On the Altar they talked all sorts of tall tales. Whose is it, what powers did they bow to there, what sacrifices did they make? Nobody knew for certain; even in old chronicles there were no mentions of it. Make up whatever stories you want, one more terrible than the other, you still can’t check it!

The tower is a different matter. People did not know how old it was and who lived in it before, but for almost two hundred years it served as a dwelling for a necromancer magician. Master Turvon, tall and thin, as if withered, with a piercing gaze of eyes as black as hellish tar, and the same black hair tied in a ponytail at the back of his head, has not changed at all in two hundred years. That is, maybe a few wrinkles and gray hairs have increased, but who will notice such a trifle? What’s more important is that the way his great-grandfathers described him is how his great-grandchildren see him.

Although necromancers are distinguished by their nasty character, Master Turvon has not aroused any special fear in the residents of the surrounding villages and the not-so-distant capital – and, as a result, the entire kingdom – for a long time. Among the magicians you won’t find fluffy bunnies, they’re all wolves; Well, a hellish dog has wormed its way among the wolves, so what now? Do not touch unnecessarily, and he will not touch you; and when the need arises, don’t rush like crazy to the Tower, pounding on the door and yelling under the windows, leave a sign on a post near a withered oak tree at the edge, and the magician himself will find you. Moreover, Master Turvon did not raise cemeteries, did not summon evil spirits, preferring to question the dead or murdered for the benefit of their living relatives or the crown. And what he does in his tower is his business, which it is better for no one to meddle in. And they didn’t go in, and even for the most part not out of fear, but because it is clear to any sane person that where the necromancer casts spells, it’s better not to meddle there. Otherwise, how the Great Power forbid will enchant you by accident!

That's how we lived.

No one knew that the master had a student. The high-born Sieur Gaunt del Marre was in no hurry to tell everyone where the heir had disappeared. “Learns the knowledge necessary for a young man from a knowledgeable mentor,” and period. Those who were interested in the details received, instead of an answer, thoughtful reflections on the fact that service in the border garrisons, especially in the south, did not make people such idiots. And so it turned out that Sieur Gaunt did not seem to be lying, but he reliably hid the location of his son from everyone.

And the master, of course, did not take the undergrowth with him when he went to perform dark magic at the home of his next customer. Magic is not about weeding beds and allowing the untrained to practice. But even incompetent people don’t like garden beds; but it’s better to confuse weeds with cabbage than, instead of summoning a soul that is peaceful in a good afterlife, suddenly raise an evil corpse.

Marius did not dare to grumble, although every time his mentor went to work, he had difficulty suppressing the desire to ask to come with him. And master Turvon, you know, left the student with tasks that were dirtier and bigger for the time he was away, so that he wouldn’t sit idle, wouldn’t suffer from nonsense and wouldn’t climb into places where he shouldn’t climb without supervision.

So Marius sat in a black tower in the middle of the forest, like an enchanted princess from a fairy tale. He chewed on the intractable science of magic, dismantled ancient books, memorized rituals. Daily household chores – cleaning, a garden with herbs and a stable with the only inhabitant, the black hellish horse Garo – were also on him. You never know whose heir you are. You may brag about your high birth in the palaces, but in the tower of a magician, while you are a student, you are nobody and there is no way to call you. In addition, maintaining proper order in the home, and magical herbs, and even more so, the inhabitant of the stable is the same part of the training. You need to understand what to do with all this and why it is this way and not otherwise.

It was difficult at first. But the autumn poured down with dull rains, the winter swept through with snowstorms, the early timid spring snowdrops blossomed – and from the old Marius, who fiercely wanted to learn, but in the explanations of the master who understood well if one word out of ten, only the name remained. Now he could distinguish one herb from another by smell and touch, even in dried and mashed form. I discovered that thoroughly washing the floor before drawing a circle of invocation on it perfectly sets the mood for the ritual. And the mad creature Garo caressed, accepting the treat, allowed him to comb his mane and pat his terrible face and did not try to bite off his fingers right up to his shoulders. And the master moderated his sarcasm, making remarks about the dubious intelligence of some high-born blockheads.

And at night, through sleep, voices were heard at the very edge of consciousness. They whispered something incomprehensible, called, promised. In his dream, Marius thought that in the morning he should tell his mentor, ask what kind of strange dreams he had, who was calling him and whether this call was dangerous. But in the morning I forgot.

Before entrusting a student to lead the ritual,

Take a safety test!

Marius didn’t completely forget the promise he made to his father, but put it on the farthest shelf of his memory. Well, really, where should he look for a bride now – in the forest? In the ancient dungeons of the Tower, shrouded in eternal darkness? Or in cemeteries, where the master began to take him so that he could learn to smell the emanations of decay and dust and work with them? How old is he, he'll have time! Breaking one’s own promises, of course, is not right and is completely disgraceful, but perhaps the father will understand and he himself will free him from the word given in the heat of the moment. And anyway, there are still six months before the harvest festival, you never know what can happen. Why worry in advance? Moreover, very soon – one of the eight Axes of the Wheel of the Year, day and night, when very special rites and rituals are performed. For three years already, Marius had met a necromancer as a student, but until now he had been admitted to these rituals only with the rights of an unreasonable child: “stop, look, don’t touch anything, where I tell you, repeat after me.” And this time the master promised to allow more. He said that the student would need help in a very important and special matter. How about brides here?

On the eve of the long-awaited day, Master Turvon ordered the student to rip out the floor throughout the entire tower, from the basements to the guard area on the roof, and not to forget the stone-paved area between the stables and the vegetable garden.

– Why there? – Marius was amazed.

“When you finish, find the answer in the treatise “On the rituals of the annual Wheel,” answered the master and, without saying anything else, he was transported somewhere by a portal. And Marius, sighing and looking lustfully at the library window, trotted off to the well.

He would have preferred to start with a treatise rather than with the work of a scrubber, despised for a high-born person, but the master said – the student did, and nothing else. And be quicker, otherwise there won’t be any time left for reading!

He carried water, wrung out rags, scrubbed dirt from black stones – there wasn’t much of it, that dirt, but he still had to wash it often, the master really respected cleanliness. And, while my hands were busy and my head was free, I remembered that very treatise on rituals. After all, Marius read it, how could he not read it! But I can swear by anything that there was nothing there about the fact that some rituals must necessarily be carried out in the open air. Preferably – yes, and spring ones are right there, along with summer ones. But the correctly drawn ritual circles are more important than the ceiling above your head or the sky, and in the basement the circles are drawn, the signs are soldered into the stone with the necessary metals and imbued with power. Where is the uneven stone platform against them, which will have to be painted with chalk? No, he probably just doesn’t remember something or understood something wrong. So I was in a hurry to wash up and stick my nose into a book.