The Third Apprentice (4 page)

“Let me guess,” Zamna said. “Those are the most
important.”

Taren shrugged. “Depends on the situation. Some of
those will replenish my magical stores should I become depleted.”

Wrinkling his brow, Zamna asked, “Don’t you
regenerate that naturally?”

“No,” Taren replied. “Elves do, but we humans have
to rely on potions. We also have a harder time learning magic. For a time, I
wished I had been born an elf.” He laughed softly, remember his childhood
fantasy of being a tall, blond-haired elf.

“How do they taste?” Zamna asked.

“The potions? They’re not too bad. I craft my own,
and I usually add a drop of honey or fruit juice to contrast the bitterness.”

“I don’t know how much of that we’ll be finding,”
Zamna remarked.

They continued until sunset, when Zamna finally
suggested they take a rest. Taren was grateful for the opportunity to sit, and
his stomach had been rumbling for hours.

“Is there anywhere to find cover?” Taren asked.

“Cover from what?” Zamna sounded puzzled.

“Rain, animals, anything,” Taren replied. “It
seems strange to sleep out in the open.”

“Used to feather beds are you?” the La’kertan
hissed. “You’ll be all right. It doesn’t rain here, and there are no wild
animals this close to the farms.”

Taren almost accepted this explanation, but he
could not. “If it doesn’t rain, how do the farms stay fertile?”

“Magic,” Zamna replied. “I’d think a mage could
recognize it.”

Taren felt embarrassed. He had no ability to sense
whether another person practiced magic. Again, he wondered what it must be like
to be an elf and have that ability. Could Zamna sense the magic? “Are you
capable of magic?” he asked.

“Capable?” Zamna echoed. “Perhaps. I’ve never
tried.” With those words, he unrolled his bed and sat down cross-legged.

“Should we build a fire?” Taren wondered. He had
no idea if it would be cold at night. Another thing he had not prepared for. If
he used magic to warm himself, he would become depleted too fast. If only he
had mastered the element of fire.

“Not necessary,” Zamna said. “The temperature
stays constant.”

Relieved, Taren unrolled his bed as well and sat
across from his companion. Zamna reached inside his pack to retrieve the
provisions they had bought earlier that day. Offering them to Taren, the mage
gladly took the strips of beef and some fruit. Zamna was content to keep the
crickers to himself, and he lazily popped them into his mouth as he reclined on
his arm.

“Tell me,” Zamna began. “How did you come to be a
magical human?”

The sudden interest in his life took Taren by
surprise. Zamna’s tone was sincere, almost friendly. Taren may have been too
hasty in fearing him, as it seemed the reptilian man had no interest in killing
him.

“I was the third
son of nine children born to a yeoman, or so I was told. My family was poor,
and I stood to inherit nothing. Luckily, I exhibited a spark of talent for
magic when I was just learning to walk. I was taken into basic mage training.”

“Who took you?”
Zamna inquired.

“The Red Council makes
it a point to visit all children in Ky’sall to determine whether they have
magical inclinations. If so, they are taken for training. Many are sent home
after a year or two. I was lucky.”

“How so?” Zamna asked
as he popped another cricker in his mouth.

“I had enough
magical aptitude to be allowed to continue my training. Unfortunately, my
parents were expected to pay for my tuition, as often happens. They couldn’t
afford it. My sisters needed dowries, and I was a burden.”

Zamna leaned up on
his arm to look at the apprentice. “But you obviously found a way to continue
your training.” Lifting a hand, he gestured to Taren’s robe and bag full of
potions.

“My master, Imrit,
took a liking to me. He saw potential and encouraged me to work hard. The Red
Council would have sent me to work as a house servant if Imrit hadn’t taken me
into his own home and allowed me to study alongside his older apprentices.”

Zamna lay back to
stare up at the stars. “How nice,” he said, sounding only half interested.
“What then?”

“I studied day and
night,” he replied. “I took a liking to herbalism, and I put all my energy into
it.”

Zamna scoffed. “Why
not learn to cast lightning or something impressive? I can’t imagine anything
more boring than cooking potions all day.”

Taren did his best
not to become offended. How could this man possibly know the intricacies of
potion crafting? It was possibly the most sought-after profession among mages.
Few had the skills necessary to concoct mixtures that worked correctly. “I do
have basic knowledge of the elements,” Taren explained. “I can cast many
different types of spells, but I can master only one craft. I have chosen
herbalism.” He felt pride as he spoke. Truly, crafting magical elixirs was his
passion. Mastering an element had its appeals, but a human could hope to master
only one arcane subject in a lifetime. It was far too taxing to focus on
several at once. Taren was content with his lot.

Zamna shrugged.
“Suit yourself, I suppose.” Rolling onto his side, he turned away from the mage
and closed his eyes.

Taren sat up a
while longer before finally lying back on his bed. The stars were dim overhead,
despite the obvious lack of clouds. The night sky had a purple hue to it, with
splashes of pale pink mixed in. He wondered how this land had become so
colorful, but the snoring of his companion let him know there was no use
asking. Deep down, he already knew the answer: magic.

A
fter days of
marching southward, Taren felt as though an eternity had passed. There had been
little conversation so far, and no interesting sights to observe along the way.
Finally the land began to change. Sparse patches of green grass sprouted in
random spots along the road, and a few small trees stood in the distance. Taren
felt relief to see the terrain becoming more like his home. Only one remaining farmhouse
with its multicolored livestock could be seen far from the road. Taking one
last look back, Taren bid farewell to the strange, colorful land.

“Something has been
bothering me,” Zamna said, breaking the long silence that had existed between
the two travelers.

Taren, startled by
his companion’s sudden desire for talk, asked, “What is that?”

Zamna paused in his
walking and turned to face the mage. “You said your parents couldn’t pay for
your education. I don’t understand why this Red Council would take you away and
then expect someone else to pay for it. If they wanted to train you, they
should have done so regardless of payment.”

Taren was surprised
that the La’kertan would point out the injustice of his situation. A man who
kills for money surely looks out only for himself. Perhaps Taren had misjudged
him. “It isn’t right, is it?” he replied. “It’s their way of weeding out the
poor and giving the rich, noble families the opportunity to get ahead. There
are very few mages who aren’t from prominent families.”

Shaking his head,
Zamna commented, “The ruling elite. It’s the same in my homeland, only worse.”

“How so?” Taren
wondered.

“There are many
factions who desire power,” Zamna explained. “You join one, and the others are
ready to hunt you down.” Having said all he was willing to reveal, he resumed
his course along the road.

Though it hadn’t
lasted long, Taren was grateful for the momentary pause. His feet were not used
to so much walking, and occasionally he had a hard time keeping up with his
companion. The La’kertan had a fluid, silent motion about him, and he moved
with ease over the flat terrain. Taren suspected he would move well through any
environment, and he wondered what the reptilian homeland must be like. The
question would have to wait for another day. Zamna was not forthcoming with
personal information, and Taren had no desire to risk angering his companion
with questions.

The trees became
less scarce as they moved along the road. The ground now appeared completely
green, with no sign of the strange grass that surrounded Rixville. The land
before them was wide, with tall grass and long stocks bearing fluffy-white
tufts at the top. An occasional yellow flower reached high, its face shining
high above the grass. Most of the trees were saplings, but there were a number
of them to be seen, some of them coming close to the edge of the road. The air
seemed fresher, and Taren breathed it deeply into his lungs. He felt more at
home than he had the past few days.

A high-pitched
squeal broke through the air, startling Taren from his reverie. Zamna
instinctively drew his daggers and crouched low to the ground. Taren knelt down
next to him, hoping his companion would know what had made the sound and
whether it was a threat to them.

Zamna brought a
finger to his lips, instructing the mage to remain silent. Taren clamped his
mouth shut, only then realizing that it was hanging open. The squeal pierced
the silence once again, followed by a loud snort. After a moment, footsteps
pawed at the ground. A smile stretched across the La’kertan’s face. Taren did
not understand.

“A spiny hog,” Zamna
whispered, licking his lips.

Nodding that he
understood, Taren stood cautiously. Spiny hogs could be rather nasty, and the
males were terribly aggressive. It stood under a tree, looking the same as the
feral hogs he had seen in Ky’sall with its wiry, red-brown hair and a single row
of black spines running in a ridge along its back. Taren made note of its tusks
curling up from its mouth to its snout.

“A male,” he
whispered, “about twenty yards away near that tree.” He gestured his thumb in
the direction of the hog.

With a single nod,
Zamna crept forward into the grass, disappearing from view. Taren stayed put,
wondering if he should follow. He’d never actually hunted an animal before, but
he hated to stand still while his companion did all the work. He would be
sharing in the reward of a fresh dinner, and it didn’t seem right to stand
idle.

Looking in the
direction of the hog, he could see no sign of Zamna. Then, the hog suddenly
turned and sniffed the air.
It must be aware of Zamna’s presence,
he
thought. Cracking his knuckles, he bent low and extended his hands toward the
hog. Muttering an incantation under his breath, he focused his energy at the
creature. A single beam of green magic cracked through the air, extending from
his hand to the hog. Missing the animal by only inches, it hopped in the air
and turned its attention to Taren. Before the mage could chide himself for his
mistake, Zamna leapt forward from the grass, his dagger finding its target in
the hog’s neck. It hung lifelessly in his arms, never knowing what had taken
its life.

Taren made his way
to his companion, while Zamna immediately set to work gutting the animal. The
sight was gruesome but not unbearable. If they were going to have fresh meat,
something had to die. Taren searched the ground for fallen branches to start a
fire. If he couldn’t assist in catching dinner, the least he could do was help
cook it. Finding a suitable amount of wood, he trampled the grass and fashioned
a ring of stones to contain the flames. Arranging the wood in a neat pile, he
extended a hand and shot red magic into the center. A fire roared to life.

“Got it on the
first try,” Zamna jibed, hissing softly with laughter. “What were you trying to
do anyway? Blow it up?”

“Had it worked, it
would have paralyzed the creature, making it easier to catch,” Taren explained.

“Well, at least you
distracted it, I guess,” Zamna replied. “It’s easy to sneak up on a person, but
an animal can smell you coming. I’m glad I didn’t have to wrestle with this
one.” He lifted the head of the hog and presented it to Taren, who was already
fashioning a spit. The mage took it with a smile and placed it over the fire to
cook.

Though the meat was
a little tough, having something fresh was a welcome change from strips of
dried beef. Taren ate his fill plus a few extra bites. Zamna seemed to enjoy
the meat as well, as he devoured a large portion of the hog’s hind quarter
before stopping to take a breath.

His stomach feeling
ready to burst, Taren rummaged around in his pack for a solution. Finding a
bundle of Golden Thread leaves, he pulled two of them out and placed one in his
mouth. It had a slight tanginess to it, which was not unwelcome after a meal of
so much meat. Extending his hand, he offered the second leaf to Zamna. “It will
help with stomach upset,” he declared. “Also, it will fight any bacteria that
might not have cooked away. You can’t be too careful with these unfamiliar food
sources.”

Zamna hesitated for
a moment, looking at the leaf. Slowly he reached for it and turned it over in
his hand. With a shrug, he placed it in his mouth and chewed. His eyes squinted
as the sourness hit him, and he resisted the urge to spit it out. The
aftertaste was tolerable, but he wouldn’t be so quick to take medicine from his
companion the next time. Reaching into what was left of the hog’s carcass, he
found a suitably small bone. Reclining against the base of the tree, he picked
at his pointed teeth. With a supportive hand on his midsection, he let out a
sizable burp. “I think we’re done for the day,” he commented.

Taren nodded. His
legs and feet were aching, and walking on a full stomach would only add to his
discomfort.

“Tell me, mage,”
Zamna began, “what lies inside Ailwen’s tomb that is of importance to you?”

Taren hesitated in
his answer. Zamna had said the tomb’s door was sealed with magic, and only a
mage would be able to get inside. The La’kertan had come along for the
treasure, and it was possible he intended to take everything—including the
symbol. Would this man kill him once they had retrieved it? Being nonmagical,
he couldn’t hope to use it for himself, but it was probably worth a fortune to
the right buyer. Did anyone know the symbol’s true potential besides Imrit?
Maybe it was safe to talk to Zamna, but Taren wasn’t sure.

The symbol had been
lost for centuries, and there was no talk of the sorceress Ailwen anymore.
Taren and the other apprentices had never heard of her when their master first
described her immense power. No book at the Mage’s College had recorded
anything about her life. It was as if she never existed. It was doubtful other
mages had studied her as closely as Imrit. His interests were quite different
from those of his peers, and he had often been ridiculed because of it. It was
possible that this quest was in vain, and no such item actually existed. It was
also possible that the item had been destroyed, or that the tomb had already
been plundered. Some thief might have sold the symbol for its value in precious
metals, never knowing its true potential.

“Is your mission so
secret?” Zamna wondered. With a shrug, he continued to pick at his teeth. If
the mage did not wish to tell him, he would not force him. Zamna was sure there
would be plenty of other treasures beside the one his companion sought. He
doubted Taren was out to double-cross him. The young man had tried to ask Zamna
to stay behind, whether it was because he feared him or because there was some
danger ahead mattered not. Zamna was a man of his word. He would help this man
in his journey, and hopefully be much richer for it. His days as a hired knife
might soon be at an end.

“I seek to retrieve
an item for my master, one that is rumored to be buried inside Ailwen’s tomb,”
Taren explained. He had no desire to keep Zamna in the dark, but he wasn’t sure
how much was safe to tell. Imrit had not instructed the apprentices to keep the
matter secret, but he might have thought it went without saying. He expected
them to rely on each other, but surely he knew they might encounter others along
the way. What if they needed help from an outside source? Imrit had never
mentioned such a scenario.

“A magical item, no
doubt,” Zamna replied with renewed interest. “Why does your master not travel
with you?”

“He is too old,”
Taren replied. “He couldn’t possibly make the journey. This is my final test
before I achieve the rank of master.”

“You need to prove
you can face peril?” Zamna asked, chuckling slightly.

“I suppose that’s
part of it,” he said, slightly offended. Obviously, his companion had no idea
what it meant to become a master of the arcane. It was everything to Taren.
Making Imrit proud mattered more to him than anything else in the world.

“Am I allowed to
know more about this item?” Zamna asked. “Or is it some deep dark secret that
only mages can understand?” He paused a moment and added, “You might at least
say what it looks like. I wouldn’t want you to overlook it among the other
items in the tomb.”

Taren’s heart
nearly stopped for a moment. He had no idea what the symbol actually looked
like. Imrit had never described it. It was possible the old man did not know.
There were only a few surviving accounts of the symbol, and those were in
decaying tomes. How would Taren know when he came across it? Was this part of
the test? Surely Imrit would not have sent his apprentices on a quest if he
didn’t believe they could succeed. There had to be a way to know for sure when
he came upon the symbol.
When I’m in its presence, I will know it,
he
tried to convince himself. Though he could not shake off all doubt, he decided
to trust that his master had given him all the necessary information.

Zamna shook his head.
“Fine,” he said. “Just one more question. If this magical item is so precious,
why would you want to return it to your master? Why not keep it for yourself
instead?”

“Because my master
requests it,” Taren replied. “He is the only father I’ve ever known, and I’m
loyal to him.” Taren looked at the ground. “I couldn’t live with myself if I
betrayed him.” In his mind, he thought of the symbol’s alleged ability to grant
its wielder eternal life. His master was aging, and he did not want to lose
him. He would gladly hand it over in hopes that Imrit would be around for many
long years, still passing on his wisdom to Taren. Without thinking, he asked,
“Do assassins know much of loyalty and honor?”

Zamna sat forward
and threw his toothpick into the fire. “If I take a job, I complete it. Is that
not loyalty? Am I not a man of my word?” He shook his head.

“I didn’t mean—”
Taren started to say.

“Believe it or not,
there are people in this world who deserve to be killed,” Zamna spat. “Don’t
judge me with your high-and-mighty attitude. Your people sell young children
into slavery. Would it not be appropriate to kill an owner who treats his slave
badly?”

“I…I don’t know,”
Taren replied, stumbling on his words.

“Trust me, mage,
people like me are doing you a favor. You live your sugar-coated life and
believe that everything works out in the end. I’m one of those people making
sure that things do, in fact, work out for the better.”