Page 14 of Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One 2)

“Eat. We have a cow for milk, chickens for eggs—and meat when needed—a forest for game, and plantings in a greenhouse. You’ll eat well enough.”

Because she was hungry, she took the bread and cheese. “We need to make a hive. We need to keep bees for honey unless you have a source for sugar. Where do you get the flour and salt and yeast or starter for bread?”

“I barter for it. We’ll tend the stock and the plantings together. I have no knowledge of hives, so that will be your task, then you’ll teach me how to tend it.”

She ate as he did, standing up while they measured each other. “The clearing’s too small to hold the house, the stable, the outbuildings. And the house is too small to hold all the rooms in it. You’ll teach me how to create that kind of illusion.”

“I’m here to teach you.”

“If I learn, I want a bathroom. A toilet, a shower, a sink—with hot and cold running water.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That seems a great reward for learning.”

“What will it take?”

He considered. “I will give you three quests. When you complete all three, you’ll have what you want.”

“What quests?”

“There is a tree in the wood that bears a single golden apple. A white bird guards it jealously. You’ll bring me the apple without harming the bird, bruising the fruit, or climbing the tree.”

It sounded amazing—an adventure. But … “What’s the next?”

“Complete the first task, and I’ll tell you the second.” He wrapped the cheese in a cloth, replaced it in the cold box.

She could find a golden apple, and she could outwit a dumb bird. “What’s upstairs where there shouldn’t be an upstairs?”

“A workshop and your classroom.” He wrapped the bread. “I’ll show you, then the cow needs milking, the eggs must be gathered, and you’ll want to start the stew.”

She wanted to start the hunt for the apple, but decided she could at least look upstairs.

She followed him up a ladder of steps, then struggled not to look amazed. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Carefully labeled bottles filled shelves along one long wall. Potions, she mused while she—as casually as possible—strolled along to study. Ingredients for spells, some of them glowing with magickal light. Books filled the facing wall, and some looked impossibly old. The west wall held tools: cauldrons, athames, bells, bowls, candles, crystals, wands, staffs.

She wanted to touch everything, so she deliberately slipped her hands into her pockets.

A long table and two chairs stood in the room’s center. Another hearth, cold now, on the east wall had two closed cupboards flanking it. Over it a mantel held more candles and a sword with a carved hilt.

The only window cut through the roof and let the afternoon sun stream in.

“Here you’ll train and learn and practice. And become.”

She gestured at the sword over the hearth. “That’s not the sword you used before.”

“It’s not mine to use.”

“Mine? Is it the one you told my mother about? The sword and the shield I’m supposed to get?”

“No, but when you’re worthy, it will serve you.”

“I don’t know how to use a sword.”

“You’ll learn.”

She liked the idea of that, and the idea of this room with all its wonders. She liked the idea of finding a golden apple. But she wasn’t going to unpack, not yet. She’d give it a week. One week—that was fair. She wanted to find the golden apple and drop it into Mallick’s hand. She wanted to learn how to use the sword, and practice magicks she didn’t know in the room with the window in the roof.

One week, she thought. Then she’d decide.

* * *

Since Mallick filled the rest of the day and well into the evening, Fallon didn’t have time to think about decisions. He sent her off to the greenhouse to gather what she needed to add to the venison for stew. She approved of his work there, though she saw room for improvement as she pulled onions, garlic, carrots, some tomatoes, clipped herbs she’d use with the meat and potatoes stored in the cottage.

She thought her mother would be proud of the way she peeled, chopped, mixed. And though Mallick balked at first about using his wine in the stew, Fallon stood firm.

While she set about making egg noodles—something she’d never done on her own—he told her to write down what she needed to build the hive.

“The bees actually build the hive. We build the bee box.” She wiped her hands, took the pencil and paper he offered. “It’s going to take some scavenging.”

“Just write what’s needed. I have a way.”

Interested, she looked up. “Magickal?”

“Not precisely. When you’re done, come upstairs. We’ll begin.”

* * *

He began by testing her basic knowledge and skills. Lighting candles, levitating small objects, mixing potions, performing what she thought of as kitchen spells.

Baby stuff to her mind.

Then he started testing her on rituals and deities and symbolism and sabbots.

His opinion of her knowledge was a head shake, a sigh. And a stack of books he pushed into her hands with the order to: Read and learn.

Still, she felt smug when the rain came, as she’d predicted, well before nightfall. And the stew she served over egg noodles was better than okay.

She hoped the next day involved sword practice and the hunt for the golden apple, which would be a lot more fun than cooking and making sleep potions and balms for burns.

She read in her room by the light of an oil lamp until mind and body gave way to fatigue.

At first light she took it upon herself to tend to the horses. When she stepped out she found a package wrapped in brown paper and twine at the front door. Scanning the woods for any movement, she picked it up.

She carried it back inside, set it on the table. Considered. It would be for Mallick, but … it didn’t have his name on it, did it? And she lived here, too. At least for a week.

Justified, she pulled the twine, pulled back the paper.

A round of cheese, she noted, and sniffed it. A sack of flour, another smaller one of salt, and a corked bottle she assumed was wine.

Mallick came out of his room as she studied them.

“Somebody left this at the door.”

“Ah.” He looked at the supplies. “We’re grateful.”

“Who left it? Why?”

“Others live in and around these woods. They’re also grateful, and pay tribute. They know The One has come.”

“Why wouldn’t they knock?”

“They have no need, as yet. Have you fed the horses?”

“No, I was just—”

“See to that. The animals need to be fed before we break our fast.”

Rather than swords, Fallon spent most of her morning with books. She liked books, but with the woods so bright and clean from the rain, she’d rather have spent the morning outside learning to fight with a sword.

Still, she liked reading about the gods, the heroism, the betrayals, the battles, and the triumphs, even the romances.

He criticized her lack of knowledge and understanding of the spirituality of the Craft, its rituals.

She bristled. “We had to put food on the table, help our neighbors. My mother taught us what she could, what she knew.”

“And did well with what she knew. Did well with what she came to know. You must know more. You’ll take what your mother taught you, what I teach you, and what you come to know that’s already in you waiting.”

He paced the workshop in his soft boots as he spoke, then stopped, pointed one of his long fingers.

“Here’s a lesson, Fallon. Your spirit is yours as mine is mine. What you feel and know are yours and will never be a mirror exact of another’s. But respect for the spirit and the light, understanding of the dark, must be. And that’s shown in the tradition of ritual, in its words, its symbols, its tributes.

“Your power doesn’t come from a void, girl. There is a source for the light, for all we are, for the air we breathe, the earth we stand on. Life is a gift, even to a blade of grass, and must be honored. We have been given more, and must honor the gift and the giver.”

“When we tend the earth and what it grows, the animals, each other, aren’t we honoring?”

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