Rumors circulated in certain circles that Antaigne was a rogue who got into a dispute with the Academy, the official governing body and school for most magic users. Those labeled "rogue" by the Academy were generally looked down upon, and sometimes things got violent, or so the rumors said.
The Fae'lorea forest loomed ahead after a few hours traveling the roads, and his horse knew it, becoming more and more nervous with every passing second. Marcius patted Ruby to calm him down. Marcius had once read Fae'lorea was derived from the elven word for darkness, and one look at the looming forest was all it took to see why. It sat and brooded, a singular black spot on a canvas of white.
"Easy boy, nothing to be afraid of. I know the way," Marcius said soothingly. After a few minutes of reassuring, the horse rode steady once more.
Marcius spent several hours navigating the maze-like forest. The lofty canopy became a blanket that threatened to smother him, and the air grew rank and heated. Branches snapped at his head as insects harried exposed flesh. Several times he could have sworn he heard something, mouthing the words to several spells, only to discover the noise or shape that had surprised him was something silly, such as a tree or a small woodland creature.
Pyre-flies, small glowing insects that emitted their own light and found only in this region, were the only sources of light in the Fae'lorea. Eventually, Marcius relented and lit the torch he had with him, allowing the soft glow to creep out and banish the darkness.
A different light snuck in, battling Marcius's torch for supremacy and announcing the nearing end of his journey. As he drew closer, the forest grew less dense. He came upon a clearing that was as light as day, and it didn't take a wizard to tell it was enchanted. In the middle, like a forlorn lost child, stood a tiny cottage. One of the shutters hung down at a weird angle, a few muddy red shingles were missing, and the rickety stairs groaned as Marcius walked up them.
He took a moment to admire the fine silver knocker that adorned the door. A stately looking lion's head with sapphires for eyes stared back him. The fancy ornament was out of place on the dilapidated house.
Gingerly he took hold of it, feeling the cool tempered metal under his fingertips, and knocked softly three times. There was a muffled shuffling followed by stillness, and the door creaked open. The unique blend of ale, cinnamon, and unnamed arcane ingredients wafted its way from the now open door.
"Who be ye?" came the gruff voice from within.
"Come on Master, you know who it is!"
"If ye are who ye claim te' be, what be yer favorite spell?"
"I can't cast actual spells yet, only minor can-trips. My favorite can-trip is the one that induces sleep." Can-trips were minor "trick" spells valued mainly for the ability to be done fast and without any reagents or incantations. They were mostly considered party tricks and the like.
"Sleep, eh?" the door widened, and he could see an eye through the crack. "How is yer father doing?"
"Father is doing well, Master. He hopes to go a bit farther south this trade season. Most people are superstitious about the far southern continent, so he hopes there is untapped trading to be had. It was mostly difficult to acquire a crew that was willing to go on a venture to the south, though." Marcius paused for dramatic effect. Antaigne didn't appear impressed, if the single eye was any indication. "If you need supplies, you're to send the list with me."
"Well now!" The door opened all the way, revealing a stout, brawny dwarf in a robe. If you could really call it a robe. It was probably more accurate to call it a collection of pockets in the shape of a robe. A neatly done scarlet beard ran the full length of Antaigne and was braided at the end. His hair was hidden under a wide brimmed wizard hat and various gems adorned Antaigne's hands, which Marcius suspected were all enchanted since they flashed in the muted glow of the fireplace.
Antaigne's physical stature was pretty much the standard for the dwarven race. Coming in at about seven hands tall, dwarves were never known for their height; instead, they took pleasure in the stoutness and strength that came naturally to them.
Except for the hat, he looked nothing like the fairy tales. There was nothing frail about Master Antaigne. The dwarven wizard even admitted once, during a dinner, that he only wore the hat to signify that he was a wizard. "How else'll they supposed ter' know ye're a wizard!?" he had exclaimed, stomping his feet when Marcius started laughing.
"Well 'ere gonna stand there all day? Stop dallyin' an' gettin!" he grumbled, motioning Marcius to come in. With a quick grin of apology, Marcius stepped in. Antaigne gave one last quick assessment of his premises before shutting the door.
❧ ❧ ❧
The inside of the cottage was pointedly different than the outside. Marcius was never sure if it was magic, or perhaps the trick of lighting, but there always seemed to be far more space inside than what the outside suggested.
Antaigne motioned for Marcius to pull a chair to a table besieged with scrolls, books, and unused reagents for whatever spells he did while Marcius was away. The wizard gave a quick waggle of his fingers in some archaic sign, reached into one of his many pockets, and took out a pinch of what Marcius could only assume was dust. He blew it over the table and suddenly it was immaculate, the litter seemingly vanished into thin air. With a differential nod of a job well done, Antaigne pulled up a chair as well and sat opposite of Marcius.
Marcius would have bet anything that any of his family's servants would have killed to have that spell. He couldn't stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of it.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Antaigne's brow furrowed and his one eye twitched, a sign Marcius had learned meant that the wizard was in deep thought. "So," the dwarf began, "let's get a'couple o'things outta ye way." He reached inside his robe and brought out a small bottle of muddy red liquid.
Marcius, as always, wondered where exactly the dwarf pulled it from. "First off, ye potions yer father bade me to give ye monthly." Antaigne passed the potion across the table, setting it next to Marcius.
For as long as Marcius could remember, he'd had to drink this concoction from the dwarf. His father expressed concern if Marcius ever missed a month of the draft, and he wasn't the type to argue with his father, even if he didn't know what the potion did.
Taking the cork off the bottle, he raised it to his lips, smoke escaping in wispy trails as he chugged. It burned a familiar blazing path down his throat before settling in a volatile bulge in his stomach. He gave an involuntary shiver as a warm feeling spread throughout his body. The weird thing was that despite the initial unpleasantness, the aftertaste was a very rich and exquisite tasting cherry.
He handed the now empty bottle back to Antaigne, who secreted it away once more within the mysterious confines of his robe. Marcius caught himself entertaining thoughts about the secrets of the robes again, but that line of thinking was quickly squashed.
"Now that've got that business out've way, I have a more serious matter'll resolve."
The dwarf pulled out his smoking pipe and began puffing on it, another sure indicator of his nervousness. "I have trained ye fer. . . what. . . seven years? Ever since ye was a lil bumpkin unsure of how ta properl'e do a can-trip, 'bout the age of fourteen I think?" he gave another puff. "Now I ask ye, how serious yer about being a wizard?" At that question, he leaned back on the rear legs of his chair, crossing his arms in front of him as he waited for Marcius's response.
This gave Marcius pause, because his master, despite all his gruff and bluster, was being serious. Ever since he'd done his first can-trip, Marcius imagined the day when he would be able to explore the boundaries of magic not as a mere novice, but as someone who commanded it with all the authority of a master.
It was enthralling, like a woman who teases you with thinly veiled hints at pleasures to come, then yanks it away only to allude to something greater.
The little slice he had gotten of the world only left him desperate for more. "I am, Master Antaigne. I do not wish to follow in my father's footsteps. I don't want to be a merchant. I'm not sure how much natural talent I have, but I enjoy the practice that you have given me. . . not the bumps though." And with that statement, Marcius found himself rubbing a particularly stubborn bruise on his arm.
Antaigne let out a great belly aching laugh. "Well, ye will get less bruises when ye follow me instructions more!" The surly dwarf wiped a small tear from his eye. "I have an' offer fer ye then. I want ye to live here. There ain't no way one week per'll month will allow ye te learn what I have ter teach in a timely fashion. Can-trips are supposed ter be something ye learn quickly, shouldn't have taken almost seven years fer that ter happen. Also, I think ye have come far enough fer a familiar." At the last statement, Antaigne sobered. "Come 'ere Fanrir."
At the call, a black cat-like creature appeared, already perched on the old wizard's shoulder, the animal fading into view like a dream. Marcius had only seen the familiar on a few occasions, since it usually kept itself under the guise of invisibility, which was apparently the norm for the reclusive creatures.
The creature was mottled gray-black, its leathery looking wings covered in fine fur. The tail split into several pieces like the tentacles of an octopus, wrapping securely around the thick neck of Antaigne.