The disciple gasped. “Oh no!” he said, spinning about as if he might find a healer hiding behind one of the shrubs. “Do you know how to fix it? Is there something I can do?”
Borl shook his sleeve back over the rough, gray-brown stretch of his forearm and then grabbed the disciple’s wrist to pull him down beside him. “Sit,” he said, which was perhaps redundant since he’d already forced the boy to the ground. “There is nothing wrong. It is entirely natural for my species.”
The boy stared blankly at his face for a long moment before saying, “You’re a barkling?” He sounded unsure.
“Yes,” Borl confirmed, “though I’d ask you not to spread that around. It is not a secret, but it is not not a secret. Now, enough about that. What is your name? And which school are you from?”
The boy seemed hesitant to accept the change in subject, but eventually he said, “I’m from Disgrave. My name is Pardar. I am Master Guensen’s disciple, and I am deeply sorry on behalf of myself, my master, and my school for all the trouble I have caused you. Really, I am so sorry!” There was a pause. Borl got the impression he was expecting someone to tell him off. When no one did, he glanced back up and said, “Can I ask your name?”
“I suppose you can.” Borl knew Disgrave, of course. There were only three noteworthy mage schools, so everyone knew them, but he had not heard of Pardar or Guensen, and he imagined this ignorance would be mutual. “I am Borl Horgan. Holey Hill.”
“Oh,” Pardar said, expression brightening somewhat. “The Disgrave heir studies at Holey Hill. Do you know Yaka Disgrave? Or maybe you wouldn’t. He’s only a Master’s Assistant. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a Master’s Assistant. I’m only a disciple, so I have no grounds to speak…”
Borl decided to save him from himself. “I know Yaka,” he said. “He used to be my disciple.”
“Really?” Pardar said, awed, and then looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean… Is he not still?”
“He is not,” Borl confirmed and did not elaborate, and Pardar sunk deeper into his evident embarrassment, slumping into himself like a chastised tortoise.
Part of Borl insisted that he offer reassurance, but a larger part felt this was just deserts. Pardar had, albeit unwittingly, ruined all Borl’s plans. After finding the wayward magician and ensuring they weren’t going to end up burnt to a crisp, Borl had intended to take off again to go find some new godforsaken corner of the land to hide and put down roots. (Unfortunately, quite literally.) He had not counted on finding a disciple instead of an adult magician, or expending all his energy stores getting them away, and now there was no way he could make it far enough before Binion and Cormara and whoever else they’d rallied came looking. All there was for it now was to let them drag him back to Holey Hill and hope that a later escape opportunity presented itself.
So he let the disciple simmer in discomfort for several long minutes before taking pity on him and breaking the silence. “What were you doing along the border?”
Pardar started and peered at him with a slightly nervous expression before answering. “I wasn’t supposed to be so close to the border. I was going to look for hapka seeds for Master Guensen not far from where we are now, but, while I was still in the air, there was a strong wind suddenly, and I ended up getting blown all the way around the north side of the mountain. I crashed down through several trees and broke my windstick, and then I passed out, I think, because the next thing I can really remember is smelling the smoke and trying to get away.” He paused, and his voice was quieter when he asked, “Do you think it’s going to start more fighting?”
The honest answer was yes; it was definitely going to spark more fighting. Any magical activity along the border instigated a wave of ‘witching raids,’ as the dry landers called them. But Pardar seemed to be steeping in a healthy helping of guilt as it was, so, instead of adding to it, Borl said, “There is always going to be more fighting until we settle on terms of peace or one side is all gone, but that is not something you should worry about yet. Your day will come. It is not today, or next year, or likely the year after that. Before you waste time thinking on it, learn to fly properly.”
Pardar dipped his head again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
It wasn’t really his fault. His master shouldn’t have sent him out this far alone when his magical energy was so weak and unrefined. Likely, the man had thought gathering seeds was a simple task, but he had been wrong, and they were all going to pay for that.
“Thank you for saving me,” Pardar added after a moment. “I really don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come. I was hoping the Trace Watch would realize, but I wasn’t sure. I’m really glad you did. Really glad.”
“It is nothing,” Borl said instead of explaining that he wasn’t actually part of the Trace Watch and that he hadn’t gone to the mountain specifically to rescue Pardar. He had an image to maintain, after all, and secrets to keep! “Others will come for us soon. They will take you back to Disgrave.” He probably shouldn’t be guaranteeing things of which he had no knowledge, but he couldn’t imagine what else they’d do with the boy. And he himself would go to Holey Hill. A slow wave of grief for his cabin and his quiet life on the mountain, now gone, washed over him. Ah, his poor teapot. He’d finally managed to start growing thyme this past year, too, and it would probably shrivel now without watering. He could really have used some tea in the moment… and the rest of those dry crackers.
The ruthless, late-summer sun was just starting to creep beyond the high ridgeline to the west when Pardar spotted their “rescuers.” They formed an array of little black dots, approaching from the east where the sky was still blue, the only clouds fan-like trails high overhead.
“They brought so many,” Pardar said, the guilt tangible.
Indeed, Borl counted ten mages flying towards their hilltop, each dot growing larger by the second.
“They thought there might be a fight,” Borl reasoned. “Better safe than sorry.”
One of the approaching mages seemed to be shouting something. They were still too far away to make out the figures or the words clearly, but Borl would bet his best teapot—his only, and now abandoned, teapot—that it was Binion.
“Master Horgan!”
Yes, it was definitely Binion. Borl thought he might even be waving, but his eyesight wasn’t what it once had been.
“Who is it?” Pardar asked.
“Another former disciple.”
It took the group less than a minute to reach the edge of the meadow, where they landed without incident and began to wade over through the tall, prickly grasses. Borl recognized most of them, though he couldn’t remember all their names. There were Binion and Cormara, of course, and they’d brought along what Borl presumed to be every other on-shift member of the Trace Watch.
Three mages had come—Andil, Woodwin, and Fengallio—along with three familiar disciples—likely MAs now—and two more that Borl didn’t recognize.
The MAs and Andil had come riding windsticks, while Woodwin and Fengallio evidently preferred spell flying, quite probably just to show off in front of their students. It was what Borl would do.
“Master Horgan!” Binion repeated, bounding over on his long legs. “Are you alright?”
“Quite alright,” Borl said, ensuring that his seated posture remained elegantly arranged. “My magical energy must simply replenish. All worthwhile processes take time.”
Woodwin, who’d just come up behind Binion, rolled his eyes, and Borl wondered if perhaps he was laying it on a bit thick. He couldn’t quite recall how much cryptic wisdom he had aimed to exude in the past.
But Binion didn’t seem to think it odd, and it was hard to tell with Cormara.
“It really is you,” Andil puffed as he trundled up beside Woodwin. “I thought Binion might’ve been having me on. Good of you to finally turn up, I suppose, what with all the rubbish these days.”
“Oh please,” said Woodwin, “as if Horgan’s ever been any help in military matters.”
If the MAs and Pardar hadn’t been looking on, Borl might’ve had a different response, but, as it was, he said, “In military matters, I do admit my shortcomings, but war is not the only worthwhile pursuit.”
Woodwin rolled his eyes again.
Fengallio’s face remained blank, but, then again, it always did. Borl didn’t know the combat mages well—not his circle—so he’d never quite decided if Fengallio had few emotions to begin with or if she was just exceptionally good at beating them flat.
“Who’s this then?” Andil asked, nodding at Pardar.
Pardar, who looked surprised to be noticed at all, stumbled to his feet. “I’m Pardar,” he said, glancing between the three mages before tagging on, “Masters,” and a deep bow. “I’m Master Guensen’s disciple, from Disgrave, and I’m very sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“That’s quite alright,” Andil said, patting Pardar’s shoulder awkwardly. “You might’ve caused a bit of trouble, but you’ve also helped us catch a deserter, so all is forgiven.”
Pardar looked nervously back at Borl, who gave him a serene smile. “Let us not air our school’s dirty laundry in front of Disgrave disciples,” he said.
“It was a joke,” Andil insisted.
Woodwin raised a narrow eyebrow. “Was it?”
Andil just shook his head and passed Pardar off to the group of MAs lingering behind them. “Have him tell you what happened on your way to Disgrave," he instructed, "and try to get some worthwhile commitment out of them. If they’re going to be sending disciples over here, they should at least be paying a portion of our operational expenses.”
“Yes, Master Andil,” a squat MA nodded as he took Pardar by the arm and tugged him into their midst like a runaway dog.
The mages watched the group shuffle off.
“I could accompany them,” said Fengallio.
Andil waved his hand. “It’s good for them to muck through politics on their own every now and then. I’m sure someone will clean it up at the next inter-school luncheon anyway.”
Ah, combat mages… they had no respect for the work that went into public relations. With such mentors, how could the MAs be any different? They took to the air like a flock of oversized geese, and Borl almost pitied them until he realized that he would probably be one of those unfortunate individuals at the next luncheon who’d get assigned to clean up whatever mess they made.
Borl had a moment to lament this, and other things, as they watched the group of MAs shrink over the treetops, but, inevitably, Cormara, Binion, and the three mages turned their attention back to him.
Comments (0)
See all