Excerpt from Magic and Goldfire - Chapter 1, The Stricken Oak

Silver knelt on the ice-covered field and tried to envision the earth below, slumbering like one of the ancient, nameless gods who created the land and sky. Head aching in concentration, she willed her energy to flow into the ground and the sleeping soil to rise, to meet her fingertips and thaw the glittering frost. Her hands were numb and she felt immensely silly.

The problem was that she didn’t really know what she was doing. She was a physician’s apprentice, not a magician. Her breath huffed in little wisps of steam and her knees ached against the biting morning frost. At this point, the only reason she hadn’t gotten to her feet was to avoid facing the kind farmer’s disappointment.

Just a bit longer. A few more moments and then I’ll tell him he won’t be able to work his field today. He won’t be angry. Just a bit…

Her teeth chattered and her shoulders throbbed, but her heart leapt as she watched a border of wet earth begin to melt around her hands. She focused harder, scrunching her eyes shut against the sudden pain that blazed through her head. When she opened them again, little motes of color sparkled in her peripheral vision—and a circle of mud made a ring around her where the frost used to be. A quick glance over the small field showed patches of earth here and there, peeking out from the icy morning glaze to greet the sun.

Her head spun as she stood. Owen reached out a weathered hand to steady her.

“Thank you, my lady.” His face crinkled with a well-worn smile, and when Silver withdrew her hand from his, three copper coins glistened against her palm.

“You don’t need to pay me, Owen.” Silver closed his fingers back over the precious coins. “Thank the sun for showing its face today, instead of hiding behind the clouds.”

A gentle wind loosened strands of white hair from her braid and she tucked them carefully under the hood of her wool cloak again.

“Are you sure?” Owen frowned.

“Absolutely,” Silver reassured him. “Gareth only allows payment for medicaments and the treatment of wounds or illnesses.”

And he doesn’t believe in magic. But that was akin to blasphemy in the villages.

Gareth was not quiet about his beliefs—or lack thereof—at court. But the villagers were a superstitious people. If they knew the most respected healer in Hagol was a non-believer, they’d suspect his medicines were ineffective.

Owen pocketed the coins and offered his arm to her. Together, they walked through the field, which had been frozen minutes before. Water now sloshed and spread below an ever-thinning sheet of crackling ice, and Silver couldn’t help but smile. Gareth would say it was coincidence. That the warmth of the sun was the catalyst and she shouldn’t waste time freezing herself to soothe the superstitious anxieties of peasants.

But Gareth wasn’t here.

“At least let me feed you,” Owen said in his gravelly voice.

Silver followed him into the firelit warmth of the one-room farmhouse he shared with his wife. The woman’s narrow-eyed disdain was unmistakable, and Silver placed herself as far away from her as possible: on a three-legged wooden stool beside the fireplace, so low her skirts gathered soot around the already muddy hem.

Dough slapped the rickety table and clouds of flour dusted the room as the farmwife kneaded in strained silence. For all Owen’s best efforts to engage her in conversation, asking polite questions about the goings on at Castle Dúnbright and her studies, Silver knew she was unwelcome. So, she finished her porridge quickly and thanked Owen for his kindness before ducking out of the house and away from the farmwife’s warning glare.

If the distance was further, Gareth would have accompanied her; he’d only recently agreed Silver was ready to make short visits without his supervision. She had traveled frequently since then to nearby farms and villages, seeing to the needs of the people. Though Owen was a regular, this was her first time inside the farmhouse. His wife had greeted her from the doorway with tight-lipped acknowledgment before, but entering her home was apparently too much of an imposition to even manage feigned politeness. Silver hoped the woman wasn’t too harsh with Owen for letting her in.

She took her time riding back, letting Falada fall into a relaxed gait. Silver enjoyed the energy and constant change of Castle Dúnbright and King Nechtan’s court, but there was peace in the open land of Hagol. Broad hills and ancient ruins and the invigorating promise of spring on the wind.

A flock of trumpeting geese adjusted their formation above, flying home after spending the long winter in the south. It was difficult to imagine a life away from the affairs of the kingdom, to have the freedom to explore the lands beyond the Ausra Mountains, unhindered by responsibility.

As Gareth’s head apprentice she had her own freedom. There was no obligation to marry unless she chose to and she could spend the rest of her life helping people and studying medicine. Still, on days like today, she couldn’t help but look to the south.

Elderwood Forest marked the halfway point to the royal town of Dúnbriga. It was barely more than a graveyard now, complete with a few weathered headstones off the side of the main road. The trees were long since gone. A few twisted, leafless trunks recalled the forest that once spread all the way from the royal town to the farmlands.

Scenting smoke on the winter air, Silver tugged on Falada's reins.

“Steady, boy.”

With caution, she slid from the saddle and walked toward the crackling blaze. Biting warmth rolled in waves against her cheeks and glowing ashes disappeared in the chill wind. A single tree was lit, the still-frozen ground preventing the fire from spreading.

She circled the tree. A cautious investigation for signs of a poorly planned campfire or lightning strike produced nothing.

Behind her, Falada pawed at the dirt.

“Okay, okay.” Silver turned to console him.

The splintering hiss of breaking wood snapped her attention back to the tree as a high branch cracked and fell, weakened by the fire and unable to bear its own weight any longer. Silver let out a shriek and jumped away as sparks flew, lighting the hem of her muddy skirt. Trying not to panic, she stamped down on the fabric and smothered the flame before it could spread. The felled branch continued to crackle warningly and she took heed, scrambling backward to where Falada waited, the flame reflecting eerily in his wide, dark eyes.

Silver slipped her boot into the stirrup and hauled herself back over the saddle in a well-practiced movement, careful not to catch her tattered skirts.

There was nothing to be done. She would alert the guards to investigate when she returned to Castle Dúnbright. Beyond that, all she could do was give the fire a wide berth and hope Falada didn’t spook. He was a brave horse all things considered, but even brave horses have the good sense to be wary of fire.

As they rode away, Silver reasoned that the tree was dead anyway and a fire could enrich the soil. Maybe something new would grow in its place and bring life back to the old forest. But even as she approached town and addressed the guards who watched the gate, the burning tree continued to flicker in her mind’s eye.

***

“Where have you been?” Gareth found her before she finished stabling Falada. No doubt he’d been waiting nearby, impatient for her return.

“It’s hardly midday, Gareth,” Silver protested. “Owen offered me breakfast. I rode back to town directly after finishing.”

Gareth crossed his arms over his violet robes. The cloth was a rare show of luxury, a concession made after the king himself insisted it wouldn’t do for a royal physician and scholar to dress like a hermit. Gareth had argued that there was nothing in the least wrong with being a hermit and perhaps he should have taken up a vow of solitude and devoted his life to studying somewhere quiet, far away from court. That was one of his favorite threats when he was especially surly. He never followed through, however—he enjoyed being annoyed more than he desired a peaceful life in the country.

“There’s always a convenient explanation.” He watched Silver lead Falada into the stall, while irritation set his foot tapping against the straw covered ground. “What happened to your dress? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Hurry up. We have a lot to do before the feast this evening.”

Silver ignored her mentor and took her time with Falada. After unbuckling his saddle, she rubbed down his winter coat and gave him a meal of oats and hay. Falada whinnied and bumped her shoulder before shoving his nose into the wooden bowl with a happy snort. Then, closing the stall door behind her, she took a few lingering moments to inspect the damage to her skirt. The scorched hem wasn’t fixable, but the mud would clean up fine—it was old anyways.

“Feast?” She closed Falada’s stall and turned at last to face Gareth. It was petty, making him wait so long when he truly did have other things to do, but she’d learned years ago that everything was a crisis for him, especially when it came to social events.

“Yes.” He was already halfway to the entrance of the stables, gesturing over his shoulder for her to follow. “A border scout arrived with a message this morning after you left. We’re receiving a guest tonight. From the south.”

“Who is it?” Silver hurried to keep up. It was incredibly rare for someone from the southern kingdoms to visit, especially this early in the year. The most interesting person of late was a charlatan hawking a magical cure for all ailments—a con of vinegar and oil, Gareth discerned, though not before the man sold almost all his bottles.

But a visitor worthy of a feast? King Nechtan could be extravagant, but he wouldn’t bother with such formalities unless someone of great esteem came to Dúnbright. An obscenely wealthy merchant, or maybe even nobility. For all the time that Silver had lived at the castle, that had never happened.

They passed through the market toward the castle gates, forced to navigate the haggling crowd of farmers, traders, and townsfolk. A heated argument over the price of sheepskin was drawing a crowd and Silver sidestepped the gaggle of angry customers.

“A knight from the Summer Kingdom,” she heard Gareth say from somewhere ahead.

She nearly tripped over herself when a chicken escaped its owner’s arms. The clucking bird flapped to the ground in a mess of feathers as the man rushed to re-collect it and prevent it from being trampled.

“What’s a knight from Sul Galen coming here for?” Silver stooped to catch the chicken and returned it hastily to the farmer, who sputtered an apology without meeting her gaze. She barely had time to acknowledge him before the shredded hem of her dress was trodden over by someone else's boot.

Silver cursed the inconvenience of skirts and plowed through the far end of the market, gripping her leather bag close to her body. But when she reached the castle gate, Gareth was nowhere to be found.

She hated market days.