Page 2 of Keeper of the Flame: Orrick

“Nay, that’s not it at all,” said the boy, reaching for some frankincense that Orrick had burning on a small wooden pedestal that was carved like a raven. “I like the raven,” said Noah, becoming distracted easily, running his fingers over the carved wing of the bird as if he were petting it. “I wish I was a raven.”

“Nay, you don’t!” snapped Orrick. “Don’t ever say that.” A shudder went through him, because he knew better than anyone that no one should ever want to be that dirty bird.

“Why not?” asked the boy, always dreaming and curious and pretending to be something or someone he wasn’t.

“It wouldn’t be fun to be a raven, just trust me on that one,” Orrick told him. “Now, stick to things that you can do. Like being a knight someday. Of course, first you’ll have to start out as a page. You’re the right age for that right now. I’ll ask Lord Corbett if you can start your training right here at Blake Castle.”

“Nay, I’d rather be a wizard like you.”

“Sorcerer,” he corrected the boy, never liking the connotations behind the word wizard. “I’m a sorcerer,” Orrick repeated, looking at all his jars of magical potions on the shelves.

“What’s the difference between a wizard and sorcerer?” Noah asked in his high, childlike voice. He slid off the stool and ran over and jumped onto Orrick’s bed next. It was a raised platform with a thick, stuffed pallet hanging from ropes above it, stuffed with straw. Surrounding the bed were long, velvet, purple curtains hanging all the way down to the floor.

“The difference, I guess you could say, is that a wizard isn’t born with magic. He learns it. A sorcerer, on the other hand, is born a certain way and can do nothing at all to change it. Magic is a part of us, whether we like it or not.”

“I wouldn’t want to change anything about me if I was a sorcerer,” said the naïve child.

“Things aren’t always as they seem, Noah,” explained Orrick. “Sometimes they start out good but can end up being very bad.”

“I don’t understand. What is so bad?” Noah jumped up and down on Orrick’s bed. The ropes holding the mattress suspended over the dais creaked under the boy’s weight, swaying the pallet slightly. “What do you want to change about being a sorcerer?”

What indeed! Orrick wished he could change everything about himself right now. But how could he even start to explain it? The boy wouldn’t understand. No one would.

“Get off of there,” Orrick grumbled, walking over and pulling the boy to the ground. “Now tell me, what is my message from the steward?”

Before the child could answer, Orrick heard a female voice from behind him.

“I’m here to see the old wizard,” a woman announced in a haughty-sounding voice.

Orrick turned around slowly, cringing at being called a wizard, not to mention old. “I’m not a wizard, I’m a sor . . . cerer,” he finished, his eyes fastening to the vision of loveliness standing just inside his door. With delicate features and thin bones, this young woman had long, blond hair that was loosely woven into a braid that reached all the way down to her waist. She looked like an angel standing in his doorway. Big, brown eyes looked so innocent and alluring all at the same time. Never had he seen such breathtaking beauty. Not since Petronilla. This stranger, in a way, reminded him of his lost love.

“Lady Hope,” called Harold, the steward, running up the stairs after her. “You cannot enter the tower room, and especially not without an escort!” The steward stopped in the doorway, huffing and puffing. He was an older, larger man that had never once climbed the stairs to the tower in all his years, as far as Orrick could remember. “I’m sorry about this, Orrick,” the man apologized. “I sent the boy with the message, but he never returned.” Harold dabbed at his receding hairline and stuck the cloth back into his pocket.

“Who are you?” Orrick asked the woman curiously, his interest piqued. Normally, he didn’t react like this to strange women, but she intrigued him. Somehow, a part of him wanted to believe this was Petronilla come back to life. He found himself wishing that by looking into his past he’d made that happen. However, he knew it was impossible and naught but wishful thinking. Aye, something about this woman held his interest and he needed to know more about her since she could not possibly be his lost love.

Curiosity ate away at him, just like it always did to the boy. Orrick found himself having to know why she’d be bold enough to show up at his doorstep unescorted. “Why do you want to see me?”

“I am Lady Hope Threston and I’m in need of someone to conjure up a spell,” she told him. “I heard you are a sorcerer, so I figured you could do it.”

“Hope,” he repeated her name, muttering to himself. This only made him think about how he’d given up hope of ever falling in love again. “Why do you need a spell?”

“I’m searching for something and I think you might be able to help me. I’m willing to pay whatever you ask, of course. My father is Earl Hubert Threston III of Woodcreek Castle in Norfolk. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He has a lot of money.” She strolled into the room without being invited in, drinking in her surroundings with wide, curious eyes, not unlike the mischievous boy.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not in the habit of hunting down missing people,” he told her, feeling uneasy that she’d entered his private place as if she’d been invited in. Her presence there unsettled him greatly. “Perhaps a mercenary would serve you better.” Orrick tried to gently dismiss her in a kind nature without being too rude. Even if the woman didn’t care how rude she was being by walking around the room, he didn’t make it a habit to be disrespectful to women. She continued her perusal of her surroundings by looking at his books, trinkets, gemstones, and anything she could lay her hands on. He ran over and snatched a leather-bound book of spells from her clutch, not wanting her to look inside it and start spouting off the words within. Not that it would matter since she was only mortal, but it was none of her business and he wasn’t eager to share.

“Thank you, Orrick,” said Harold from the door. “I told her you wouldn’t be able to help her, but she wanted to hear it straight from you. Sorry to have bothered you. Come, Lady Hope. I’ll escort you back to the great hall.” The steward held out his arm without entering the room, but the girl did nothing to venture toward him.

“Aye, do stay for a bite to eat before you travel back to Norfolk. Our cook is very talented,” said Orrick, hoping she would get the hint to go.

“I’m not leaving,” she protested, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but as I said, I cannot help you.” Orrick tired of her stubbornness but not of her beauty. “You’ll have to go.”

“I see,” said the girl, wetting her lips with her tongue, obviously not believing him at all that he couldn’t help her on her mission. “You don’t want to help me,” she stated. “Why couldn’t you just say that, instead of lying to me?”

Her long blond braid hung over one shoulder. Her gown was purple and made of the softest velvet. The tippets of the sleeves looked to be constructed from fine silk and lace. As her brown eyes scrutinized him, it made Orrick feel as if she were looking right through him. She held her chin high and proud as if she could conquer the world if she so chose. She was certainly doing her best to conquer him and she’d almost made a hole in his resolve. He didn’t like anyone staring at him, because he felt ugly in his shapeshifting form of an old man. How he longed for a girl to gaze at him in that manner but when he was in his young and handsome form instead.

“So sorry to have bothered you,” she said flippantly, turning sharply on her heel.