neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Soon they were feeling very good about themselves and their talent. They just couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Duncan devoted a good deal of time to the problem, certain that if they just kept their secret and had patience an appropriate situation would present itself.

It was peaceful in the house where the west side of the tree wrapped itself around the dimensionally expanded den. Outside, past the neatly maintained lawn and flowers, the Shortstub flowed tranquil and undisturbed to the south.

Father and son were alone, reading. Duncan had heard Jon-Tom speak of something from his own world called “television,” but from his description of it Buncan didn’t see how it could better a book for good company and entertainment. It was an evaluation Jon-Tom chose never to dispute.

His mother was finishing up in the kitchen as the door pealed for attention. Buncan barely looked up from his reading as she entered the hall. As he watched he envisioned her wielding the sword she kept in the back of the broom closet instead of the dishcloth she was presently carrying. It was a difficult image to sustain, no matter how many tales he recalled of her early life.

She leaned back to peer into the den. “Dear, there’s an owl to see you.”

Jon-Tom put down the large book he’d been browsing and rubbed his eyes. He needed glasses, Buncan knew, but insisted on using imperfect vision spells instead. They needed constant adjustment.

Buncan headed for the kitchen on the pretext of getting something to eat. Actually, he rose and moved because it offered a much better view of the front door.

Clothahump’s famulus Mulwit stood there, rustling his great wings as he spoke to Jon-Tom, who knelt on one knee to respond to the owl. Talea lingered nearby. Buncan could overhear them without straining.

“ . . . but the Master declares that youuu have to come now,” the famulus was saying insistently.

“It’s awfully late,” Buncan heard his father reply. “And it’s chilly out. Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Master Clothahump did not offer explanations,” Mulwit hooted. “He says for youuu to come now. Dooo youuu want me tooo go back and tell him you’re not coming? If youuu dooo it will go hard on me.”

“If it’s that urgent . . .” Jon-Tom rose and turned to face Talea. “You heard. I’ve got to go. I know it’s late, but it seems to be important.”

Talea stared up at him. “You’re not going off on some sort of silly quest or something again, are you?”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Now look: I told you when you got pregnant that I’ve done with all that. I’ve a family and a home to look after, a profitable and respected profession, and they come first. The time when Mudge and I traipsed all over the world getting into all sorts of trouble is history.”

“Just so long as you understand that,” she responded. “Because by all the imbalances in the Aether, if that hardshell ropes you into some crazy expedition I’ll cut off your feet and hide them in the closet before I’ll let you go.”

“Now, love.” Buncan heard the moist echo of a kiss. “Clothahump just wants to network with me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Right, Mulwit?”

“So far as I am permitted to know, Master Jon-Tom. With youuu, and one other.”

Jon-Tom’s brow furrowed. “There’s someone else involved?”

“Not here, not here!” The agitated famulus was flapping his wings as he hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. “Already we have lingered tooo long.”

“Just let me get my cloak.” Jon-Tom hesitated at the open hall closet. “Do you think I’ll need my duar?”

“Wizardry was not spoken of,” the famulus responded. “Only talk.”

“Good.” Jon-Tom swept the iridescent lizard-skin cloak around his shoulders, bestowed another kiss upon Talea, and disappeared into the night in the company of the anxious owl.

As his mother reentered the kitchen, Buncan feigned interest in a piece of cake. “What was that all about?”

Talea stood at the sink, gazing out the oval window in the direction of the dark river. Her demeanor was stiff. “I’ll tell you something, boy. If your father gets himself sucked into something dangerous . . .”

“Didn’t you used to do dangerous things, Mom?”

She turned to him. “That was different. When I was young I had to do certain things to survive.” She attacked the remnants of the innocent dinner dishes, refusing as always to use the cleaning spells stocked in the cupboard under the towels.

“Is there some kind of problem?” The indifference of his query was crafted with admirable skill.

“How the hell should I know? You think they tell me anything? Anyone would think I had no acquaintance with the mysteries of the Universe. I never did trust that turtle completely.”

“You can’t ever trust wizards, Mom. It’s in their nature. They can’t help it.”

“Every time your father answered one of that aged reptile’s calls, it got him into trouble.”

Buncan set the cake aside, rose, and stood behind his much shorter mother, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Now, Mom. If Dad said he wasn’t going to get involved in anything, then I’m sure he isn’t. I just wonder what the rush is all about.”

“Oh, who knows,” she muttered irritably. “Some mother wants to change the sex of her unborn two days before it’s due, or that fat Mrs. Twogg on the other side of Lynchbany is having digestive troubles again. Emergency!” She assaulted the stewpot with a vigor no mere spell could match.

“Yeah, well, I’ve pretty much had it, Mom. I’m going on up to bed.”

She glanced sideways at him. “Kind of early, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “I’ve been reading all evening, and I had kind of a rough day at school.”

She turned to him and put soapy fingers on his cheek. “You have a good mind, Buncan. Better than mine. You also have talent, but not everyone can be a spellsinger like your father.”

“I know, Mom.”

The outside glowbulbs stayed dark as he slipped out his bedroom window and shinnied down the trunk of the tree, heading northwest across the back lawn. There was hardly enough moon to count as an afterthought, and it was difficult to see the way as he hurried along the secondary path through the woods. The Belltrees were silent, their tinkling blooms closed for the night.

Breathing hard, he still managed to arrive at the edge of the clearing surrounding the wizard’s tree just as Mulwit and his father appeared. He waited a suitable interval after they entered. Tethered in the corral out back were a pan: of husky dray lizards and the silhouette of a large wagon he didn’t recognize.

Normally the wizard kept the clearing alarmed, but those spells would likely remain deactivated until his father departed. With care Buncan thought he could slip inside the tree undetected. He edged forward, advancing noiselessly.

The door was unsealed, and he eased it aside. There was no need to lock it, since anyone not familiar with the way would immediately find themselves confronting an impassable dead end exactly like the burned-out core of an old oak. Remembering from many previous visits the curious twists and turns of the tree’s ulterior, he successfully advanced past the entrance and soon found himself standing in the hallway outside Clothahump’s front study. Not too long ago he had sat in that same sanctuary discussing his personal problems with the wizard.

He crept as close as he dared, until he could hear Jon-Tom and Clothahump’s conversation clearly. A third voice kept interposing commentary. Not Mulwit, which meant that part of his attention would have to remain on the lookout for the nosy owl. Cautiously Buncan allowed himself a quick peek into the room.