“Good, very good,” Ambriel smiled, absently stroking his whiskered chin with one hand as he peered at the object in Lynaelle’s grasp. She smiled briefly to herself as she looked at him, crouched as he was upon the granite outcropping where they were studying, a coil of rope before him on the stone, He kept his cloak, the same sky-blue color as his eyes, wrapped about himself, for the air held a chill this late in the summer, even at the peak of a sunny afternoon.
To most, Ambriel still seemed impossibly spry for his age, but Lynaelle had begun to notice little changes that hinted otherwise. Their walks through the woods never seemed to last as long as they once did, and his lessons on magic with her came less frequently. Mostly, she had begun to notice where the lines in his face had deepened and multiplied. He’s getting old, the back of her mind whispered, but she ignored it and concentrated on the lesson.
“Now, the rest.” His voice was deep and rich against the hushed roar of the tumbling water at their feet. “Say the words slowly and clearly.”
Lynaelle nodded again and rose to her feet, positioning herself so that the coil of rope was directly in front of her. She focused inwardly for a moment, concentrating, as she held the looped parchment before her. Then she began to speak, firmly citing words in an arcane tongue, As she formed the final syllables, she held her other hand up, palm to the sky, and blew a bit of cornstarch she had been grasping so that it passed through the twisted loop and settled on the coil of rope. She shivered, that now-familiar tingle engulfing her, as the incantation opened magical connections both within and around her body. She watched expectantly as the rope began to uncoil, one end climbing magically upward toward a dark, shimmering opening that appeared for an instant in the sun-dappled air.
A deluge of water suddenly cascaded from the sky, crashing directly into Lynaelle and knocking her off- balance. She stumbled backward from the rock and fell into the icy stream, toppling onto her back and submerging. The torrent of water continued to slam into her, pinning her under the surface, and Lynaelle flailed about in a panic, unable to breathe. She inadvertently swallowed several mouthfuls of both icy fresh water and warmer salt water before she managed to roll to one side and escape the deluge. Just as quickly as the torrent of water had appeared, it vanished, leaving Lynaelle on her hands and knees in the stream, thoroughly drenched and shivering from cold.
Lynaelle crawled from the stream onto shore, wiping water from her face and trying to catch her breath. She barely noticed Ambriel standing safely upon the bank of the stream, still clutching his spellbook. He gaped incredulously into the open air where the magical doorway had been spewing water only seconds before. All evidence of the rope, the parchment, and the cornstarch had been washed away from the outcropping of rock.
When Lynaelle saw that her teacher was unhurt, she fell back upon a bed of dried fir needles, her eyes closed, breathing deeply and trying to calm her pounding heart.
“Obviously, That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Lynaelle growled in frustration.
Ambriel shook his head slowly, still stunned at the unexpected display of raw nature. “Amazing,” he answered absently, stroking his whiskers. “I don’t know exactly what you did… Some sort of wild surge, I’d warrant. I think you accidentally opened a planar portal, instead.”
“That’s it,” the girl grumbled, her amethyst eyes flashing as she scowled upward at the sky. “That’s the third time this week, and this time I nearly drowned both of us. I quit.” She sat up, impatiently dragging her long, delicate fingers through her wet, bedraggled hair, sweeping a few straw-colored strands behind her noticeably sylvan ear with a trembling hand.
“Gods,” she continued. “I’m a menace to both of us. Forget studying at the university in Silverymoon. I can imagine everyone’s faces when I accidentally drown the headmaster while auditioning for enrollment.” She huddled miserably, shivering and wet.
Ambriel laughed. “I suppose we should be glad you opened a portal to water, rather than something more dangerous,” he quipped, “such as magma.”
Lynaelle groaned. “Oh, that would be even better. ‘I’m really sorry, Your Ladyship, I didn’t mean to melt your university.” She sighed and tucked a small, simple stone amulet back into her blouse, pausing to run her fingers over its smooth surface. Ambriel had given it to her some years before, when she had first begun to study magic with him. She always wore it on a leather thong around her neck. Ambriel made a few subtle gestures and Lynaelle was instantly dry again. She was grateful for the cantrip.
“I told you it would take more effort to learn this new magic, child,” the old man said. “If it were easy, everyone would be a great wizard casting spells all over the damned place, and I wouldn’t be sitting out here freezing my old bones, trying to keep from getting killed while I teach them to you.” Lynaelle sighed again, nodding glumly, still feeling the chill of being wet, even though she was completely dry. Ambriel laughed at her dour expression. “Oh, stop it. You learn faster than anyone I ever knew, including me. Your logic is sharp and sometimes you even apply yourself. Patience, Lynnie! You’ll get it. The Bright Lady herself would be jealous of your ability.”
Ambriel got a distant look on his face, then. “I remember when I was first studying with my old teacher in Silverymoon. I was as impetuous as you, eager to learn, thinking I could master it all in an afternoon.” The elder man stared off into nowhere then, and he said nothing for a time.
Lynaelle watched him, wishing he would share this vision of his past with her. She loved it when he told her stories about his younger days, about when he had studied magic at the university at Silverymoon, and then later, when he had actually served for a time as a member of the Spellguard. She often imagined what it would be like to be a member of that elite enclave of wizards charged with protecting the Gem of the North. She often vowed to herself to make it a reality.
Seeing Ambriel’s craggy face now, and the gnarled hands that absently stroked his snowy beard, it was harder than ever to imagine him young. Yes, he’s definitely growing old, Lynaelle’s mind whispered. The elven half of her heritage made his aging pass quickly before her eyes, and in turn, to him, she had hardly changed at all in the twelve summers he had known her. Lynaelle knew Ambriel would be long dead before she fully matured into adulthood, and the age now showing in his face filled her with sudden sadness. She hated envisioning a life without her mentor to protect and guide her, and yet she knew that day would soon be upon her. His days with you may be few in number, Lynaelle Shalandriana, but you are a fool to waste them grieving before he’s gone! she scolded herself.
As if sensing her troubled thoughts, Ambriel shook his own head, returning to the present. “You must keep working on focusing the energy you feel into the loop. Only then will the magic hold.” The girl nodded, her sadness dispelled. She briefly considered trying again, but remembered that all of their components had washed away. The next lesson would have to wait for another time.
Ambriel drew the girl’s attention to the horizon with a nod of his head. Lynaelle turned and spied the darkening sky near the top of Emrund’s Peak at the head of the valley. The late afternoon showers were coming.
“All right,” Lynaelle acknowledged, sighing. She rose to her feet and turned to follow Ambriel. With careful, measured steps he strolled along the path, his buckskin boots making little noise. Lynaelle hiked along beside him, absently toying with the amulet around her neck as she soundlessly picked her way along the trail. The path meandered through a copse of large, arrow-straight firs, their great trunks rising like huge columns to an arched canopy of thick boughs overhead. It was cool and dim here, and with the late afternoon sun already settling behind the far ridge of mountains and the clouds gathering overhead, it was growing into twilight. Lynaelle inhaled deeply, delighting in the scents of the forest. She also detected the faint smell of a cookfire and roasting meat in the chill air, and her stomach reminded her it was almost dinner time.
The pair crested a small ridge along the path to behold Galen’s Ford. The little hamlet before them had grown up near a shallow ford in the stream. Here, the forest floor was open and spacious, uncluttered by smaller under- growth. The cottages, many nestled against the huge trunks of these great trees, were simple earth-and-timber affairs with thatched roofs. In what might pass for the center of town, a large, open-sided pavilion constructed of rough-hewn logs dominated the other structures. Beneath its sheltering roof there were several simple wooden tables with plank benches.
It was near this central structure that most of the folk of Galen’s Ford now gathered, preparing for a communal evening meal. A half dozen or so men and women, plates and bowls in hand, huddled around the large cookfire, that burned in a pit in the middle, where a hole in the roof allowed the smoke to escape. Others had already found seats at the tables. All told, some three dozen people dwelt here.
