Lesson of the Fire by Eric Zawadzki Page A

much of Sven — intelligent, outgoing and eager to
teach whatever she learned. Asa could already read and write
paragraphs in both Mar and Middling Gien, the language the magic
textbooks were written in. Her vocabulary was still quite limited,
but she was only three and a half years old, after all. Yet, the
bright-eyed girl had a fascination with magic that rivaled her
father’s. Already, she made use of most of the words wizards used
to describe their use of magic.
    “Energy can be used to make heat or cold,
light or darkness. It is all the green specks in the myst and is
the easiest for a wizard to use.”
    “I don’t see nothin’,” complained a young
boy’s voice.
    That would be Ottar Verunigsud, the class
skeptic. Ottar was a constant thorn in Asa’s imaginative little
boot, refusing to pretend that her dreamed-up characters and things
were really there. Now, Erika knew, Asa would either find a way to
punish the boy’s honesty or dismiss his opinion completely.
    If nothing else, Asa will teach him to feign
creativity.
    Erika’s brown eyes sparkled in the
flickering light as she waited for the expected response. As she
moved closer to the fire to stir the soup, her shadow on the wall
swelled, almost filling the entire room.
    “What’s taking Sven so long?” she
murmured.
    Her husband had left the Academy with
promises to return as soon as his business to the west was
finished. That had been an entire season ago. She knew Sven often
got so caught up in his latest project that he tended to forget his
family.
    It’s a fault in
him, Erika thought. He should be here with us, raising his daughter.
    The fire’s heat waned slightly. Erika picked
up a log from the small pile of wood stacked nearby and fed it to
the flames. The flames licked the new wood experimentally, still
clinging to the familiar fuels at the bottom of the pile. After a
few moments, the flames all but abandoned the old wood in favor of
devouring the new. She basked in the warmth.
    Where is he? Asfrid Staute and the other
Protectorate wizards can renew the spells without him.
    The fire soon grew so hot it began to hurt
her face. She sighed as she picked up a broom and started sweeping
the wooden floor. As she put the room into order, Erika noticed the
silence emanating from the nursery. Aware that this was not a
normal state for children, she decided to check on Asa and her
“class.”
    “Sven Takraf, why can’t you just stay home
for a little while?” she asked the air.
    As Erika moved away from the hearth, her
shadow shrank. By the time she reached the door to the nursery, the
fire illuminated the entire room. A knock on the front door
interrupted her as she reached for the nursery latch. She glided to
the entrance and opened it.
    A mud-covered Erbark grinned at her from the
darkness outside. His left arm hung in a makeshift sling, and his
face was a mass of bruises. One eye was swollen shut.
    “Erbark!” Erika cried. “What happened to
you?”
    “I thought I’d visit Lori.”
    “Olver attacked you again?”
    He shrugged.
    Erika knew the story of the warrior’s love
for this townswoman. Erbark visited Rustiford three or four times a
year, if he was not busy in the Protectorates, all for the sake of
Lori and her twelve children. The Rustifordian must be on her way
to forty, yet he proclaimed her the most beautiful woman alive.
Erika was somewhat jealous of this man’s devotion to a woman not
even his wife.
    Sven could learn from Erbark.
    “Come in. I’ve some soup.”
    Erbark obeyed, carefully setting his travel
pack and javelins near the door.
    “Sven hasn’t returned yet?”
    She shook her head as she ladled some of her
rabbit and wild rice soup into a wooden bowl. Of course, the main
ingredients weren’t the most important. When it came to soups,
seasoning was everything.
    “Whatever he’s doing, it’s important. You
know how he is.”
    “I know, but two months without even a
message?”
    Erbark ate his soup, watching her