Death & Magic (The Barefoot Healer, volume I)

Death & Magic chapter 29

Chapter 29

Rakbanorath, Adramal discovered, lived at the top of the east tower of the middle ward, over the servants’ quarters. The tower had been built to the same plan as the ruined one, but there the similarities ended. It was much drier and warmer. The worn steps had been filled in or replaced, and wooden partitions on each floor separated the staircase from the living space.

Near the top, Adramal met a servant coming the other way, who bowed clumsily to her. She thought he looked rather pale, and then noticed a small clay jar in his hand — doubtless a remedy for whatever ailed him. He opened a door and stepped in, saving her the trouble of squeezing past him.

At the top of the staircase, she found that another roof had been built above the original, so this tower was a storey taller than the ruined one. At the end of a short landing was a door. Adramal took a moment to calm herself, and then knocked.

A light, airy voice called, “Come in!”

Her hand reached for the doorknob, and then withdrew. This was a stupid idea. I should never have come here.

The door opened. There stood a man, a head shorter than Adramal, his skin several shades darker than anyone she had seen before. His moustache was long and thin, reaching well past the corners of his mouth, as though he had somehow stretched it. He wore a voluminous blue garment, tied at the wrists, waist and ankles.

“Yes?” He smiled broadly, as though welcoming an old friend.

“Are-are you R-Rakbanorath?” What a stupid question.

“When last I checked.” He pursed his lips. “Though that was some time ago. And you are... don’t tell me... the new apprentice? Adramal?” He spoke with an odd accent — most of the vowels were too long.

“Y-yes, M-Master.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m nobody’s master. You know my name, so please use it.”

“Yes, M-Rakbanorath.”

“I’m sorry, I’m being very rude. Please, come in.” He retreated, allowing her to enter.

She tried not to gasp when she turned the corner. Shelves and cabinets stood all around the wall, every one overflowing with books, scrolls, boxes, jars and instruments. A large table at the far side was just as cluttered, and several chairs had been piled high with more books and loose papers. Small unidentifiable objects hung from the ceiling. Two beds somehow fitted among the mess — a large, decorated one on the left, with a book peeping out of the blankets, and a smaller, plainer one on the right. Heat and light came from a brazier in the middle of the room, next to a thick wooden post that supported the roof.

“I’m sorry if it’s too hot for you,” said Rakbanorath. He took the books off the nearest chair and put them on the floor. “Please — be seated.” She sat and continued to look around, trying not to stare.

“I love this country,” he said, “but it’s so cold. It doesn’t help being up here in the wind, but it was the only place that had enough room.”

“Where are you from, then?”

“Melinand,” he said, as though surprised she didn’t know. That explained his friendliness, and his refusal to let her call him Master. “Laskeron. The City on the Cliffs. Last stop before the Empire.”

Her eyes widened. “If you find our summers cold, what do you do in the winter?”

He gave a wistful smile. “I fly south, like the birds.” He held up his hands and flapped them sorrowfully. She stared at him, and he giggled. “I wrap up and endure it, like the rest of you mad people.” He sighed. “Still, that would be an experience, wouldn’t it? Soaring, swooping, free to go anywhere. But you didn’t come here to listen to me complaining about your climate. What ails you, Adramal?”