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| wChapter 14: In which Madrul remembers some changes: Wednesday, November 30, 2005 | |
Chapter 14 Several months later, the morning sun touched the face of the cave and filled it with a warm golden glow. It fell across the talon-marked ledge and two empty mats, rolled tightly up against the wall. The cave was empty. Along the depths of the tunnel, the rock walls trembled with noise and heat as a mouth far below, within the forge’s chamber, slowly spoke the words to control the temperature of the magma pool. There was a surge through the air as the magma bubbled and heated, stirred by restless bubbles, and then fell down into cooler shades. Madrul, dressed in his leather smock and boots, with the gloves on his hands, lifted a pair of tongs quickly from the magma. The metal held by the tongs glowed bright red as he swung it through the air and laid it on his workbench. Drademar sat nearby and watched as he picked up one of the larger hammers and began to swing. The metal rang as the hammer rose and fell, filling the air with the sonorous booming of the inside of a large bell. He worked the metal over slowly, and Drademar only spoke three times to correct what he did. He was rather proud of that. Xivodo was seated nearby; he too watched as Madrul worked, but made no comment. He was not entirely idle, however; he held in his hand a large round of wood that he was carefully whittling down into what would fit as a proper cover over the barrel in the cave above. Madrul had finally worked up his nerve to make the suggestion to Drademar, and had been surprised by its acceptance. He had worked on the project himself, going with Xivodo to the depths of the nearby forest to locate a felled tree large enough to provide the needed wood and slicing a chunk from it. They had worked together, rolling it across the lumpy field and almost losing it in the stream; then almost losing it a second time when they had both been pushing it up the path and had almost let it go. Now, however, his mornings were consumed in the heavy work of smithing and his afternoons with studying. He had grown more proficient at reading. And in the late evenings, Xivodo, who had been trained, was teaching him how to use a sword. He grinned. It had been almost four weeks after Xivodo arrived before Drademar had officially called the youth his apprentice, and they had made a journey to the city to find a formal contractor who had written up the pieces of paper that were proof of their apprenticeships. Now when he went to the city to get supplies and see Iakena--they made the trip once every two or three weeks, but Drademar alternated between taking Xivodo and taking Madrul--he carried the paper in an inner pouch tied tightly to his belt. Drademar spoke a sharp word and Madrul turned his attention back to the piece of metal he was working on. It was not good for him to let his thoughts wander amidst the forging. Every ounce of his soul should be focused on the one glowing strip underneath his hammer and tongs. He returned the metal to the fire and let it heat up before bringing it back to his work bench and continuing to shape it. Though Drademar would never admit it, he was getting better at the forging. He was by no means a master, but he had acquired the rudimentary skills required to learn a mastery. After a long time, Xivodo got to his feet and put away the knife he had been using for whittling. “I think the lid is done, Master,” he said. “Then go see if it fits,” Drademar said. The youth nodded and rolled the piece of wood out of the cavern and up the tunnel, listening with a smile to the sound of the hammer on steel. When he reached the cave he hefted the lid onto the barrel and tested it. It covered the barrel sufficiently but it was not perfect; he took the knife out and started whittling again until the edge was properly formed. Then he turned to the books that he, too, had been reading, opened one, and settled down. When Madrul returned from the tunnel several hours later, he stripped off the apron and gloves and folded them into a neat pile by his bed. Then he bent and pulled off the boots, which were still uncomfortable but which by sheer necessity he had gotten used to, and laced up his sandals. He too took up a book and returned to reading. The books were all about magic; its principles and its uses, common spells and particularly strange spells, the use of runes or sigils to represent a spell that should be read, and the use of herbs and other ingredients in spells that should be consumed or applied. The first book he had read was far too long for him, but he in his growing curiosity over the subject, enjoyed every moment of it. He had taken the book with him when he went for water in the early morning, and it was his reading more than anything else that had saved him from overworked days and nights of long labor. As the sun approached midday, Madrul finished the current book and placed it in the pile with the others he had finished. Xivodo was a faster reader than he was, but he did not care. He got to his feet and stretched, thinking over the spell that had made up the very last pages of the book. There was a sigil or two, a rune in the spell, that he had seen before in similar spells for cleanliness or casting out spirits. The blade he was working on was a ceremonial knife, for sacrificing goats; he wondered if he could put the sigils on the blade and what sort of effect they would have. He would like it if the blade was unable to keep a stain of blood on it. That would certainly be useful. Absently he went to the barrel, encountered the lid, and grinned at Xivodo. “So it worked out, then.” Xivodo nodded absently and went back to his book as Madrul pried off the lid and checked the water level. It could use a few good bucketsful; he had done his share of quenching today, and Drademar might have more work for the evening. With a sigh, he took down the buckets from the wall and started down the mountain path to the distant stream. Sometimes it seemed like all of his apprenticeship had been spent walking the path like this. He remembered the day, no more than two weeks earlier, when he had gotten to the bottom of the hill and found men on horseback at the stream. He half expected to see them now; he could clearly picture them in his mind. Their horses were fine, tall animals--only the rich could afford horses on an island that had little use for the creatures, being overburdened with an abundance of narrow pathways through forests and lacking decent roads for the majority of all but the perimeter of the island. But these men had ridden their horses through the forest; slowly enough, it seemed, for one had made mention eventually of the weeks they had been on the road. They wore cloth of the finest weave, dyed a variety of colors that Madrul knew would make for expensive tunics. It would have taken his mother weeks to achieve a shade that rich of yellow and blue. Their togas were embroidered heavily as well, and a few of the men wore northern style robes and loose leggings. Their richness was emphasized by both their jewelry and by the fact that half of the group that had come were servants who were meant to wait on the men and care for their horses. One of the men in the lead had given Madrul a haughty look and spoken a sharp word to one of the men caring for the horse he sat on. The man looked up, ducked his head at the man on horseback, and came over to where Madrul was carefully stepping over the rocks that littered the base of the mountain. “You there,” he called, his tone almost as haughty as his master’s look had been. “Boy.” Madrul made his way over the rocks until he stood next to the man. “Yes?” he said quietly. “My master, Lord Struidsen, wishes to address the dragon. Do you know where we might find him?” “Assuredly,” said Madrul. “If you will allow me a moment, I will show you the way myself.” Without waiting for the man’s acquiescence he strode over to the stream, bent, and filled the buckets. When he had finished he looked up at the servant, who had addressed his master to communicate what Madrul had said, though Madrul was sure that this Lord Struidsen had assuredly heard him himself. The man on horseback nodded sharply, and the servant said, “We will follow you to the dragon, boy.” Madrul nodded, maintaining an expression of polite interest on his face, and tread quickly back to the path. When he reached the base of the volcano, he turned to the men who followed him and said clearly, “It would be best if you left the horses here.” The men did not appear to hear him, and he decided that trying to talk to them was useless. He instead focused his gaze on the servant who had originally addressed him and said, “Horses do not react well to the scent of a dragon, and I doubt your master and his honorable companions would wish to be thrown from the path. It is a long way down.” The servant communicated this to his master, as if there was some secret language which only the two of them spoke; as if translating from real world into noble. The lord turned to his companions and spoke a few words; then they all dismounted at once, and the servants scurried this way and that. Some held onto reins; these remained at the bottom of the path as Madrul started up. The rest arrayed themselves around their masters as if to protect them from all sorts of lurking, hidden dangers that the path obviously contained. Madrul suppressed a snort of laughter, inclined his head slightly, and turned to trod up the path. His leg muscles moved him powerfully up the incline he had climbed several times a day for months now. It was only when he had gone a good many yards up the slope that he realized the noblemen were lagging behind badly. He paused to set down a bucket and rest one hand, leaning against the path as if greatly exhausted and subtly trying to give them time to catch up. After a long moment, when they began to approach him again, he picked up the bucket and moved on his way, going as slowly as he deemed possible. By the time they reached the ledge, the masters were leaning bodily on the servants here and there, panting and sweating, big round drops of salty liquid rolling down their fat cheeks and necks. Not all of them were so out of shape, but about half of the group stood there breathing hard for a long moment before entering the cave. Madrul saw them all inside, waiting politely at the entrance. It was only as the last of them were passing him that he saw Xivodo’s father, clad in dark gray as if in mourning, go by. He had not recognized the man until now, and he felt suddenly cold. What if these men had come to do something about Xivodo? If they thought the dragon had hurt the boy... or if his father had made a formal complaint... But then Madrul remembered the written contracts, and he smiled just a little. There was nothing they could do without going against the law now that Xivodo and Drademar had signed the same piece of paper. “If you would care to wait here,” said Madrul once they were all inside, “I will go see if Lord Drademar will see you now.” He knew that Drademar did have the title of ‘lord’ from his own land, a title that put him at the least on rank with all of those present; his status as a master should put him above them. He brushed past the men without inviting them to sit (it was hardly his place to invite others to sit in the home of his master) and hurried down the tunnel. Xivodo was at the forge, hammering, with Drademar hovering over his shoulder and pouring out instructions. Madrul waited until the dragon noticed him, and then he said, “Master Drademar, there is a group of noblemen to see you.” “Noblemen?” Drademar lifted one scaly eye ridge. He sighed deeply. “Quench that strip, Xivodo,” he said, and the youth obeyed, turning his face away from the steam that rose from the water-filled bucket. “Where are they, Madrul?” “They are waiting in the cave.” He hesitated, and Drademar saw that and asked him what was wrong. He rubbed his toe awkwardly against the side of his leg. “Xivodo, your father is among them.” Xivodo, in the act of drawing the quenched piece of metal from the water, stopped. For a moment he seemed frozen; then he turned and set the strip and the tongs down on the work bench. Drademar was watching him, as was Madrul, but he only let a flicker of worry cross his face before he smiled. Drademar scowled. “Perhaps you should wait here, Xivodo. This should not take too long.” Xivodo shook his head sadly. There was a dark grey streak of ash along one cheek, and his toga was dirty. “I have not seen my father since the night I left him to come here, Master Drademar,” he said. “I would like to see him again, even if the meeting is unpleasant. Please, sir,” he added, when Drademar looked uncertain. The dragon sighed gustily. “Very well.” He turned and treaded, catlike, up the tunnel with the two young men following closely behind him. Madrul glanced at Xivodo, but in the darkness of the tunnel he could not determine an expression on his friend’s face. As Drademar entered the cavern and moved to face the group of noblemen in much the same way he had once faced Xivodo and his parents, Madrul darted around him to recover the buckets of water and dump them into the barrel. Then he and Xivodo moved to sit down on their bed mats. Each young man reached for a book or scroll from the pile that lay between them, and started to read, but neither could keep their ears from the conversation that the noblemen had started with Drademar. “I welcome you to my house, sirs,” said Drademar. “Please, sit down.” And he folded his tail around his legs as if he were a content feline. The men sat down slowly, one by one, as if they were not quite sure if he really intended them to sit on the ground. It had probably been years, Madrul surmised, since most of them had sat cross legged and on anything other than soft cushions. When they were all seated, Lord Struidsen shifted and leaned forward slightly. “How do things go in your house?” he asked politely. Drademar’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Madrul gave himself a small nod of satisfaction. He was right--they would insist on this being a formal gathering. He nudged Xivodo with his foot and put down the scroll, leading the other youth down the tunnel to the dark, cool cavern they used as a cool storeroom for those things that did not keep many weeks. They gathered bowls of grapes and small dishes, and Xivodo carried the big pitcher of cold fruit juice that had been made for these occasions. Then they returned to the main cavern to find Drademar and the men chatting about small inconsequentialities of life. The dragon spotted the two boys as they came in, and a smile briefly touched his face. “It has been a long and hot journey,” he said; though of course he was not entirely ignorant of the horses that waited at the bottom of the hill, he chose to ignore them in the sake of courtesy. “Drink, and eat some fruit, and refresh yourselves.” Madrul bent and placed dishes of grapes and orange and red fruit slices at even spaces among the men, so that they would not have to strain to reach for it. As he did so, Xivodo carefully folded himself to the ground and began pouring out the juice into the shallow drinking bowls. He passed the first bowl, a larger one, to Drademar with a slight bow, and then moved onwards, serving the men in the relative order of their rank. As he was beginning this method, Drademar said, “I might as well take this opportunity to introduce you to my apprentices.” Xivodo’s father, who had been watching Madrul with smoldering eyes, jerked his gaze suddenly to Drademar’s face as if shocked. The dragon went on, “The first is Madrul,” and Madrul gave a short bow to the assembled noblemen, “And the second is Xivodo.” “Xivodo!” And the youth’s father was on his feet. The men twisted and strived to look at him, and Xivodo, who was still in the act of pouring the juice, glanced up sharply. “By every god and every star, you are alive!” And then he seized his son in an embrace, almost knocking over the pitcher of juice, which Madrul promptly moved to rescue. Xivodo was startled, but after a moment he returned his father’s gesture, and when the two broke apart there were the first hints of tears in his eyes. “Father,” he said in a low tone. “I thought you were dead,” his father said raggedly, tears gathering in his eyes unashamedly, and the men glanced away politely. “But instead... here...” and his face went hard. “Drademar, what have you done to him?” he demanded angrily. Madrul took a quick step forward to stand next to the dragon but Xivodo was faster. He stepped away from his father a half a pace and put out one hand. “Please do not say a word against Lord Drademar, father,” he said sharply. “I left of my own volition, and stayed only because he was gracious enough to allow me.” His father started to speak but Xivodo shook his head. “No, it was not in any way his fault. I chose to come here. You knew of my desire to learn the trade of a smith.” “A desire most unbecoming of a boy of a noble house,” remarked one of the other men. “It might be best if your lordship would remember that Master Drademar is both a master smith and a lord of his own people,” said Madrul quickly, half-stung, and then he bit his tongue hard to keep from a sharper retort. “I meant no offense, Lord Drademar,” said the man quickly with the half bow to the dragon, who nodded in acceptance. “It is only that such a profession is not expected to be appealing to our young sons when there are jobs such as merchanting and politics available.” “I can understand your confusion over the young man’s choice,” said Drademar in a smooth tone. The comment made the man look up sharply, but he could say nothing. “However, it is his choice to make. And now that we are under contract, no man or being in the world should be able to break that choice.” “You are already contracted?” blurted Xivodo’s father. Drademar nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I had it done the last time I was in Sevaye. I had wanted to have you present for the occasion but there was a complication involving time and I did not manage to ask you. My apologies.” “Think nothing of it,” said Xivodo’s father rather absently. He glanced once more at his son, his face strangely changed, and then he sat down again in his spot, and Xivodo continued serving the fruit juice. Madrul sat down to one side of the group with a scroll in his lap and Xivodo joined him shortly, when the juice had all been served. For a moment, Madrul clasped his friend’s shoulder firmly; the other returned the grip, and then they each let go and sat in silence, observing the meeting. The noblemen appeared to have had enough of the formalities, though Drademar acted as if he could chat about the weather all day. Lord Struidsen once again began to speak, and though his speech was lengthy and winding, Madrul managed to extract the knowledge that he wanted a great sword forged. Drademar answered equally eloquent, and Madrul followed his master’s speech for some time before he realized that Drademar was accepting the request and would make the blade. He hid a scowl. All this winding talk made his head hurt. The meeting went on for some time, and finally broke down into the small talk again. At last the noblemen took their leave, and they and their servants wound their way down the path up which they had come. Xivodo’s father waited behind for just a short bit of time. He once again embraced Xivodo and then asked to see the written contract. “I wish,” he said, “That I could have been there.” There was a genuine wistfulness on his face and no indication that he blamed Drademar at all. Madrul remembered the man’s last visit and before he could go he strode across the cave and approached Xivodo’s father. The man turned at him, and the expression in his eyes started as hatred but then dwindled away into a kind of unhappy acquiescence. “Well, boy,” he said. “I have no right to be upset at you now, I suppose.” Madrul bowed deeply. “I apologize,” he said clearly. “For drawing my sword on you when you came here that first night, so long ago. I had no right to threaten a guest in my master’s household.” Xivodo’s father blinked and after a long moment he nodded. “I accept your apology,” he said bluntly. Madrul nodded, and turned away as Xivodo said his final farewell to his father and the man made his way down the hill after the rest of the noblemen. Drademar had been standing at the entrance to the tunnel, watching them. As Madrul approached, his great eyes followed the young man. “Well,” he said. “Master?” Madrul glanced up at the dragon. “I am impressed,” Drademar said. “You had the courage to apologize for something you did wrong. I think you truly took what I said to heart, Madrul.” Madrul swallowed. “I tried, Master,” he said. “You should always try, Madrul,” the dragon said as he turned, his low voice drifting back to the boy from the darkened tunnel, and then he disappeared.
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