Nature's Servant (11 page)

Gaspi released his power and pressed a hand against the newly-grown moss. It was soft to the touch and sprung back against his hand. The beds were deep and promised to be very comfortable.
“What do you reckon?” Gaspi asked.

Hephistole wore a delighted smile.
“Perfect,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “Absolutely perfect!”

“
Anything else?” he asked.

“No I think you’
ve done more than enough,” he said. “No-one will ever have slept more comfortably in the forest than we will tonight!”

“We still need to eat though,” Gaspi said. He’
d half-expected Hephistole to ask him to find a way to get some food too.

“That’
s one thing we don’t need to magic up,” Hephistole said. “I brought enough for the journey from my own larder. I must confess to being a very choosy eater.”

“
Fair enough,” Gaspi said.

“
You sit back and relax, young mage, and leave the feast to me.”

Gaspi was woken up the next day by the most incredible smell. He groaned comfortably and shifted on his bed of moss. He peered bleary eyed into the brightness of the brand new day to find Hephistole bent over the fire, cheerfully cooking what smelt like sausages and eggs. Pushing the blanket aside Gaspi forced himself to sit up.

“That smells good,” he mumbled, still befuddled by sleep. It had been the kind of deep, dreamless sleep he only got every now and again, and that always took a while to shake off.
             

“It does, doesn’t it?” Hephistole said with evident satisfaction. “Looks like we made some friends,” he added, looking significantly towards the edge of the grove. Gaspi looked around and drew a sharp breath in amazement. While he’d been asleep, woodland creatures had gathered all around the edge of the glade. A doe sat on the ground, legs folded under her, blinking gently at him in the morning light. A badger lifted itself from its resting place against a tree, shuffled over to another shady spot and dropped to the grass again. A family of rabbits gambolled playfully, tumbling over each other with boundless energy. Birds filled the branches, chirping brightly and flitting from place to place.

“Wow!” Gaspi exclaimed. “Why are they all here?”

“I think it’s your magic,” Hephistole said. “It draws them.” Gaspi looked around in quiet amazement. He stretched out a hand to the doe and hummed gently, magically infusing the melody with an assurance of safety. She rose gracefully to her hind feet and pushed up with her forelegs until she was upright. With delicate steps she moved across the clearing to him. Filled with wonder, he reached out a hand, letting her nuzzle him. A loud clanging sound made him jump. The doe sprang away, and as if this was some kind of signal, all the creatures turned tail and ambled or bounded away. As one, the birds took flight and winged away into the morning. He turned to find Hephistole standing frozen, his shoulders drawn up tight, an empty hand held out before him. He winced apologetically.

“Sorry, I dropped a tin,” he said. The sight was so funny Gaspi couldn’t be angry at him. He broke into a hearty chuckle, and the chancellor relaxed, breaking into a broad smile.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gaspi said. “If my magic draws creatures like that it’ll happen again.”

“Very perspicacious of you,” Hephistole said. “Now how about some breakfast?” 

“Absolutely,” Gaspi answered, not bothering to ask what perspicacious meant. The food smelled so good his mouth was watering.

Hephistole piled the sausages and eggs onto a couple of plates, and poured two cups of steaming tea from a silver tea pot. Gaspi gratefully took the plate and cup Hephistole offered him, along with a silver knife and fork. He skewered a sausage, dipping it in egg yolk before lifting it to his mouth. It was delicious. Hot, fragrant juices ran over his tongue as he bit into the meat, perfectly accompanied by rich, sticky egg yolk. He took a sip of the tea, which tasted of fresh and lively things. Gaspi thought that if sunshine had a flavour, this would be it. Travelling with Hephistole certainly had its benefits!

As he’d discovered the previous night, Hephistole’s cooking equipment was enchanted to clean itself, so when he’d finished his breakfast, all they had to do was pack it away.

“Time to get moving,” Hephistole said cheerfully. They untied the horses from the tree and hooked them back up to the cart.

“Shall I put it back the way it was?” Gaspi asked, looking at the altered grove with its thick canopy of branches and its mossy beds.

“No,” Hephistole answered. “Magic leaves a residue, but your magic is fundamentally tied to the health of the land so I can’t see it doing any harm. Put out the fire of course, but otherwise let’s leave it as it is.” Gaspi threaded power into the glowing remains of the fire, cooling it down until all the heat had fled, and then they were ready to go.

They set off down the hill, leaving the magically altered grove behind, and soon re
-joined the wider track leading them westwards. It was a warm, windy day, and the travellers were buffeted with gusts of ground-heated air, making conversation too much of an effort. After a blustery hour or so, Hephistole decided he’d had enough of the wind and summoned a shield to go in front of the cart. It redirected the wind to either side of them, and the going was much more pleasant after that. They soon left the last traces of cultivation behind them and pressed on into increasingly wild terrain. The tree line stretched down to the edges of the plain, and their track cut through the edges of untamed forest.

Gaspi was enjoying the ride, chatting with the ever-talkative Hephistole. Unlike many older people he knew, Hephistole always treated him as an equal. Jonn had always treated Gaspi as an equal too, but that was more understandable. Someone like the chancellor, with all his knowledge and power, had less reason to be so respectful. Then again, Gaspi supposed, it was Hephistole’s curiosity about people that was partly responsible for his great knowledge. Whatever the reason for Hephistole’s attitude, it made for an enjoyable journey, with the chancellor asking and answering questions in equal measure.

Gaspi found out a lot about him as they rode. He’d grown up the son of a fisherman on the Aldean coast, a far flung region of the continent of Antropel, many hundreds of miles distant from Helioport. His mother had died while he was young, and his childhood memories were mostly of riding the turbulent waves of the Widow’s Grief Cape with his father, helping out as a cabin boy when he was small and then as a deckhand when he began to approach manhood. His magic had emerged in the midst of a fierce storm, when a rogue wave swept over the decks of their boat, pulling his father towards the edge of the broken bulwark. Desperate to save him, the young Hephistole had reached out with power he didn’t even know he had, catching him as he was about to slide overboard and pulling him back to safety. Like all young magicians discovering their power, it had happened instinctively. He didn’t know how he’d done it, but he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

When they made it back to port Hephistole told his father what had happened, but his father refused to listen, mired as he was in the superstitions of his rural upbringing. The small fishing village they lived in was deeply sceptical about magic and didn’t welcome its practitioners, but however much his father wanted to deny what had happened, Hephistole’s powers couldn’t be suppressed for much longer. During the weeks following the storm, his magic found a hundred different expressions: a broken mug was no longer broken; the small house they lived in was suddenly clean of dust the moment Hephistole started the chores; fish that should have rotted stayed unnaturally fresh on a long voyage. None of it was deliberate, but Hephistole’s father grew increasingly angry, blaming his son for the unwelcome presence of magic in their home.

Hephistole had felt the strong bonds he’d once shared with his father become strained; stretching so thin they threatened to break altogether. And then one day they finally snapped. Hephistole had been cleaning the nets with his father, wishing the arduous chore would be over, and without warning, he felt the familiar surge of power and they were completely clean. His father had stormed into the house without a word. Terrified, Hephistole had stood by the now clean nets, unsure whether to follow his father or to run away. The choice was taken from him as his father came back out of the house with a full backpack and a closed, metal tin. Seeing the tin pushed Hephistole from fear to panic.

Without meeting his son’s eyes he shoved the bag into Hephistole’s arms. “You’ve got everything you need in there,” he said. He opened the tin and poured the contents into his large, calloused hand. Several large silver coins and some smaller copper ones fell into his palm. “Hold out your hand!” he said roughly.

Hephistole didn’t move, terrified of what was happening. “Da…” he began.

Hephistole saw tears swim in his father’s eyes, but the old fisherman refused to look at his son. “Hold out your hand!” he said more forcefully. Hephistole had opened his hand obediently, and his father stuffed the coins into it. “Now go, and never come back,” he said, turning his back on his son and walking stiff-necked into the house, shutting the door firmly behind him, the lock snapping closed with a terrible finality.

Hephistole had banged on the door for hours, but his father never emerged. He’d slept against the door overnight, weeping sorrowfully. He swore over and over he’d never do magic again, that he’d win back his father’s affection, but when his father opened the door the next morning, stinking of whisky and stale sweat, he’d stepped over his pleading son as if he didn’t exist and gone out to sea.

Something had broken in Hephistole then, and he’d wandered blindly out of the village and into the wilds. Inconsolable, he’d staggered along the main road leading inland until he was picked up by a kindly stranger taking his goods to market. The stranger had taken him in for a few days, and the young Hephistole had poured his heart out to him. The kindly man had taken him to a distant town, where magic was tolerated, and handed him over to one of the town healers – always the first branch of magic to be accepted in any community. It was there that Hephistole learned about the College of Collective Magicks and had begun the much longer journey that had eventually led him to the gates of Helioport.

Gaspi was deeply affected by Hephistole’s story. Until that moment the chancellor had seemed invulnerable – an iconic picture of strength – but imagining him as a young man, rejected by his family and in such terrible pain, shed an entirely different light on the energetic, intelligent man he knew.

Hephistole didn’t seem to be upset after telling his story, so Gaspi felt free to ask questions. “Did you ever see your father again?” he asked.

“Once,” Hephistole answered, staring off into the distance. “Several years after completing my studies, but before I became chancellor, I took a trip back home to see if I could find him. He was still there, living in the cottage I’d grown up in, but he was a shell of the man I remembered. He’d been drinking heavily and didn’t recognise me. The house was a mess and his boat was rotting on the quayside. I went inside with him and cooked him a meal and saw to some of the untended cuts on his arms and legs. I couldn’t decide whether to reveal who I was or not, but at one point in his ramblings he talked fiercely about magic, and how it had ruined his life and driven him to drink. He told me about his unworthy son, who’d taken up the filthy practice, and left him without anyone to pass his trade onto.”

Gaspi’s eyes filled with tears as Hephistole talked. This was far worse than anything that had happened to him. He’d lost his parents tragically when very young, but when he’d first shown his magical ability, his best friends and his guardian had been right behind him, and had even changed the course of their lives to support him.

“I knew then that I couldn’t tell him,” Hephistole continued, real sadness in his voice for the first time since starting to tell his story. “I put him to bed to sleep off his stupor and that’s the last I saw of him. I paid one of his neighbours to look in on him from time to time and do what she could for him, and she swore to never tell him why she did so. A year or so later I received a letter from her telling me my father had passed away in his sleep.”

“I’m sorry Hephistole,” Gaspi said, touching the chancellor’s elbow briefly.

Hephistole looked at Gaspi gratefully. “Thank you Gaspi,” he said. “Your compassion becomes you but it’s important never to wish away the sad and difficult times in your life. They are part of what makes us who we are – not the difficulties so much, but how we respond to them. I’m sure you can tell that this sad time in my life has not left me unable to find joy,” he said, his eyes regaining a hint of their usual sparkle. Gaspi smiled but didn’t say anything, not fully understanding what the chancellor was saying. Had the difficult times in his own life made him a better person? He wasn’t sure.

They travelled on through the day, chatting about less consequential things and after a while the trail led them back into the forest again. As the passed under the shadow of the trees, a waft of something foul made Gaspi wrinkle his nose. The horses whinnied nervously, and Hephistole brought the team to an abrupt halt. “Do you smell that?” he asked, looking around with wary eyes.

“Yes,” Gaspi answered. It was faint, but it was a smell that spoke of such putrefaction that it brought an acid sting to the back of his throat. The stench passed, and his nostrils were filled again with the smell of summer grasses and hot, dry soil.