Before the Tide

By Christine Malec

What makes five of the most powerful witches and wizards of their day retreat from the world to teach magic? 11th Century Britain is a perilous place, even for a sorcerer. It’s the summer of 1066, and England is on the brink of events that will bring destruction and transformation. A battlefield is an unspeakable place, but it can also be a place of astonishing heroism. Brought together by the manipulations of a wizard even more powerful than they, the Hogwarts four, inspired by the remarkable courage of Odo the Hero on Hastings field, find themselves embarked on a quest to the north, which keeps them one step ahead of the invading army. On their journey, they meet seductive sorceresses, vicious magical creatures, and people who are not what they seem. The country is changing, and magic is no longer as stylish as it once was. Should magicians interfere in the affairs of muggles? Should witches and wizards retreat from the world for their own safety? Is magic the only protection witches have in a violent world? And who is the cantankerous old wizard responsible for bringing these legendary friends together? This is a rollicking tale of adventure and magic, that peaks behind legends, and explores what it means to be different in a dangerous world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Malec
• Release date: May 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9780991897551

Christine Malec

I’ve loved writing ever since I was a kid. Both as a writer and a reader, I’m drawn by the lure of escape, either into the past or the future. I like to speculate about humanity at a distance: what things about us are consistent across time and culture? I've amused myself for years writing: short stories, rhyming verse, and the occasional article. I have been a practising Massage Therapist since 1995,and I do occasional editing and transcribing work, which satisfies my love of bringing order to chaos. I play guitar, and can occasionally be spotted busking here and there around Toronto, mostly singing other people’s songs. I love to cook, do yoga regularly, and enjoy long walks in all weather. I love the variety afforded by the different types of work I do. I feel that each area helps me cultivate skills that become relevant in the others.

Book preview

BEFORE THE TIDE

CHRISTINE MALEC

Copyright © 2017 by Christine Malec

Chapter 1: Song of the Solitary Sorcerer

The old man frowned when he saw the goatherd. For many years, he had been engaged in a vigorous campaign to discourage the folk about from frequenting the area around his castle. He’d had more than enough of people and their machinations in his long life, and he went to some lengths to deflect attention away from himself. It was true that now and then he did lose control and let his irritation get the better of him, but people rarely got hurt, and his tactics were mostly harmless. He was too apathetic today to enjoy much at the expense of the credulous goatherd however, so settled for leaning ostentatiously on his staff and looking feeble.

Hoisting a vacant expression onto his face, he assumed a stooped posture and ran gnarled looking fingers through his straggly beard. On the whole, he enjoyed the aspect of a dotty old man he projected for the benefit of unwelcome visitors, but the beard was hard. His beard was, in actuality, full, even luxuriant, and of a glossy black. He thought it his best physical feature by far, and he was vain about it. He considered that hiding its glory was a high price to pay for anonymity. But, he reasoned with himself when feeling especially aggrieved about it, if he was going to make his home here at the northern end of the world in order to escape tiresome people and their trivial little lives, he must keep his beard as a purely private enjoyment.

His attenuated campaign of inhospitality had enjoyed some success, so although his guise of a creaky old man looked harmless enough, the goatherd sidled out of view again with a fearful backward glance or two. The old man grunted with satisfaction and straightened, allowing his features to lose the mask of decrepitude and senility he showed to his unwelcome neighbours.

He went for weeks or even months sometimes without seeing anyone at all, which was exactly the way he liked it. This morning however, the look of apprehension on the goatherd’s face put an extra spring in his step. He gave his staff a jaunty swing as he walked along, glad to know his efforts towards being feared and disliked weren’t going to waste.

The snares yielded sufficiently for his needs, and he returned to what he still enjoyed thinking of as his castle. It wasn’t so much the castle part that he never really wanted to get used to, but rather the fact that it was his. Oh, he’d lived in castles, too many to remember, but always someone else’s. His status, no matter how revered or respected, had always been that of guest: honoured guest to be sure, but always there for another’s purpose, a visitor in another man’s home. He could never say, I’ve always hated that tapestry, fob it off on one of my inferiors with bad taste and weave me another, or, This stew isn’t fit for a hippogriff, bring me something palatable or it’s the mines for the lot of you! No, he’d always had to just take what he was given, he, the greatest wizard in all of Britain, in all of the world.

This castle though, this was his, and he’d built it himself, using magic to levitate and shape the stone. It had taken him quite a long time it was true, but he had time. There was nothing else he wanted to do, nowhere else he wanted to go. He’d seen and done it all, and now he wanted to be left alone.

As he approached his castle, he had a fleeting wish to see it as muggles saw it. He knew the enchantments and concealments he had laid on it, but he always felt just a little put out because he could never experience the full effect.

Any muggle who strayed here would see nothing but a broken-down ruin, unpromising, depressing, even a bit eerie. (Eerie was subtle, he was still working on that part.) Their understandable disinterest would be augmented by a sudden feeling there was something they’d neglected to do elsewhere, and they’d be off, castle forgotten. In fact, the need for little demonstrations of eccentricity had declined steadily, a job well done he told himself as he climbed the steps to the door.

He passed the hares on to his house elf, who headed kitchenwards with them immediately. He looked around. His eye was caught by his chess set. Really there was no reason to have it set out he reflected, running nimble fingers through his perfectly groomed beard, but he left it nonetheless. Occasionally, on winter nights, he’d play from memory games shared in days passed, games with kings and games with friends. He shook his head. It was a beautiful set, made of ivory and gold, too beautiful not to be seen. His house elf made a tempting repast with the hares, and the old man made an early night of it.

That night, greatly to his annoyance, the old man dreamed. For you and me this might be an event of little moment, but for this particular old man, dreams were a serious business. In the days that followed he did his best to dismiss what he had seen as the result of an overly rich sauce prepared by his house elf, who had a heavy hand with the cream. Try as he might though, he failed to convince himself.

He had, he was sure, long since become immune to fetching young women with flaxen hair and sweet smiles. Still, the young lady in question, the one who began appearing with some regularity in his dreams, was in danger. He knew it. If something wasn’t done …

At this point, the old man would call for his house elf to bring one of the bottles of Burgundian wine he took such care never to be without. It was no small feat to round up enough sturdy owls to transport such treasures, and he tried to stick to his own home-brewed ale as a rule, but this was a special case. He wanted to blot the image of the young woman from his mind, and numb his thoughts so that the niggling sense of worry and obligation would shatter under the careless boot of inebriation. This worked right enough, but only till morning.

One afternoon, feeling restless and morose, he wrapped himself in his cloak and went to sit on the stone bench in the courtyard. He looked grumpily round, then caused a collection of small stones to pile themselves at his feet. It was so long since he had required a wand to do magic, that he forgot to be grateful for warm hands tucked under his arms.

He saw that the patchy black and white cat sat primly watching him from a distance. He frowned. He didn’t like cats, never had. This one, though surprisingly sleek for a stray, seemed particularly unprepossessing. Some cats at least could boast elegant colouring or obvious breeding, but this one merely showed an unremarkable pattern of markings, and a resistance to his many attempts to shoe it off his property. The cat would sidle nonchalantly out of reach of his boot, and might drift away for days at a time, but it would always return, indifferent but persistent. He would have banished it to the barn if he’d had a barn, but he settled for giving it one contemptuous glance, then ignored it entirely.

Moodily, the old man levitated a stone to rest on the edge of an empty fountain some distance away. He caused another stone to rise up, float several arm spans away, then shoot violently forward, knocking the first stone forcefully into the air, sending it tumbling, its adversary falling with it. When his mind was focused, he could fire stones off the edge of the fountain at the rate of one per heartbeat for a good long time. This afternoon however, his thoughts were distracted and his aim poor. Finally, he gathered the whole pile and flung it testily and with some force against the outside of the stone basin.

For a while he considered venturing out in search of a hapless villager to torment. He could become invisible and pelt them with dung, or send a rabid dog into the middle of a sheep herd to scatter it, or send someone’s laundry sailing off the line to land in a stagnant pond. Unfortunately for him, none of these diversions, no matter how entertaining they might have been in the past, offered any real reprieve from what troubled him. He had not chosen this spot at random. After staring grumpily at the basin a while longer, he got up with a deep sigh mingling anger and resignation, to get water.

After brewing the henbane tea, he drank the cup down, and filled the basin to the brim with icy water from the well. He stood before the basin, and, not without reluctance, let his gaze sink into the watery surface and his mind go blank.

If he had thought that soliciting clear-seeing in the water would improve his night’s sleep, he was sadly mistaken. The dreams grew less frequent, but his fretful mind no longer required them. To his disgust, he found himself engaged in the same argument he had with himself every hundred years or so. He had come here to get away from the tumultuous world full of people with their ambitions, greeds, loves, hates, and endless goings to and fro. He desired only solitude, quiet, a regular supply of ale and Burgundian wine, the excellent ministrations of his house elf, and the occasional spot of bating the locals. If he troubled himself with every guileless young woman in peril, witch or not, he would never have any peace.

At this point he would begin pacing in a distinctly unpeaceful manner. He would once again see the face of the woman before him, and, like distorted shadows cast by trolls, the dangers multiplying behind her. If she hadn’t been a witch, he might have been able to dismiss the whole thing from his mind. The thing was that he knew what it was like to live among muggles, whose admiration and gratitude could so easily turn to suspicion, fear and betrayal.

Once he made up his mind to act, he did so with vigor. The sooner he could discharge his conscience, he felt, the sooner he could return to his daily routine of reading, eating, drinking, taking constitutionals through the rugged landscape, the occasional terrorizing of local folk, and sleeping the sleep of the cozy hermit: unruffled, untroubled, unmoved, undisturbed.

His task began with a book. It was an impressive book. He felt a gratifying sense of self-satisfaction as he laid it on the table before him and studied the illustrated cover. He was less accomplished as an illustrator than as a writer of magical tomes, but he still experienced a pleasant thrill of pride as he read the illuminated title, Metamorph Magi: Enchant Your Way to Anonymity. Part of the book’s magic was that if a muggle looked at it, the title would appear to be, Delineated Details: An Old Man’s Guide to Great Grammar. In general, he thought this a sufficiently tedious title to discourage even the most thorough scholar.

Nevertheless, the book’s magic went further. If a muggle opened it, the book would appear to contain a rambling and intolerably pedantic examination of verb conjugations. If the reader was a witch or wizard however, the proper title would appear on the book’s cover, and an illuminated spell would be displayed on the first page. This spell, when spoken by the witch or wizard, would reveal the rest of the book’s contents. This book was, the old man felt, one of his masterworks. It was a step-by-step guide to that most difficult of tasks, becoming a metamorph magus.

But its element of disguise barely scratched the surface of its powers. The book had a twin, a perfect copy, produced by magic. When both books were read at the same time, regardless of where in the world the books might be, a bond was formed between the readers. A less accomplished magus than the old man, which covered pretty much every witch and wizard alive he felt, wouldn’t be aware of the connection immediately. The sorcerer of greater power would be able, for a time at least, to get inside the mind of the other reader, poke about a bit, even make a tweak here and there. In extreme need, a limited amount of communication was possible, but only at the discretion of the more powerful wizard.

The old man had parted company with the copy many years ago. He had left it in the keeping of a sorceress of whom he had been especially fond. He had no idea of the book’s fate, but he liked to think that the sorceress, who had had quite a fondness for him as well, would have seen to its care.

If his plan for relieving his vague sense of moral responsibility went as he hoped, the copy would currently be in the hands of a capable witch or wizard. He intended to establish a rapport with this individual, send them a few highly specific and compelling dreams of their own, then call it a deed well done, and return to his life of reclusivity and sloth. This wasn’t a task to be accomplished in a day, but he was a patient man.

Chapter 2: Rowena, the Raven, and the Metamorph Magi

Rowena woke with a start. She had dreamed of the flaxen haired woman again. She sat up on her straw pallet and rubbed her eyes. She normally didn't remember her dreams, but these were of such clarity and vividness that it was as though she'd actually lived them. She viewed such excesses as signs of an undisciplined mind, and frowned in deep dissatisfaction with herself as she rose in search of a drink of water. Her throat was dry, and the dream had left her twitchy and restless.

The dreams had started harmlessly enough, uncommonly vivid and coherent, but not menacing. She was like a silent observer of the other woman's daily life. Along with flaxen hair, the woman had a pleasantly rounded figure and a remarkably sweet smile. Rowena watched as the woman tended a well-organized herb garden, milked several goats, used magic to heal an owl with an injured wing, and dispensed remedies of many kinds to a succession of folk who sought her out.

Over several nights, the dreams had become less coherent but much more alarming. The pleasant-faced woman was threatened from many sides by dangers Rowena couldn't name. Standing, cup in hand in the darkness before dawn, Rowena exhaled sourly through her nose. She didn't need to be an interpreter of dreams to know what dangers might threaten a witch who took little care to hide her abilities. The other woman's guileless expression told Rowena that a prudent caution was not one of the healer's gifts.

Rowena slipped quietly between the straw pallets where other women slept the sleep of the untroubled. She made a stealthy way into the tiny scriptorium. She wouldn't be so unthrifty as to waste a candle on such a frivolous errand, so she felt her way in the dark, following along the table until she came to the shelves where books and scrolls rested, an island of reliable wisdom and calm in a world that often felt too complicated to be born. She rested her hands flat on the surface of the book that had been preoccupying her of late.

The other sisters couldn't imagine what Rowena found so compelling about an old dry book dedicated to the minutiae of grammar, but they were accustomed to her idiosyncrasies, and left her to it. She always accomplished her day’s work of copying, was studious, quiet, disciplined and dedicated. She was certain that none of the other sisters imagined what she found so engrossing in the grammatical tome. She didn't judge them for this. Imagination wasn't anything she valued.

The book had come into her hands not long before. She remembered the day with unpleasant clarity. Her mother had died two years ago. Like many, she had entrusted some items of value to the care of the local priory. Rowena hadn’t known this, so was surprised to be summoned by the prioress last harvest time.

The woman was kind, but had a very sharp eye. Such people made Rowena uncomfortable. She always feared some laps on her part, that might lead a careful observer to discover those things about herself that Rowena took such pains to hide. The book lay on the table before the prioress. She was glancing alternatively down at it, and up at Rowena, as though trying to fit puzzle pieces together.

This was left in our care, the old woman explained. Your mother asked us to keep it some time ago. Now that she is gone, it belongs to you. No doubt you will wish to donate it to the priory.

Rowena looked down in surprise at the book. Her mother hadn’t been one for literature. Rowena knew she could read, but had never heard the story of how she came by such uncommon knowledge. There were certainly no books in their house when Rowena was growing up.

She read the title up-side-down, and had to exert all her considerable self-discipline not to show her shock. The Metamorph Magi: Enchant Your Way to Anonymity. Now Rowena was young, but not so young that she didn’t know the value of silence. She stood absolutely still, waiting for the prioress to speak. The prioress, however, was a master at this tactic, so finally, Rowena said with no inflection, I didn’t know my mother owned any books.

The prioress glanced down at the book once more, with a puzzled frown. Rowena’s mind was spinning. She had a good mind, and it was capable of spinning very quickly. What would the prioress do? What would she conclude about Rowena’s mother, or Rowena herself? Would Rowena be compelled to admit what she was? Would she be cast out, persecuted as a …? Even her well-disciplined mind lost control of itself at this point, and she dropped her eyes, barely able to breathe through her dread.

And of all the books for a woman like your mother to own, the prioress began, and Rowena tried to brace herself for what was coming, a book on the minutiae of grammar … It’s highly irregular.

At last, a statement with which Rowena could whole-heartedly agree. The minutiae of grammar? It seems an unlikely subject for my mother to be interested in, Rowena said, stalling for time, perhaps that’s why she left it in the priory. It doesn’t seem like something she would have any use for.

Indeed, the prioress replied disapprovingly. Well, every book has its own intrinsic value to the true scholar, so no doubt you will find some virtue in it, and she certainly intended you to have it, you, not the priory; she was explicit about that. The disapproval was still strong. You might as well take it with you, though of course you’ll wish to keep it in our library.

Rowena left the prioress’s room in a daze. Metamorph Magi? The minutiae of grammar? Her mind was in a ferment, so that she nearly walked into sister Hilda.

What have you there? Hilda asked pleasantly. Not giving herself time to think about it first, Rowena held out the book without speaking. "An Old Man’s Guide to Great Grammar? Hilda read out, Where did you get that? It’s not from the library."

No, Rowena answered faintly. The prioress just gave it to me; it belonged to my mother she says.

I didn’t know your mother was a scholar!

Neither did I, Rowena replied enigmatically, and walked away, leaving Hilda staring after her.

Though there were duties she should have been attending to, Rowena took the book with her into the dormitory, which would be empty at this time of day. She sank down on her pallet, staring at the book, then slowly, she opened it. It was a spell book.

She had been given some tutelage from her mother, so the spell on the first page of the book presented no obstacle to her. The magic beyond that though was a different matter. She became completely absorbed, and it was only the sound of the priory bell that shocked her out of her enchantment with the book’s contents.

In the days that followed, she became obsessed with the book. When she was alone in the scriptorium, she would complete her day's work by magic, then spend the time till nightfall poring over the book, puzzling over the complex instructions, and wondering if she dared try any of the spells. Only last week she'd had a terrible turn when, having accidentally transformed her long dark hair into bright feathers, she'd been temporarily unable to change it back. The panic engendered by this near catastrophe had scared her badly.

Before coming to live here, she had spent many sleepless nights agonizing over the decision to renounce magic, and devote her life to scholarship. She had given up much in exchange for the safety and opportunities this place afforded. She had forced herself to accept many onerous obligations in order to be here, had spent time earning the trust of her sisters. The thought of losing her hard-won position because of a reckless mistake was intolerable. She vowed to go more slowly, to be more careful.

Her mother had been dismayed at Rowena's choice. They had argued about it. Her mother, a less serious-minded woman, pleasure-loving and easy going, couldn't imagine choosing the life Rowena contemplated. You'll be shut up with the same people day in and day out! She exclaimed. And no men, ever!

They were sitting companionably by the fireside in the single room of their cottage. A spindle hovered in midair beside the older woman as a smooth length of green thread emerged from it, rolling itself into a neat ball on the table. Rowena, whose task it was to make the soup for their evening meal, caused a spoon to stir the caldron in precise circles as she sat across from her mother, leaning forward and speaking with intensity.

How else can a woman be a scholar? She asked passionately. You know that's all I care about. I don't care about children or husbands or pretty things. She cast a glance around the cottage, which was adorned with many pretty things.

You're my only surviving child. Am I never to have a granddaughter then?

Rowena's eye's softened and she reached out to lay her hand briefly on her mother's arm, almost in apology. Rowena rarely showed affection. Her mother sighed, and allowed the spindle to come to rest on the table.

Ah well, it's for you to choose. If that is what you wish, then I will not hinder you.

Rowena smiled. She had been prepared to defy her mother if she must, but she was glad not to have to. Also, she was glad not to have to bring forward the most grim of her many reasons for choosing as she had. The tide of belief and custom was turning in Britain. Magic, once revered and sought after, wasn't quite so stylish anymore. In fact, it could be downright dangerous in the wrong company.

Rowena's mother knew this as well as anyone, but she would not be careful. Rowena had remonstrated with her many times over indiscretions, but her mother would just laugh. Only last month, Rowena had watched in horror as her mother stopped the cheese maker's youngest son grievously injuring himself, by magically arresting his fall from the limb of a cherry tree he'd been forbidden to climb.

Would you have had me let him break his leg or worse? Her mother had asked in shock.

Rowena frowned. He's a horrid little boy and he's been told over and over not to climb that tree, she said.

You haven't answered my question, her mother replied. For a light-minded woman, she was capable of a logical rigor in conversation that Rowena had learned from, but which she didn't always appreciate.

Rowena hated above all else to be at a loss for words, or incapable of answering a question. This, however, was a riddle beyond her skill. Should magic be used to save others from suffering, even if the potential victim was unworthy? Even if it put the sorceress herself at risk?

Choosing to sidestep the question again, Rowena said, If the wrong person saw you do such a thing, folk might begin to mutter against you. You yourself have told me tales of witches and wizards being driven away by folk who feared or mistrusted them. Sometimes an even worse fate awaits those accused of dark practices.

What dark practice is there in saving a child, no matter how wretched, from injury or death? It was an argument they had, in one form or another, at least once a season, and it always ended with her mother saying blithely, I'm a sorceress, no one can harm me! Rowena hoped passionately that this was true, but she wasn't sure.

Now, standing in the darkness, her hand resting on the cool cover of the Metamorph Magi, she felt a stab of longing for her dead mother. Kind as the other sisters were, Rowena had no true friend among them, except perhaps Hilda, and she missed the intimacy of having someone to love, who loved her.

The next few weeks offered little opportunity for scholarship, mundane or magical. It was planting season, and all hands were needed in the fields, even hands which normally touched only parchment. During this time, Rowena's dreams receded into their former forgettable recesses. The physical fatigue of the work had its benefits. She hoped that this would be the end of the matter. Not long after her return to the scriptorium however, she was once again wakened by compelling but unfocussed sequences in which the fair-haired woman was surrounded by forces that sought to harm her.

Although the source of the threat was unclear, certain details of the woman's surroundings began to build in Rowena's mind, until she felt sure she would recognize the village and the people in it if she encountered them in the living world. The woman wasn't far from the coast. The countryside she called home was hilly, and there was a Saxon castle somewhere nearby. Storms were violent, and sometimes caused destruction, or even a change in the shape of the coastline. There was a scruffy dog, and a benign procession of ill and wounded coming for treatment.

Rowena couldn't have said when or how she began to believe that the woman was real. By the time she thought to wonder how it had happened, it was too late. Rowena was not given to fanciful notions. In fact, she found fanciful notions distasteful. She had never dreamed like this before, and she knew that her mother had sometimes learned things about the real world through dreams. The compelling vividness of the dreams convinced Rowena that they betokened something in the real world. This certainty was rivaled only by her fervent wish that they would go away.

One of the most disturbing aspects of these dreams was how oblivious the fair-haired woman seemed to the danger that menaced her. The sweet smile that was her typical expression alternately charmed and infuriated Rowena. The woman began to seem like the younger sister Rowena had never had, and she longed to shriek warnings as the other woman dispensed charms and remedies with ingenuous disregard for the risks.

It was around this time that Rowena began noticing the raven. It didn't do anything showy, but ravens are ravens, and she noticed. The first time she saw it, it was perched on top of a barn, another raven next to it. Immediately she thought of Huginn and Muninn, the ravens of thought and memory. Thought, or perhaps memory, took to the wing, and Rowena didn't see it again. The raven's continued presence, combined with the dreams, were undermining the tranquility she'd come here to find, and distracting her from scholarship.

She began to get careless, a failing she loathed in others. One evening, thinking herself alone in the scriptorium, she used magic to prevent her candle from tipping over onto the manuscript she had just finished illuminating. She heard a gasp of shock behind her, and whirled to find she was not alone. She tried to say that she'd caught it with her hand, but she saw the incredulity mingled with fear on Hilda’s face. Nothing was said, but Rowena's place there, never completely secure, became even less certain.

It was the incident with the raven that forced her hand. She'd been helping (reluctantly) with the milking, and some foolish village children were throwing stones at the raven, which had perched on the barn's roof. Rowena hadn't known what they were doing until she stepped out of the barn. If she'd had more time to think, she'd have done differently, but, seeing the bird about to be pegged off by little Willie, who had a vicious and accurate shot, she acted before thinking, another flaw she despised in others.

Using magic, she stopped the stone in midair and sent it back to tap Willie smartly on the forehead before falling to the ground at his feet. This time, it wasn't just one person seeing something odd in the half light of evening. There were witnesses, lots of them. In the shock of what she'd done, she lacked the presence of mind to dawn an astounded expression to match those of the people around her. Instead, they all looked stunned, while she alone looked guilty and frightened.

Some clarity returning at last, Rowena broke the awed silence. Trying to sound as normal as possible, she upbraided the children for their idleness. Disliking children, she was fairly accomplished at upbraiding, and the children, like the adults, not knowing what to do or say, merely slunk off, muttering vaguely. Rowena picked up her pail of milk, and made a remark about the weather before scuttling away.

After that, things began to be markedly uncomfortable for Rowena. She could feel tension building. No one had said anything yet, but instinct told her that her place there might no longer be a safe one. She had heard many stories from her mother of such times, when security turned to suspicion, and it became prudent or even necessary to move on.

She blamed herself bitterly for having been tempted by her mother’s book. She had determined when she came here, that magic would have no part in her life. Like a garment too gaudy for good taste, she would discard it. She would devote herself to learning, the only learning that was safe. If only the book hadn’t come to her. And yet, the book still exerted a strong pull on her attention, and on her feelings. She supposed it was because it represented a last link to her mother. She had often found her mother frivolous, but they had been close, and Rowena never even considered destroying or abandoning the book; such an idea would be unthinkable.

She was not yet permanently committed to the house where she lived. She could leave without betraying any vows. She lay awake at night, wrestling with herself over what to do. She had found a life well-suited to her here. Its ordered, regimented days appealed to her. Life was routine, predictable, safe, governed by a rigid schedule, and by austerity, which also appealed to her. Nowhere else did a woman have such access to books and learning, except perhaps the very wealthy, which she was not.

Women came to this life from many directions. She understood religious devotion motivated some, but she knew she wasn’t alone in having other reasons for wanting to be here. The world was a dangerous place for women. Her father was long dead, and lacking male kin to protect them, she and her mother had been vulnerable. There was safety in numbers, even among women. Leaving such safety was a frightening idea, but if folk here were beginning to suspect what she really was, that safety could turn to violence at any moment.

When she asked, a peddler's family bound for the coast agreed she could travel with them. She had heard of an abbey with a library there, and, having no other destination in mind, abandoned what she had expected to be safety and permanence. Hilda embraced her in farewell, but wouldn’t meet her eyes. She gathered up her meager belongings into a bundle, the book wrapped safely in a shawl, and left the dormitory for the last time.

Folk were unflatteringly pleased to see her go. She held her head high as she left, but felt a twinge of sadness she was careful not to show.

Chapter 3: Salazar and the Saxon Soldier

Salazar stood staring moodily out to sea. He had rowed himself out to one of the tiny islets in the archipelago off the mainland because he wanted to be alone to think. He stared at the water some distance away, and several fish rose to the surface. They began jumping out of the water in a very peculiar manner. Soon they were launching themselves at one another, waging a kind of incongruous and unnatural battle. Salazar quickly grew bored however, and allowed the fish to sink back into the sea.

Since his mother's death, his discontent had been growing. She had had the seid magic, and as her son he had enjoyed prestige in their small community. His own gifts had grown steadily, but somehow folk didn't revere him as they had his mother. His sister, the new seid woman, hadn't helped matters. She showed promise of being as powerful as their mother had been, but unlike their mother, distrusted Salazar, and showed him open contempt. As the Vala she was revered, and folk tended to believe what she believed. The more time went by, the less there seemed to be for him here.

The fact was, he'd always felt like a bit of an outsider. His father had come from lands far to the east, travelling with traders whose business took them past the southern coast of the land of the Fins. His father had dwelt for a season with the local seid woman, conducting a lucrative trade in dragon eggs, and eggs that grew into serpents the like of which had never been seen in those lands.

Their brief liaison had produced Salazar, a wizard of remarkable gifts, but a boy who garnered little liking. He mostly took after his mother in looks, but there was something odd about his features, a kind of mismatched inaccuracy, as though his face was the result of a sculptor with the palsy.

If it had been only his appearance, the peaceable folk round about would have overlooked his oddity, but either as a result of feeling himself unwelcome, or because of some in-born character trait, he grew into an increasingly insular and occasionally morose person whom few sought out. Those who took the trouble to know him well, respected his perceptiveness and his quick intelligence. Only those fewer whom he trusted, ever witnessed the rare smile, and even more rare belly laugh, which transformed him.

He spent long hours alone, fiercely honing his magical gifts, learning to command the will of animals, and move objects without touching them. His control over snakes had come without trying, but he found he could command any animal if he applied his will with sufficient concentration.

Standing alone on the shore, trying to look ahead into his future, he wondered where he should go. Living along a trade root was useful; it gave him choice. He was repelled by the idea of turning eastward. He had no desire to look backward to the place his absent father had come from. As there was nothing for him here, he determined to head west.

His decision made, he set speedily about implementing it. He tracked down a Gallic captain who was lately arrived and determined to depart soon. Salazar was a practiced oarsman and fisher, but he had no experience on the large sailing ships used for trade.

He convinced the captain of his fitness as a deck hand by looking carefully into the other man's mind, and pulling out the correct answers to the captain's probing questions. Really he didn't have to work that hard at it. All it really required was the exertion of a little force on the captain's will, a nudge to make him do what Salazar wanted. Still, he would need to know a sailor's lore, so he took enough from the captain's thoughts to see him through the first few days of the voyage until he could learn.

Buoyed by his success, Salazar's mood lightened. He spent the next few days looking around the small settlement with more affection than he'd ever felt for his home before. Already he felt himself a man-of-the-world, and this place seemed merely a backwater on his way to greatness.

He spent his last night drinking with the motley collection of sailors, traders and locals who frequented the only alehouse, entertaining them with magic. The Vala would never make a show of her skills in this way, so the people didn't often get to see magic done. They were excited by his demonstrations, and vied with one another to refill his tankard.

With that jovial openness that can accompany the departure of someone whom most are glad to see the back of, they treated him with more friendliness than they had ever done before. He liked the feeling this gave him. He departed the following morning with a comfortable sense of superiority; this was not a bad place, but his destiny lay beyond it, he was sure.

The tasks of a sailor proved easy to mimic. The ship's company bore men from many lands, and Salazar was cautious about using magic to accomplish his duties. He used it freely to conceal his snake though. He never considered leaving this favoured companion behind, and the business of magical deflection and distraction was child's play to him, so that none saw her unless he wished it.

Despite his pretensions, he had never been more than a day's journey from his home, and gazed about him wide-eyed all the time. He couldn't really have been said to make friends in the months that followed, but, happy to be free of what now seemed a most limiting life, his spirits were high, and so if he had no blood brothers, he did have companions.

They'd been picking up information and rumors, so were not taken by surprise at the bustle of activity as they made their way into Norman ports. They found the coastal towns aswarm with men readying themselves to board a fleet of ships headed by the Norman Duke, who fancied himself heir to the English crown. Squeezing himself into a tavern overflowing with raucous soldiers, Salazar was exhilarated; this was life!

Funds were running low, and it was time to bulk up his purse, using his typical strategy. Largely failing in his attempt to appear diffident, he insinuated himself into a dice game. At first he let the dice fall as they might, winning and losing at random. Then, he began to shift the odds in his favour by using magic to control how the dice would fall. He was always careful not to win too much, and always quit while he was ahead. This program kept his purse supplied with coin, but it won him few friends.

Salazar left the dice game, accepting a cup of ale from a pretty, red-haired woman, daughter of the publican. The room was crowded and noisy. Men laughed, joked, told stories, played dice, and drank. An old man had been playing a harp, almost unheard in the din. When