "This, of course, is the Great Hall. The kitchen and dining halls are in the east side of the north wing, the classrooms and general library are in the west side. The entrance to the north wing is at the back of this hall."

  They walked in sullen silence to a wide, arched opening in the rear of the Great Hall. The polished white, marble floors were glowing in the morning light, which was starting to stream down through leaded glass windows set in the ceiling high above. It contrasted starkly with the dark granite walls. They passed through the arch and stopped at a cross corridor.

  Martin gestured down the left corridor.

  "The classrooms and the library. The library is the room at the end of the corridor. This is where many of us go after classes." Gesturing down the right corridor, he continued.

  "The first three rooms are dining halls, the last of which is the only one in use any more. It is the one closest to the kitchen. The bathing rooms are at the end of the corridor on the right, the last two doors. The first one is reserved for the women, and the last one is for us. They are located close to the kitchen because that is where the main well is, and so we can heat the water more easily. I don’t suppose that is going to be an issue for you though," Martin said looking a bit dejected.

  "Hopefully, one day, it will not be an issue for me either."

  "How long have you been studying magic?" Michael asked.

  "Since I could read, but formally for about six years. I opened the first door when I was eight. I came to Kantwell when I was fifteen, and I have opened three more doors since I have been here. I still have two to go, but the key to the fifth door eludes me."

  "How is it you open these doors? Mine have all opened spontaneously through trauma of one sort or another. I have never consciously opened a door myself."

  "Generally, when you have learned most of what there is to know about a given door’s magic, the key to the next door comes in the form of a revelation about its particular magic. It is kind of like struggling with a problem for a long time and finally seeing the answer clearly. When that revelation happens, the next door is accessible. It merely takes a thought to swing it open, freeing the magic behind it."

  "Why can’t someone who has already opened that door give you the answer?"

  "Because the keys are unique to the individual mage. What opens a door for one will not open it for another. The revelations must come from within. Our magic is a part of who we are and, even though it produces the same effects upon the world around us, within us, it is uniquely our own."

  "So no one can teach you how to open a door? They can only teach you what to do with the magic released by the door that is unlocked?"

  Martin turned and walked down the right hand corridor, talking as he went.

  "That is correct. They teach us to use it efficiently and, hopefully, wisely. Magic can be very destructive when used for personal gain. Mortow and his ilk do not feel that magic should only be used to benefit others. They think that since it is theirs by birth, and they had to study diligently to master it, they have the right to use it as they see fit," Martin shook his head.

  "The Great One’s gift is meant to help all people, not to further the desires of one man."

  "How do you use magic to help others?" Michael asked.

  Martin stopped before an arched opening in the left wall, the sixth such opening they reached. He gestured for Michael to go inside. Michael walked in to see a large rectangular hall set with three rows of long tables. The far wall contained nine tall windows that let in the morning light. The tables had a rich dark luster enhanced by the sunlight. Seated at one of the closer tables were several of the apprentices Michael met the previous night. They were eating and talking quietly among themselves. They all stopped and looked at Michael and Martin as they entered. They all smiled and nodded their heads in greeting. Michael nodded back at them.

  "Good morning."

  Martin steered him towards the right to an opening in the wall. Michael saw a stack of wooden trays and a bin of cutlery. Martin took a tray and a fork and went up to the window. Michael followed his example. He saw a middle-aged woman, with her hair tied up in a kerchief, place a bowl of something on Martin’s tray along with a wooden cup. Sh
e smiled when Martin thanked her. Martin stepped aside and gestured with his tray to Michael.

  "Tess, this is Michael. He arrived last night. Michael, this is Tess or Mother Tess as she is fondly known to us. She is the best cook in all of Thelona."

  "Martin, stop it, please," Tess said with a delighted smile.

  "Nice to meet you, Michael. It is good to see another young apprentice in the castle." She leaned forward a bit and whispered.

  "If you want anything special to eat just let me know. With as few apprentices around as there are, we can cook up something special, on occasion." Tess winked at Michael still smiling.

  Michael smiled in return and turned to Martin.

  "I see why you call her Mother Tess." He turned back to Tess.

  "Thank you, ma’am. I will keep that in mind, but I don’t want to be a bother. I will eat whatever you have on the menu."

  "Please, call me Tess or Mother Tess. Well, today we have cut fruit, bread, and cheese. Not much for cooking this morning, but Mieka prefers fruit, so Tuesday mornings it's fruit and cheese. We bake the bread fresh though. What would you like?"

  "Fruit sounds good and some bread, please. I think I’ll pass on the cheese. I don’t care much for it."

  "I’ll remember that," she said with another wink. Turning, she ladled some fruit from a big bowl into a smaller one and cut off a thick slice of bread from a large loaf lying on a stone nearby. She placed the bread on a plate.

  "You want butter on your bread or preserves, or do you just want it plain?"

  "Butter, please," Michael informed her.

  She spread a generous amount of butter on the slice, and placed the bowl and bread plate on his tray.

  "Now, would you like juice or water to drink?"

  "Water would be fine."

  Tess placed a cup of water on his tray as well.

  "Thank you, Tess," Michael said raising the tray towards his face. He inhaled the aroma of the warm, buttered bread and sighed.

  "That bread smells wonderful."

  Tess smiled again, and her blue eyes crinkled nearly closed.