Aquamancer (mancer series Book 2) (10 page)

“Good for you!” cried Marbleheart. “Do either of you want some of these freshwater oysters? They’re delicious!”

The Journeyman and the Stallion said, “No, thanks.”

Marbleheart fell to pounding the oyster shells furiously on his pink marble disk, making such a racket that Finnerty nudged Douglas with his muzzle and they walked slowly up the bank to a slight rise where they could see the river for some miles in both directions.

“We don’t usually care to be ridden, now, you see. I guess we have become somewhat feral over the years. But I feel that we, once servants of the Light in a small way, should offer to help you on your mission. I would be willing to carry you on my back—”

“No, no, thank you, and I really do appreciate it, Finnerty. There are several reasons why I refuse your very kind offer. Our gondola, not being a live thing, can be sacrificed to circumstances if the need arises. It’s quite fast and comfortable, and never gets hoof weary or needs fodder. Besides, I should think your mares and the new foals, when they come—I notice several of your ladies are expecting—will need the freedom of the Savannahs and your protection.”

“There
is
that,” agreed the horse, with some relief. “But if you had needed us, we would be willing and happy to oblige.”

“Thank you,” repeated the Journeyman sincerely. “Stay here and keep an eye on any other travelers going up Bloody Brook. Is there a way you could send word to me if, say, more Black Witches come along?”

The horse considered this for a moment, then nodded.

“Yes, we are on friendly terms with the Whooping Cranes and the Teals, who make their summer homes in Wide Marsh.

They would be pleased to carry word to you, anywhere you might be in Old Kingdom.”

Marbleheart, having had his breakfast of oysters, was waiting when they returned to the boat, and Douglas prepared at once to shove off.

“Have a safe and fruitful voyage,” called the Savannah Horses. “Come to visit us again!”

“I wouldn’t want to go against
them
in a fight,” said the Otter, settling down on the middle thwart while the Wizard plied the long sweep. “Such great, frightening beasts! Only the Walruses of the Briney are more imposing and fierce looking.”

“But the Horses were most kind and hospitable,” objected Douglas, setting the gondola into midstream. Their speed left a foaming wake behind them.

“So are the Walruses, generally,” said the other, sleepily. “It’s just that they
look
rather intimidating.”

Douglas scanned the river as far ahead as he could see. It remained very wide, still rather slow and deep, but straight running across the grassy plain. Far ahead these grasslands ended at a line of dark forest which came down to the water’s edge on both banks. Its dark band marched to the horizons both to the north and south.

“We’ll spend tonight in the forest, I think,” he told the dozing Otter. “Looks like an oak wood, mostly.”

“I wouldn’t know an oak from an acorn,” murmured Marbleheart.

“You’ll learn soon enough,” said Douglas. “I wonder what Myrn is doing this beautiful morning.”

****

In the sunny stone-flagged courtyard of Augurian’s Waterand Palace that afternoontide, Myrn struggled with a very difficult spell. If performed properly, it allowed her to lift, move about, and balance in midair a great, crystalline globe of water. Augurian had set her the task and left her to practice the required skills by herself.

“Concentration is most important,” he had reminded her before he hastily left for other, drier parts.

She began the spell carefully enough but, as she was thinking of Douglas and of being at Wizards’ High, her concentration was not as deep as it should have been. The globe of water wobbled and distorted erratically, bulging from side to side, then flew apart into sparkling droplets and doused her with sun-warmed water.

“Bother!”
sputtered the drenched Apprentice.
“Drat and sturm!”

“Ah, ah, ah!” cautioned a laughter-filled voice behind her. Spinning about angrily, she beheld Flarman Flowerstalk in brown traveling robes brushing water drops from his beard.

“Magister!” cried the Flowring lass, delightedly. “You’re here at last! I’m so sorry about the wetting!”

“It’s just harmless water. Now, if it had been fire...Well, I’m glad to find you immersed in your studies,” said Flarman, trying to look very serious about it all and failing completely. “Mooning over a certain runaway Journeyman, too, I surmise.”

“Douglas is not a runaway!” Myrn insisted, snatching up a towel from a nearby bench and rubbing her long, black hair vigorously.

“Joshing only, my wet, pet Apprentice!” Flarman said with a deep roar of a laugh. “No, perhaps not, but I haven’t heard a word from him since he left Westongue myself, and I wonder if you’ve done better.”

“The last letter he wrote from Thornwood’s Sea House in Westongue,” said Myrn, giving the Fire Wizard a loving hug and a kiss and a dry corner of her towel. “Shouldn’t we ask Deka the Wraith to check up on him? He may need help, even now!”

Augurian, hearing their voices in the fountain court, hurried down from his Water Tower workroom, smiling broadly, to welcome his oldest and best friend and fellow Wizard.

“I have to keep her under tight rein or she would go dashing off to ‘check on’ that Journeyman of yours,” he told Flarman. “And her studies...”

“Am I that bad?” wailed Myrn, looking truly downcast. “I try so very hard!”

“No, no, you’re really very good and a remarkably apt pupil of magic. You just let your thoughts wander once in a while, like a moment ago.”

“Oh, dear, did you see that? I almost had it.”

“Good! Good, better, and best! How about some lunch, friends?” said Flarman. “Magically transporting so much mass is conducive to a large appetite.”

He plucked three handfuls of water from the fountain and sent them spinning in slow orbits about his head. Augurian applauded mockingly—the two Wizards constantly teased and tested each other about the relative merits of each one’s specialty—and Myrn giggled in spite of herself.

“After lunch we’ll get to work on Frigeon’s foul enchantment of the Busibodies of Blowheart, or whatever they’re called,” said the Fire Wizard, making the water balls change colors rapidly in turn, azure blue and magenta and bright green, and fly about him in three different directions at once.

“Always thinking of your stomach!” admonished Augurian. “Fortunately, Myrn had no hand in preparing lunch.”

“I can cook rings around our Wateranders!” exclaimed Myrn. ‘They think all great cuisine consists of coconuts, sweet potatoes, fish and pork roasted whole, wrapped in savory leaves and buried under a bonfire in wet sand!”

“Flarman may test you on that one day soon,” warned her Master. “Come now! I must admit seeing Flarman’s ample girth makes me think of food also.”

Flarman swirled the three bright globules of water high over their heads and let them arc down into the fountain basin to the sound of a minor-key musical chord, instead of dull plops.

They strolled arm in arm across the courtyard to enter the Grand Reception Hall. On the terrace beyond, sarong-clad servants were swiftly setting a table for three in the shade of a mauve-and-blue-striped awning.

“I think we’ll hear report from Douglas when he reaches Pfantas and finds our friend Cribblon, no sooner,” said Flarman to soothe Myrn and reassure Augurian. “Until then, he has just to behave himself and enjoy his travels through interesting new lands.”

“I somehow doubt it will be all that easy,” said the Apprentice Water Adept. “I looked it up and asked some questions of the few people who know about Kingdom since the end of Last Battle. Bloody Brook can be treacherous in more ways than one, they all agreed. And since Last Battle, strange things have happened to the people and their land.”

 “Then you won’t be surprised if we don’t hear from the Journeyman today?” teased Flarman.

“No, not surprised. Furious! We’d better hear from him by month’s end,” Myrn said, seriously. “Journeyman’s journeying or not, I’m not going to let anything happen to that man!”

“Nor are we, pretty Apprentice,” said Augurian. “Pass the salt, please.”

Chapter Seven

Faerie Forest and Battleground

Night and the outliers of the great oak forest came abeam at about the same moment. The river plunged in under the ancient oak trees, which arched over it like a black roof to a lightless tunnel.

The forest has an air of watchfulness, neither menacing nor benevolent,
Douglas felt in his bones.

“It were best,” recommended Marbleheart, who also felt the watchfulness of the forest, “if we put off going into the woods until daylight. It’ll be deep-Sea dark, even at noontide in there.”

“You’re right, of course,” said the Journeyman Wizard, swinging the bow of their boat over to the right bank. “I could easily light our way, but why call anyone’s attention to ourselves? It’s time to get some sleep and have a bite to eat, anyway.”

“I’ve already eaten,” Marbleheart said. “Crayfish cocktail and watercress salad! Yummm!”

Douglas was content with Waybread and the last bit of
Pitchfork’s
dried Valley beef. He built a small, hidden fire, mostly for company as the night air was warm, and turned his pocket handkerchief into a soft, woolly-warm blanket with the familiar, old spell remembered from his first journeyings with Flarman.

“No need for a tent in this weather,” he told the Otter, who was standing by, wide eyed as always at the young Wizard’s everyday magicking.

They sat in companionable silence, listening to the night bird calls and the croaking of frogs on the river marge. After a while, the Otter turned to Douglas.

“How does this forest feel to you, Douglas?”

The young man sat very still and breathed deeply.

“There is a presence here, I deem,” he said at last. “What do
you
feel, Marbleheart? Animals are supposed to be more sensitive to such things.”

The Otter trotted to the edge of the circle of light about their fire and stared off into the dark toward the great, spreading trees.

“A presence, definitely. A watcher, I’d say.”

“Not especially hostile, but definitely watchful,” agreed the Wizard. “Maybe I should...”

He drew a leather case from his right sleeve, opened it, and studied its contents. Looking over his shoulder, the Otter saw the case was sectioned with loops of colored silk tape. In each loop nested a glass vial the size of a man’s little finger. Some were filled with powders: white or colored, fine or coarse. Others held clear or cloudy liquids, in many muted or bright colors. Some glowed faintly in the dark and others seemed to bubble or swirl slowly around and around in their vials.

After studying their cryptic labels, Douglas carefully selected two of them; one of coarse white crystals, the other half-filled with an oily, greenish liquid.

“These should do it,” he decided. Placing the vials on a flat place on the ground, he carefully unstoppered each, and allowed a drop of the liquid to fall on his palm and even more carefully dusted the greenish droplet with three tiny crystals.

“Exactly a scant smidgen,” he explained to the Otter. ‘Too much will ruin the spell.”

“Oh?” asked Marbleheart in awe. “What next?”

“This,” said Douglas.

He extended his hand over the middle of the fire and allowed the green globule, which had hardened into a tiny pebble of green with white striations, to drop into the hottest part of the fire.

The pebble grew larger at once, floating in the smoke and heat of the fire like a toy balloon, until it suddenly burst with a musical
ping.

“I understand you are looking for information?” said a tiny Firefly, its tail flashing green, settling on Douglas’s left hand, where the chemicals had been mixed.

“Yes, please, if you will be so kind,” Douglas replied, unsurprised.

“Hoy!” exclaimed Marbleheart. He peered curiously at Firefly, who in return blinked his light in polite interest

“Fire creatures are always at a Fire Wizard’s beck and call,” said the Firefly. “I’m proud to be of assistance to the pupil of Flarman Firemaster.”

“We travel up Bloody Brook,” explained Douglas. “Through the dark oak forest and far beyond. Is there something we should know about this forest before we enter it?”

“You’re right, of course,” said Firefly, beaming brightly. “This is the Forest of Forgetfulness, or
Craylor Wendys
in the Faerie tongue. My family has lived here since long before there was the Kingdom War. We lighted the way for those who went out each night of Last Battle to recover dead and wounded and those driven out of sanity during the dreadful fighting.”

“Forest of Forgetfulness? I don’t seem to have run across that in my lessons,” said Douglas.

“It’s one of the oldest forests of Faerie that were planted in the Very Beginning,” said the tiny fly, solemnly. “You’ve never heard anything about them because no one who goes into one, uninvited, can remember being there when he comes out. If he comes out, that is.”

“Is there a way to go through and not lose your memory?” Marbleheart asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s very simple! Go and politely ask permission to enter, and it’s almost always given.”

“And if we don’t?” asked Marbleheart with morbid curiosity.

“You’ll forget you ever were here, along with most of everything else you really care to remember.”

“The danger is very great, you see,” Douglas explained to his companion. “You might forget how to swim or that you like to eat.”

“That’s terrible! Who do we ask permission of, friend Firefly?”

“At the near edge of the forest, on this side of the river, stands a hollow Sentinel Oak, a dozen yards apart from all the others. It’s extremely old, and inside lives a family of Woodland Elves who serve Faerie as wardens. Knock at the opening and when the Elf warden answers, politely ask him to obtain for you permission to pass through the Forest of Forgetfulness. Faeries are real sticklers for protocol.”