“Aw, you slew me!” a little girl shrieked with playful drama. “I’m dead!”
An older girl giggled. “That was easy.”
“No fair, you had an army!” the younger girl exclaimed. “Fine, let’s go again. This time you’re the sorceress and I’m the knight.”
“Fireball!”
Wood clacked against wood. Two of Oag’s sisters burst into the tower room, whacking mops and brooms together like men sparring in the practice yard.
Oag jotted mathematical shorthand in his journal. He hunched over the pages, protecting the antiderivative equation he was formulating.
Springtime grass, clover, and pinewood scented the breeze. Geese honked on the lake. He tried to tune out distractions.
“Oag, save me!” Sarily wailed with exaggeration. “The sorceress is too powerful!” Sarily was eleven, with a mess of sandy blonde hair. She fended off her older sister’s mop with her broom handle. “I need help!”
“That knight won’t help you.” Alismay laughed with teasing scorn. “He doesn’t even have a sword.”
At fourteen, Alismay should have bundled her hair under a wimple or bonnet. Instead, her brown hair was long and held back with a brass clasp.
“Lady Uma!” Sarily hollered. “Give Sir Oag a sword!”
Their maidservant approached shyly. Like Oag, Uma was just past the cusp of adulthood, having turned nineteen. Unlike him, her clothes were rough-spun. Uma was no noble lady, despite the playacting.
“Milord?” Uma offered Oag an extra broomstick.
“No, thanks.” Oag closed his journal, protecting it on the stone ledge beneath the arrowslit.
“What is that pretty bauble?” The maidservant pointed to the gadget he’d been studying. She leaned close enough for Oag to scent the resin soap she used.
“I wish I knew.” He picked up the mirrored polygon and rotated it in his hand. The gadget flashed, reflecting sunlight from outside the arrowslit.
Each angular surface was a perfect mirror. That was supposedly impossible.
“It’s Merlish,” Alismay said.
“Magic?” The maidservant, Uma, hitched her breath. “What does it do, milord?”
“I don’t know,” Oag admitted. “I’ve been trying to find out.”
Uma gazed at the gadget with anxiety. Magic was the reason why crops failed, why sheep died, and why soldiers failed to return from campaigns.
“He’s been at it all winter,” Alismay said, losing interest in her mock duel now that she had an opportunity to criticize her brother. “Our father’s men took it from a dead Merlman. They got a bunch of them, but accidentally broke the others. They packed this one in velvet.”
“Maybe it’s a toy that helps train sorceresses?” Sarily offered.
“I like that idea,” Oag said warmly.
That was, indeed, why he wanted to study the mysterious gadget. Its refractiveness, its polygonal topology … Oag believed there must be a key to magic there, perhaps in its mesmerizing reflectivity.
A lot of men had already tried to get this thing to do something magical. His father had tried, of course. So had the scrivener and the wainwright.
Oag was the only person among them who corresponded with foreign scholars. He was the one person in Oswick—and probably in all of Knearland—who studied euclidean geometry.
“Isn’t it dangerous to play with something like that?” Alismay glanced meaningfully out the arrowslit. “People go missing all the time because they’re seeking magical things.”
Oag followed her gaze to the dark expanse of forest that marched up the slopes beyond the lake. Sometimes wandering peasants returned from the monster wilds with skeleton flowers, or marrow viper venom, or tales of unicorn sightings. But most were never seen again. They fell prey to flame tails and other monsters.
Their kingdom, Knearland, was named for the famous forest that crowned its northern hinterlands.
But no one lived in the Knearwood. Those who tried ended up with monstrous livestock and mutant children.
“I seek knowledge in a safe manner,” Oag assured his sisters. “That’s what I do. Now, if you’ll allow me to continue what I was—”
“Save me, Sir Oag!” Sarily faked a swoon, flinging one skinny arm over her forehead. “I don’t want stupid Ermire to rescue me. I want a real knight!”
Oag stretched out his long legs, gently trapping Sarily. She was a coltish child, but Oag had grown taller than everyone else in their family, even their adult brother and father.
“I thought you were the knight?” Oag teased his youngest sister. He tugged Sarily off balance with his legs until she fell into his embrace, giggling.
“You’d be a better knight than Ermire,” Alismay told him. “In fact, aren’t you supposed to be sparring with him right now?”
She was a tattletale, but she was right.
Oag wished he could treat physical training like playtime, the way his sisters did. But the continent was under a bloody invasion and every able bodied man was needed. Oag would be forced on campaign this year. Like all lordlings, he was expected to lead armed men.
The problem? He didn’t want to die from a flaming arrow or fireball on some muddy battlefield.
He wasn’t fond of horsemanship, either. He got itchy eyes and wheezing breath whenever he was near the stables.
Also, he despised the coarse armsmen who bowed and scraped for his father and brother. He didn’t fit in with lackeys like that.
“Math is more fun than swordplay.” Oag bounced the mirrored gadget in his palm, trying to prove that he was not a target for lectures from his little sisters.
Alismay gaped, pretending to be scandalized.
Oag chuckled at her reaction. People judged him for hunching over ledger books instead of sparring, but mathematics was a form of magic, as far as he was concerned.
And this was a war of magic.
The Merlmen had begun to appear a couple of years ago. They armed their conscripts with enchanted weaponry and tame monsters. That was how they’d conquered one of the five kingdoms so quickly, and why they seemed to be taking over the next kingdom even more rapidly. Their sorcerers won every battle. They were advancing across the entire continent, city by city, fiefdom by fiefdom. No one could stop them.
Oag suspected the Merlmen were not so much evil as better equipped.
“Spellcasting isn’t any worse than swinging a sword. Look.” Oag nodded towards the faded fresco. “The first kings had enchanted swords.”
The first lord of this castle had commissioned frescos hundreds of years ago. This room showed a king astride a unicorn, cutting down a red-faced vulture bear with a legendary sword.
“A thousand years ago,” Alismay scoffed. “And wouldn’t you have to be a king to use a magic sword? Or at least a knight?” She flexed her bicep, which looked incongruous with her fine blouse and embroidered corset. “You’re better than Ermire. We need someone to protect us.”
More than anything else, people expected Oag to put on muscle. The cook teasingly called Oag a graveyard stork.
But putting on manly weight was Oag’s biggest obstacle. He always felt sharp pains of indigestion within minutes of swallowing a bite of bread or pie, even if they smelled tantalizing and tasted heavenly. He had to spend time on the latrine whenever he experimented with foods. He avoided stews and even ale. It wasn’t worth the suffering.
He tried not to envy his brother too much. Ermire never seemed to get a stomachache.
“Guess what?” Sarily bounced onto the bench seat next to Oag, kicking her stockinged feet.
“What?” Oag matched her playful energy.
“There’s a peddler in town,” Sarily said.
Oag tried to mask his excitement. The room beneath the belfry faced the village, and he had noticed a large gathering in the square. He’d assumed it was preparations for the upcoming springtime festival.
“Uma told us,” Alismay said. “She’s a lass, they say. Not a usual sort of peddler.”
“Tell him, Uma,” Sarily invited.
Uma bowed her head meekly. “Aye, milady, milord. It’s a newt damsel.”
Oag had only ever seen a few of the green-skinned tribesmen known as newts. They had silvery green skin and long, pointed ears, and they typically camped on the fringes of society. It was rare for newts to speak the common tongue. The few who entered villages tended to be peddlers or performers.
“She says she fled Tolheim,” Uma said. “Says the queen there was forced to marry an evil wizard, and the kingdom is entirely taken over.”
Tolheim neighbored their own kingdom, Knearland. If Tolheim had been conquered, the incursion was on their doorstep. Or at least it was on the doorstep of the neighboring duchy.
“And the peddler brought magical enchanted wares with her!” Sarily said, oblivious to the implications. “Maybe.”
“We don’t know that,” Alismay corrected her sister. “Most peddlers will sell their best wares in cities, before they get here.”
Magical wares.
Oag dared to hope.
Besides, his favorite correspondant lived in Tolheim. Books did not usually survive the long journey from the coastal kingdoms to the Knearish hinterlands, since peddlers sold their valuables in cities along their routes. Either that, or they got waylaid on lonely country roads. Neither Oag nor his scholarly correspondents could pay the royal sums needed to hire an armed merchant company.
So, in total, Oag had only ever received three books from his friends in Tolheim and Dwor.
“Do you know if this peddler is carrying a book?” Oag jumped to his feet, towering over his sisters. “Never mind. Thanks for telling me.”
He raced towards the stairwell. If this peddler did carry a foreign relic or a book, then Oag absolutely needed to get there before old Grindlebuck could hobble over and make a bid. The scrivener was literate, unlike most people.
Sarily giggled at his enthusiasm.
“Wait!” Alismay called. “Will you escort us?” She tempered her voice with an attempt at maturity. “I would like to consider a purchase or two.”
Sarily gasped with delight at the idea. “Yes, please!” She raced around Oag’s legs and latched onto him, gazing up with big gray eyes. “Please, please, please? Pretty please?”
Oag did not want to have to shield his sisters from potential ruffians, but their desperate hope was too much to bear. He caved in. “All right.”
“YAY!” Both sisters shouted, jumping with joy.
Oag laughed. “Go put on your cloaks and meet me at the gatehouse.”
The girls raced down the stairs, chatting in excitement. The maidservant shot Oag an amused look, then hiked up her aproned skirts to keep up.
Oag hurried after them. At the bottom of the belltower, before going to his bedchamber to collect his purse, he turned one more time and descended into the undercroft.
The stairwell let in enough dusty light for him to fumble his way past piles of tally sticks and dented armor. Oag had a key to the family treasure chest. He opened the ancient lock, pulled back the lid, and slid his math journal between the tax ledgers and the nine books his mother owned.
Most people prayed to their ancestors for a good marriage or a good harvest. Oag prayed for new things to read.
Not that his dead ancestors would care. His forefathers had been illiterate. Lord Eagan himself had never learned to read.
Ah well.
Oag deposited the Merlish gadget on top of the books. As he did so, he noticed that Mathar’s book on number theory was missing.
Strange. Had his mother borrowed it? She had taught Oag to read, but she’d never shown much interest in mathematics. Her books were histories, treatises on nature and philosophy, and a children’s bestiary.
Oag locked the chest and tested it to make sure it was secured. As he picked his way towards the stairs, he caught sight of a slinking shape.
Cats were necessary in any household. They culled the rat population, but they gave Oag fierce headaches and fevers, so he usually asked servants to take them out of any room he was in. Since he was alone here, he gave it a wide berth, keeping a wary eye on…
The thing that was most definitely not a cat.
Oag stopped.
Sparse white tufts grew out of the creature’s face. Its orange eyes reflected the dim light.
Those eyes and whiskers contrasted with dark skin that resembled wet granite flecked with mica. Unlike an animal, the tiny man wore suspenders and a rumpled shirt.
And he carried the book on number theory. The tome was nearly the same size as the gnome.
Oag exhaled. He had seen this owl-sized dark gnome hauling a book once before. That was years ago, when Oag had been a small child.
He’d reported the tiny borrower to his mother and elder sister. Everyone had laughed. They’d assumed young Oag was telling a tall tale.
In the intervening years, Oag had caught glimpses of a fleeting two-legged shadow every once in a great while. Othewise he would have dismissed that encounter as imaginary.
“Why number theory?” Oag asked. His own calm surprised him.
The gnome grunted and continued to haul away the book. It must be a great burden for his tiny arms.
Oag followed at a respectful distance. He walked softly. Maybe he ought to alert the household, but some instinct told him not to ruin this encounter. How many people got to see something blatantly magical?
Merl probably had talking horses and winged people, but magic didn’t exist much in Knearland.
Well, except for the monster wilds. But Oag had never seen a slime or a flame tail, let alone a megamoose or a unicorn. He knew about those monsters from the few peasants who had seen such things and lived to tell the tale. That, and the bestiary.
Old Grindlebuck owned an ancient collection of essays about the Uncrossable Mountains. One of those essays referenced tiny men who dug tunnels out of rock at high altitudes. They were allegedly even smaller than the dworfolk.
Was this one of the primordial mountain gnomes? If so, why was he so far away from his homeland?
The book-toting gnome went behind a shield painted with the white goose of Oswick. Oag waited for him to emerge.
He heard a faint thud.
Then nothing.
Overcome by curiosity, Oag sneaked closer and quietly moved the shield aside. He revealed a cracked flap in the plaster whitewash.
Oag pulled the plaster aside.
There was a gap between the stones, a gap large enough for a kitten to wriggle through.
Oag dropped to his hands and knees. Candlelight flickered in a miniature stone passageway that angled downward.
“Hello?” Oag called softly.
Faint sounds hinted that the gnome was moving farther away.
The size disparity between himself and the gnome enhanced the otherworldly feeling of this encounter. Oag imagined the miniature man in a cozy den, reading about polynomial equations by candlelight.
Lucky little chap.
No one expected the gnome to spar in the practice yard, or tally taxes, or escort his sisters, or fight in dangerous wars against foreign sorcerers. That gnome probably had enough free time to unlock the mysterious fundamentals of spellcraft.
Oag cleared his throat to signal that he was still nearby. “My name is Oagmalo.” He offered his full name, formally introducing himself. “You can call me Oag. May I know your name?”
No response.
“Are you from the Uncrossable Mountains?” Oag dared to ask.
The flicker went out. The gnome must have extinguished his candle.
Oag rested his forehead against the wall, feeling like a hapless oaf from a fairy tale. “If you’re from there,” he said, “you must have encountered Merlmen.”
That was where the incursion came from. Somehow, the sorcerers must have found a way to cross the Uncrossables. That was everyone’s assumption.
“Can you tell me anything about magic?” Oag yearned to converse with someone who understood some secrets of the world. “I don’t mean you any harm. None at all. I just want to learn.”
“Milord?” Uma asked from the top of the stairwell.
Oag jerked upright. He stood and dusted off his breeches, flustered.
Uma was a prim silhouette up there. “Were ye talking with someone?”
“Ah, no.” Oag placed the shield over the torn plaster. “I thought I saw a cat, that’s all.” He climbed the stairs, unsure why the maidservant wasn’t helping his sisters. “Do you wish to accompany us to the square?”
“Naw, milord.” Uma devoured him with dark blue eyes. “But I have a request.”
Oag paused two stairs below her. That put them close to eye level with each other.
He had no idea why Uma eyed him like he was a trussed up lardvark. He couldn’t seem very impressive in comparison to his muscular brother. Ermire was the one who would inherit Oswick and all its income.
Uma touched Oag’s doublet, then walked her fingers down his chest. Her delicate fingers skipped over buttons.
Oag leaned back in surprise. This crossed a boundary. It was far too intimate.
Was this the sort of thing Uma got up to with Ermire? If so, she’d probably gotten the heir to shame himself. Ermire was a lewd beast.
“I want ye to meet me.” Uma’s voice was a seductive whisper. “Tonight.”
What game was this? A maidservant like Uma could not hope to marry a noble. Any attempt to tangle a lordling in an intimate affair meant endangering her position in the household. It could destroy her income and her reputation. Why would she take such an enormous risk?
“The willow by the lake. An hour after sundown.” Uma held eye contact with him a moment longer, apparently to make sure he understood.
Then she turned and went down the main hall, hips swaying.
Oag stared after her until he remembered how inappropriate it was to stare at a woman. Ashamed, he turned to the dark undercroft entrance, his thoughts wheeling.
He felt as if he’d just had not one, but two magical encounters.
