Apprentice: Book One of The History of Lorelan Grey

Chapter Two: The Royal Summoning

Marn stumbled in through the front door, hair wild and eyes unfocused. Lorelan wrestled with his desire to let her fall, before he caught her unwillingly as she nearly bonked her head on the table. Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

"Blast Harold Humming," she slurred. "And his blasted drinking games." Harold Humming was the Area drunk. He often challenged random goers at the pub, and unfortunately, Marn never turned down a challenge.

Lorelan watched his aunt's angry mutterings with amusement. She fell back into her puffy armchair by the fireside.

"Four more deliveries tomorrow," she muttered. She forced her lids open and stared at the fire, then turned and frowned at her nephew. "Vegetables."

Lorelan raised his eyebrow.

"I shouldn't drink," she said abruptly.

"That's what they all say."

"It makes me remember things..." Marn's dark brows furrowed, and she shook her head, breathing deeply.

Lorelan plopped down on the carpet and waited, patient and hopeful. Marn stretched out her long fingers almost unconsciously, flicking them at some floating ash particles drifting from the fireplace. Her hands didn't look like a worker's hands. They were smooth and seemingly unmarred by hard labor. Even though Marn had never hired any farmhands.

Lorelan quietly filed this observation into a corner of his mind. The corner that could see his aunt had been up to more than planting vegetables all her life.

The fire sputtered, beginning to die out. A few logs shifted and one on the top of the stack slid and fell off the side, startling several bright vermillion sparks onto Marn's long skirt. Marn waved her hand in annoyance, and a small gust of wind blew the sparks back into the fire, which roared to life again. Lorelan sat up straighter, eyes wide.

Marn glanced at him, then squinted dully at the jumping licks of flame. "Ah. Just some simple wind magic."

"Could... you teach me?" Lorelan asked, breathless.

His aunt glared at him. "Fool. I can't teach you anything. Magic is about feeling. You want to do it right, you have to let go of the logic that's restraining you. And that includes textbook instructions." She flicked her index finger impatiently at him. "Go on."

Lorelan closed his eyes and tried to imagine wind. Nothing happened. He frowned, opening his lids. Marn was still looking at him blearily. "Don't think, boy. Feel." She reached forward, and pressed a thumb to Lorelan's forehead.

He remembered being on a grassy field as a boy, hiding from his aunt and his errands. The memory was so clear, and so real. He thought of the naive joy he had felt, when the cool gusts came from the north, so powerful they had toppled over a short little boy without a second thought.

Marn's hand dropped from his head, as Lorelan felt wind, real wind, rush through his hair, breezing over through the strands. He opened his eyes in elation.

"Did you see that?" he asked, excited.

But Marn's head had already fallen sideways, into sleep.

~

A group of small children danced around in a circle, singing.

"And the leaves of old flew away, away, away," they chanted, laughing, and unlinked their hands, spinning around uncontrollably and rolling all over the street.

Old Woman Jemin yelped when a little girl toppled in front of her, and she had to do a sort of catapult with her cane over the giggling body. She muttered furiously, frowning so deeply, Lorelan was sure she had just gained a few more wrinkles. Salvander chuckled jovially and placed a basket filled with small sweet buns on his open counter. The children jumped over each other, greedily eyeing the buns.