Dragonborn Page 7

  He had an apprentice, a poor girl called Beatrice, who had come to him as a small child. Slowin knew he had less and less to give, less to teach, so Beatrice, instead of learning, was little more than a slave, cleaning and running errands and taking care of the house. She was a girl who deserved the finest master. She had a gift that few apprentices bring with them. Her powers could have been greater than Slowin ever dreamed of. He had been a strong wizard, once, but even then nothing to what Beatrice could have been. He saw the possibilities in her and was full of envy and spite, which made his laziness and his weakness even greater, so he kept from her even the little he could have given.

  The day came for her to sign her indenture and become his apprentice, for him to tell her what her name was. Her name was Flame. Slowin saw his opportunity to cheat the magic that was hunting him.

  “You write Beatrice here,” he said, “and there”—he put his finger on the page—“is your name in magic: Ember”

  Beatrice looked straight into his eyes, and he knew that she did not believe him.

  “Hurry,” he said. “Or you will never be a wizard.”

  So she signed Ember, and he signed Flame.

  When it was done, it could not be undone. Slowin had a new name, and new strength. And Beatrice, who had come to him with such promise, was now weak and spent, and the revenge magic was turned on her.

  That night, Slowin’s house burned down, and with it all his books and equipment and ingredients, and the indenture that bound master and apprentice together, destroyed by fire. Slowin escaped, changed beyond change, and was never seen again in that country. Beatrice was dragged from the fire. Her hair was burned off, her hands black from trying to beat off the flames; her face, which had promised beauty, would always tell the story of the fire. She was half-dead, hardly breathing. The magic had mistaken her for Slowin. Another wizard saved her, turned away the festering magic from Slowin’s selfish spells, and filled her dying lungs with new air. She had lost the power to speak, could no longer read or write, and kept her head shawled, the folds draped over her face to hide the scars. In taking her name, Slowin had taken nearly all she had.

  A wizard is given a name at the very beginning of the apprenticeship as a sign of the trust between the child and the master; it binds them together in a secret companionship which is theirs for life.

  For some wizards, two names are not enough, or even three.

  Sam felt Starback’s absence like

  a toothache, nagging at him, slowing his footsteps, a pain always there, hurting, but not enough to make him cry tears or shout aloud. Megatorine talked all the time.

  “Do you see that bird? That’s a flatterflit.”

  Sam knew it as a lapwing.

  “In the Deep World we have flatterflits as big as badgers, and they can sing like moonerwards.”

  “What’s a moonerward?” Sam flapped a hand at a blue dragonfly hovering in the heat in front of his face.

  “Up Top you call them nightingales, but we don’t have them in the Deep World because of the light down there. See that stream? You’ll find tiddlers from the Deep World there, with seven eyes. They used to sell them at fairs and then they got into the streams, but we don’t like Deep World stuff coming up here anymore.”

  “What is the light like down there?” asked Sam, puzzled by the talk of the nightingales.

  “Now that’s a very good question. A wizard’s question, if you don’t mind my saying so. Do you see that tree? The one with the horse chestnuts on it?”

  “How much farther is it to Canterstock?”

  “We’ll just take a little rest here,” said the roffle. He stepped off the path and under the wide branches of the horse chestnut. The shade folded over them and Sam smiled to be out of the sun. He spread his cloak on the ground and lay flat on his stomach while Megatorine leaned back against the rough bark. Propped on one elbow, the boy looked at the roffle. To look at, he was just like a little man. But his thoughts were roffle thoughts, and Sam found it difficult to know what was going on in his head.

  “What’s it like at the College?” he asked.

  “Now, your horse chestnut is a good tree for shade, and for leaning against, but its fruit is not good to eat. Would you like a sandwich?”

  Sam would.

  They unwrapped the food Mrs. Martin had prepared for them. There were cheese sandwiches and ham sandwiches, a pork pie, four meat pasties, two fruit pies, apples, and raw carrots. Enough for three days, at least. There was lemonade for Sam and beer for the roffle as well.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the memmont?”

  Sam looked down at his cloak and traced a his finger along the line of the weave.

  “I’ll have to go back for it and take it to the Deep World.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where they belong.”

  “They like to be with weavers.”

  Megatorine scowled into his beer.

  “How did you know?” asked Sam.

  “It was too tidy. I knew straight away.”

  “No, how did you know I had seen it?”

  “I didn’t,” said the roffle. “But I do now, don’t I? A wizard needs to be more careful than that. That’s why you need that college, boy. Your old wizard didn’t teach you very well, did he?”

  Sam knew that Flaxfield would have been disappointed in him, and he concentrated even harder on the weave of the cloak. Flaxfield was not two days dead yet, and Sam had lost his house, lost Starback, run away from the wizards, and given a secret away to a roffle. He could see the old wizard’s face frowning sadly at him, and he felt sick with sorrow.

  “Canterstock will sort you out,” the roffle promised.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s not old wizards like your master was. Village magicians. It’s proper magic. Wizards from the College get respect in the towns.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of their magic, of course. They can cast a spell to make a frog sing like a lark, to make rancid milk taste like the sweetest cider, or to make a rich man marry an ugly girl before he finds out what she really looks like.”

  The roffle sprayed pasty crumbs over his shirtfront in his excitement. He bounced up and down on his flattened barrel seat.

  “Oh, you should see the magic those ones do. There’s nothing they can’t manage. And it’s because they’ve been taught properly at a college, you see.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Like? What’s it like? You’ve seen a castle.”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’ve seen the Palace of Boolat.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Everyone’s seen the Palace of Boolat. Fathers take their sons there to see it as soon as they can walk and talk. It’s the greatest marvel in the world. You have.”

  “No.”

  Megatorine sat back against the horse chestnut. “What sort of master was it you had? I can’t believe it.”

  Sam was ashamed. Ashamed of himself for knowing so little, ashamed of Flaxfield for not teaching him and showing him more.

  The roffle scratched his head, hummed a little tune, then said, “Anyway, it’s the biggest building you can imagine, like a castle, like a palace. With halls and great rooms for lessons and demonstrations, with long, long corridors and dormitories and little rooms for all the students to sleep in. Gardens like you’ve never seen and can’t imagine. It’s the greatest place for a wizard to learn. And full of the most talented students.”

  Sam’s sorrow had fled and he was full of wonder and excitement. He had never realized that Flaxfield was not a proper wizard, and he was grateful to have learned in time. But it could not be as simple as the roffle said. There must be money to pay, some sort of fee.

  “How will I get in?”

  “Through the door.”

  “No—why will they let me in? Do you have to pay?”

  “You just leave that to me,” said the roffle.
“I can square old Frosty.”

  “What’s old Frosty?” Sam asked.

  “Professor Frastfil is the principal of the College, and a very old friend of mine.”

  Sam didn’t know that roffles were so well traveled or that they knew such important people. He made a resolution to add this to his notebook later on. For the moment, he was more interested in the College.

  “I’ll have to change my name,” he said.

  “Sam’s a good name.” The roffle gave him a sly look.

  “I like it,” said Sam. “But they’re looking for me. I need to hide from them.”

  “That’s the cleverness of it, you see,” said the roffle. “They’ll never think of looking at the College.”

  “Why not? I’d have thought it was an obvious place.”

  “Ah, that’s where you show how little you know.”

  Sam looked carefully at the cloak again, picking the edge with his fingers.

  “Village wizards stay away from the College. They hate it because they weren’t good enough to go there. They’ll never think that a dirty kitchen boy like you would be able to go. And besides, they know you can’t pay.”

  “I can’t,” said Sam in despair again. “I told you.”

  “And I told you that a friend of mine doesn’t have to pay. Old Frosty will make some arrangement.”

  Sam discovered a small raised section of cloth, near to the hem of the cloak. He traced it with his fingertips, looked carefully at the sun-dappled cloth, and saw that the figure of a memmont had been woven into the fabric.

  “Still,” said Sam. “I’m going to use a different name.”

  Megatorine stretched and yawned. “If you like,” he said. “What about your other name?”

  “What?”

  “You know. The name the old man gave you.” He wrapped the leftovers in the waxed paper and started putting them into his bag, his back turned to Sam. “What was that?”

  “Cartouche,” said Sam, remembering a strange symbol he had seen in one of Flaxfield’s old books.

  “Cartouche?” the roffle raised his eyebrows. “What’s that, some sort of paper hat with fish in it, or a ribbon thing that you tie around roast potatoes?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam lied. “It’s just a word.”

  “Oh, nothing’s ever just a word. A wizard should know that.”

  Sam knew that very well, but he didn’t like seeing how much the roffle knew.

  “Let’s get going,” he said.

  “Sleep first.”

  “We need to get there.”

  “Why? They’re not waiting for us, are they, with a big bowl of soup and a gray horse?”

  “A gray horse?”

  “Or a black one then, if you like. Or a pig with a blue hat.”

  Sam wanted to slap him. He was bursting with jump, and needed to get going, to move around.

  “It’s too hot to walk now. A little nap in the shade and we’ll be there by this time tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  Magatorine lay down with his head on the squashed barrel and was snoring almost before his eyes were shut.

  The roffle was right. It was too hot now, with the sun high in the clear sky. Walking was, if not impossible, then at least foolish. Sam stepped to the edge of the green awning of low branches and looked out at the fields around. The hedgerows were neat and strong. Elms soared up, majestic and beautiful. Sam could see, far away, in one of the great trees, perched high, a gleam of blue and green, scales shining like steel, the sun flashing off them.

  “Starback!” he shouted. “Over here!” He ran out of the cover of the shade, waved his cloak in the air, and called again. “Starback. Here!”

  The dragon, who had been watching, stepped into empty air, spread his wings, dipped, swooped, flapped twice, and rose up. Then, turning from Sam, caught a current of warm air, rose again, and soared high, high up, wheeled round in a full circle and flew off, leaving Sam with his cloak crumpled on the ground, throat sore from shouting. He watched Starback until the dragon was less than a pinpoint of green against the blue sky, a memory in his vision, in eyes that stung with loss.

  Starback wheeled away in the air

  and headed toward Canterstock. The dragon’s head dipped. He felt a part of himself left behind in the forest. Dragons can’t cry, so they let their heads lean to one side and down. It didn’t help as much as crying helped. Nothing did. Starback had seen animals in pain, animals frightened and lost. They couldn’t cry. So it hurt more, and the fear and the loss were sharper, deeper. There was nowhere for them to go.

  Starback spread dark wings to feel the sun burn away the sadness. He flew high today, till his head straightened up and he felt ready.

  Starback’s one thought was to look after Sam. Starback did not like roffles. He did not want Sam to go to the College. He did not want the other wizards to find Sam.

  All afternoon the dragon spun in the hot winds and flew over the distant fields and forests. Once, far from where he had left Sam, he caught the flash of sun on sea and saw the green line of the horizon scratched against the blue of the ocean. Then he knew he had traveled too far, flown too high. He wheeled around, lost height, and made a straight line for Canterstock.

  The sun was low when the dragon’s eyes caught the first roofs and towers breaking over the landscape. Dragons’ eyes see farther than a horse can ride in a day, so he was still far off. By the time he hovered over the town it was dark. Lights glowed in windows. Smoke rose from chimneys. The College stood gray and hunched in the square.

  Starback circled lower and lower and came to rest outside the gate. He kept his back to the College and his eyes on the road into town. He would see Sam arrive, and he would stop him from going in. Roffles are not good in towns. They prefer the open road, the lonely house, the field and forest. In town, Sam would come back to Starback. He would not go inside the building.

  The clock in the square counted out the night hours. Starback needed no clock. A horse whinnied in the stable of the inn. The dawn still needed several hours when Starback felt the square jolt to one side. He reeled back, startled. The square twisted out of shape, then shimmered, settled back, and rested. The rats shrieked and scurried away. Starback felt dizzy, sick, for a moment, then he lifted a cautious leg and moved one step forward. He braced his back legs, pushed hard, and ran, and, without thinking he was going to do it, he rose up, spread his wings, flapped them briskly, and was flying.

  All thoughts of keeping Sam from going into the College had disappeared. He rose up higher and higher. Before it even shaped itself in his mind as a plan, he swooped around and set himself in the direction of Flaxfield’s house. He needed to know if the wizards were still there, and, if not, where?

  They would be looking for Sam. They must not find him.

  Starback knew where to lead them. His wings caught the night air. His tail was a splinter of silver in the sky. It was two days’ journey to where he was going, and he would be there before dawn, ready.

  That night, Sam dreamed

  that he was Starback.

  His claws scratched on a cobbled street. The bulk of a huge stone building reared up behind him, gray and grim like a prison. His eyes searched the streets that met in this square in Canterstock. He was waiting for someone, waiting to warn him, waiting to keep him out of the gray, grim jail.

  Sam wanted to feel more. He wanted to test this body, to see what it could do.

  He lifted a cautious leg and moved one step forward. He was strong. He felt that he could carry many times more than his own weight. The muscles were like pistons. Rearing up, he moved his head from side to side, eyes searching. The power and precision of his vision startled him. His mind was agile, sharp. He had seen every detail around him in an instant, and he could recall it perfectly.

  Sam thought of himself, dreaming he was Starback, thinking of Sam.

  He wanted to go very fast, so he braced his back legs, pushed hard, and ran, and, without thinking he was going to do it, he rose up,
spread his wings, flapped them briskly, and was flying.

  He gasped with the beauty and wonder of flight, mounting ever higher, riding the rolling steady air beneath him.

  Before it even shaped itself in his mind as a plan, he swooped around and set himself in the direction of Flaxfield’s house. He needed to know if the wizards were still there, and, if not, where?

  Sweeping around like a skate’s heel on a bend, he set his course for home.

  The river, then the willows, then the house itself. Sam circled the house. Below him the house seethed with magic. Then, as he stooped down, he woke, and was Sam again, and his heart in hiding broke, rebuffed by the wind.

  Pages from an apprentice’s notebook

  WANDS. A wand is a bendy stick. That’s it.

  I’ve been told I have to write more on this page.

  Well, a wand is a stick. Not just any stick that you might pick up—a wand is straight and slender. Willow trees make good wands when the branches are young.

  Wands have many uses.

  An old man may use a wand when he is walking, or an old woman. Or someone who has had a fall and hurt their legs and needs some way to help them balance.

  Some teachers use wands when they want to point to things. Some teachers think that new learning goes in not through the eyes or the ears, but through the backside, so if a pupil is slow, they beat his backside with a wand to make the knowledge go in better.

  Wands are flexible because they are cut when they are young and the sap is in them, so they are still wet. This makes them useful for making all sorts of things.