Authors: Jody Lynn Nye

An Unexpected Apprentice (8 page)

BOOK: An Unexpected Apprentice

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Yes, it would be good to practice the skills before she arrived in Overhill. The wizard Olen would surely want to see that the smallfolk he was taking to apprentice was worth the trouble. He would no doubt have many such tests for her. She hoped they weren’t too hard. In her experience the boys who apprenticed themselves to a trade needed little more than a reasonably good wit, willingness to learn, and a strong back, not expert knowledge of that trade. The secrets would be imparted to them once they signed the contract. Surely magicians weren’t that different as masters from, say, smiths, who had lore of their own?

She had no idea how much farther it was to the crest of the pass, but she knew that just beyond it was a tiny town owned by humans. The main feature of Rushet was an inn that catered to every race in the world. Gosto had told her stories of drinking beer in its cheerful pub with centaurs and elves as well as humans.

The flames flickered brightly. Tildi found it amazing how just having a fire in a cozy place could make it feel as though she was safe at home. The thought that she had no home made her sad again.

Light dwindled around her with distressing haste, and the temperature crept distressingly lower. Night must be fast approaching. Tildi pulled both pairs of socks on again and tied up the boots. She brushed the crumbs off her little table and tied up the backpack over her cloak. She would just warm up the last cup of tea, and she would be on her way. She reached for the kettle, and a yellow hand stretched past hers toward the fire.

Tildi jumped back in horror, dropping the kettle. Water splashed into the fire, making it hiss. A glowing mask leered into her face. It seemed to float on the air above the campfire, as did the two skeletal claws now reaching for her throat. Tildi let out a muffled shriek. She threw at it the only thing she had in her hand, the half cup of tea. The specter recoiled. It looked shocked.

Tildi scrambled backward, fumbling for the knife at her belt. The ghostly being gnashed a mouthful of yellow stumps at her. She brandished the gleaming blade. The creature floated toward her, an avid, hungry look on its face. Tildi thought that it was the last moment of her life. She slashed at the creature desperately with the knife. Her blade passed right through the specter’s body. It paused, its ugly mouth open in a rictus. It was laughing at her! She scooted backward, holding the knife outward, but the specter swooped
through
blade and arm. Its temperature scalded Tildi’s skin. She whimpered and snatched her hand back. The specter raised a claw and swiped at her. Tildi fell back, clutching her cheek. The scratch burned red-hot. Tears filled her eyes.

“Please leave me alone,” she begged.

The specter grinned again, moving closer and closer until her hair crackled from its heat. No weapon she had could stop it.

The campfire popped, shooting sparks outward. The creature stopped. It turned away from Tildi, fixing its hollow eyes upon the yellow flames. It floated back toward the dancing light until it hovered over the circle of stones. Fed by an invisible breeze, the flames roused and licked upward. The creature’s body took on the same glow as the fire and began to grow. Its hollow eyes rolled upward. Tildi watched, frozen like a frightened rabbit. The creature fed upon fire. She crept toward the edge of the clearing, glancing back to make sure it was paying no attention to her. Only a few feet from the undergrowth and the road now. She mourned for the loss of her pack, but better to lose her possessions than her life!

Snap!
Her knee came down upon a twig, shattering the silence. She glanced back. The fire demon’s dreamy gaze focused upon her again. Eyes pinpoints of white-hot light, it flew at her. Tildi sprang up and dodged toward her pack. She could use it as a shield. The monster, perhaps divining her motive, harried her from this side and that, until she found herself driven toward the fire, now a pillar of gleaming gold.

The specter dived at Tildi. Its claws caught in her shirt. Tildi batted at it, her hands passing through its hot substance. She was helpless to keep the talons from ripping the cloth.
Fool,
she chided herself. She should have run for it when she could. With a yell, she tripped over the stone ring, and huddled down in as small a bundle as she could make herself. She did not want to die! What could she do? Burbling noises told her the kettle still sat steaming away on its make jack suspended in the middle of the fire. Tildi almost raised her head in surprise. The tea!
The monster had recoiled from the cup she threw at it, though it had no fear of her knife. It was a creature of fire—it must abhor water. She sprang up, grabbed the kettle, and splashed its contents at her pursuer.

The campfire went out with a loud sizzle. White steam rose from blackened ashes. The specter drifted to a halt, its mouth widened in horror. It let out a wail, the first noise she had heard it make, like a rusty hinge screeching open. Its yellow light faded away, like the wick of a lamp running out of oil. Tildi found herself staring at the empty clearing, the kettle in her hand.

A wet drop fell onto her wrist. She looked down and saw a dark dot on her pale skin, followed by another. In a moment, her eyes accustomed themselves to the absence of the firelight, and she realized that her cheek was bleeding. A handful of grass would do to pack the scratch and stop the flow, but first she meant to ensure that the fire was out! Tildi poured all the remaining water from the kettle and her bottle over the sodden logs, then kicked dirt onto it for good measure. She would rather go thirsty than let a single ember feed that horrible creature. Then she gathered up her pack and made all good speed getting out of the clearing.

Chapter Seven

T
he moon known as the Pearl was rising in the east, just a day past full. Tildi noted the sigil that seemed to be limned upon its round, white perfection. The rune was not as distinct as it had been when she first noted it, at the eastern edge of the Quarters, but was still clear enough to read. The other moon, the Agate, because it was not as beautiful as its younger sister, showed a glimmer more like a wet river pebble, but it, too, displayed its name on its dull surface.

She had been walking for three and a half days. The scratch on her cheek from the fire-demon had stopped bleeding long since, but under her cloak, Teldo’s shirt was ripped. She was very annoyed about that, but she had not wanted to take the time to repair the tears until she reached a safe place. The first night she had stopped to camp, she had heard a chilling cry overhead. She looked up and saw a shadow against
the moonlight. It was a thraik, hunting in the dark. Had it been looking for her? She did not want to find out.

She longed for a hot bath and a real meal, and someone to talk to. As she had promised herself, she had practiced her spells while she had walked. She could now ignite a green flame in her palm every time she tried, but she could not extinguish it without dousing it with water. Fortunately, there was plenty of that along her way. Practicing kept her mind off how much her feet ached in the unfamiliar boots, or how much the pack straps rubbed the skin of her back and shoulders.

With every mile, the oaks and beeches gave way to thinner-skinned trees like rowans, silver birches, and hornbarks. The latter picked up what little sunlight was left and exuded a warm glow that helped light Tildi’s way. She had bathed in and drunk from miniature waterfalls that flowed down along both sides of the ridge protecting the Quarters from the rest of the continent, and eked out her food supply with spring berries and a fish or two caught in the mountain brooks. She had slept in fox dens and the hollow places underneath the roots of enormous trees. Dreams of thraiks and fire-demons had disturbed her sleep, waking her in the night, though neither had appeared in truth. She had been desperate to reach the edge of civilization. She had had no real idea how far it was from smallfolk habitations to the first human village. Gosto’s tales had always skipped over the details of how long and how far. He preferred to tell humorous stories of drinking or trading or dancing.

Once over the forked granite pass, she had noticed how differently everything had smelled. Unfamiliar plants grew along the roadside, and straggly cone trees clung to the mountainside. The slope on the eastern side of the mountains was much gentler than on the west. She was glad of it because the pack’s weight tended to nudge her forward with each downward step, putting strain on her knees. Shallow steps had been cut into the spaces in between the loops in order for travelers unencumbered by carts or animals to travel. She could tell by the height of each stair that smallfolk had built them. The humans who had visited the Quarters could take these two or three at a pace. She kept an eye out for thraiks, but they never passed overhead again.

The rutted road that led her northward had been flanked on one side by the rocky escarpment that hid her old home from her. On the other side, it was a steep drop into the life’s blood of the continent of Niombra, the river Arown. It was larger and more impressive than she had imagined from her geography lessons. From one horizon to the other the
Arown looked like a broad field of dark blue-green glass. Its surface rippled like hard muscles under smooth skin. Here and there a rock interrupted the flow, sending arrow-shaped waves downstream to rebound against the banks and back again, overlapping themselves like warp meeting weft in a loom. The river, too, had its rune, a gigantic image that appeared to float just beneath the surface. Tildi sensed power in it, like lightning made liquid.

The runes now were very distinct in all things, much more so than she had noticed west of the mountains. They almost glistened in their intensity. Tildi shook her head in wonder. Magic was everywhere she turned. Were the Quarters themselves under a spell to shut out the magic of the outside world? It would not surprise her a bit.

The cliff edging the river path had receded steadily beside her until she was walking out in the open beside green fields bounded by low hedges, stone walls, and split-rail fences. The fence posts were much higher here than at home. If she bent at the waist she could walk underneath the lower rail, and it would take a boost up for her to climb over it. The upper rail was just out of her reach.

The animals, too, were in proportion to the fences. What she thought had been a sheep, newly sheared for spring, had bleated at her through the rails. When she had tried to feed it a handful of grass, a woolly behemoth fully the size of a Quarters’ cart horse, had trotted up to glare at her. The lamb, for so it was, had abandoned her and gone to stick its head under her flanks to nurse. Tildi gawked at them. It had never occurred to Tildi that the animals humans kept would be in proportion to them. It seemed unnatural. True, she’d seen humans’ enormous horses, when peddlers and musicians had come through the Quarters, but she had never really thought about other animals. In fact, here came a black-and-white sheepdog to round up the two stragglers and bring them back to the fold. Its head was as high as her own. She literally did not fit into this world.

Tildi clicked her tongue at herself. She knew there was no going back, and no use in worrying about the fact that everyone and every thing was taller than she was. Spirit was needed to rise above such petty things as physical appearance.
I am a man now,
she thought boldly,
a man making his place in the world.
No one would know about the quailing little girl underneath. With that attitude she marched on toward the chimney pots that were in sight among the trees.

The light was almost gone by the time she reached the picket wall
surrounding the town. A big man wearing a brown tunic half-buttoned over a not-too-white shirt and a pair of dun-colored breeches was heaving the gate shut. Alarmed, Tildi hurried forward and she slipped in under his elbow.

“Hey, now!” the man said in surprise, and looked around. “Who’s there?”

“Down here,” she said. Her voice squeaked. She lowered it. “Er, down here.”

The puzzlement cleared from the man’s face, and he smiled. “Ah, smallfolk. Come in! Well, you’re already in. I was about to lock up for the night. There’s thraik abroad.”

“I know. They flew overhead two nights ago.”

“Ah,” the man said, nodding. “They’re out your way, too, eh? It’s dangerous times for all of us. Welcome to you to Rushet.”

“Thank you,” Tildi said.

“Best get about it, then,” the man said. He pushed the gate the rest of the way and snapped down a catch, then lowered a heavy bar on a hinge to a set of four brackets that spanned both of the doors. “There, now.”

It seemed to Tildi a mighty flimsy barrier to protect against thraik, or against human robbers, for that matter, being made only of wood. But even as the thought went through her mind, she was overwhelmed by a strong feeling that she need have no intentions of attacking this town. She couldn’t possibly succeed.

Now, why would she think that, she wondered, then enlightenment dawned. There must have been a magical compulsion laid upon the picket wall to protect the little town from thieves and other threats once the gate was closed and the circle completed. She shook her head. What would the elders think if anyone told them to use magic to guard the village? But why not? Such threats were undoubtedly commonplace on a main road like this one.

The gatekeeper dusted his hands together. “Good night to you, then. Fair journeying, eh?”

“Good night,” Tildi replied. She opened her mouth to ask the way to the inn, then realized she was looking at it. It was the next building after a large stable yard where ostlers were walking horses and backing coaches off the road.

Rushet was not a large place. The main road was paved with cobbles. Besides the inn and the stable, she saw a smithy, and beyond that a covered marketplace. On the other side were permanent shops, by their
signs a tailor, a baker, and a grocer, all with residences above the premises. The pickets marched around behind the buildings, giving her a measure of comfort. The fence couldn’t keep thraiks out, of course, but she would be among other people again, and that gave her confidence.

Though the size of everything continued to amaze her, she was pleased to see how little a human town differed from those belonging to smallfolk. One could tell who was house-proud and took care of their property, and who wasn’t; who was popular, to judge from the wearing away of the graveled path to each door, and who seldom had visitors. The baker did a good trade, even at this late hour. People were still passing in and out of the shop with covered baskets. Indeed, the smell of good bread wafting on the evening breeze only reminded her of how hungry she was, and how tired she was of eating stale food out of her pack. She hurried toward the inn.

That establishment was freshly whitewashed and painted with murals of contented-looking farm animals, its wooden beams were sound and well varnished, and its sign was welcoming and cheerful. It wasn’t subtle in its approach, either: the place was called the Groaning Table. The sign showed a huge table beginning to bow in the middle from the platters of food and jugs of wine heaped high upon it, with fruit and loaves of bread all but spilling over the edges. The inn was spruced up with big pots of flowers along the street side, and was brightly lit both inside and out. Polished brass lanterns hung on either side of the door, which stood hospitably ajar. Tildi squared her shoulders and marched inside.

Tildi blinked at the sudden brightness. Two huge brass lamps with eight jets apiece hung from the beamed ceiling, spreading pools of light over two long tables, and more lamps were set in sconces against the plastered walls. A dozen or more customers sat on benches flanking the heavy, aged wooden tables. They all glanced her way as she came through the door. A few registered surprise, but that must be, Tildi realized, looking around, because she was the only smallfolk in the room. A dog as large as a Quarters pony came up to sniff her, nose to nose, until its master gruffly called it back.

“Welcome, lad,” a plump young woman wearing a broad white apron said, leaning down to smile at her as she passed by carrying a tray full of empty tankards. Tildi stepped back. She’d never seen a female fully twice her own height before, nor one who wore such immodest clothing. The girl’s neckline was cut down to … well, you could see quite a lot of her chemise and the lushly feminine form beneath it. Her head
was uncovered, and her hair, wavy brown and streaked with sunlight, spilled over her shoulders. Unable to point with her hands full, she aimed her nose toward the counter. “That’s Wim behind the bar. I’ll be by in a moment to serve you.”

Better to take control of the situation at once, Tildi thought.
I’m a boy!
Steeling herself, she marched up to the counter where a plump man with greasy skin and fluffy red hair clinging to the sides of his bald head peered down at her with cheerful curiosity.

“Greetings!” she boomed, making her voice as low as she could muster. “Can you give a fellow a room for the night?”

“Ah, is that the way of it,
young man
?” the innkeeper asked, putting down the beer he was pulling and leaning forward with both hands planted on the board. “Of course we can find you a place. Can’t we, Danyn?”

“Sure as sunrise,” the young woman said, sweeping back again to pick up the filled glasses. She plunked them on her tray, slopping a little of the foam. “Comfy and cozy, as good as if you was in your own home. S’pose you might be wanting a bath, too?”

“Oh, yes!” Tildi said fervently, already feeling the blessed embrace of hot, soapy water. “I mean, that I would.”

“I’ll make sure the boiler’s full, then,” the girl said. “Nice hot water.” She sashayed around Tildi, sweeping the tray up to miss her head, and vanished into the back room.

The innkeeper grinned down at Tildi. “There, you see? Now, I’m Wim Cake. Never could find a woman to marry named Ale, so I had to make do the best I could with a Miss Pound. Good enough, eh? What do we call you then, my lad?”

“Ti-Teldo Summerbee,” Tildi stammered, aware that the roomful of patrons had turned to look at her. She wished he didn’t talk so loudly. She didn’t want anyone taking too close a look at her. So far, she had fooled the innkeeper and his barmaid, but what if any of the customers had keener eyes? “I’ve come all the way from the waterfall today. I’m on my way to Overhill to become an apprentice. I have my papers right here.” She patted the side of her pack with a nervous hand.
Why am I talking so much?
she thought desperately, and bit the tip of her tongue between her teeth.

“Ah! A grand profession. Well, settle in and have your supper. You’ll not find finer food on this road from Tillerton to Overhill!”

“True, true,” the patrons said.

“Nor pay so much for it,” one tawny-skinned man said, with a humorous look toward his fellows. “He’s got a captive market, here. Charges just what he likes.”

“What a liar,” Wim Cake said, flicking the end of a drying cloth in the man’s direction. “We’ll not cheat you here, young
gentleman
.”

“That’s good,” Tildi said, and felt she must say something else. “We smallfolk like a fair deal.”

BOOK: An Unexpected Apprentice

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