Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1)

by Scott Robert Scheller

  He hesitated. “Uh, I’m not sure—”

  “What do you smell?”

  Marc took several sniffs of the air. “Well, I smell the growing plants... the damp earth... water.” He didn’t add that he also scented the dried lilac blossoms Valeria had rubbed into her hair that morning.

  “What else can you sense?”

  “There’s a cool, light wind coming from the direction we are headed, uh, northwest, I believe. I can also feel where the sun is.” He shifted his concentration to his ears. “I hear water faintly in the distance, probably Wiccan creek. Your staff just touched the ground and Val shifted the weight of her pack.”

  “Now, open your eyes and tell me what you see.”

  Marc looked about and was flooded with details he ordinarily took for granted. “Much more. While my ears and nose gave me some information, my eyes yielded a thousand fold more.”

  The wizard acknowledged him with a single approving nod. “Magic is much like having another pair of eyes. It allows me to sense many more things.”

  Marc wondered what those things might be. All he or anyone else could know came from their God-given senses. “I think I understand, Master. It must be interesting to feel this magic only wizards can know.”

  Oren gave him a thin smile. “That it is.”

  Valeria lightly touched his arm. “But you’ve already felt magic, Marc.”

  He gave her an uncomfortable look, hoping she would take the hint to let the subject drop.

  Her gaze let him know she was not about to. “You’ve felt the Tree’s magic. You feel it now.”

  With a sigh, he realized it served no purpose to pretend otherwise. Marc looked at the old man expectantly. “Is that magic?”

  “Not exactly. What you feel is due to magic, though. Good observation, Valeria.”

  She grinned modestly for a moment, then asked, “Does that make Marc a wizard?”

  Her hopeful look caused Marc to cringe. “Val!”

  Oren gently laughed. “You act as if being a wizard is a bad thing. I assure you it is not. Feeling the Tree does not necessarily mean one is a wizard. There are times in many people’s lives where they will occasionally encounter magic as Marc did.”

  Marc recalled the fear of that moment. “It was when I touched it.”

  “There you go. Having felt it that closely, you are still able to sense it because you know it is there.” Giving him an odd look, Oren pointed a finger at Marc. “And, in a way, it knows where you are, too.”

  Marc squirmed at the thought. “Is there any way to make it forget about me?”

  Blinking, the wizard paused for a long moment. “Why do you ask that?”

  “It wants me dead. It tried to kill me once already.”

  Oren studied him a moment. “Explain.”

  While Marc told all that happened that day, Oren idly stroked his beard, nodding from time to time. Feeling a bit embarrassed, Marc avoided his master’s gaze. “I was lucky to escape with my life.”

  “Do you know why you were not harmed in the Vale?” The wizard’s expression made Marc think he should already know the answer.

  “No, Master. Why?”

  “The magic knew you would come serve me one day. You, and Valeria, are safe from any magic in there.”

  “Then we can walk into the Vale at any time?” Valeria asked, intrigued.

  “Yes, but I would prefer to guide you through it first. It holds dangers that have nothing to do with magic.”

  “I want to see the haunted tree.” Her eagerness made Marc uneasy.

  A flicker of a smile played upon Oren’s lips. “If you wish, but understand the Great Tree is not as it appears.” The master said the words Great Tree with an inflection bordering on reverence. “It is also not haunted.”

  Marc thought otherwise but held his tongue, not wanting to discuss magic any more. “How much further to your home, Master?”

  “One half hour.”

  As they walked on in silence, Marc thought about his good fortune at having been chosen to serve Oren. Without that protection, he would have surely perished in the Vale. Even though the wizard said he would be safe, Marc decided to keep far from the Tree. The power of its magic frightened him. Even now, if he listened to its call, he could hear the whispers of the souls trapped within.

  Trying to push those thoughts from his mind, Marc studied the landscape. This area had more rocks showing than he was used to. They looked different, too, being darker than most. Some were even made of a curious, glossy black stone. Soon they encountered a tiny stream that gave off wispy clouds of steam. Amazed, he touched the water and found it fairly warm.

  “Master, what kind of magic is this?”

  “None. There is a hot spring nearby. Its waters are warmed by great fires within the earth.”

  Valeria squatted by the stream. “That sounds like magic to me.” Wetting her fingers, she brought them to her nose. “It smells a little like rotten eggs.”

  Glancing first at Marc, Oren smiled at her. “Would you like to see the spring?”

  She quickly stood. “Please.”

  Marc just nodded, still impressed by the ribbon of vapor rising along the water’s length. Oren continued down the path until he came to a narrow rut heading to the left. Following it, they soon came upon the stream again where several large, flat stones were arranged in a crude bridge. Crossing over, they climbed a short but moderately steep slope. For some reason Marc found the area quite familiar. Reaching the top he looked down at a pond no larger than ten paces across. It steamed like a giant cook pot.

  Standing at the water’s edge, he knew he had seen this before. Valeria glanced around as if it were familiar to her, too. When their gaze met he instantly saw flashes of her swimming naked. Valeria quickly looked away, leaving him feeling very strange; this was the place in his dream. A very real place. How could this be possible? He had never been here before, yet he knew the placement of every stone, every plant as if he visited it daily. A warm buzz of dread prickled over his skin as he realized the dreams were magic’s doing and it had invaded his life long before his journey to the Tree. Forcing the tightness in his chest to subside, he calmed his thoughts and looked toward the wizard.

  Using his staff, Oren played at the water’s surface, sending out a series of ripples that caused the reflected image of the trees beyond to shimmer. “This is a good place to soak. It takes some of the cold out of these old bones.” The master regarded him for a long moment, his face unreadable, then turned away. “It is close, too. My home is over the next rise. Come.” He led them back to the path and on to their destination.

  When he first saw Oren’s property from the top of the hill, Marc was impressed. The path led up to a wide iron gate set in a heavy stone arch towering well over twice his height. Upon the apex of the arch perched a carved likeness of a raven, apparently crafted from that smooth, black stone he saw earlier. To either side of the gate, high stone walls ran for hundreds of paces to the west and north before intersecting the hill behind, creating a great triangle of land within. In the center of the gate hung an iron bell the size of his head.

  “Welcome to Raven’s Gate,” Oren said with a sweep of his arm, indicating that Marc should enter first.

  Putting his hands upon the rough, cold bars, he pushed but it did not open. Pulling, it remained equally fast. He searched for a latch of some kind but found none. The right side of the gate had three hinges and the left had two thick rods that disappeared within slots cut deep into the stone of the column. Peering closer, Marc figured something inside must be holding onto the rods.

  “It is locked, Master.”

  Oren waved his hand with a practiced ease and commanded, “Aperīte!”

  Marc heard a sharp clunk of metal sliding upon metal come from within the pillar and the gate now yielded to his hands, slowly swinging wide. Hastily releasing it, he inspected his palms, worried that he had once more touched something enchanted, but he sensed nothing unusual. It felt normal
. He looked to Oren to find the man watching him closely. “It was locked by magic?”

  “You could say that.” The master gestured them forward. “Enter, and welcome to your new home.”

  “Amazing.” Valeria took a few hesitant steps while watching the gate come to a rest.

  Marc followed her and Oren through the arch and looked about in fascination at the quantity of land before him. To the left were many trees, mostly fruit and nut varieties from what he could see. On his right sprawled an striking patchwork of rectangular garden plots, most of which lay barren. In the center of the area, a wide, stone-ringed well rose waist-high. At the very back of the enclosure, centered up against the hill, sat the largest house he had ever seen. Between the gate, well and house ran a broad path. A foot higher than the surrounding ground, it was covered with what seemed to be the same small, rounded stones he found littered beneath the haunted tree.

  Unsure what to make of the similarity, Marc gestured around. “Is all of this for growing food?”

  “No. I also grow plants for medicines, potions and other needs.”

  Valeria smiled. “It’s beautiful. Did you build all this yourself?”

  The wizard shook his head. “I inherited it from the wizard before me, and he from the one before him and so on. Each of us have made improvements, though. I added the plum trees, for example.”

  “And the walls surrounding all this? Who added those?” Marc asked as they passed the well. “They are most impressive.”

  Oren grunted in agreement. “A grateful Roman official, almost two hundred years ago. One of my predecessors did him a favor.”

  Marc chuckled. “It must have been quite a favor.” Noticing the gray soil around the trees, he veered off the path, stooped to gather a handful, and examined it while returning to his place behind the master. “I see you spread ashes upon your land, too. That magic melted the snow fast.”

  “I must confess it is due to nature’s laws, not magic.”

  Casting the dirt to the side, Marc dusted off his hands. “How so?”

  After a long moment, the wizard asked, “What happens if something is left out in the summer sun?”

  Not sure what his master wanted, Marc said the first thing that came into his head. “It becomes warm?”

  Oren glanced back over his shoulder at him, a pleased glint in his eyes. “Exactly. And dark things get much warmer than lighter things, correct?” Marc nodded remembering how hot iron could get—sometimes painfully so. “Spreading the ash on the snow made it darker. Even with our weak sun, it melted faster than it would have otherwise.”

  Marc found the simplicity of it intriguing.

  “That’s clever, Master,” Valeria said, equally impressed. “Did your magic teach you that?”

  “No. I have studied the collective knowledge of the great societies: the Romans, Greeks, Egyptians and Sumerians, to name a few. Their wisdom is mine and will be yours, too.”

  She shot Marc a look. “Ours?”

  “In return for your services, I intend to teach both of you all that I know. How is your Greek?”

  Marc met Valeria’s gaze and she shook her head. “Neither of us know any,” he said.

  “Not to worry. You will be adept by this time next year. Well, we are finally here,” Oren said, stepping to the side.

  Welcoming the opportunity to learn new things, Marc turned his view toward the house when a sudden pain in his arm jerked his attention to Valeria; her fingers gripped him so tightly that her nails had pierced his skin, drawing blood. “Val! What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes wide with fear, she nodded toward the house. “B-bones!”

  Marc followed her gaze and saw with alarm what shocked her. On either side of the door inclined an iron pike, and upon the end of each perched a human skull.

  Chapter 6

  With a sharp intake of air, Marc’s focus locked upon the dry, bleached bones of what used to be two living souls. The dark hollows of the skulls’ eye sockets sought Marc out, drawing him into their empty gaze, tracking his every move. A cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach as Valeria, quaking in fear, clung even tighter to him. With such symbols of death on display, he suddenly worried if Oren might be a practitioner of dark magic. Who better to have command over the evil in the Forbidden Vale? Taking a step back, he pointed at the nearest skull, his voice tight, “Master! What evil is this?”

  “None. They are my guards,” the wizard said, his voice calm and unconcerned. “Effective, are they not?”

  Whipping his head about, he stared at the old man as if he had lost his mind. “What?”

  “They are my guards—well, they used to be. They keep some of the less determined from disturbing me.” Oren’s eyes met his and Marc felt a slight pulse of heat come out of them—clearly the master’s power. While not coming across as threatening—and Marc was unsure why he understood that fact—it did convey he needed to comply. “Calm yourselves. There is no reason to fear them.”

  Swallowing hard, Marc nodded and faced the doorway, this time noticing that several feet below each skull stood a flat-topped, square stone pillar bearing a mound of precisely stacked bones. Were they pillars, or sacrificial altars? No, his imagination was getting the best of him. Oren said not to be afraid. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly along with as much of his tension as he could manage. Valeria, too, had quieted. Releasing his arm, she looked away, embarrassed. Marc viewed the unsettling scene once more, then asked, “How did they... come to be here?”

  Oren moved to stand between the pillars. “My predecessor, Arturius, saved the lives of several children belonging to two brothers. In gratitude the brothers insisted upon taking turns guarding Raven’s Gate. They proved useful in sorting out those who had no real need of Arturius’ power. After my master’s passing, I told them to return to their families as I had no need of guards. They refused, saying that since I had inherited Arturius’ responsibilities, I also inherited them.”

  “So why are their remains displayed this way?” Marc asked, curiosity outweighing concern.

  “They wished to continue serving their wizard—even after death.” A look of sadness passed through Oren’s eyes as he touched the nearest pillar, his voice softening. “And so I honored their request. I do not see two sets of bones here but reminders of old friends—Crotious on the left, Gastus on the right.”

  Now that he knew why the bones were there, Marc’s trepidation all but vanished. Feeling the warmth of Valeria’s hand upon his skin, he found her swabbing away the blood trickling down his arm with the hem of her tunic. As if sensing his gaze, she turned her face toward his, regret evident in her expression.

  Turning her attention back to his wounds, she quietly said, “Forgive me, Master Oren, for assuming the worst when I saw your guards.”

  Visibly pleased, the wizard momentarily closed his eyes and gave her a respectful nod. “The second lesson of the day: False assumptions often arise out of ignorance. In the future, seek more information before making decisions. Things are often different than they initially appear.”

  While Oren undid the chain on the door, Marc said, “Since you no longer keep any more guards—uh, living ones, to dissuade unwelcome visitors, I take it times have improved since then.”

  “I would not say that.”

  That surprised Marc. “But father told me the king had brought peace to the land.”

  Pursing his lips, Oren nodded slightly. “For a time. If I read the signs correctly, that will soon change. Then we will see many more visitors like Thaddeus.” Leaning forward, he grasped Marc’s injured arm and pulled it closer, inspecting the wounds. “Hold still.”

  Marc did as he was told. With eyes closed, the old man hovered his free hand a finger’s width above the injuries while making a slow, circular motion. “Coalescere... coalescere... coalescere.” At once the area felt warm and tingly. When the wizard withdrew his hand, Marc gasped aloud, amazed to see the wounds had completely closed. He stared in n
ear disbelief at the arc of thin, pale lines, half expecting them to burst open an any moment and bleed anew.

  Valeria gingerly touched his arm and, regarding the wizard with much respect, managed a weak smile. “That’s what he did for your mother.” Oren opened the door and motioned her forward. Entering, she said, “You could thank him, Marc.”

  Realizing his inexcusable rudeness, Marc immediately gave the wizard a short bow. “Oh, yes, I beg your pardon, Master Oren. Thank you very much.”

  “You are welcome. Now, go inside.”

  Putting his hand upon the door, Marc felt its considerable mass. Made from heavy wood beams thicker than the width of his palm, it hung in a dense wall of mortared stone, a smaller version of the great walls surrounding the property. Above it sloped a roof covered with flat slabs of slate rock. The wizard’s house was nearly a fortress.

  Marc stepped through the opening into a dark place. A musty dampness tinged with herbs and smoke hung in the air. From what he could tell it was a narrow room, more deep than wide. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he began to see more detail. More of that slate covered the floor, the stones knit tightly together to form a near perfect whole. Along the wall to his left hung iron sconces made to hold candles or oil lamps. Several narrow benches sat against the wall to his right. Ahead, a large square table made from stout oak planks bound with wide iron straps dominated the space. Beyond that, dark brown curtains of heavy wool stretched across the room.

  Sandals scuffing softly on the floor, Oren passed him and pointed at the table. “Put your bundles there.” While Marc helped Valeria take off her pack, the wizard gestured about himself. “This is the receiving room. When people come to call, I meet with them here. No visitor is allowed in the remainder of the house. Come.”

  Parting the curtain, Oren moved past it. Marc followed and found himself in almost total darkness. Valeria took his hand and sidled up close while the wizard did something ahead. Suddenly, light streamed into the room from an opening in the wall.