He avoided flat rocks—not wanting to surprise more batsnakes—but did manage to frighten a covey of grouse and annoy assorted squirrels and chipmunks. He thought he might have seen a vicious, big-eyed aloysius the size of an eagle sleeping high in a sugar maple, but couldn’t be sure and didn’t stop to confirm. It could have been an extraordinarily large hawk.
The slope suddenly grew steeper and Eynon had to run to keep his feet under him. He nearly tumbled down a bank but managed to stay upright until he reached a flat section that was clearly a road, wide enough for two carts to pass abreast. To the east he could hear running water and considered that it must the Rhuthro, the same river that flowed through Caercadel. He’d seen a map in the castle town showing the river flowing out through the southeast gap in the Coombe’s ring wall, then turning east and sharply north.
Eynon decided to follow the road north and was pleased to see the dark forest open up, giving way to sunny meadows. The thunderstorm he’d heard last night must have been on this side of the mountain. The ground was damp and a little muddy—not so much that it slowed him down, but enough for him to stick to the crown of the road and avoid the wet ruts.
His step was light even though he’d been walking since dawn. Mud wouldn’t dampen Eynon’s spirits. Now the sun was almost directly overhead and he was pleasantly warm. For the thirtieth time, he reached up and touched the sprig of holly pinned to his cap. The spikes on the green leaves pricked his fingers and reminded him he wasn’t dreaming.
Ahead, he could see another road intersecting with this one at right angles. It came from the east, maybe from the river, and faded to a small track to the west. The road he was on continued north. To the northeast, a dozen yards into a fenced pasture, stood an ancient oak. It was tall, with bare, gnarled branches, and bore no leaves. Even in death the tree served a purpose—marking the intersection.
Eynon was glad to see the split-log fencing. It meant the land was tended and some farm family must live close by. It would be a pleasure to meet people who didn’t live in the Coombe. Meeting new people was supposed to be a big part of a villager’s wander year.
For months, his sister had teased him that he’d better return with a wife, since none of the Coombe girls would have him. He’d told her she’d better return with a husband in two years when she went wandering—for the same reason. He knew he’d be too tongue-tied to talk to a girl, inside or outside of the Coombe, and so did his sister. But teasing was what siblings did, and Braith meant well.
When Eynon reached the middle of the crossroads, he looked left and right and saw he cast no shadow. It was high noon. Something felt odd under his left boot. He moved his foot and saw a shimmer of silver in the mud. Reaching down, he worked what he’d spotted out of the wet soil. It was a thin and dirty oval, nearly the size of his palm. He washed it with squirts of water from his goatskin, then marveled at what was revealed.
He’d found a silver amulet, worked with complex, interlaced floral designs. An oval blue gem more than an inch across, with deep facets, was set in its center. Once he cleaned the amulet, the silver danced with reflected sunlight and the gem seemed to be filled with sparks. It was the most beautifully-crafted thing he’d ever seen.
Eynon dried his hands on his tunic and inspected the amulet carefully. There were sixteen small studs around its edge and odd-looking symbols engraved on its back. Some of the symbols looked familiar, but he wasn’t sure what they meant. He turned the oval back and forth in his hands, tipping it this way and that to find any identifying details. He needed to find out who owned the lovely thing so he could return it.
He was holding the amulet close to eye level in one hand, trying to discern more about the unknown symbols, when his finger inadvertently pressed one of the small studs. A tremendous blast of blue fire shot out from the gem on the opposite side, striking the ancient oak and turning it into a flaming torch.
Eynon dropped the amulet as if it had burned him and stepped back. His eyes were as big as an owl’s and his mouth was wide-open in shock. Someone behind him made an impressed whistle and Eynon jumped.
He turned around quickly and saw an older man leaning on a shovel a few feet away. He wore sturdy clothing and a broad-brimmed straw hat.
A farmer, thought Eynon.
“Well, young man,” said the farmer, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It looks like you’re going to need a wizard.”
Chapter 2
“Never underestimate a man who tills the land.”
— Ealdamon’s Epigrams
“I’m very sorry about your tree, sir,” said Eynon.
“It’s not your fault,” said the farmer. “I’d been meaning to chop the old thing down and turn it into charcoal for years now. You’ve just saved me a step.”
Eynon didn’t respond. He was watching the oak burn, still in shock. The farmer handed his shovel to Eynon, who grasped it by reflex.
“I’m going to need your help trenching around the tree so the fire doesn’t spread, young man,” he said in a kind voice. “Thank goodness it rained last night and the grass is still damp.”
Reflected flames danced in Eynon’s eyes, then he lowered his head to stare at the amulet where it sat in the mud of the path.
“Go ahead,” said the farmer. “Pick that thing up and put it away.”
“It can stay where it is,” said Eynon. “I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Who better than you to take it to a wizard, lad?” said the farmer. “You’ve just started your wander year if I read things right.”
The farmer’s observation triggered Eynon’s curiosity and caused Eynon to raise his head.
“I did just start. How did you know?”
“Your holly looks fresh-cut this morning,” said the farmer, “and several other things besides. Now pick that thing up before one of my fool neighbors comes by and kills himself—or me—with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eynon leaned on the shovel and bent down to recover the amulet. He stuck the shovel’s blade in the ground to free his hands. Then he squirted more water from his goatskin to clean it off, handling the silver oval like a wolfhornet’s nest. Eynon wiped off the amulet with the hem of his shirt and buried it deep in his pack. He slipped the pack over one shoulder, retrieved the farmer’s shovel and followed the older man as he climbed over the pasture’s fence and approached the burning oak. Eynon looked to his companion for advice on where to start digging.
“Here is good,” said the farmer, indicating a spot about six feet away from the tree.
“I’m sorry again, sir.”
“Just dig,” said the farmer. “That’s the best way you can make it up to me.”
Eynon placed his pack on a flat rock, added his jacket beside it, and walked over to where the farmer was standing. He pressed the shovel blade in deep and began to turn ground. It helped to have something to take his mind off the amulet.
“I imagine you’re from the Coombe,” said the farmer. “I’m Derwen, but you can call me Derry.”
He pushed his straw hat a bit farther back on his head and smiled.
Eynon paused from shoveling to answer.
“I’m Eynon,” he said. Part of his mind wondered if the farmer kept a herd of milk cows.
“Is your father a smith?” asked Derry while loosening soil ahead of Eynon with the blade of his axe.
“No, sir,” said Eynon. “He’s a farmer.”
“Seems odd for farmer to name his son Anvil,” said Derry. “At least that’s what I was told your name means.”
“I think that’s right,” said Eynon. “It’s what my mother told me, anyway. She said she just liked the name.”
Eynon paused to lean on the shovel for a moment, then turned another clod of dirt. “My father liked it, too. He said it had a strong, solid sound. My sis
ter used to say my head was as solid as an anvil.”
“Being hard-headed can be a virtue,” said Derry. “Ask my daughter.”
“Your daughter, sir?”
“Call me Derry, lad. I’m not your father.”
“Yes, sir. I mean Derry. I was raised to be polite to my elders.”
Derry chuckled. “That’s one reason why I thought you were from the Coombe. Wait until you get to Tyford.”
“Sir?”
Eynon realized what he’d done and he and Derry both shared a laugh.
“You can take the boy off the farm, but he’ll still have straw in his hair,” said Derry as if he was repeating a proverb. “Tyford is on the Moravon—the great river. It’s the biggest city this side of the capital. You and Merry can head there in the morning.”
“Merry?” said Eynon.
“Meredith. My daughter,” said Derry. “She’s taking four barrels of hard cider to Taffaern the Innkeeper, my best customer in Tyford. I’m sure she would be glad to have company on the way. You should be able to find a free wizard or three in the city. One of them will know what to do with it.”
“Oh,” said Eynon, wondering if the trip would be the kind of adventure he’d hoped for.
An hour of hard work took their firebreak half way around the tree. Derry gave Eynon some dried meat and raisins from his pouch and the two paused to eat. Eynon shared water from his goatskin with Derry.
While the farmer was drinking, Eynon went back to retrieve his pack. He felt uncomfortable when the amulet inside it was too far away. As he returned, he saw something reflecting sunlight in a patch of tall grass.
Eynon moved closer to see what it was—a small crossbow, almost a toy, really, the kind a child would use for hunting squirrels. It was finely crafted, however—the steel of the bow was polished and high quality. It hadn’t started to rust, so it must not have been in the pasture very long. There were slots for five quarrels in its stock. One of them was missing.
“Is this yours?” asked Eynon when he returned. “It’s well-made.”
“It’s not mine, lad,” said Derry. He looked the weapon over. “And it doesn’t belong to any of my neighbors. I suppose it’s yours now, unless its owner finds you and claims it.”
“I’ll take good care of it until they do,” said Eynon.
Derry returned the goatskin. Eynon hefted it and reminded himself he’d need to refill it soon. He clipped the one-handed crossbow to his goatskin’s shoulder strap with a small strip of metal on the stock that looked like it had been designed for that purpose. He was glad it would be easy to carry.
They continued to loosen the soil and dig. Eynon and Derry found several odd-looking shards of something that wasn’t wood and wasn’t metal on the ground on the far side of the burning tree as they cut turf and turned dirt. They looked like the sheets of ice that slid off the green slate roofs of the stone houses in Wherrel in winter and shattered on cobblestones. Being from the Coombe-town near the quarry made it easier for the folk in Wherrel to build with stone.
“What are these, sir?” asked Eynon. “I’ve never seen anything like them. Are they made from some sort of animal horn?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Derry, “but I’d say they’re wizard-made. They could have been blown here by the storm last night. I went to bed early, but we had quite a thunderstorm. Wizard weather, some call it.”
“I heard the thunder from this side of the mountain in the Coombe,” said Eynon, “but I went to bed early, too. I wanted to get a good night’s sleep before starting my wander year.”
Derry laughed. “Most lads wouldn’t be able to sleep on the night before their wander year,” he said. “Or they’d be drinking ale behind a barn with their friends.”
“I’m not most lads, then,” said Eynon.
“No,” said Derry, stroking his chin. “You’re not.”
“Would you mind if I took the shards?” asked Eynon. “If you don’t have a use for them, that is. Maybe someone in Tyford will know what they are.”
“Help yourself,” said Derry, “but mind your fingers. They look sharp.”
Eynon gathered all the shards he could find with the blade of the shovel, rolled them in his second-best linen shirt, and stowed them in his pack. He hoped they wouldn’t cut holes in the soft fabric. Then he got back to the job at hand.
After another hour of shovel and axe work, they finished turning up a one-foot circle of dirt around the tree. The fire had burned down to the point where the blackened trunk was only glowing.
“Thank you, lad,” said Derry. “You’re a hard worker.”
“It’s the least I could do after the trouble I caused you,” said Eynon.
He stretched to loosen his muscles and looked at the old tree’s shadow. It stretched like the gnomon on a sundial and told Eynon that a good portion of the afternoon was gone. Derry followed his eyes.
“I wouldn’t be good at respecting your wander year if I didn’t invite you home for dinner and offer you a place to spend the night,” said Derry. “Grab your pack and do me another favor by carrying my shovel. I’ve got fish in a cage under my boat, but I promised my wife I’d bring her marshapples, too. If we hurry, there should be enough time to dig some up and bring them home so she can roast them before we eat.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Eynon. “I loved marshapples the one time I’d tried them. My mother traded for some from a peddler last year and served them for our winter solstice feast.”
“You’ve got a good mother,” said Derry.
“You’re right about that,” said Eynon, smiling and thinking about the food she’d prepared for his journey. He loved working with her in the kitchen.
Eynon put on his jacket and pack. He rested the shovel on his shoulder, and walked alongside Derry as they climbed back over the fence around the pasture and headed east from the crossroads, toward the sound of running water.
“The river’s this way,” said Derry.
If Derry had been his sister, Eynon would have teased him about stating the obvious.
The mix of trees was changing, confirming Derry’s words. The oaks, maples, hemlocks and pines he’d walked through earlier transitioned to moisture-loving hickories, beeches, and birches on the far side of the clearing. Ahead he could see the unmistakable shape of a large willow. As they walked, Eynon saw Derry watching him as Eynon swiveled his head from side to side, taking in his new surroundings.
“There’s not much river land in the Coombe,” said Derry.
“No, sir,” said Eynon. “The Wentwash isn’t what I’d call a river, though I did see the Rhuthro upstream from here at Caercadel. There’s hardly any marshland in the Coombe, either.”
“We don’t have that problem around here,” said Derry. “Most of the land on the far side of the river is marsh, except where tenants have drained it. We’re headed for one of the few spots of marsh on this side of the river.”
“By that willow?” asked Eynon.
“Exactly,” said Derry. He nodded his approval. “You’ve got a good eye and don’t miss much.”
“Except the nose on my face, if you listen to my sister,” said Eynon.
“I’d bet your sister would get along well with my daughter,” said Derry.
Eynon didn’t know what to think about that observation.
Soon they reached the willow. They brushed aside some of the hanging branches and paused in the shade beneath the tree’s canopy. The rush of running water was much closer.
“The river’s less than a stone’s throw past this tree,” said Derry, “and the ground between here and there is perfect for marshapples. Do you know how to find them?”
“They’re underneath tall reeds that look like they have sausages on top,” said Eynon.
“And how would
a boy from the Coombe know that?” asked Derry.
“I read about them in Robin Oddfellow’s Peregrinations,” said Eynon.
“Hmmm,” said Derry, more to himself than to Eynon. “A reader. It’s going to be an interesting trip down the river.”
Derry led Eynon through the willow branches on the far side. A few feet beyond the circle of the tree was a bog. Eynon noted the marshland’s unique unpleasant smell combining decaying vegetation and stagnant water for future reference. He could see hundreds of marshapple reeds waving in front of him and could hear the river was close at hand. Eynon was surprised to note that only the lower third of each marshapple reed was green. The upper portions with the odd sausage-shaped growths were a dried-out light brown.
“The lower stalks are good eating,” said Derry, as if reading Eynon’s mind, “and the tops are useful, too.”
Eynon grinned at the farmer. He seemed wise and competent. If Derry had lived in Haywall, the village would have appointed him to negotiate their annual service to the baron.
“Time to use that shovel again, lad,” said Derry. “I’ll show you.”
Derry took the implement from Eynon and inserted the shovel’s blade near the closest reeds so he didn’t have to get his boots wet. He stuck it in deep, then levered it back, revealing thick, round root-balls three times the size of an apple-tree apple.
“Pull, lad,” said Derry, indicating the reeds attached to the roots he’d revealed.
Eynon pulled on the reeds and they came free, roots and all. A good bit of wet soil came with them. He switched places with Derry and between the two of them they collected more than a dozen plants.
The Congruent Apprentice (The Congruent Mage Series Book 1) Page 2