Bees swarmed in my stomach. I did not know what was going to happen next, only that I was sure it would be wonderful. He gestured to an empty chair at the table, and I hurried to it and sat. As I held my breath the master opened the cover of the book, and that was when my education in the arcane arts began.
The book–which had no name other than the mysterious gold symbols on its cover–contained many chapters. We began that morning with the first, which concerned the art of astrology, then in time moved on to divination, runic lore, numerology, and other occult sciences. Fascinated as I was with each of these topics, always my eyes seemed to skip ahead, gauging the thickness of the book, and wondering what lore was contained in the yellowed pages of its final chapter.
It was some time before I found out. Far more often than not, when I entered the drawing room in the morning, I found Pietro or one of the black‑robed scholars sitting at the table rather than the master. Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I would force myself to focus on the lesson at hand, and would try, though often without great success, not to wonder about the big leather‑bound book with the gold symbols.
“Where is the master today?” I would ask if it was Pietro who was my teacher.
Always the answer was the same. Business had called the master out to one of the villages on his lands, or to Edinburgh, or sometimes even all the way to London. That last news always filled me with melancholy, for I knew it would be many days before the master returned, and that when he did he would be weary. Always he seemed pallid when he came back from London, and grimmer than usual, and he would have neither time nor energy for our studies together for many days.
Eventually, I learned the master kept the book of the occult in his library, for I saw it on the shelf one evening when he called me in to speak with him. However, even if I might have been tempted, I knew it would be folly to attempt to steal a glance at its pages. Certainly the master would know if I entered his library unbidden, and while his wrath had never been directed at me, I remembered the way he had, with a look, frozen the two men who had tried to harm me in Advocate’s Close.
Fortunately, I had other activities to occupy me. On my sixteenth birthday–an anniversary that we had come to celebrate on the summer solstice, for we could only guess at my true age–the master gifted me with a horse. It was a handsome roan gelding, full of spirit, but gentle and forgiving with its young and inexperienced rider. I named the horse Hermes, for I imagined he would run very swiftly.
At the master’s bidding, his stableman, Gerald, gave me lessons in riding, and while he was neither as patient nor gentle as Hermes, before the summer was out I had skill enough that he left me to my own devices. Once released from my studies for the day, if the weather was even remotely fair, I would go out riding.
Sometimes I visited one of the villages that were beholden to the manor, but most often I kept to the bridle paths that led past field and croft, through copse and heather, over bridges and near standing stones, out to the open spaces. There Hermes and I would race across the moors, the wild wind whipping our manes–his of rusty red, mine of bright gold–and my blood would rush with a sensation I could not name. All I knew was that it made me feel strong, and bold, and pure.
One day Gerald saw me riding Hermes from a distance, and that night he swore to the master he had never seen a horse run so fast. I felt a childish pleasure, thinking simply that my horse was special, and that I was lucky to have him, and perhaps even deserving. The master gave me a sharp look, but I thought nothing of it–though I might have, if I could have seen the way my eyes sparked with green fire when I leaned over Hermes’ neck, urging him swiftly over heath and down.
Winter was the hardest season for me to bear, for more days than not, once my morning studies were done, I could do no more than visit Hermes in the stable and watch the gray rain sheet down outside. Also, it seemed the master was gone more often in the winter, and when he was about Madstone Hall he was more likely than ever to be grim and silent.
As time passed, his trips away from the manor grew longer and more frequent, and I knew he was often gone to London. I did not ask Pietro what he did there, I knew he would not tell me, but I thought of the visitors with the golden eyes, and I was certain his trips had something to do with the three who had once come to the manor.
“Can I travel with you, Master?” I would ask each time I learned he was leaving for London.
“In time, Marius,” he would say. “When the time is right, I will take you with me.” Then he would open the book of occult lore to a new chapter, somewhere in the middle now, though as always my eyes strayed toward the end of the tome.
Seasons passed, and though I was happy and content, as I grew taller and broader, and the down on my chin and cheeks became a short beard as thick, gold, and curling as my hair, a shadow stole into Madstone Hall.
The shadow was faint at first, like a fleeting cloud that dimmed the light of a long June day, hinting at the cool purple of twilight to come. Sometimes I would round a corner and see the master leaning against a chair or balustrade, a hand pressed to his chest, his face gaunt. Then he would see me and smile, and at that rare gift all dark thoughts were dismissed.
On my eighteenth birthday, we walked together to one of the standing stones on the moor and, like the common folk, laid down our own offering of bread and wine. He gripped my arm as we made our way up the hill, and I was surprised at how thin his fingers felt against my arm, and how hot, but again it was easy to forget these things when he leaned against the stone and spoke in his deep voice of old gods now lost and forgotten.
“Where did the gods go?” I asked, pressing my palm against the weathered stone.
“Even I cannot say, Marius. Perhaps they returned to the world from whence they came.”
His words caused me to shiver despite the warm midsummer evening. “What world do mean?”
He sighed. “Or perhaps they are no more.”
“But a god cannot die,” I said.
He gazed at his hands. “Even gods die, Marius, when they are old enough, and weary from the weight of long ages.”
That was the first time I remember noticing the way the shadows gathered in the hollows of his cheeks. But it was only the failing light, I told myself, and we walked back down the hill, speaking of brighter things.
However, if in summer the shadow had been easy to dismiss, in the pale blue light of winter its effect was far harder to ignore. The master was always cold, and Pietro commanded the servants to keep great fires roaring in every fireplace in the manor, so that all of us shed our coats and vests and still sweated in our shirts. Yet the master would sit in a chair, clutching a blanket around him with thin fingers. Sometimes, as I passed the closed door of the library, I would hear Pietro speaking in urgent tones. Never could I hear what he was saying, but it was clear that the old servant was pleading with the master, and that the master was refusing.
Then, one night when sleep eluded me, I ventured downstairs to fetch a glass of wine, and again I heard voices as I passed through the main hall. Only this time a wedge of yellow light fell through the door of the library; it stood ajar. I knew I should hurry on, but like some insect compelled by the light, I approached, moving silently over the carpeted floor.
“Do you have it, Pietro?” I heard the master speak as I drew close to the door. “I am sorry to make you do this thing, but I have not the strength to ride out myself.”
“Yes, I have it. But it will do you little enough good, Master.”
“Bring it here, Pietro.”
I heard a whuffling noise, and a muffled squeal, almost like the cry of an infant. All at once the squeal ceased, replaced by the gurgling sound of liquid falling into a metal bowl.