The Apprentice's Departure
It was quiet in the dungeon of the Grey Lord. The soft flames of the torches gleamed on the Firestaff, grandly displayed in its case of glass on a field of cobalt blue. The rubies and sapphires encircling the hilt caught the light and threw it against the brass astrolabe and compass that Theron of Viborg held in his hands as he copied a star chart for his master.
Deep within the bowels of the dungeon, the Grey Lord's great bronze bell tolled the hour. Listening, Theron looked up from his task and sighed. Five o'clock. Would the wizard never emerge from his laboratory?
Fulcrum, his master's raven, flapped his wings and landed on Theron's shoulder. "Ah, ha, I have it! Ah, ha, I have it!" the raven cawed, in perfect imitation of the pleased tone the Grey Lord adopted whenever he solved a problem or completed an experiment. "I have it, ah, ha! Ah, ha!"
"My heart is filled with joy for you," Theron muttered. "Now, do you think you could fly through that thick oak door and remind our master that I'm expected in Viborg?"
"Ah, ha!" Fulcrum cried. With a sigh, Theron returned to his chart.
When the bell tolled six, Theron put down his instruments, rubbed his eyes, and tiptoed across the stones to the door of his master's secret laboratory. Holding his breath, he rapped on the door. "Sir, I'm ready to go," he ventured.
When there was no reply, he pressed his ear against the wood and listened. The tinkle of glass, the crackling of a great fire, a puff as if of smoke. The smell of Mana seeped from beneath the door and he inhaled deeply, savoring it. The Grey Lord must be engrossed in a serious experiment. He had been locked inside the vault since the high moon, three nights before.
"Master?" the young apprentice called again.
He thought he heard a rumbling sigh, as if from a dragon or the soul of some harnessed and unhappy demon; and then the Grey Lord said, "I heard you the first time, Theron. Give me leave to respond, you rash pup."
"Forgive me," Theron murmured, drawing back as the door opened. Fulcrum cawed and flew inside, and Theron seized the chance to glance into the forbidden room. But strain as he might, all he saw was shadow. How Theron longed to work there, learning the powerful wizard's deepest secrets!
"No forgiveness is needed, from you at any rate. It is I who should apologize for my ill temper."
The Grey Lord stepped from the gloom at the far end of the laboratory. Love and awe welled in Theron's heart for the tall figure in the grey wool robes, who had chosen him from all the village lads to serve as his apprentice and promised that in return, he would teach him of the mysteries of the universe, of Magick and Physick, and make of him one day an Arch Master of All the Arts.
"I didn't mean to interrupt you, sir," Theron went on. "It's just that the hour grows late and I—"
"As I said, young one, no need to apologize. I well remember the eagerness of youth. And you have sacrificed much of that vigor in my service. I do not begrudge you your impatience to be off to Viborg." He smiled. "Had I a maid as fair as your Veyla waiting for me, I would be in haste to go as well."
The Grey Lord cocked his head and the dreamy expression Theron knew so well stole over his features. Theron often wondered if his master were lonely, secluded in this dungeon beneath Mt. Anaias, the mountain of lava and crystal. It was rumored to be the resting place of the Power Gem—the orb that thawed the ice from which dwarf and halfling, elf, man, and High Lord alike had risen....
"Well, then," the wizard said, rousing himself from whatever thoughts had led his mind away, "you must be off to collect my henna rope. Put on your cloak."
With a wave of the Grey Lord's hand, a wooden closet covered with ironwork and emeralds swung open and Theron's magic cloak of fluid silver glittered within. It floated across the room and draped itself around Theron, shining in the dim light. The wizard adjusted it on Theron's shoulders—his mere touch sent crackles of Mana through Theron's body—and he carefully covered Theron's head with the hood.
"A harmonious journey, my young friend." The Grey Lord raised his luminous hand in benediction.
Theron dropped to one knee. "I seek balance in all I do, my lord."
The Grey Lord frowned slightly. "I am your master, Theron, but not your lord. How many times must I tell you this? I would we had never taken that name on. High Lord." His voice was tinged with irony. "We are no higher than you, though some of us would have you believe otherwise. We slumbered in the ice beside the other races, placed there by the same creator."
"Yes, sir," Theron responded dutifully, though he, like all of Viborg, knew the Grey Lord was not at all like them. It was common knowledge that the High Lords were gods, and the Grey Lord was the most powerful of them. More than once, he personally had saved the people from war and division