Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

Ambriel was peering around, obviously nervous at the thought someone had overheard the girl’s joke. When he had assured himself that no one had, he relaxed once again and glared at Lynaelle. “You really like making me old before my time, don’t you?” he muttered, but Lynaelle could see the twinkle in his eye.

She smiled at him and stood up. “I’ll get us some food. Just stay here and rest your weary bones, grandfather.” Ambriel sputtered unintelligently at her insolent comment and took a half-hearted swat at her, but she easily dodged it and traipsed toward the cook fire.

As Lynaelle stood in line, hands suddenly covered her eyes and a male voice behind her said, “Guess who?”

It was Daleon, one of the woodcutters. Lynaelle ducked and twisted out of his grasp and turned to face him. Daleon was handsome enough, Lynaelle often thought, but something about him made her uneasy. Despite the fact that he was quite friendly, she often sensed that he was up to something. Nonetheless, he was handsome, and his interest in her seemed genuine.

“I knew it was you. It’s hardly a surprise when you are the only one who ever does that,” the girl said, smiling and poking him playfully in the chest.

Daleon snorted. “That’s because you spend all your time with the old man. If you weren’t so set on becoming a great sorcerer”-he said this last bit with mock awe- “more people might pay some attention.”

“Hey!” Lynaelle said indignantly, punching Daleon on the arm. “I like studying magic with Ambriel. Besides,” she continued, frowning when she noticed Mavin Holcott scowling at the two of them, “I can do without some of their attention. Mavin Holcott would just as soon put a bolt through me as look at me. She doesn’t think too highly of you talking to me, you know.”

Daleon shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the woman’s disapproval. “Hey,” he said, changing the subject, “do you want to go for a walk after dinner tonight?”

Lynaelle had reached the front of the line and turned away from Daleon. Gorlin, a retired tracker who now did the hunting for Galen’s Ford, handed her two bowls of steaming food. He was a quiet man who treated Lynaelle with indifference, but then, he treated everyone in the hamlet with indifference, so she had taken that as a good sign.

“Maybe,” the girl replied to Daleon’s question. “It might rain. Ambriel and I noticed a storm moving in before.”

“Then maybe I could come over for a while. We could talk. I’ll bring some firewood; I noticed you’re getting low. I’ll even build you a fire tonight.”

Lynaelle arched one eyebrow at this suggestion, looking askance at Daleon. Well, it’s pretty obvious what mischief he wants to get into tonight, she thought. Mavin Holcott would choke on her own wagging tongue for certain. “I imagine you would even stay long enough to make sure I was warm, wouldn’t you?” Daleon merely grinned, and Lynaelle suddenly got that uneasy feeling again. “We’ll see,” she replied. “I have to take Ambriel his dinner.” She then turned and walked briskly away before the young man could press her on the issue.

Once back at the table with Ambriel, Lynaelle attacked her meal with relish. The afternoon’s mishap by the river had left her famished. As they ate, a light and friendly banter sprang up around them, people enjoying a good meal among extended family.

“Ambriel, how harsh will the winter be this year?” asked Hurlonn Davenwiss, a carpenter and blacksmith of sorts. Ambriel paused to finish a bite, then patted his mouth with a napkin.

“I performed an augury only yesterday, Hurlonn,” Ambriel answered, “and the winter won’t be too cold, but there’ll be a lot of snow this year.”

There was a general murmur among the gathering at this news. Heavy snows made it difficult to harvest timber, for the wagons frequently got stuck in the high drifts. It also meant that Gorlin would need to step up his hunting so that the community would have plenty of smoked meats to see them through until next spring. There would be a lot of work to get done this fall.

Ambriel cleared his throat as he pushed his now-empty bowl away. The folk grew quiet, for this generally meant the elderly man had more to say. “Of course, the deep snows are going to be good for growing harperroot and basilisk’s tongue, and the heavy melt-off next spring means there should be lots of hammerfish.”

Lynaelle smiled to herself. Ambriel was always one to point out the good side of any problem that might arise, and his counsel to the people of Galen’s Ford was no exception. Although the logging might be slim this winter, if they planned ahead, there would be plenty of other goods available to send down river to Quaervarr and Silverymoon next spring. Another bout of murmuring rose up from the small crowd, only this time it carried a tone of positive excitement.

“You know,” Ambriel interrupted, glancing around, “this reminds me of a story that took place one winter we had back when I was with the Spellguard.” A hush fell over the crowd. “But-” he paused dramatically, “I think it will go over much better after a nice hot slice of sourberry pie.” Laughter sprang up all around and many heads nodded in agreement.

Very quickly, people sprang up to collect the dishes, cut the pie, or stoke the fire. Everyone loved it when, Ambriel told a story, always a long, drawn out, embellished affair, and finishing the chores was a must before settling down for an evening of his tales. Lynaelle smiled as she gathered both of their bowls and hurried toward the cookfire, where a large kettle of water had been put on for washing. She did not want to lose her seat next to her elderly friend, who was now quite entrenched as the center of attention. She set the bowls down on the hearth near the fire and turned to head back to her seat when a hand grabbed her wrist.

“Since you got to spend the afternoon daydreaming by the river instead of helping with the chores, you can wash the dishes.” It was Mavin Holcott, her words mocking, a scrub brush in her other hand. Lynaelle started to protest, but Teress Turlgoode was there too, nodding her head in agreement, although the look on her face was much kinder than Mavin’s. Lynaelle knew they expected to be obeyed. The girl’s mouth snapped shut and she reluctantly accepted the scrub brush from the hateful woman. With a smug look of satisfaction on her face, Mavin turned and stalked off to join the crowd gathering around Ambriel, Teress close behind her. Lynaelle sighed and tested the water in the kettle. It wasn’t quite hot enough, yet, so she sat down to wait. She looked forlornly toward the gathering crowd, knowing full well that she would not be able to hear Ambriel’s story

Ambriel had finished his pie and was now in the process of lighting a pipe, his feet stretched out before him. She watched the elderly man as he savored the taste of his pipe for a moment longer, then began to blow the smoke into dancing shapes, a trick that delighted the small children in the group and made them squeal and clap their hands. Lynaelle smiled, familiar with this particular cantrip; it was one of the first bits of magic Ambriel had taught her. As he began his tale, Lynaelle reluctantly turned away, pushed the sleeves of her blouse up to her elbows, and tested the water once more. Satisfied with the temperature, she took up a bowl and the scrub brush and went to work.

Lynaelle felt movement at her back suddenly, but before she could turn around Daleon was seated next to her, that familiar mischievous smile on his face.

“Need some help?” he asked, reaching for a bowl.

“Sure,” she whispered back, “but you don’t have to. This is my penance for ‘daydreaming’ all day, according to Mavin Holcott.”