“Oh!” Moon flung her hands out of her apron. “Oh! Isn’t there a plant in this whole wretched garden that means ‘I love you, too’? Bother!”
She hurtled into his arms, and he closed them tight around her.
Once upon a time there ruled in the Kingdom of Hark End a king who was young and fair, good and wise, and responsible for the breeding of no fewer than six new varieties of apple. Once upon the same time there was a queen in Hark End who understood the riddle of the rings of silver and gold: that all things are joined together without beginning or end, and that there can be no understanding until all things divided are joined. They didn’t live happily ever after, for nothing lives forever; but they lived as long as was right, then passed together into the land where trees bear blossom and fruit both at once, and where the flowers of spring never fade.
Up the Side of the Air
Karen Haber
It was cold in the high-vaulted main room of the mage Nestor’s house. The fire had died back to sullen embers and an icy wind whistled through a hole in the window and played among the rafters.
The wizard had been studying his spell book, poring over the faded, ancient runes, until the heat of the fire had lulled him to sleep. The gold-edged book of spells lay open in his lap. Now, suddenly awakened by a frigid gust, he sat up sharply, a half-finished snore caught in his throat, and looked around the room.
Shivering in the cold air, he drew his robe of white fur tightly about him, closed the book in his lap with a snap, and got to his feet. His worn black boots creaked: they were old and in need of a good oiling.
The mage Nestor was a sinewy, grizzled man with an airy cloud of white hair, a long, tapering white beard, and clear grey eyes that bore a trace of blue in their depths. His skin was seamed and wrinkled like the fine brown bark of a Yarrow tree. He was in fact a great deal older than the oldest Yarrow tree on Fennet’s Mountain. But Nestor moved now with the energy of one less than half his age.
“Fire,” he muttered. “The spell for fire. Come now, you know it like you know your own true name.” He turned toward the dark hearth, arms upraised, and called out with the voice of a great hunting bird, three short harsh syllables and then a soft whistling sound. Flames sprang up at once, bathing the mage’s face in orange light. He nodded in satisfaction, white beard bobbing on his chest, and held his long, gnarled fingers up to the crackling warmth. “A pox on Jotey!” he said. “Trust that boy to misspell and get himself thinned. Gone and left everything for me to do.” Nestor reached for the black iron kettle, filled it from the bucket at hearthside, and set it to heat on its brazier.
The water was not quite bubbling in the kettle when the door to the house creaked on its ancient hinges and slowly swung open. Renno, the mage’s servant of many years’ standing, stood there in his winter wrap of grey fur. He was a small, wiry man whose coal-black hair was drawn back and woven in a fat braid that trailed halfway down his spine. His eyes were dark as coal, his cheeks ruddy, and his nose bulbous, glossy, conspicuous to a fault. He looked much like the dolls sold by the charm-vendors during festival in the Rondish market. At his side was a small diffident-looking figure whose features were almost completely obscured by a coarse black cloak better suited for one of much more imposing stature. The new apprentice, Nestor realized.
“Good,” he said. “You’ve brought him.”
Renno held up his hands. “Uh, wise one—”
“Don’t stand in the doorway, Renno. It’s cold enough in here. Come in and close the door. The sooner you’re warm the sooner we can set the boy to his tasks.”
“Great and powerful wizard—”
“Enough jabber, man! And stop stumbling around like that. Come. Come, both of you, and warm yourselves by the fire.” The mage set out two more bowls next to his own and poured the fragrant brew, steaming with golden mist, from the iron kettle.
The manservant opened his mouth once more as though to offer argument. Then he shrugged, closed it again, and moved closer to the fire. The small figure in the cloak paused to shut the door before following Renno toward the warmth.
“Flame tea,” the mage said. “Here. Drink up. Night like this it warms you right down to your soul.”
A small hand reached out from under the cloak to take the tea bowl.
“Drink it down while it’s hot,” the mage said, not unkindly. It was best to begin with kindness when one was breaking in a new apprentice.
The bowl was lifted to the hood, tilted, drained without pause. The newcomer set it down empty.
“A good appetite,” the mage said to Renno. “He’ll grow like a glass-reed.”
Small hands threw back the hood now. A thick tangle of curling red hair came into view, glistening in the dancing firelight. Bright blue eyes blinked up at the mage, and pink lips curved in a hesitant smile. “My name is Dora,” the apprentice said softly. “Will I live here now?”
Nestor put down his tea bowl so hard that the iron rang against the green hearthstones. He turned toward Renno and found the servant suddenly quite busy with the wood bin. “What is this?” the mage demanded.
“What is what, master?” Renno asked, taking care to keep his face averted.
“This.”
The mage indicated the child.
“I’m not certain I—”
The mage sighed, expelling a great gust of breath. “Don’t play foolish with me, Renno. You may be a fool, but I don’t think you’re a dullard. You’ve brought me a girl. I specified a boy, did I not?”
Renno’s look was meek. “Yes, master.”
“Then why do I see a girl here?”
Renno’s voice was meeker. “Master, there were no boys to be had.”
“None at all?”
“The Duke’s contests draw all the young men away to Brobant,” said Renno. “At market, there was naught I could find but weary old men and babes barely weaned. And even those came so dearly it was beyond easy belief.”
Nestor glared at him. “Better an old man than a foolish girl! What am I to do with her, Renno? Tell me: what mage has a girl for an apprentice? What will they say at the convocation at halfmonth?” The wizard shook his head in fury. “You’ll have to take her back.”
“Back?” Renno’s dark eyes clouded. “You can’t mean that, master! The market’s closed now. And there’s no place for her to go. She’s an orphan. She has no one. We can’t turn her out into the cold!”
“Pah, you are soft-hearted and soft-headed,” Nestor grumbled. “So I’ve always said. And so you are.”
Renno’s look was profoundly contrite. “That is true. I would never deign to deny it.”
“Don’t make matters even worse with your numskull agreeability,” the mage thundered. “How can we keep her? What use does she have? I ask you, what good is she?”
“Well, you could try to teach her a few things—”
The wizard’s eyes were grey ice. “Teach her what?”
“Things.” The manservant gazed down at the broad-planked floor. “She might learn. A little, at least.”
Nestor could not be certain that the man’s expression was truly rueful or merely crafty.
“You could keep her here until the next market, anyway,” Renno went on. “It’ll be held at month’s end. I’ll take her and sell her there, then.”
“But that’s after the convocation!” Nestor said. “What am I to do about the grand meeting? Greet my brethren without an apprentice to aid me?”
“You could train her.”
“In sorcery?”
“That was what I had in mind, master. It won’t do to attend the convocation without an apprentice.” Renno paused. “Especially if Dalbaeth is there waiting for you.”