Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

“I told you it would take more effort to learn this new magic, child,” the old man said. “If it were easy, everyone would be a great wizard casting spells all over the damned place, and I wouldn’t be sitting out here freezing my old bones, trying to keep from getting killed while I teach them to you.” Lynaelle sighed again, nodding glumly, still feeling the chill of being wet, even though she was completely dry. Ambriel laughed at her dour expression. “Oh, stop it. You learn faster than anyone I ever knew, including me. Your logic is sharp and sometimes you even apply yourself. Patience, Lynnie! You’ll get it. The Bright Lady herself would be jealous of your ability.”

Ambriel got a distant look on his face, then. “I remember when I was first studying with my old teacher in Silverymoon. I was as impetuous as you, eager to learn, thinking I could master it all in an afternoon.” The elder man stared off into nowhere then, and he said nothing for a time.

Lynaelle watched him, wishing he would share this vision of his past with her. She loved it when he told her stories about his younger days, about when he had studied magic at the university at Silverymoon, and then later, when he had actually served for a time as a member of the Spellguard. She often imagined what it would be like to be a member of that elite enclave of wizards charged with protecting the Gem of the North. She often vowed to herself to make it a reality.

Seeing Ambriel’s craggy face now, and the gnarled hands that absently stroked his snowy beard, it was harder than ever to imagine him young. Yes, he’s definitely growing old, Lynaelle’s mind whispered. The elven half of her heritage made his aging pass quickly before her eyes, and in turn, to him, she had hardly changed at all in the twelve summers he had known her. Lynaelle knew Ambriel would be long dead before she fully matured into adulthood, and the age now showing in his face filled her with sudden sadness. She hated envisioning a life without her mentor to protect and guide her, and yet she knew that day would soon be upon her. His days with you may be few in number, Lynaelle Shalandriana, but you are a fool to waste them grieving before he’s gone! she scolded herself.

As if sensing her troubled thoughts, Ambriel shook his own head, returning to the present. “You must keep working on focusing the energy you feel into the loop. Only then will the magic hold.” The girl nodded, her sadness dispelled. She briefly considered trying again, but remembered that all of their components had washed away. The next lesson would have to wait for another time.

Ambriel drew the girl’s attention to the horizon with a nod of his head. Lynaelle turned and spied the darkening sky near the top of Emrund’s Peak at the head of the valley. The late afternoon showers were coming.

“All right,” Lynaelle acknowledged, sighing. She rose to her feet and turned to follow Ambriel. With careful, measured steps he strolled along the path, his buckskin boots making little noise. Lynaelle hiked along beside him, absently toying with the amulet around her neck as she soundlessly picked her way along the trail. The path meandered through a copse of large, arrow-straight firs, their great trunks rising like huge columns to an arched canopy of thick boughs overhead. It was cool and dim here, and with the late afternoon sun already settling behind the far ridge of mountains and the clouds gathering overhead, it was growing into twilight. Lynaelle inhaled deeply, delighting in the scents of the forest. She also detected the faint smell of a cookfire and roasting meat in the chill air, and her stomach reminded her it was almost dinner time.

The pair crested a small ridge along the path to behold Galen’s Ford. The little hamlet before them had grown up near a shallow ford in the stream. Here, the forest floor was open and spacious, uncluttered by smaller under-growth. The cottages, many nestled against the huge trunks of these great trees, were simple earth-and-timber affairs with thatched roofs. In what might pass for the center of town, a large, open-sided pavilion constructed of rough-hewn logs dominated the other structures. Beneath its sheltering roof there were several simple wooden tables with plank benches.

It was near this central structure that most of the folk of Galen’s Ford now gathered, preparing for a communal evening meal. A half dozen or so men and women, plates and bowls in hand, huddled around the large cookfire, that burned in a pit in the middle, where a hole in the roof allowed the smoke to escape. Others had already found seats at the tables. All told, some three dozen people dwelt here.

Lynaelle could distinctly smell the roasting venison even before she spied it on a large spit over the fire. She also detected the odors of steamed potatoes and carrots, fresh pan bread, and baking sourberry pie. At the table, she knew there would be hard cheese and pitchers of cold milk, both brought up from Quaervarr farther down in the valley.

Ambriel sniffed the air deeply. “Mmm,” he sighed. “Sourberry pie always gets my mouth watering. I love this time of the year.” The old man headed directly to the cookfire to inspect a pie cooling on the hearth. As he reached out to sample a bit of the crust, however, Teress Turlgoode, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman, swatted his hand away.

“Keep your paws off my pie, old man. There will be plenty for you after dinner.” Teress was trying to sound stern, but Lynaelle could see the twinkle in the woman’s eye as she scolded him. Ambriel yanked his hand back and tried to look wounded but couldn’t resist chuckling.

Lynaelle smiled, sharing in the joke, then turned to follow Ambriel to a table, nearly running headlong into a thin, bony woman carrying an armload of dishes. The girl pulled up short at the last moment and the woman, Mavin Holcott, snarled at her. “Watch where you’re going, you stupid half-breed.” The hatred in the woman’s voice was plain.

“Sorry;” Lynaelle mumbled as she ducked her head and scurried out of Mavin’s way. Lynaelle’s cheeks burned with anger as she caught up with Ambriel and she could almost feel the other woman’s eyes on her. That woman-! She’s just not happy unless she’s scowling at me, she seethed to herself.

Ambriel looked at Lynaelle intently for a moment. “What’s troubling you, child?”

Lynaelle shook her head. “Nothing,” she said dismissively “I’ll get us some food.” She started to rise again, but his hand shot across the table and fastened on her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip.

“You know better than to think I’ll buy that. What happened?”

Lynaelle sighed and sank back down onto the plank bench. “Oh, Mavin Holcott is staring daggers at me again. It’s nothing.”

Ambriel frowned, his watery blue eyes flashing. “I’ll speak to her about it later. Her sour insults have gone on long enough.”

“No, please don’t. That’ll only make things worse. I’ll just stay out of her way, like I always do.”

Ambriel smiled and patted Lynaelle’s arm gently. “You’re a good person, Lynnie. You deserve better than what that unhappy old woman dishes out. But I’ll stay out of it, if that’s what you wish.”

Lynaelle smiled back at the elderly man, gladdened by the kindness showing in his face. “She doesn’t matter, Ambriel, as long as I know I have your undying love,” she teased, her voice smooth as honey.

Ambriel nearly choked. “Hush, child!” he hissed under his breath. “I’m old enough to be your father, and I look old enough to be your grandfather! Don’t give these nosy people any ideas. If they got the notion I was making untoward advances, however insane that idea actually is…“

Lynaelle giggled, imagining Mavin Holcott’s face at such a thought. She’d turn purple and choke on her own waggling tongue. She giggled again, delighted at such an image.