I lay upon the floor of Gereint's house, which was now and forever mine by my love's gift, idly drinking in the fragrance of rain upon the lilacs. Finally, I opened my eyes. I lay wholly covered with blossoms.
I let myself curl up on the floor as if, lacking Gereint, I could embrace my grief. Bereaved I was, yet somehow fulfilled. What else in me had changed? I would not find out by lying here.
I struggled onto my feet. The fire was banked. I stirred it into brilliant life. I hung the pot of porridge over it and set the kettle on the hearth to boil water for herb tea. Soon I would be hungry, I knew that from other workings. Soon, too, people would come, to inquire how I fared, as they would say. I knew they came even more for healcraft and reassurance. They were Gereint's people: no, they were ours. His sacrifice had kept them safe.
I looked out the window and saw not the familiar garden, the familiar slope edging down to the riverbank, but, with the shimmering of my tears, another river altogether, bridged by a sword that even now my Gereint must have dared cross.
A life of work. A life of service, friendship, perhaps love again; I would face it all.
The years would not pass rapidly. I would not wish them lessened, nor would he. An end to our waiting would come, in the fullness of my years or the midst of some good deed. And when I too crossed that final river, Gereint would greet me on the farther bank, smiling at me in the fragrance of the lilacs.
Jason Henderson
"We've thought about it, Miranda," said Master Kenton. "We talked for a long time about it, as you know." Kenton had his pipe in his mouth and rocked back on his heels, a perfect caricature of the people of Denwyck. He squinted, for the sun was in his eyes, but he was too polite to move.
Miranda stood awkwardly, her arms cramping with the weight of the victuals she had just bought at the market. She looked past Master Kenton and saw the path out of the square, out of the village, out into the woods. The road from and to elsewhere. Miranda was glad for a place to hang her hat. But she had not expected the place to become—what would the word be—official? Permanent? Home? But here was Master Kenton nevertheless, trying ever so hard to appear not to be uneasy around her. Non-wizards were so odd, Miranda decided. The magic had to be taken care of and so one needed a wizard. How nice to be a necessary evil. Miranda balanced the basket on her hip and reached up to move her hat from her eyes a bit. "And what did you decide?"
Miranda could envision the meeting without needing the answer, and it required no clairvoyance. She had wandered into the village of Denwyck because that was where the road had taken a wizard needing a village. And in she came, around the bend and through the wall, walking under trees that bloomed as if in defiance of the spiritual living death of Denwyck. And that first week, when the marauders came, casting spells and killing sheep, and she used her powers, the gossip started. Portly women hung over window sills and whispered audibly about the new wizard. New wizard! As if she'd come to fill that hole.
Fifteen years! She mourned inwardly, and then berated herself: Come along, Miranda, don't you think it's about time you settled down? This is what you're made for. Take the village.
"We talked about it, and obviously everyone feels we've been long enough without a wizard," Master Kenton continued.
"Yes." Old Stephen must have died, what, eighty years ago, by all accounts? Before Miranda's wandering even began. Just her luck she'd land in a starving village.
"And of course we feel you have the qualifications." Master Kenton stopped now to see if Miranda would respond. Miranda nodded, to acknowledge the compliment, such as it was. Master Kenton continued: "Has the inn suited you?"
Miranda nodded, wanting to get her groceries home, "Of course, thank you." As if they were paying for it.
"Well, excellent, then," said the old man. "Jacob Deferish will be very happy to hear it. He has remarked that you have been a model, if silent, guest."
This warranted a smile. 'Thank you again."
"But I trust you would prefer not to remain at the inn, Master Deferish's hospitality notwithstanding. The council and I—we feel you should take Stephen's old house. It's not much, of course, and the place needs work. I understand there's quite a library. Haven't seen it myself, of course."
Miranda couldn't help it. She wanted to say: No, I wander, the stars are my ceiling, some sort of nonsense like that, but she simply could not help her eyes lighting up with excitement at the prospect. Somewhere she heard Jemuel say: Good girl. You have a spark of ambition after all. "I will," she found herself saying, and it wasn't to satisfy Jemuel or anyone. "I would be very pleased to."
So much to learn, Miranda thought as she approached the house of Stephen, the Wizard of Denwyck. So much I've put off learning.
Jemuel had been shocked, she recalled, as she curled up by his fire and drank his chocolate, he in his ostentatious chair, a book resting beside him. Shocked.
"You have never been placed in a village. Fascinating." the older wizard had said "You received your training at what age?"
"I was eight when the Circle found me."
"Right," he said, and he handed her a biscuit, and she kept from laughing, feeling as she did like a circus animal being handed a herring. But Jemuel was so sensitive. "Eight, which is very late. Very late," he repeated.