After the King: Stories in Honor of J.R.R. Tolkien

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.”

Nestor scowled. “Pah! Let me worry about Dalbaeth. That pipsqueak has never forgiven me for besting his father long ago. But have no worry. I can handle him, with or without an apprentice.” Nestor turned to gaze down at Dora. He shook his head. “Besides, just look at how small she is. And those tiny hands. Useless for spells. Probably not even good for housework.”

“That’s not so,” Dora piped up. “I can clean. And cook. Just watch.”

The mage gazed at her thoughtfully and his grey eyes glinted with blue. The wind’s wild howling seemed to double and redouble. The child waited, staring up at him fearlessly.

“Oh, very well,” he said. “I suppose I can’t send you out into the night, can I? You can sleep on that pallet close by the hearth, girl. And not a peep out of you, hear? There’s important work to be done and I don’t want to be disturbed by some little flibbertigibbet.”

“I ain’t no flibber—gibber—whatever,” she said. And smartly, with a toss of her bright head, she gathered up the tea bowls and popped them into the white stone washtub on its sturdy wooden stand. She busied herself with scouring and drying them. When she was done, the bowls shone in the candlelight, cleaner than they’d been all winter. Without another word the girl climbed onto her rush bed, curled up in her cloak, and was asleep before the mage could unleash even a simple spell of somnolence upon her.

“For the night,” Nestor muttered, shaking his head emphatically. “But only for the night.” He leaned back in his big chair by the fire, opened his book of spells, and slipped off into sleep before he had finished reading through the first charm to summon easy dreams.

In the morning, Nestor awakened to the scent of oatcakes baking and milk warming. The spell book was in his lap, and his knees ached with old and familiar complaints.

“Tea’s ready,” said a strange voice. It was high and lilting, with just a hint of a lisp.

A small hand held out a tea bowl filled with steaming brew.

“Eh?” Nestor stared down in puzzlement at blue eyes and upturned nose. “Girl, what are you doing here?”

A look of impatience crossed her face. “You told me to stay. Remember?”

The last shadows of sleep fled and the mage began to recall the events of the night before. The new apprentice, yes. Very small. Scrawny. A girl, of all things!

“Renno! Renno, where are you?”

“Here, master.” The small man hurried into the room carrying a load of firewood in his arms.

“You must take this girl back at once.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. Where can I take her? The market is closed until month’s end. I told you so last night.”

The wizard closed his lips over his irritation. “Hmmm. Yes, that’s right, I suppose. Of course.” He toyed with his beard. “Well then, girl, you’ll have to make yourself useful here. I don’t suppose you know any spells for cleaning, do you?”

“Spells?” The girl’s blue eyes were wide and guileless. “I never magicked, sir. And don’t want to, neither.” Her fair brows lowered in a frown and she shuddered. In a low voice she said, “S’evil.”

From Renno came a sound that could have been a smothered chuckle. Nestor scowled at him. But before he could say anything, his manservant hurried through the front door and disappeared into the yard.

“Well, it can be evil, I suppose,” Nestor conceded. The mage scratched his beard thoughtfully. “In the wrong hands. Just as well you don’t want to magick. Girls make poor wizards. And I’ve no patience for training a witch. Not at my age.”

She gave him a shrewd look. “How old are you?”

“Just never you mind, missy.” Nestor waggled a finger at her. “That hearth needs sweeping. And the bookshelves could use a dusting.”

“The entire house is filthy,” she said, nodding cheerfully. “I’ve never seen a mess like this. A good thing you bought me to look after you.”

Nestor was tempted to discuss the possibility of using a spell for silence when Renno erupted into the room, looking frantic.

“Fougasse!” he cried. “He’s aloft!”

Nestor blinked. “The dragon? Surely not.” The mage moved toward the door and peered uncertainly into the pale blue sky, shading his eyes. “It’s not swarming season. It can’t be. Dragons never fly in cold weather.”

On the horizon, what appeared to be a bird flapped lazy wings that reflected the morning sunlight. Nestor squinted. The bird appeared to have a long sinuous body. As it drew nearer, the mage could make out a reptilian head and baleful red eyes.

No, not a bird. Not a bird at all.

The wizard sighed. “It is Fougasse indeed. I should think he would have better sense than to bother me before I’ve had a proper breakfast.”

“Is it really a dragon?” Dora asked. Her eyes were huge with wonder. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“Well, don’t stand there gawking, child. Get yourself back. He just might eat a tempting morsel like you.”

With a squeak of fear Dora hurried behind the wizard, clinging to the back of his white robe.

The dragon circled above them, eyes glinting, scaly neck gleaming in the sunlight.

“Greetings, Nestor,” it called. The dragon spoke in the old tongue.

“Fougasse,” the mage said. “What sends you aloft in this cold?”

“Red light in the eastern hills. And now I see what it is. The trees are ablaze.”

“What? How?”

“Elven mischief. The woods will be consumed.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The dragon let out a draught of steam in what would have been approval. The red eyes blinked once, and the scaled wings beat furiously in the cold air as the creature wheeled and shot upward across the sky. A moment later it was a golden speck on the smoky horizon.

“Foolish elves up to midwinter nonsense,” Nestor said. “Probably playing with spells. I’ve warned them before. Renno, saddle the mule—a proper winter saddle, hear? With two—no, three—blankets.”

“You’re going alone?” The manservant fixed his dark button eyes upon the wizard.

“Would you come with me, then?”

Renno looked abashed. “I have my family’s welfare to consider, your wisdom.”

The mage smiled. “As I thought. Stay, then.” He glanced toward the girl. “If I’d a proper apprentice, I would bring him along. But not this child.”

Dora’s lower lip jutted forward. “You should take me,” she said sulkily. “You need someone to look after you.”

Nestor reared back as though wounded. “I do, do I?”

“Yes. What if the mule fell and broke a leg? What if you got lost in the woods? Who will cook for you? Who’ll hold your staff at night? Who’ll lead the mule when you tire? Who will—”

“Certainly not you!”

“Well, remember then: if you become lost and tired and hungry it won’t be my fault,” Dora said. She turned and hurried into the house.

Nestor spat an oath into the chill wind. “Renno, forget the mule! I’ll go by air.” The mage held his arms up until they arched like wings. He uttered a strange, liquid cry. And where Nestor had stood a moment before was now a great, grey-feathered bird with sharp golden eyes. Soundlessly, it beat its wings until it was high above the house, moving toward the East at a steady pace.

Together, the manservant and child stood in the doorway and watched the great bird dwindle until it was a speck without shape or color, far away. Renno turned to Dora and nodded.

“A good trick for an old wizard,” he said thoughtfully. He patted Dora on the shoulder “Best to be about the cleaning, child. I’ve got to cut a load of firewood or the mage will suffer chilblains upon his return.” Whistling a somber tune, Renno shouldered his black metal axe and vanished into a stand of grey-trunked trees at the far edge of the clearing.

Dora stood at the door a moment longer, took a deep breath of the cool air, and walked into the house. She had seen wonders this day. A dragon! A wizard transformed into a huge bird! She paused and looked around the room.

The morning sun had hidden behind a cloud, and the resulting pale light cast a sickly illumination through the front window.

Cobwebs hung from the rafters. The windowsills had a thick layer of grime, and the windows themselves were coated with the residue of many rainstorms and morning dew.

“A bit of magic might not be such a bad idea,” she said. “This house hasn’t been cleaned since the wizard was young.”

She seized the broom from its corner and set about sweeping, clucking her tongue from time to time at the awful mess. Thick clouds of dust rose up as she worked, and she sneezed once, twice, three times.

“The blessings of the archmage upon you,” said a deep, pleasant voice.

Dora spun around. “Who’s there?”

The room was empty.

“I said, bless you.”

“Renno, are you joking with me?”

“I’d forgotten,” said the voice cheerfully. “You can’t see me, can you?”

The sound of ripping fabric filled the room.

A sleek blue-furred felak appeared, curled up on the fat woven cushion of the three-runged bench. It blinked bright orange eyes at her. “My,” it said. “You are rather small for a human, aren’t you?”

“Who taught you to talk?” Dora said. Her voice was high and shrill.

“The wizard, who do you think?” The felak stretched its long neck and began scratching its chin with its middle left paw. Midway through a particularly vigorous stroke, it paused and cocked its head at her. “Why are you using the broom? That’s doing it the hard way, wouldn’t you say? Don’t you know the proper spells for cleaning?”

Dora glared at it, hands on hips. “Of course I don’t.”

“Why not? What kind of apprentice are you?”

“I’m not any kind of apprentice.”

“Nestor is getting old,” the felak said. “He’s starting to forget the kind of basic training an apprentice has to have. Well, no matter. I can help. Here. See that large white and gold sapskin book on the top shelf? Get it.”

Dora craned her neck. “That’s too high. I can’t reach.”

“Well, stand on something, then!” said the felak, with a sharp note of impatience in its tone.

Cautiously, Dora balanced herself upon the arm of a chair, grasped the book, and scrambled down. The cover was soft to the touch and shiny in spots, as though many hands had touched the nappy hide, wearing it down.

“Turn to the third page and read the spell aloud.”

“I can’t read. Most especially I can’t read runish.”

The felak stopped preening and stared at her with a look of unmistakable distaste. “Can’t read? I think I’m beginning not to understand Nestor. Why would he buy an illiterate apprentice? For that matter, why bother to purchase a girl to begin with?”

“He didn’t. Renno bought me.”

“Ah. Well, then.” The felak yawned, showing twin rows of sharp, triangular teeth lining the inside of its green beak. It rose up on its hind legs, leaped onto the arm of Dora’s chair, and perched there, peering over her shoulder at the book in her lap. The faded runes of the spell-book danced across the page in gold ink. “Now, listen closely and watch what happens.”

It said something in a sibilant whisper. Dora couldn’t quite understand the words, try as she might. But as she watched, the red clay baking dish on the hearth floated up into the air, flew across the room, and began to dunk itself in the washtub, splashing water merrily.

The girl stared, goggle-eyed. “How wonderful!”

“All right. Now you try it,” the felak said. “With those tea bowls. Repeat these syllables together: Re. Osum. Emosum. Tem.”

Dora formed the unfamiliar words haltingly, stumbling over the last one. She waited. But the tea bowls on the hearth sat there, immobile. Her feet tingled as though they were falling asleep. She stamped them, looked down, and gasped. A fine coating of purple fur was sprouting like new grass upon her toes and feet.

“What did I do wrong?” she cried.

The felak uttered a sound much like a human cackle. “The last word is Tem. One syllable. Just one. You gave it an extra one. Which happens to be the hirsute spell.” The felak laughed again. “What a lovely shade of purple fur that is,” it crowed. “I like the way it complements your hair.”

“Make it go away,” Dora wailed.

“Don’t you like it?” The felak shook its head. “I think it looks just fine.” The creature nodded in evident satisfaction, prowled around its cushion several times, sat down, and closed its eyes.

Dora stared in horror at her feet.

“Wait. You can’t go to sleep!” she cried. “Help me. Please! I don’t want furry feet!”

The felak snored gently.

Renno opened the front door and walked in carrying a bucket filled with water. He nearly dropped it when he saw the purple fur on Dora’s feet. “Child,” he gasped. “What have you done?”

Tears streamed down Dora’s cheeks. “Not me. It was the felak who did it.”

“What felak?”

“The wizard’s.”

The manservant frowned and scratched his head. “But he has no such beast.”

“It’s asleep on the chair.” Dora pointed at the triple-runged bench. But the cushion was empty, the felak gone.

Renno’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Child, I thought you couldn’t read runish.”

“It’s true. I don’t know anything about this magicking.” Dora stared woefully at her furry toes. “And what I’ve seen I don’t care for. But what will I do now?”

Renno shrugged. “Wait for the wizard to return. Clean the house and wait.”

Dora stared at the bench. There was no help coming from an empty cushion. Nor from Renno.

She was a practical child at heart. She sighed, picked up the broom, and set to work, reminding herself that an empty belly was even worse than a little purple fur.

As the first stars began their icy twinking in the twilight sky, Nestor returned. He was limping, his beard was singed, his eyebrows gone.

“Master!” Renno tucked his shoulder under the mage’s arm and half-carried Nestor to his fireside chair. He gestured at Dora. “Child, bring tea. Quickly.”

Nestor allowed himself to be helped out of his coat, out of his boots, and onto the well-padded chair. “Fool elves,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “First they set the woods ablaze. Then they dry up the riverbed. And while I’m busy quelling the flames, do they give me any help? Not a bit of it. They stand there giggling and pointing, like a flock of silly birds. Even when their own benighted nests were in danger of burning. The fools were too busy setting fires behind me to protect their own homes.” Nestor paused and took a long draught from the steaming tea bowl. “Ah, good. And that’s done. Now we’ll—” He stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Dora’s feet. His forehead creased in a frown. “Girl, what is the meaning of this?”

Dora tucked one leg behind the other in embarrassment. “T’weren’t me, sir. The felak did it.”

“Felak? Don’t be absurd. I haven’t had a felak here since before Renno was born.”

Her eyes locked with his. “If it’s invisible most of the time, how would you know when it’s here and when it isn’t?”

“Eh?” Nestor shook his head and chuckled. “You have a good point, there. Well, perhaps it was a felak. But what were you attempting to do?”

“Use a spell to clean the house.”

Nestor glanced quickly around the room. The cobwebs were gone. The windows sparkled as never before. “It appears you found your own spells. Perhaps one or two too many. I don’t suppose you want to keep that fur, do you?”

“Nossir.”

“I thought not.” The mage pointed toward the girl’s feet and uttered three harsh words which sounded something like: Ak-Sum-Re.

A tingling sensation swept through Dora’s feet. The fur was gone without a trace. The girl beamed at the wizard.

“In the future, be more careful around spells,” Nestor told her solemnly. He yawned, closed his eyes, and before Dora could thank him, he was asleep.

When the morning came, the mage’s legs and back were as stiff as the old floorboards. Nestor grunted, groaned, struggled to rise, and finally motioned for Dora to help him from his bed. “Gods, it’s no fun to get old,” he muttered. “Don’t do it, girl, if you can avoid it.”

He warmed himself by the fire while Dora fixed his breakfast. Gingerly, he partook of the fresh oatcakes and steaming milk. Nestor felt considerably better after his meal. He had work to do. Spells to read. The mage set both feet against the floor and rose slowly, straightening as he went. Pain shot up both his legs and crawled across his back. Gasping, Nestor sank into his seat.

“What’s wrong?” Dora said.

“Rheumatism,” Nestor said.

“Let me make you a salve. It’ll warm up your legs.”

The wizard fixed a skeptical eye on her. “A salve? And I suppose a dragon taught you medicine, yes?”

The girl gave him a defiant look. “As a matter of fact, no. I was scullery help to the apothecary in Physte. Learned a bit here and there.”

“Hmmph. Well, I’m willing to try anything to unknot these muscles and banish these aches. Mix your potions, child.”

Her expression turned anxious. “I’ll need blackroot, mannis weed, and tincture of lemonwort.”

“You’ll find some in the jars by the kitchen window. Just mind that you read the labels. If you know how to read.”

“I know what the herbs look like, well enough,” Dora said. “I don’t need to read. But how am I going to reach them? They’re on such a high shelf.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Nestor said. He chanted two words quickly. Three speckled stone canisters floated through the air and came to rest at Dora’s feet.

She crushed the herbs carefully in the wizard’s mortar and pestle, then mixed them with honey and paraffin to form a soothing balm.

“A-a-h,” Nestor sighed. His legs were warming, the pains and aches easing. “Better than magick.”

“You could use a hot bath,” Dora said.

“Later, girl. Later. I’ve got work to do. Weather to change. Rats to drive out of the baker’s storehouse …” The wizard’s words trailed off as he watched Dora struggle with the heavy stone canisters as she tried to replace them by the window. “That won’t do,” he said. “Not at all. Girl, you might as well learn a few useful household spells so I don’t end up having to do all the heavy lifting around here.”

“I don’t know—”

“Well, I do.” Nestor’s grey eyes glowed. “Sit down here and pay attention.”

Dora clambered onto the stool by his side.

“Now repeat this carefully: Cana Ferem Asturem.”

Dora spoke the words slowly, in a near-whisper. Nothing happened.

“Louder. And enunciate more clearly, girl. And elongate the first syllable.”

“Caa-na. Fe-er-em. A-a-s-turem.”

To Dora’s amazement, the canisters jumped back to their slots on the window ledge.

“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “It’s like singing them into place.”

Nestor nodded until his beard danced upon his chest. “In a way, I suppose it is.” He smiled as Dora instructed the milk bowl to place itself in the cabinet. He almost chuckled when she did the same with the mortar and pestle. But when the thatch-seat chair nearly knocked the mage down in its spell-induced haste to resume its position next to the fire, Nestor held up his hand. “Enough, child! This is serious work, not play. Now come along and I’ll teach you properly how to clean the house without draining all your energy. Or endangering me.”

Wizard and girl spent the remainder of the day side by side, practicing the odd words and ancient phrases. As Dora could not read, she was forced to learn the spells by sound, Nestor calling them out and Dora repeating carefully until she had committed them to memory. And in this manner she learned the spell for washing, for mixing, for drying, and even for baking.

“Don’t much care for that one,” she said. “I’ll burn the oatcakes with it.”

“Practice,” Nestor said. “Much practice makes all things easier.”

In the days that followed, Dora found that there was much truth in the mage’s words. Soon she had mastered the magic of the house and felt quite at ease instructing a cake to mix and bake itself, the flame tea to begin steeping, and the beds to air themselves on the front porch.

Renno, watching her work one morning, broke into a smile so deep that his face became a mass of wrinkles. “I’d say you’re a quick learner, girl,” he said. “Not such a bad apprentice after all.”

Nestor loomed up behind him, a scowl on his face. “Apprentice? What apprentice?” the wizard said. “She’s a housekeeper, Renno. I still need an apprentice.”

“But she’s done so well.”

“Oh, I’ll grant you that the house is clean. The laundry is dry. The oatcakes are fine. But any first-year kitchen witch could master those tricks. No, what I need is a proper apprentice. A tall boy to fetch my spell book, represent me at the town meeting, carry my staff. And before the convocation. We only have a few days. Renno, you’ll have to try the Sporvan market.”

The manservant shook his head. “There isn’t time, master. The Sporvan market doesn’t open until the day past Mass Day. And by then it’ll be too late. The convocation begins that same morning.”

Nestor made a sour face. “You’re right. By the stars, girl, I suppose you’ll have to do until after the convocation. Do you think you can learn a few more spells by Mass Day?”

“I don’t know,” Dora said. She gazed at the mage in despair. “I don’t think my poor head can hold much more.”

“Try,” Nestor said. “Try very hard. Or perhaps I’ll decide to give you a new head with a little more room in it—and green hair.”

Dora clutched at her red curls. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t tempt a wizard when he’s cranky, girl. Now come over here, be silent, and learn!”

For six mornings running, after Dora had finished her chores, she dutifully sat beside the mage and practiced the runes for basic magic. At first her spells misfired. More than once, Nestor was forced to cancel a spell in mid-strike to avoid burning the house down or turning every piece of wood in the house to iron. But finally, Dora could float the wizard’s ivory staff across the room, douse fire by summoning water from the ground, change spoons and knives into small silvery rodents, and cause empty boots to walk across the floor.

“She’s as ready as she’ll ever be,” Renno said.

“Yes, and I suppose she’s better than empty air. But she needs a proper cloak, Renno.”

“Aye, master. That she does.” Renno nodded. “My good wife can sew her a proper enough cloak from sapskin.”

“I think that should do,” Nestor said. “And make it blue, Renno.”

The manservant turned to stare at the wizard. “Blue?” he said. “Why blue? All your other apprentices wore black.”

“None of them were girls, were they? With blue eyes?” Nestor chuckled. “Blue it shall be, Renno. And no more backtalk.”

Master and servant exchanged silent smiles.

“Then I’ll be off,” Renno said. “Good day to you.” Whistling a cheerful melody, he hurried toward home.

The morning of the convocation dawned cold and crisp, with low, dark clouds that promised snow by midday.

Nestor squinted up at the sky. “Snow, eh?” he muttered. “We’ll see about that.” He threw off his white fur cloak and raised both arms high. In his right hand he grasped his burnished ivory staff. It glowed with an amber gleam as does honey in sunlight. Carefully, the mage inscribed circles with the staff. Then he brought its tip to rest sharply against the ground. With his free hand, Nestor gestured broadly, as if to encompass the entire grey bowl of the sky in his embrace.

“Qua-Sachem-Moree!” he cried and his voice was like summer thunder. “Sheft-Kazem-Bansin!”

A dazzling sunbeam split the gloom like a golden knife. Then another. The clouds were rent to tatters by sunlight. Swiftly they dispersed and the sun shone merrily in a bright blue sky. A winter bird filled the air with fluting notes. It would be a clear, beautiful day.

“That’s better,” Nestor said. He scratched his stomach thoughtfully. The scent of fresh-baked oatcakes came to him, drawing him back into the house.

“Breakfast first,” he said. “Then we’ll see about the wizards’ convocation.”

“Will every great wizard in the four quarters be there?” Dora wanted to know.

“From the four quarters and beyond,” Nestor said. “So look sharp, girl. And mind that tongue of yours. Apprentices should be seen, not heard.” He munched contentedly. When he was finished, his plate and cup whisked themselves away. Dora and Renno had eaten hours before.

Dora appeared in a sky-colored cloak. She grinned eagerly and pirouetted before the mage.

“Very pretty,” Renno said.

“Don’t go swelling her head,” Nestor said.

Dora laughed. “But then I would have more room for spells, wouldn’t I?”

Nestor cleared his throat although it sounded much like smothered laughter. “Let’s be off,” he said. “Renno, watch the house until we return. Child, take my hand.”

Silent winds seemed to converge upon them from all corners, sending their clothes billowing and hair flying. The walls of the house faded, faded, and for a moment they were in a strange white space. Then dark walls sprang up around them, heavy with old wood, stained by smoke. Nestor and Dora found themselves in the midst of a fine banquet hall. And all around them were wizards in a rainbow of cloaks.

“Nestor,” called one with a thick red beard. “Well met.”

“Annesh,” Nestor said. “And Rovard.”

A short wizard whose hairless head shone in the firelight winked at him. “A fine day, thanks to you.”

All were carrying staffs and talking boisterously. Two young mages floated in mid-air, juggling spheres of blue light high above the heads of those assembled. In the corner, a tall wizard in a green cloak began shape-changing: he became a golden dragon whose eyes glittered with red fire, then a white, winged horse with a silver mane, and next a strange beast with clawed feet and green fur.

Dora watched, wide-eyed. She could scarcely hear herself think for the noise. Shyly, she peered at the other apprentices. They were dark-robed boys who towered over her—young giants they seemed, and so much older, so much wiser. With lordly confidence they walked behind their masters, nodding at one another and sharing occasional jests. With great reluctance, Dora threw back her hood. Her red-gold hair glowed in the firelight.

All talk ceased. The assembled wizards and apprentices, the mages and servants, all stared at Dora as though they’d never seen such a sight before.

“Ho, Nestor!” called the hairless wizard named Rovard. A broad smile lit his face. “What’s this? A girl for an apprentice? You must be joking.”

Nestor drew himself up with enormous dignity. “It’s no joke. Why not a girl? She’s quick and nimble.”

“But such tiny hands,” Rovard said.

Annesh nodded until his red beard danced from side to side. “Next we’ll be seeing felaks and sphinxes.”

All laughed. But above the merry din, one voice rang out, sour and loud.

“So, greybeard! I see you are just as foolish as ever. I can’t believe you felt worthy enough to come to this meeting. You should be at home, by the hearth.”

Again, the room grew silent.

Nestor turned, grey eyes flaring blue with anger.

The speaker was a man of medium build with dark black hair, a mustache, goatee, and eyes the color of ice. He wore a grey cloak with a full hood lined by dark fur.

“Dalbaeth,” Nestor said. “I had hoped we would not meet.”

“And so you have been saying since the day you tricked my father and claimed victory,” Dalbaeth said. His voice was icy with disdain. “You are afraid that I’ll best you.”

“I don’t fear what isn’t possible,” Nestor said. He turned to move away.

Dalbeath stepped in front of him and set his black staff down firmly against the brick floor. “I challenge.”

Nestor froze. His eyes glinted with blue fire.

“Don’t be foolish,” Annesh said heatedly. “The contest between Nestor and your father was settled years ago, Dalbaeth. Don’t prolong this grudge.”

“And for long years I have wanted an opportunity to regain the family’s honor,” Dalbaeth said. His cold gaze never once left Nestor’s face.

Nestor nodded sharply. “As you will,” he said. “It’s best that we settle this matter now.”

Everyone began speaking at once. The room filled with voices shouting both protest and approval.

Above the din, Rovard alone could be heard. “Not here,” he bellowed. “You must resolve your differences away from this gathering in a secluded place. None may be endangered, none may observe, and none may aid.”

“Of course,” Nestor said. “I propose the Ganz Valley beyond the river knoll.”

“Acceptable,” Dalbaeth said. “When?”

Nestor met his gaze squarely. “Now.”

His eyes still on Dalbaeth, Nestor spoke five words very quickly.

The room spun around them, walls blurring to white. Then the walls fell away and the two wizards were standing in the midst of a broad meadow lined by tall, leafless trees. A cool wind whispered above, bearing the chill breath of winter.

“What is that child doing here?” Dalbaeth demanded.

Nestor spun around to find Dora sitting on the ground behind him.

“Girl! You weren’t to accompany me. Why didn’t you remain in the hall?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you moved so quickly there wasn’t time for me to get free. I couldn’t help but cling to your robe and be carried along.”

“I’ll send you back,” he said.

“No, please,” Dora said. “I want to stay.”

Nestor’s brows knotted in a frown. “This isn’t any place for children.”

“I’m your apprentice.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You said so yourself.”

Dalbaeth roared with laughter. “A girl for an apprentice, Nestor. How appropriate. And next I suppose you’ll train a mule to do spells?”

Nestor’s eyes flashed. “Have it your way, girl. Stay, then. But keep back and guard yourself.” He pointed to a jumble of green rocks to one side of the meadow. “Get out of the way.”

Dora peered around the side of a slippery smooth boulder. It felt like green ice under her fingers.

The two wizards squared off. For a moment, all time seemed suspended. Both men were motionless, each watching the other. Only the voice of the wind could be heard, sighing in the dry yellow grass.

As though a signal had been given, each man leaned toward the other.

Dalbaeth held his hands above his head and lightning sprang from his fingers.

Nestor roared an oath which rendered the lightning into fireflies that flashed and sparkled a moment before dispersing on the wind.

Without pause, Dalbaeth shouted another spell, and before his voice had died away an answering thunder rocked the meadow. With a terrible ripping sound, the ground beneath Nestor’s feet wrenched open.

Nestor fell, desperately grasping at the ragged edge of the chasm to slow his descent. And as he did so, he whistled a charm. His robes rippled wildly. Two broad, white wings appeared upon his back. With much effort, the mage beat his way into the sky, up and away from the threat. A guttural chant gave him an enormous gryphon’s head. Nestor inhaled once and began to spit fireballs at his rival.

Dalbaeth held up his hands to shield himself. But his beard was singed by the first shot. Cursing, he summoned a giant mirror from a blade of grass, and held it directly before him. The mirror was angled in such a way that Nestor’s winged reflection appeared in its silvery-green depths. And now, each deadly fireball Nestor launched hit the mirror and was repulsed—right back at its source.

A wild ricochet caught Nestor’s left wing. In a moment the feathers were ash. Feebly flapping his remaining wing, the mage plummeted to the ground. He struck hard and lay still upon the cold stiff grass. The remaining wing and gryphon’s head disappeared.

Dora, watching everything, cried out in horror.

With a nod of satisfaction, Dalbaeth tossed the mirror into thin air where it vanished. He hurried toward the fallen mage and stood over him, his arms held wide.

“Come, spirit of earth,” he cried. “Cover this wretch with stone. Imprison him forever.”

“No,” Dora cried. “No!”

She had to stop him. But how? He was an all-powerful wizard who could control the very elements. All she knew were some household spells. And a felak’s trick. Her heart beat quickly at the thought. The felak’s spell, yes.

Gasping, she whispered the syllables in quick succession.

Nothing happened.

Dora repeated the spell once more. And then again.

Dalbaeth coughed. He sneezed. Purple fur sprouted on his chin, his hands, even his boot tops. He was covered from head to foot with a coat of purple fur. It was in his eyes, in his nose, even in his mouth. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Choking, the wizard fell to the dry ground, uttering muffled curses.

Nestor rose up on one arm, saw what was happening, and gestured with his staff.

A huge iron cage, glowing with unearthly fires, formed around Dalbaeth. The fur-covered wizard scarcely noticed.

For a moment, Nestor sagged to the ground.

“Master,” Dora called. “You’ve won. We must leave.”

Nodding weakly, Nestor gestured and drew Dora to him. With another odd motion, he brought them both surging back out of the cold wind and into the noisy, smoke-filled wizards’ convocation in Little Harbor.

“Nestor,” cried Annesh. “You have returned! So quickly. Where is Dalbaeth?”

Nestor opened his mouth to speak. But no voice came forth.

The old mage gasped for air and fell backwards. If not for Annesh’s strong arms and quick reflexes, Nestor would have fallen, senseless, to the polished brick floor of the hall.

“Air! The man has fainted!” Annesh roared. “Give him air! And bring the herbalist.”

A tall, thin man with two grey braids approached at a run. He knelt quickly over Nestor and examined the fallen mage carefully. He rose, shaking his head.

“Nestor is old. Very old,” the herbalist said. “He has overextended his powers and is rendered impotent. Mute.”

Dora bit her lip in despair. “Forever?” she said.

“I do not know,” the herbalist said sadly. “Perhaps with time he will recover.”

Annesh patted Dora on the head. “Child, it’s not fair to you to be apprenticed to an incapacitated wizard. I shall arrange for a more appropriate master. Or would you prefer a witch as mistress?”

A witch as mistress! Dora hesitated in confusion. “I don’t know. Haven’ t thought much about it. A witch, you say? That might be nice. But what will happen to Nestor?”

“You leave him to us. Now run along and have something to eat,” Annesh said. “We’ll arrange for your transfer afterwards.” He shooed her out the door and into a crowded dining hall filled with dark-robed apprentices.

Dora filled a plate with roasted meat and orange sugar bread, and took a place at the far end of the farthest long table. No one looked at her. No one spoke to her. She stared at the food. Chewed a mouthful of bread without tasting it.

She put down her knife. Stood up, left her plate on the table, and hurried from the room.

The great hall was empty. She ran through it, her footsteps echoing, until she found a smaller room off to the side, near the main entrance.

Nestor lay within by the fire. He was stiff and silent, staring glumly into the flames. At the sound of her footsteps he gazed up. His eyes were the color of blue ice.

She could not leave him. Would not. Annesh would understand.

Nestor sat up, scowling.

“Want to go home?” Dora said.

He nodded wanly.

“Well, let’s go then.” She gestured impatiently.

Nestor shook his head. His lips moved but no sound came from them.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You can’t talk, can you?” She gave the old wizard a smile that was half exasperated, half affectionate. “And you didn’t teach me any spells for transport, did you?”

Her only reply was a look of disgust.

With a sigh, Dora fixed her blue hood into place over her bright hair and sealed her cloak against the cold. “Come along, then. I’ll see about hiring a horse. And so much for the grand power of magicks.”

Nestor rose slowly and sealed his cloak tightly about him.

Dora reached for his arm. For a moment, the old mage pulled back, eyes blazing. Then he shrugged.

And together, hand in hand, the old wizard and his apprentice set off for home.