The Rock of Ivanore (2 page)

“What supplies?” asked Zyll, not looking up from the kettle.

“Well, I'll need a weapon, for one thing.”

Zyll tossed the last of the onions into the pot and added some water. “You've no need of weapons, boy. Haven't I taught you well enough how to fend for yourself?”

Marcus thought of the many lessons Zyll had taught him. He had learned the ways of the mystic, and also a bit of history, mathematics, and philosophy. Zyll disapproved of sword fighting but had allowed him to practice with the other boys in the village.

“I'm good with a sword,” Marcus reminded him, “but I'm a terrible magician.”

Zyll turned toward him. His face held the same pensive expression it always did. “Why do you doubt your abilities?” he asked. “You know magic is nothing more than the art of rearranging the elements that lay before you. Take the logs for instance,” he continued. “What is fire but heat? Heat is found in rays of sunlight and in all living things.”

Zyll lifted his hand toward the window where a stream of light filtered into the cottage. “We must harvest it from the sunshine, the trees, our own bodies.” He lowered his hand, drawing it across Marcus's shoulders. “Compress it to a fine point, direct it toward the logs, and . . .”

With a quick snap of his wrist, the logs burst into flames. Zyll set the kettle over the fire. “This soup will be ready for my afternoon meal.”

“I would still prefer a sword,” said Marcus.

Zyll's voice was calm yet insistent. “Use your knowledge to obtain those things you need and to defend yourself and others from harm.” He doused the fire with a mumbled incantation. Then gesturing toward the hearth, he added, “Give it a try.”

Marcus preferred to do his chores without magic, yet he would not refuse his master's request. Turning to the hearth, he focused his attention on the wood and formed an image of brilliant, orange flame in his mind.

“Ignite!” he commanded. He held his breath as he waited for the flames to appear, but nothing happened. “I can't do it!” he said with disgust. “Maybe I shouldn't go on the quest. I know I'll fail.”

Zyll studied his apprentice with tender, gray eyes. Marcus knew those eyes well. He had seen them every day of his life. Orphaned at birth, Marcus had been in Zyll's care for as long as he could remember. He was a good master, kind and generous, yet firm. They made a fine pair, he and Zyll, and Marcus imagined no one could have been a better father to him.

When the town council had agreed to let Marcus, a mere orphan, join this year's
Bleôth Camr
Å©
—or, translated from the ancient tongue, “Great Quest”—he was determined to finally prove he was destined for more than servitude.

Every year on the first day of spring, all the boys in Quendel who had reached the age of manhood during the previous year set out on a journey across Imaness. Their purpose: to accomplish some task or retrieve an object as determined by the village elders. The quests were never
easy, often lasting days or even weeks on end. Those who returned triumphant were bestowed with the most honorable jobs in the village. Those who failed were relegated to the more mundane positions in life. At first, Marcus was elated at the news that he would be allowed to participate. But now the thought of disappointing Zyll filled Marcus with shame.

Zyll went to his bookshelf, but he was not interested in the books. Instead he reached for a wooden chest, which he carried to the table and raised the lid. After sifting through its contents, he lifted something in his hand. Though Marcus could not tell what it was, the item was small enough to be hidden by the old man's fingers.

Zyll turned his gaze on Marcus, though his eyes seemed to look right through him. With a shake of his head he remembered the task at hand and laid the object back inside the chest. After more sifting and searching, Zyll withdrew another small object and slammed the lid shut, sending a billow of dust into the air.

“I have not yet given you a gift for your birthday,” said Zyll, holding out his palm. A small metal object lay across it.

“A key?” asked Marcus, puzzled.

“Not just any key. It is the only one of its kind.”

“It looks like a regular key to me.”

“Ah, but therein lies the magic,” replied Zyll. “With this key, you will find within yourself more power than you can now imagine. It will unlock your very destiny.”

Placing the key in Marcus's hand, Zyll gestured toward the hearth. “Try it once more.”

The key felt heavy and cold. The tarnished iron was worn smooth in spots. Still Marcus sensed its power as he grasped it firmly in his fist. As he held the key at eye level, a peculiar tingling sensation spread through his fingers and wrist.

“Ignite!” Marcus commanded. At first, only the faintest crackle could be heard. Next, a small speck of orange glowed from the back of the hearth. Marcus leaned forward and blew air through his lips to fan an ember. On his first breath the glow intensified, then began to spread with the second. On the third breath, there was a loud pop as the ember leapt from the hearth, setting the hem of Zyll's robe on fire.

Marcus gasped in horror at his mistake. Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the kettle of soup and threw its contents at his master. The fire was put out, and from the sour expression on Zyll's face, so was he.

Marcus's shoulders drooped in dismay. “I'm sorry,” he said.

Zyll shook off the bits of carrot and onion that clung to his robe. “No harm done, though I could have doused the flame myself and still had soup for my supper.” Reaching for his walking stick, he announced, “It is time to go.”

Zyll opened the cottage door and stepped outside. Marcus followed, the satchel hanging from his shoulder as limp as a large leather blossom wilting in the afternoon sun.

he village of Quendel buzzed with an unusual amount of energy this morning. Zyll led the way with his walking staff while Marcus followed behind, doing his best to avoid stepping on the enchanter's robe, which slithered along the ground behind him like a snake.

Zyll's staff—carved from a branch of a Willenberry tree—was half the height of a full-grown man. Its top was carved into the shape of an eagle's head. From there the staff twisted its way toward the ground, where it tapered to a fine point. Zyll referred to this walking staff as “Xerxes” and often spoke to it as if it were a living being. Of course, the staff never spoke back. It just gazed forward with lifeless eyes.

Quendel was not unlike all the other villages east of the Jeweled Mountains, with its clusters of humble cottages and shops connected by narrow cobbled roads. Marcus closed his eyes a moment, allowing the sounds and smells of the place to calm his nerves. He never tired of the fragrance of warm bread drifting out of the baker's door, or the nutty scent of freshly ground wheat from the grain mill. Also, the constant clamor of wagons bumping along the roads and the bleating and braying of the animals that pulled them were a welcome contrast to the pervasive silence of Zyll's isolated dwelling.

As Marcus and Zyll made their way toward the stone water fountain at the center of town, Marcus overheard fragments of conversations between some of the villagers. “What were they thinking?” said one man, measuring out grain into another man's sack. A woman with a wailing child in her arms clucked to her neighbor, “He doesn't stand a chance.” Other villagers stared at Marcus, their voices lowering to whispers as he passed by. The hot feeling in the pit of Marcus's stomach told him they were talking about him, and knowing that made him all the more anxious.

A wooden platform had been erected in front of the fountain. Master Zyll instructed Marcus to step up on it. As he did so, Marcus scanned the crowd. The streets and area surrounding the fountain were packed with so many people that he could not see the stones beneath their feet. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders or in wooden handcarts. Women, their skin browned from laboring
alongside their husbands in the fields, strained on tiptoe to see past the men. As the center of so much attention, Marcus felt like a horse on the auction block. He glanced at the other five boys who stood with him. He had known them all since childhood, though as an orphan and Zyll's apprentice, his time spent with his peers had been limited to weapons training and occasional field games.

The boy immediately to Marcus's left was Jerrid Zwelger, the governor's pompous nephew, who sported a glossy new satchel and his usual smug expression. Jerrid stood in what Marcus thought to be a comical pose, hands on his hips and chin jutting out proudly. It was as though he thought the entire village had come only for him.

Beside Jerrid stood gangly, freckle-faced Zody Smythe, Jerrid's closest friend and disciple. Short for his age and on the scrawny side, Zody appeared as ill at ease on the platform as Jerrid was confident. He stood behind the other boys, preferring not to be noticed at all.

Next in the row was Clovis Dungham. Clovis, who was on the plump side, was fidgeting nervously with his pack, trying to loosen the strap across his shoulder. When the strap finally slipped through its buckle, Clovis beamed with satisfaction—until he realized that the strap was now too loose.

Tristan Tether came next. His ancestors had long ago emigrated from the mainland, and his russet complexion set him apart from the lighter-skinned islanders, though no one in Quendel seemed to notice or care. With his hand raised to his brow, he searched the crowd. Someone
waved frantically from the mass of onlookers. Marcus thought it was impossible to tell who was waving, but Tristan waved back just the same. A few moments later, one of the local girls pushed her way through the throng toward the platform. As she ran forward, Tristan dropped to his knees. The girl threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, all while tying a bright yellow scarf around his neck. Then just as quickly, the girl blended back into the crowd, crying audibly.

Marcus had to lean far forward to see who was at the end of the row of boys. Standing with his shoulders squared and his back erect, golden hair combed neatly behind his ears, was Kelvin Archer.

Kelvin was the oldest and tallest of the group, his birthday falling just one week shy of last year's ceremony. He was therefore the most respected and admired boy in his age group. However, if he derived any pleasure from his status, he never showed it. He was a quiet boy and sought no one's company but his own.

Marcus felt rather plain compared to Kelvin. His own hair was straw-colored, his eyes a dull hazel. He was several inches shorter than Kelvin and considered himself much too thin.

A horn sounded. Squire Slermin, Governor of Quendel, stood before the crowd and raised his hands for silence. “Today marks an epic moment in Quendelian history!” he began. “These boys who stand before you shall embark on a grand quest. If all goes well, they shall return to us no longer boys, but men!”

The crowd burst into roaring applause. Another horn sounded, and the crowd grew silent. A knot formed in Marcus's throat. His mouth was dry as flint, and the perspiration ran down his face in tiny rivulets.

The squire spoke now in a hushed tone. The anticipation in the air was so heavy that Marcus felt it pressing against him. “My good people, it is time for that momentous occasion when the wisest and oldest of our kind pronounces the commencement of this year's
Bleôth Camr
Å©
. I give you now: Master Zyll.”

As the squire stepped down from the platform, the water in the fountain began to swirl in wide circles, which soon reached up toward the sky until a column of water churned in the air before them. All of a sudden the column burst like a giant bubble, sending a fine spray across the platform. The boys and those nearest to the fountain covered their faces to avoid the shower, while the rest of the crowd let out a collective gasp of admiration. When they returned their gaze to the platform, they found Zyll standing in the settling mist.

“On this day of the equinox, this moment of balance and equality, I summon the gods to grant divine protection upon you boys as you begin your journey into manhood. May you be wise, courageous, and cautious in your travels, and may you return to us both unharmed and victorious. Though the journey ahead will be difficult, you must remain undaunted, focused on the task. Those who succeed in this quest will bring the greatest of honors upon Quendel and upon themselves.”