A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 3

  Portia stood at the window, looking out across the treetops toward Nachtwald in the distance. When the kettle began to sing, she grabbed up a thick, padded mitten and pulled the kettle out of the fire. She proceeded to pour boiling water into a large cast-iron pot on the table, and the fragrance of black tea spiced with ginger filled the room. Zerabnir snorted loudly, his eyes fluttering open.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I seem to have dozed off for a moment.”

  “That’s fine,” Portia said, smiling, “so, tell me your news. You made it sound terribly important.”

  “Not just yet. First, I want to hear about you. You seem distracted of late, not so carefree as the little girl who wandered into my hollow so long ago. I would go so far as to say you’ve become a young woman, with all the cares and concerns that go along with it.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Portia said with more wrath than she’d intended. “I’m sorry, it’s just that everyone seems intent on reminding me of how much I’ve grown and about my duties as a woman, as if marrying and bearing children was all there was to life.”

  “Ah, by everyone you must mean your father. Yes, I suppose he means to profit by it—your womanhood that is.”

  “He’s certainly trying.” Portia poured the steaming tea into cups and handed one, along with a chipped saucer, to Zerabnir.

  “In the last two years he’s paraded a small army of suitors through Nachtwald Castle, including Baron Guthmundus! Awful little man. He’s had three wives already!”

  “Ah yes,” Zerabnir raised an eyebrow, “I know that one, the proud Baron of Anhalth, and a thorn in your father’s side if ever there was one. I can see why Cedric might want to ingratiate himself to him. But I’m sure you can do better than Guthmundus.”

  “All father cares about is increasing his holdings, or firming alliances, or whatever, and I am nothing more to him than a bargaining chip. He is a cruel and heartless man.”

  Zerabnir gave her a hard look, his eyes bright. “No, my dear, there you are wrong. Not heartless, not cruel, not really. He is just a man like any other. I do not think Cedric holds any hostility toward you or your brother. He is only doing what he feels is best.”

  “I don’t care. It doesn’t make it right.”

  “No,” Zerabnir mused, “but you will come to find that right and wrong are not always easy to see. The path that is without pitfall is not always the correct one to follow.”

  “Now you sound like an old wizard,” Portia smiled at him, “spouting riddles and proverbs.”

  “I am an old wizard, and riddles are my stock and trade. I can no longer chew solid food, so I must have some way to occupy my time, eh?”

  “And now you’re teasing me.”

  “Only a little, but you needn’t worry about your father. I know something of the future, you see, and events are already in motion that even he, with all his men-at-arms and his plots and schemes, will not be able to control.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Portia asked.

  “I have my ways. When one gets as old as I, and has seen and done the things I have, you cannot help but learn a thing or two, and acquire some interesting friends along the way.”

  “You’re talking in riddles again,” Portia said.

  “Riddles, yes. Of course I am. All of life is a riddle, is it not?” The old wizard sighed and shook his head.

  “Long ago I learned that to meddle in the affairs of men like your father was to court disaster. Human beings are such willful creatures and often ignorant of their own true natures. They misuse what is given them. They twist things and turn them, sometimes with the best of intentions. Ah, those are the worst! Men with good intentions.”

  “And what about women? Aren’t we susceptible to the same failings?”

  “Now, there is a question indeed,” Zerabnir said. “Women are a mystery unto themselves, the greatest of all riddles, if you will, and the most elusive of answers. They are subtler than men certainly, more dangerous in their own way. If I could answer the riddle of woman, I would count myself wise indeed. But then, what would be the point? Life would be extremely boring if one knew the answer to every mystery, and there are some riddles that I am much too old to delve any deeper into.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Portia stared into the flames of Zerabnir’s fire, toying with her cup. She had her own mysteries to contend with and challenges she was not yet ready to face. Here she was, sixteen and ready to begin her life, being courted by old men. The path before her was laden with duties and responsibilities that she had no desire to fulfill. Zerabnir might know something of the future, but hers seemed woefully bleak and uninteresting.

  “What about love?” she said, almost to herself. “Tell me, Zerabnir, what do you know of love?”

  The wizard’s eyes opened wide and he sat up straight and looked at her.

  “Love you say?” He leaned forward. “I know a great deal about love, more than you would think for a doddering old fool. When I was young I fell in love with a different woman every week. Unfortunately, most of them did not fall in love with me.” He gave her a wistful smile and sank back into his chair.

  “You’re teasing again.”

  “I am most serious.” Zerabnir furrowed his brow. “It was a terrible thing being young, and worse still to be in love. I am much better off now that I am old. But we were talking about you, my dear. I assume you are not thinking about one of Baron Cedric’s many suitors when you speak of love.”

  “Definitely not. I don’t want to marry some aged lord who cares more for his horse than me. I want to love someone who loves me back and who loves me for myself. I want to be swept off my feet, to feel passion and romance. Duty and honor be damned! I want a man who is handsome, strong, and brave, but kind and gentle as well.”

  “Of course you do, but Baron Cedric is unlikely to give you much in the way of options. Your virtue is of great value to him.”

  “Father will never agree to any match but one he himself devises.” Portia paused. She sighed and smiled at her mentor. “The truth of it is I don’t want to marry anyone, at least not yet. And probably not for a long time.”

  “But you just said that you wanted to be in love?” The wizard watched her from beneath his tangled brows.

  “Yes, yes, I did say that, but love and marriage are two different things. At least I think they are. I am far from ready to spend my days in some drafty hall caring for a litter of squalling children. There is too much of the world that I want to see, too many things I want to do. It is too soon.”

  Zerabnir picked up an object from one of the tables. He cradled it in his hands, whispered a few words over it, and then held it up for her inspection. “What do you see, my dear?”

  Portia turned to face him. She gazed at the thing in Zerabnir’s hand for a long time, and then she laughed. “You’re trying to trick me, you old conjurer. At first I thought it was a bird, a small songbird with a red breast, but it’s not. It is only a stone.”

  “And how did you know?” The wizard asked, his eyes bright.

  “There was... there was a kind of a glow. I could see the aura of it, the lumens of magic that surrounded the stone, and I could see through them to the stone beneath.”

  “Indeed.” Zerabnir drank the dregs of his tea in one long swallow and set the cup and saucer on the mantle along with the stone.

  “Yes,” Portia said, frowning, “you cast an illusion on it, but you knew I would see it. What are you getting at?”

  “You have a wizard’s gift for sight, my dear. You’ve obviously matured in ways other than just physical. Come now. I have something for you.” The old wizard climbed to his feet, collecting his staff and moving across the room. He shambled over to a large bookcase that occupied the whole of one wall and began perusing the volumes lining its sagging wooden shelves.

  “And what am I to do with my wizard’s sight?” Portia asked, following on his heels.

  “It’s not just sight. You have a way with magic,
my dear, that is quite rare. Your mother had it as well. I think you know what you must do. But I suspect you fear the answer and so refuse to see it.”

  “You’re doing it again.” Portia felt altogether confused and agitated.

  “Here it is,” Zerabnir mumbled, laying a claw-like hand on one of the ancient volumes and removing it from the shelf. He turned and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” Portia said. The volume was two inches thick and covered in dark leather, worn at the edges, its pages yellow with age. She opened it and glanced over several of the pages. Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed, looking up at Zerabnir with astonishment. “It’s a book of spells.”

  “Quite right, my dear, quite right, but not just any spell book. This belonged to Arch Mage Kaxigan, a fine wizard and head master of the Lumenarium for many years. It is time you learned them.”

  “All of them?”

  Zerabnir scowled. “Of course, all of them!”

  “But I can’t. Father will never allow it, or me, to become a full-fledged wizard. Women can’t—” the words stuck in her throat and she discovered she could not say them aloud.

  Zerabnir smiled at her, a warm fatherly smile such as Baron Cedric had never done. He laid a frail hand on her shoulder, his eyes shining with pride.

  “Of course they can, and you will. What is a wizard but someone with a little bit of knowledge and power? You have power, my dear, tremendous power for one so young and wisdom beyond your years. You can do anything you want, but you’ll have to learn a few things first.”

  Zerabnir reached across to another shelf and withdrew from it a large, thick scroll. He unfurled it across the table, revealing a map of central Ninavar. Portia set down the spell book and leaned over the map as Zerabnir pointed to a spot near the center.

  “Here is Nachtwald.” His hand drifted across the map, traveling south and west. “And here, on the coast of Dagallia is the city of Karavella. Someday soon you must go there.”

  “Why? What is there for me in Karavella?”

  “Not what but who. A contemporary of mine, the Arch Mage Rudalias an Neu, High Wizard to the King of Dagallia. He is in Karavella, and he is the greatest wizard who has ever lived. He is older than I, if you can believe it, and very wise. He could teach you a great deal.”

  “But you are my teacher—”

  “I am nothing compared to Rudalias. Besides, I may not be here much longer.”

  “Don’t say that!” Portia cried.

  “No, my dear.” Zerabnir laughed. “I’m not ready to die just yet, but I may have to leave soon, perhaps for a long while. In fact, I mean to go at once, and I’ve no way of knowing when I will return, or if I will return at all.”

  “But,” Portia’s eyes filled with tears, “you can’t leave! I still have so much to learn. There are a thousand things I need to know, and who will help me stave off father’s suitors? You can’t—”

  Zerabnir raised a hand. “I understand how you feel, but I have stayed too long in Nachtwald—mostly for you, I confess. I felt a responsibility to you, for what happened to your mother, and of course I am very fond of you.”

  “About my mother—”

  “Do not ask me.” Zerabnir flinched, his brow creased with remembered pain. “It is for your father to tell you, and if he will not, then you must discover the truth on your own. I am bound by an oath and cannot speak of it.”

  Portia frowned. Her entire body appeared to sag, to shrink in upon itself. “Then I am alone with my father, with all his plots and secrets, and all the forces of his kingdom lined up against me.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Zerabnir’s voice took on a scolding tone that made him sound like her teacher once more. “You are not the only person in the world with obstacles to overcome, and the challenges you face are no greater than anyone else’s. You are very capable, my dear, and I have no doubt you will find the answers you seek.

  “And you’re hardly alone. Your brother, for one, is very committed to you, and would follow you into a dragon’s lair if it came to it.” He frowned. “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” he added softly.

  Portia examined the old wizard’s face. She found it difficult to believe that he was really going. She couldn’t imagine what her life would be like without him. This tower had always been a place of refuge, a place to escape to. What was she to do now?

  Zerabnir laid a wrinkled hand on Portia’s shoulder and looked into her eyes, his visage serious and full of compassion. “There is a storm coming, my dear, a terrible storm indeed. I feel it in my bones. I can taste it on the wind. It’s the kind of storm that does not come along but once in generations, and I fear that you and Finn will get caught in the middle of it.”

  Portia put her arms around the old wizard and hugged him tight. Zerabnir let out a wheeze of air, but did not complain. He patted her softly on the back.

  “You do love your riddles,” she said, her cheek resting on his ancient cloak.

  “I do. It’s true. But I’ve found that saying too much is often as bad as saying nothing at all.”

  “See? There you go again.”

  Zerabnir smiled. “You should go now, before your lord father starts wondering where you’ve gotten to.” He turned toward the door, stopped, and turned again. “But, there is one more thing I must give you before you go.”

  He made his way across the chamber to a large closet. Opening the door, he began rummaging around in the dark interior, knocking over things and cursing softly. A moment later he emerged with a long shaft of wood, as tall as he was.

  “I made this for you and have only been waiting for the right time to give it to you. I believe that time has come. If you are to be a wizard in name as well as practice, then you must have a proper staff.”

  “But I—thank you!” Portia stammered. She took the staff in both hands. It appeared to have been made from the stout limb of an oak tree, polished smooth, with several runes carved into the wood. The weight of it felt good in her hands. She turned it, thumping the end against the chamber floor. A tremor ran through the tower, causing Zerabnir to grab hold of the table.

  “Carefully, my dear.” He straightened his robes. “That is no walking stick you hold in your hands. A staff will help you focus your power. I have only included runes to spells you already know. You will have to add others as you go along. Use it wisely, and keep it with you always.”

  “Thank you.” Portia’s voice quivered. “You’ve been so kind to me—”

  “Say nothing of it. You are a fine young woman, and I see many great things in store for you.” He picked up the book from the table and handed it to her. She took it, tucking it into her satchel and slid the leather strap over her shoulder.

  “Now, go, before I change my mind and beg you to stay.”

  Portia looked at him for a long while, then kissed him lightly on the cheek before turning toward the door. She paused, lingering on the threshold and looking back at Zerabnir. “You’re not leaving immediately, are you? I mean, you will let me know before you go, won’t you?”

  “I will if I can, but nothing is sure. The world is an uncertain place. You know that as well as any. Go on, now. You have things to do and so do I. Besides, you’re letting in a draft.”

  “Thank you, Master Zerabnir,” Portia said, giving the wizard a light bow.

  “Goodbye, my dear. Try to remember all that I have told you.”

  “I will.” Portia hesitated for a moment longer, then turned and ran down the stairs, her satchel banging against her hip. She moved off across the hollow, but paused at the edge of the wood and turned to look at the wizard’s tower. She could see Zerabnir’s face in the window, silhouetted against the warm glow from within. The old wizard lifted his hand, and Portia returned the gesture, smiling up at him. She had the feeling this was the last time she would ever see him, and the sensation made her feel sad and more than a little afraid.

  Chapter 3

  Finnan an Nachtwald was not the bravest of
men, nor was he the strongest, the fastest, or even the most clever. He was not particularly tall or broad through the shoulders and he did not have eyes like the sea after a storm. He was, in fact, rather small for his age and thin as a willow tree, with an unruly tangle of dark hair, impenetrable eyes, and a nose that was just slightly too large for his face.

  “By the time your father was your age he had already earned his spurs and was ready to lead men into battle,” Sir Eris Moot, Master-at-Arms of Nachtwald Castle, announced in a resonant voice. Finn knew this to be an exaggeration. His father had been 15 when he was knighted, and Finn had only just turned 14. Regardless of that he had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps or of becoming a knight himself, not if he could help it.

  “He was anointed in the great cathedral at Elathia and took his vows before King Ar-Guillan himself,” Sir Eris continued, speaking as proudly as if it were his own accomplishment.

  “Was that before or after he started yet another war with Anhalth?” Finn said. “And then allowed his lady wife, my mother, to kill herself with magic. Perhaps he should have spent more time in service to his family and less to his king.”

  Sir Eris’s face went scarlet, bringing a smile to Finn’s lips. Finn was certainly not his father. Unlike Baron Cedric, the great baron of Nachtwald, Finn was not interested in vows or acts of selfless kindness, nor was he a great believer in chivalrous deeds. In his experience chivalry was an idea great lords and knights often talked of but seldom exhibited. It was the acquisition of land, wealth, and titles that occupied the minds of men like Baron Cedric, or Sir Eris for that matter. There was little profit in protecting the weak, and damsels need only be rescued if they were exceedingly lovely or if their fathers were extraordinarily rich.