Bernard grumbled quietly to himself.
He didn’t know how Agatha was still going. By the time she stopped, he’d almost been asleep in the saddle - then she woke him shortly after dawn to get back on the road. At least they’d found an unmarked trail. It had probably been made by herders. It meant he didn’t have to constantly watch for low-hanging branches.

Glancing back, he couldn’t see the guardian’s shroud. The dense trees limited visibility, so it might still be following them. He wasn’t sure if he should be worried for its safety, or hoping it had been killed. It hadn’t done anything to harm them, but the fact it was secretly following them around without any explanation was frightening. He wanted to believe it had good intentions - it seemed like it had caused a distraction to help them. He couldn’t be sure. 

There were too many things he couldn’t be sure about.

By Bernard’s best guess, they’d be coming out of the woods quite close to a village that produced wool for the castle. He’d been there once when he was quite young. All he remembered of it was his Mother holding his hand while he tried to hop across the deep ruts in the dried mud of the dirt road, and then sitting by a fireplace in a large room with exposed rafters while his Mother talked with the village’s matriarch.

Agatha could feel Bernard’s weight shifting as he fell in and out of a doze. She would have felt guilty if she weren’t also about ready to drop. She didn’t dare stop. Not when they were so close to danger.

A short distance ahead of them, a figure stepped out onto the road and waved. Agatha halted abruptly, waking Bernard. He glanced around, startled, until he located the woman that had caused the sudden stop. 

The woman called out, ‘Little baby Bernie, you’ve grown so much! Proavus said you’d be coming this way today. We’ve got the kettle on for you.’

Bernard had no idea who this woman was, or who this ‘Proavus’ was. He knew it was an archaic word for great-grandfather, but she said it like it was a name.

‘I - um. Do I know you?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s been quite a while since we last met. I’m Una. Our mothers are such close friends that you and I are practically siblings.’

‘They were?’

‘My mother is your mother’s personal herbalist. Trula.’

‘Lady Trula is your mother?’

Now that he knew to look for it, Bernard could see the resemblance. The shape of her face, the colour of her hair. They were quite similar. He didn’t realise Lady Trula was married, let alone married with children. Una laughed.

‘Oh, she’d hate to hear you calling her ‘Lady Trula’. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her. Just don’t call her that when you next meet her. If you want to be polite, she prefers Goodie.’

Bernard was confused. Goodie was a commoner’s honorific - it was used for respectable married women. He’d been certain Lady Trula was a noblewoman. He couldn’t quite recall her family’s name, though. Then again, he didn’t remember her being a herbalist. She wore lavender gowns with deep pockets full of sweets - she looked nothing like any of his Mother’s other doctors.

‘Is she here?’

‘No, no. She’s still with your Mother on her island.’

Bernard couldn’t have hid his shock and confusion if he tried.

‘Mother’s alive?’

‘Wait - you thought she was dead? Oh dear. Perhaps we had best get back to the village. This isn’t a conversation to be had without a hot cup of barley tea.’

The woman turned and walked quickly along the track. Reluctantly, Agatha followed.

 

The barley tea was too hot to drink.
Bernard nursed the clay cup as he looked around. The house was much as he remembered it. A large single room, partitioned by heavy blankets attached to the rafters with ties. The current arrangement of partitions hid any sleeping or storage areas, and who knew what else. There was the familiar fireplace, though it looked much smaller and less impressive than it had before.

Una returned from behind one of the partitions, supporting a hobbling man whose face was more wrinkled than any Bernard had seen in his life. The elder’s eyes were so deeply sunken into their sockets that they were barely visible. His mouth, though closed, had the overly fleshy look of someone who’d lost all their teeth. Even his shroud looked old and ragged. This was Proavus. 

Una helped him into a chair and carefully arranged a blanket over his legs. She knelt down to bring her eyes level with his.

‘Are you comfortable?’

The man nodded, his entire face changing shape with his smile.

‘Perfectly comfortable.’ 

Bernard was surprised; he hadn’t expected such a strong voice to come from such a frail body.

Una said, ‘Will you be alright for a moment while I go fetch some more water from the well?’

‘Of course. If I need help, I’ll ask Bernard. He’s Judie’s boy. I’m sure she taught him well.’

The man spoke with remarkable clarity, considering his lack of teeth. Una looked over to Bernard. She was uncertain. 

Bernard said, ‘I’ll do my best to help however I can.’

Una put the cup she’d poured for the man by his hand.

‘Careful - it’s still quite hot.’

‘I’m not so old I’ve forgotten how to drink tea. Go on.’

Una gave him a long, concerned look, but she got up and left the house. Proavus reached out for Bernard’s hand. It wasn’t quite the right gesture for a handshake, but after a moment of confusion, Bernard leaned across the table to take the elderly man’s claw-like hand in his own. He was surprised when the man pulled his hand close and peered into his palm.

‘You’ve a lot of worries for someone so young.’

His tone was conversational, but his demeanour was more like that of a doctor examining a patient. He turned Bernard’s hands over and inspected his fingernails. Bernard felt his ears redden - he hadn’t cleaned them or cut them properly in some time. They were ragged and dirty.

‘And - you’re malnourished. What have you been eating?’

‘Whatever I could find or carry. Mostly bread and cheese.’

‘That’ll do it. You need more variety. Fruit. Vegetables. Beans. That sort of thing.’

He pressed and poked at the muscle beneath the thumb, tested Bernard’s finger joints, and flexed his knuckles. Satisfied, he released Bernard’s hand.

‘Come closer, boy. Let me get a better look at you.’

Bernard stepped around the table to kneel beside him like Una had. Proavus took Bernard’s face in both hands and turned his head to the left and the right, then pulled him almost nose-to-nose to look deeply into his eyes. 

He murmured, more to himself than to Bernard, ‘Good, good.’

‘What’s good?’

Looking almost shocked that Bernard spoke, he replied, ‘Best as I can tell, your mind is still your own.’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Hmm. Well. That’s a good question, though perhaps one I can’t easily answer in the time we have. There are rumours about you - good and bad. Most of the nobility who think themselves in the know believe you’ve been to see the Golden Wizard Schlache. The Royal Marshal has been desperately scrambling to prepare for an attack on the castle by an army of Schlache’s demons with you at its head. In complete opposition to that; the common folk think you’ve been chosen by the fairy as the true King.’

Bernard had read about Schlache. He saved the kingdom more than once. The ‘histories’ about him were wild and fanciful - full of dragons and treasure. They were hard to believe.

‘But none of that is true-‘

‘Isn’t it? That crown on your head is a nice bit of magic. The other three you’re wearing are perhaps better. That belt - it certainly has the precision you’d expect to see in a wizard’s magic - but there’s subtlety to it no wizard would ever be capable of.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve been to see the fairy.’

‘I have.’

‘She gave you a crown.’

‘I didn’t ask her for a crown.’

‘Yet, she still gave you one.’

‘I wish she hadn’t.’

‘What did you ask her for, then?’

‘I…’ Bernard paused, again, embarrassed. ‘I asked her for purpose.’

The old man’s face split into a wide grin.

‘You’re a clever one. A very clever one. Why did you ask for that?’

Bernard wasn’t sure how to answer. His request had almost been instinctive - the words tumbled out like they were meant to be said. He’d tried to make sense of it many times since. None of his justifications after the fact had satisfied him. He couldn’t really tell Proavus that. 

He said, ‘It’s about balance - or something like it. That’s probably not the right word. I mean… If you ask a fairy for something you’ve a right to, you get it easily. People who demand things they haven’t earned or don’t have a right to are made to pay for it. The price is always made out to be disproportionate in the tales I’ve read, but I don’t know that it is. It’s more like… the cost is equivalent to the effort needed to earn the thing, or the process of paying the cost makes the person deserving of the thing. The question is whether the person is wise enough to understand.’

Somehow, the old man’s grin grew wider.

‘Explain.’

Bernard was unbearably nervous. He hadn’t expected this to become an exam. 

He said, ‘Um. I read a tale about a farmer. He had a field he’d left fallow for years because it was far from his farmhouse, on a bad slope, and was full of rocks. He deemed it too much effort for too little reward. Some lesser fairies asked if they could use it for a year - he agreed in exchange for half the crop. They offered him the top half or the bottom half. He thought the lower half of the field had better soil, so he asked for the bottom, expecting he’d get the better yield. They planted barley. When the year was over, they gave him the roots and stems but kept the barley itself. He was enraged, but didn’t say anything. By their agreement, he’d been given what he was owed, and he knew he couldn’t fight them. He was just a man, not a hero of legend. Instead, he decided to try use their ‘trick’ against them. He offered to let them use the field again, with the same conditions, but this time he wanted the top half. They planted turnips. He was left with the leaves. The author made it seem like this was unjust and proof that fairies can’t be trusted. I disagree. The farmer let them use his field, sure - but he didn’t deserve the crop they grew. He was paid for the use of the field when they turned the rocky soil and used the land properly for a year. Their efforts meant the field would be easier for him to manage the next year. When he offered it to them the second time, he proved beyond a doubt that he didn’t deserve anything because he’d forgotten the most important principal of modern agriculture; Crop rotation. Of course they weren’t going to grow barley again. If he were wiser, he’d have thanked them for the animal feed and their hard work repairing the field, and planted wheat there the next year.’

‘How does a prince like you know about crop rotation?’

‘I was expected to learn how to rule the lands I’d be put in charge of as an adult - part of that is understanding agriculture. Agricultural mismanagement causes famines.’

Schlache took a careful sip of his tea as he assessed Bernard’s demeanour through the steam. The boy looked embarrassed to admit that he’d been paying attention in class - or perhaps, embarrassed to admit he’d attended class at all. Schlache felt a bitter pang of sorrow that someone would find reason to feel ashamed of their education. 

He said, ‘There’s a reason you don’t know how to describe the thing you’re equating with balance. The word for it is so old it was lost, evolving over time until it didn’t mean what it used to. The last vestige of it in our modern language is the word ‘order’ - but that hasn’t got the nuance of the old word. ‘Order’ in modern usage brings to mind regimented soldiers and perfectly laid stonework, not the blooming of flowers in spring, the motion of tides, or the chaos of earthquakes and thunderstorms. The word you wanted was about the right way of things - but not a right way imposed by the will of men. A right way that exists independently of us, completely indifferent to us.’ 

Proavus chuckled at Bernard’s suddenly rapt expression. He continued, ‘I’m surprised your Father didn’t send you to apprentice with a wizard. Your mind is right for it. Right enough that I’m even more surprised you’ve not become a witch on your own.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Do you know the difference between a witch and a wizard?’

‘Not exactly… maybe education?’ When the older man didn’t respond, Bernard offered; ‘Or common versus noble birth?’

‘Close on both counts, but not quite. Do you know what it takes to be a wizard of passable competence as compared to a witch of equivalent competence?’

‘No.’

‘Books and schooling are expensive. To be a passable wizard, you need money and dedication. An equivalent witch needs dedication and talent. Without the money for education, witches need to be able to learn things through their own efforts. That generates a deep kind of understanding. Education is a shortcut to knowledge, but knowledge isn’t the same as understanding. You had a tale with a prescribed interpretation that you could have accepted. That would have been mere knowledge. You saw the truth hidden under it. That’s understanding. That shows me you’ve got the talent to be a witch on your own. If you had access to education, you’d be an excellent wizard.’

‘How does one become an excellent witch?’

‘Nothing specific or singular. Extreme effort, true brilliance, time, luck. Some gather in groups to share their discoveries. Some find a magical creature that is willing to guide them. The easiest method would be putting aside one’s pride as a witch and getting one’s hands on a wizard’s books. It’s better for the mind to approach wizard’s books with the eyes of a witch, but it’s still risky.’

‘Why?’

‘To go beyond ‘excellent’ as a wizard, you have to realise that everything you were taught from the beginning was just a little bit wrong. Right enough to follow the formula and produce results, but never complete. Never really ‘true’. Sometimes it’s because the author didn’t fully understand what they were writing about, or they were too lazy to explain it properly. Sometimes it’s because they were bad at explaining, or they chose the wrong words by mistake. That’s not the only barrier - there’s also something intangible and unique about learning lessons by your own efforts that is lost when those lessons are written down. To transcend, a wizard has to throw out all their shortcuts bought with gold and go back to the start. They have to learn it all again, as witches do.’

‘Are you a witch?’

‘No. I’m what a wizard becomes when he passes that point of no return. I’m Schlache.’

Bernard’s eyes widened in shock.

‘Wait. Then you knew I never got a demon army from you. Why’d you need to check if my mind was my own?’

‘Contrary to what some might think, I’m not the King of all demons. Demons don’t follow titles, they follow the strong. If you really were leading an army of demons, it was possible you were doing so under the influence of one of the greater demons.’

‘My books never said much about demons.’

‘They wouldn’t have. Your books came from the Royal Library. The Royal Library curates its collection to ensure that they have no books that might encourage people to question the divine right of Kings.’

‘How do books about demons question the right of Kings?’

‘That’s an even longer discussion. We haven’t the time for it today.’

‘Why not?’

Schlache took a folded piece of parchment from his sleeve.

‘Because you can’t stay here forever. There are soldiers patrolling the roads.’

Bernard felt panic begin to tighten around his ribcage.

‘Shouldn’t I leave now?’

‘No, you’ll be caught if you leave now. This is why I sent Una to go fetch you. Following her slowed you down enough to prevent you meeting a patrol that would otherwise have caught you. You can safely leave by the south road at sundown. Ride until you reach the blasted elm. You’ll know it when you see it. You can make camp there tonight. Until then, you’re stuck here with me.’

‘That’s hours away, I-‘

‘You don’t have time for irrelevant discussion.’

The door opened. Una entered with a pitcher, still damp on the outside from filling. She said;

‘You best not be telling him that talking about his Mother is irrelevant discussion.’

Schlache laughed.

‘You see? Much more important things to talk about.’

‘Una said she was alive. On an island.’

‘She is very much alive. She’s been living on that island ever since your brother Lothar tried to poison her.’

‘He did what?’

Una finished putting the water on to boil and returned to the table with a sigh.

‘You’d best start from the beginning, Proavus.’