The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Aldwyn’s restless thoughts swirled and frayed and refused the comfort of his bed; they churned and tumbled ceaselessly through his mind and ignored the solace of his warm blankets, and the softness of the mattress, and the stillness, and the quiet of his room at the back of the cottage.

A troubled image flared up and lodged itself somewhere deep within the recesses of his solicitous intellect; it would not make way for sleep to enter, but he could not bring it out into the light; he could not grasp it as it wriggled, a slippery fish in the turbulent waters of his memory.

Long ago, his mind had been sharp and focused, but the elastic infallibility of youth had dimmed and become rigid, and the years of wielding the magik had taken their toll.

He was no longer the proud young man of those far-off days: but much had changed since then - much had changed indeed - many lessons had been learnt, and then trampled and forgotten once again.

Besides, he had been working with powdered bane-root all day, and its pungent aroma always left him feeling befuddled and light-headed.

Now he would need time to assemble his jumbled thoughts.

But what was the use of pretending this?

Even to himself?

He felt it advancing - the curse he had dreaded all these years - the true cost of living in the flux of the magik; and, as Summer had passed into Autumn, his acute mind had noticed it even more keenly.

The common folk called it “star-taint”.

He had scoffed at such things in his indestructible youth - but now the sands had shifted, and he was no longer certain.

How could he tell the boy?

A kindly soul - a caring young man.

His powers were increasing.

If his life had been different - if it had granted him a son…

Perhaps the boy already suspected?

He had become less obedient and more inclined to argue these days.

Perhaps he was just growing up and realising his independence?

Or had he noticed his master’s trembling fingers?Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

The spillages of powders?

How his temper sometimes snapped and was less sanguine than before?

He would lose all respect for his old master.

And if word got around of the star-taint, he might even lose his lively-hood.

How then would he feed himself?

And then the girl.

He had seen the way his votary looked at her.

If he left to go with her, what then?

How would he manage on his own?

Left senile and withered, without a means to support himself?

But did he really want to deprive the boy of his chance at life - at true happiness?

A happiness which had eluded him all these years?

Didn’t true friendship and love deserve to be repaid with kindness?

The boy had learned so much and had made such great strides - he would still need further lessons - but his talent was undeniable.

Yes, the girl.

The image.

A strange configuration of symbols which nagged and gnawed at him.

But it was lost now - lost within the sadness of the furrows which age had etched across his brow.

If only he could think of it.

If only he could remember.

A sour and bitter taste.

Perhaps “The Canon of Rune and Emblem” might contain a helpful reference?

He could get up and look - research while the others slept?

But the nights were getting chilly again, and the warmth of his blankets clung to him, reluctant to let him leave.

His mind raced and wrestled with his irritated thoughts.

No - there was little prospect of sleep tonight.

He sighed, and got up, and resigned himself to a watchful fate.

No need to waste a good rush-light - besides, he always thought better in the dark.

His feet padded and paced across the stone floor of his chamber, but his thoughts refused to gather in one useful place.

Against the softness of the night, a sharp snap disturbed him from just outside the cottage.

A restless wind which, like him, could not sleep and was playing with the trees?

But there was none tonight.

A fox on the prowl?

Or a deer hiding from a wolf?

No, it was too heavy for that.

His ears strained above the rushing stillness of the dark.

There it was again - and the muffle of hushed voices.

His patients were unlikely to be creeping about at this time of the night - and in any case, they would have simply come directly to his front door and knocked.

His ageing bones creaked as he eased himself through to the main room of the cottage.

No need to wake his young companions and spoil their rest with his foolish suspicions.

The soft orange glow of the hearth flickered across the room and illuminated his path.

He crept towards the front door and peered through the small side-window, out into the depths of Autumn’s blackness.