Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1) (3 page)

He eyed the door and gulped; he could make a run for it if he had to.

“Manners, child, manners. Surely you can speak.”

“I …”

Her silver brows rose. “Hmm?”

“I feel better, my lady … I think. But where am I?”

“You are in my home, and I daresay you are one lucky boy. Or perhaps … unlucky, as it were?” She leaned in a little and he caught the faint scent of rosemary. “And just what was a boy like you thinking, travelling in such unkind weather, hmm? Trying to get to the other side of death, were we?”

“The Legion burned my village, my lady, so I escaped across the Tallows. Then I was caught in a storm and … and …” His eyes unfocused trying to piece it all together. The memories were so … unbelievable. He remembered soaring through the air, flashes of lightning, and something huge, darker than the night.

He should have died out there, he realized, if not from smashing into the ground, then from starvation or from the cold. He looked into her eyes, wondering if she was the reason he was alive.

“I’m … I’m grateful. Thank you.”

Her wrinkled face remained impassive.

He tugged at the frilly sleeve of his nightgown. “What happened to my tunic?”

“Burnt to a crisp and quite beyond repair, I daresay. But never you mind that—let us begin with names.”

He blinked. Burnt? Why burnt?

She gazed at him expectantly.

“Augum, my lady. My name is Augum.”

Her brows rose slightly. “Augum. Indeed. And what is your surname?”

“Orphans don’t have last names, my lady. I was squire to Sir Westwood in Willowbrook—before it was razed that is.” He scratched his head. “If that even happened, I’m not quite sure what’s going on …”

“I see. So you were training to become a knight.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Enough of this ‘my lady’ business—Mrs. Stone will do just fine.”

“Yes, my—err—Mrs. Stone.”

The candle sputtered out. She glanced at it as a mother would at a misbehaving child and it immediately flared back to life. “And what do you know of the Legion?” she asked, still staring at the candle, perhaps daring it to disobey.

Augum recalled standing from afar, face hot from the heat of the blaze; the willows burning, their tendril branches flailing as if in agony; embers swirling like fireflies; black-armored men chasing screaming people. The smell of oil and thatch and animals …

“They’re butchers led by a man who calls himself Lord Sparkstone …” a man rumored to be doing unspeakable things, ancient rituals testing the bounds of life and death; dark witchery the peasants feared and only whispered about.

“How old are you, child?”

“Fourteen.

“Two years from a man.”

“One year and a couple of months.”

She groaned, used her staff to stand, and padded to the door. There she stopped, face concealed in shadow. “Once again our brittle kingdom falls under the spell of ambition. King Ridian was old, perhaps unable to keep up with the many youthful intrigues that follow kings like flies follow lions. The royal court has always been a dangerous place.”

She sighed and faced him. “You have been through much, child. I present you a choice—I can take you on to the next village, or—”

“Or—?”

“Or you can stay here with me, help around the home and, should you show the proper attitude … become my apprentice.”

What did she mean? Apprentice in what?

“It is rude to gape.”

Augum closed his mouth, but the puzzled expression remained.

Mrs. Stone grunted and left. “No need to choose right away,” she said from the corridor. “I find decisions are best made on a full stomach. Come. Breakfast.”

“Breakfast? Is it morning—?”

Lightning

Beyond Augum’s room was a roughly hewn rocky corridor. The right led to another bedroom, the left a cavernous living room where Mrs. Stone shuffled past what appeared to be a mountain of books and scrolls. He entered to find her fussing over a kettle.

A small fire crackled in a rocky hearth to his left. Cookware and large copper ladles hung on the wall above. A rustic rocking chair sat in front, a thick book and pair of spectacles on its seat. Embedded into the far wall was an iron-fitted oaken door, flanked by a pair of round, leaded-glass windows.

In the middle of the room sat an old carved settee, pieces of parchment strewn on its faded rose cushions. Two armchairs sat opposite, along with a low tree-trunk table, inkbottle and peacock quill on top. Candles flickered in sunken hollows between shelves of all shapes and sizes. The shelves overflowed with hourglasses, stoppered vials, dry herbs, scrolls, books, and what appeared to be jars of multicolored drying sand.

He eyed the peacock quill and concluded she had to be a scribe.

Mrs. Stone pushed aside a pile of cloth and pulled open a small door, revealing a pantry filled with an abundance of carrots, onions, garlic, leeks, radishes and potatoes. Sacks of beans, lentils, and various grains sat lumped together. There were dried meats, hanging herbs, and jars of roots and spices he did not recognize. It was a rich stock; she had to be a wealthy scribe.

“As you have probably gathered,” she said over her shoulder, “I have not received a guest in some time. Take a seat at the table.”

He realized she meant the mountain of books and scrolls, and pushed some of it aside, uncovering a battered round table. As he fought the pile for a chair, something on the wall caught his attention.

“Mrs. Stone, what’s that?” He pointed at a short sword and scabbard hanging by a window. It sparked occasionally, a most unusual thing for a sword to do.

“None of your concern, child,” she said without turning around.

He marveled at the blade, imagining striking a black-armored villain with it, until his wandering eyes rested on a tome sitting high on a shelf. It was bound in vivid blue leather and ornately gilded, as if made for royalty—probably the most extravagant object he had ever laid eyes on. Sir Westwood had quite a few books, but nothing like this one.

Just as he was going to inquire about it, Mrs. Stone turned around with an armful of red radishes, carrots, apples and a loaf of bread.

“Perhaps you could stop being so curious and give me a hand.”

He rushed to take them from her, placing the food on the table.

She gestured at a particularly grumpy-looking carrot. “These are from Antioc.”

Augum was too hungry to care and began wolfing it down. He had always been a fast eater anyway, learning that the longer he sat with the Pendersons, the higher the chance of garnering their attention.

“Slow down, child, and you might taste something.”

Augum made a show of patience, yet as soon as she turned her back, he gobbled down an apple and two chunks of bread. Midway through an eye-watering radish, a strong gust of wind rattled the windows. Shadows danced as candles flickered in response. A flash lit up the room, followed by the low rumble of thunder. It brought distant yellow grass to mind along with the stomach-churning sensation of falling.

He dropped the radish, no longer hungry.

Mrs. Stone glanced at the tempest through the leaded glass. “By all rights that storm should have killed you.”

He stared at the table, unsure how to reply.

“Humph.” She fetched the kettle from the hearth, fixed two mugs of lemon and honey tea, handed him one, and sat down in the rocker by the fire. The pelt of rain increased against the windows.

Augum took a sip, savoring the bittersweet taste. He glanced about; the place could feel like home, and a scribe’s life
had
to be better than a wandering orphan’s. Besides, where else was he to go?

“Mrs. Stone—?”

“Mmm?”

“I think I’d like to stay with you.”

She rocked slowly. “So be it.” Her gaze did not leave the fire, though he thought he saw the corner of her mouth briefly twitch upward in a smile.

“But Mrs. Stone, um, what did you mean when you said I could become your apprentice?”

“Mercy, needlessly daft,” she muttered. “Have you not figured out why your clothes had burned, yet you yourself remain unharmed?”

Augum flinched as a bolt struck close by, illuminating the cavern. The crack of thunder rumbled through the room. He saw himself tumbling; a final bright flash …

“Can’t be …”

“Oh, it can, my dear child. It is rare, but a person’s talents can awaken like that. Few could be struck by lightning and still live, yet you do not have a mark on you.” The rocker creaked as she turned to fix him with a piercing gaze. “You may be predisposed to a discipline, though it may not be knighthood as Sir Westwood had hoped. Tomorrow morning you will take the first of three tests. Should you pass them all, I shall consider your apprenticeship in the warlock element of
lightning
.”

Augum felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Lightning …” he whispered as thunder trailed distantly. He had always believed there was more to life than tilling the land, or wearing armor and swinging a sword—but was she talking about witchery? In the isolated places he had grown up—the Penderson farm and Willowbrook—people never saw witches, tricksters or magicians. They only accused others of the practice; or in Augum’s case, used the term as an insult. The Pendersons said it was all parlor tricks, while Sir Westwood, a proud knight attached to the way of the sword, stayed quiet on the matter.

Although Sir Westwood held nothing but disdain for peasant superstition, he nonetheless alluded to other forces in his stories. When Augum asked him to elaborate, the knight answered with, “Some things are better left unsaid in small villages.”

Augum heard other campfire tales too, from the children, from men when they had imbibed too much ale, or from village elders—but only when they thought he was not listening. There were whispers of men moving things with their minds and women controlling the skies. Yet despite the threats warning how any such activity would result in being burned alive at the stake, Augum’s gut told him there was something authentic about Mrs. Stone.

He tensed, but the question had to be asked. “Mrs. Stone, are you a witch?”

She gave him a hard look. “Superstition is not welcome here, child.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stone.” He wrung his hands, secretly relieved. “So the stories were true …”

“Stories … humph.” Mrs. Stone turned back to the fire to sip her tea. “Many years have passed since I had an apprentice, Augum. You will have to work very hard. I will not go easy on you.”

“I understand, Mrs. Stone.”

She raised a crooked finger. “No, you do not, not yet. Like many others, you may perish in training. The lightning element is the most dangerous of them all. You will have to be strong, determined and brave. You will have to withstand a lot of pain.”

Augum felt a tingling as memories surfaced—Mr. Penderson caning him for being too tired and hungry to finish the day’s plowing; Mrs. Penderson slapping him in a silent room while the rest of the family watched with smug faces; hiding in a tree like a coward while the brats called, “Here Gutter, here boy!”

Withstand a lot of pain …

He cupped the mug with both hands, feeling its warmth. “Is lightning your discipline too, Mrs. Stone?”

“Lightning is my
element
within the arcane
discipline
, but you shall understand all that later. Now, since you will be living here, you will assume duties. The first thing you will do is clean your bedroom.”

“Clean my bedroom—?”

Mrs. Stone’s eyes narrowed. “I will not stand for impudence, is that clear?”

He had not intended to be impudent, he was just surprised.

“Yes …”

“
Yes
,
Mrs. Stone
.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stone.”

She stood up, found her staff and leaned on it for support while ambling to her room.

Augum finished his tea, wondering where she lived. Was this cave-like place in a village? Were there other warlocks or apprentices near? The thought made him race to one of the windows, but it was too stormy to see anything.

The heavy oaken door rattled from a strong gust. He pondered opening it but changed his mind after realizing the wind would scatter all those scrolls, and he did not want to get in trouble so quickly into his stay. Instead, he headed to his room to begin cleaning.

He started with the shelves, studying the items as he went along. Most of the tomes were written in cryptic gibberish, the rest in the common tongue—
An Annotated History of the Academy of Arcane Arts
;
The Four Major Nodian Tribes
;
The Arinthian Chronicles
;
Historical Summations of the Necrotic Plague
, and others.
All sounded interesting, and he could not wait to read them, though he wondered if she had any books about adventuring or treasure hunting too.

He carefully dusted each tome, sneaking a peek now and then but understanding little, before lining them up neatly on the shelves. Concentration was difficult; he was still coming to grips with what she had told him—a warlock, how exciting! Yet a part of him remained skeptical. After all, he had yet to see any real magic, and what if she had lied and it really was witchery? Would he be hung, burned at the stake, stoned to death? He had once witnessed a woman being dragged through the muddy streets of Willowbrook by an angry mob just for studying the stars. Sir Westwood had come to her defense, allowing her escape on bare foot. But the old knight could not save them all—Dap used to gloat about witnessing one boy caned to death for reading some “foreign” book.

The day dragged on. Mrs. Stone spent most of it snoozing away or reading in the living room. Sometimes Augum overheard her talking to herself, mumbling in some exotic tongue. In the evening, she appeared at the doorway and glanced about, giving the slightest nod.

“Come. Supper.”

They spoke not a single word through the entire meal of cured ham, buttered potatoes, bread, onion soup and blackberries. Spectacles perched on the end of her nose, Mrs. Stone kept busy reading a dense scroll titled
Discussions on Uniting the Councils in Pre-scionic Times
.

Tired of the long silence, Augum decided to ask one of the countless questions on his mind. He cleared his throat in preparation. Mrs. Stone closed her eyes as if begging for patience.