Maordätan had told her that she had to choose a brotherhood. And he had also told her not to join the Sorcerers, more for personal reasons than for any truly valid ones.
That left her with the Druids, the Ethereants, and the Corsairs as options. To be honest, she didn’t care much, since she had no idea what those Orders were.
However, Frägnyn had chosen to join the Druids, the same brotherhood Maordätn and Takämi, her saviors, belonged to. It was also a personal decision: she had decided to follow in the footsteps of those who had saved her from death.
Besides, they had mentioned that the Druids were the best suited to life in the wilderness, something that greatly interested her to avoid another experience like the one that had brought her to the Valley of the Summoners.
Takämi had also told her that her magical affinity was evident and that she would make a great summoner. Nothing had ever filled Frägnyn with more joy and happiness than that comment. No one had ever complimented her in her life.
If she closed her bright eyes, she could imagine her future as a druid, glorious and full of hope. Sometimes, dangerous thoughts assailed her, dreams of grandeur in which she imagined herself punishing all those who had spit at her feet and despised her.
Oh, the guilty pleasure she felt was intoxicating. She had never considered herself a vengeful person… but, of course, she had never had enough power to take revenge on anyone. She felt an agonizing mixture of shame and excitement when she thought about crushing like flies those who had discriminated against her.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t predict her future, but one thing was certain—it would be grand.
“The Magic is like cooking,” her current mentor said, pulling her out of her reverie.
Seeing herself covered in grease, oil, blood, and other vegetable juices, Frägnyn didn’t think that grand future she imagined would arrive anytime soon. Aeshanúl was an old man with a wrinkled, stern face, patient enough to be the head cook of that fortress, but strict and somewhat temperamental.
“Magic is like cooking,” he repeated, this time while chopping some mushrooms with impeccable, precise accuracy. “In my kitchen, you’ll learn that.”
“I thought I’d only learn to cook in your kitchen,” she said with a touch of exasperation in her voice, instantly regretting her disrespectful response; the man gave her a piercing look, raising an eyebrow.
However, it was true. Since she had been placed under Aeshanúl’s tutelage, all she had done was cook and read cookbooks. The old man never answered her questions about magic, and he dodged all conversations on the subject. He insisted she had to learn how to cook.
Frägnyn was so fed up with him that she had begun asking everyone she met, but they all referred her back to her mentor. She had tried reading spell and summoning books but hadn’t understood much.
In fact, she was so tired of it that she hadn’t noticed that Aeshanúl had mentioned the word “magic” for the first time in weeks.
“If you want to learn magic, you must first learn to cook,” the old man replied, with a faint hint of a smile… or maybe it was a shadow on the corner of his lips. “Look, look here, pay attention. Magic and cooking are very similar: to create something, you need to understand the ingredients, know in what order to add them, and how much time and attention to give each detail. It’s a methodical process. For example, the mushroom stew—how is it made?”
The girl sighed in frustration, as it was the millionth time he had asked that question. She recited it from memory, and the old druid gave a single clap of approval.
“Then, go ahead.”
Frägnyn looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to instruct her on what to do, but Aeshanúl gestured with his hand, urging her to proceed. The apprentice hesitated as she picked up the cooking tools, and seeing no response from the cook, she understood that she had to do it alone.
She followed the steps precisely, and after a couple of hours, the stew was ready. They sat down to eat, and to her dismay, the food was bland and didn’t have the same consistency as Aeshanúl’s stew.
“I… I don’t know why… I did the same as you always do, master,” the girl apologized, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“No, you didn’t. You forgot important steps like letting the mushrooms dry and adding thyme and bay leaves. Casting a spell is exactly the same as making mushroom stew,” the old man stood up and left the kitchen briskly; Frägnyn hurried to follow him, stumbling over a chair before catching up to him. “To cast a spell, just like cooking, you need to have all the components ready. But there are also three factors to consider: the difficulty of the recipe, your affinity with the recipe, and your experience with the recipe. Your first mushroom stew was a disaster, but perhaps your first loaf of bread will be a masterpiece. You may have little affinity for mushroom stew, perhaps because you don’t like it or aren’t interested in learning it, but you might make a magnificent onion soup simply because it’s your favorite dish.” How did Aeshanúl know that was her favorite dish when she had never told him? “And, as I said, this is your first mushroom stew, but your tenth attempt will be better, and the twentieth will be even better. Difficulty, affinity, and experience—three key factors.”
“So, what should I do then?”
To Frägnyn’s surprise, the old druid stopped dead in his tracks and smiled, this time with a sincere, full smile.
“That’s the secret, my dear apprentice: whatever you want. Nothing binds you to follow the same path as me. Every druid discovers the spells that are most useful to them and best suited to their preferences and lifestyle.”
“Then, I don’t have to learn to cook?” the girl asked hopefully, but immediately regretted her words when she saw Aeshanúl’s smile fade instantly.
“No, and you’ll never learn to cook,” the man replied coldly, resuming his brisk pace. She had no idea where he was taking her. “But you will learn to make mushroom stew.”
“Shouldn’t I start with the loaf of bread?” she suggested, recalling her mentor’s example.
“Do you want to make a loaf of bread?” he asked as they left the enormous castle. Perhaps he was taking her to gather ingredients.
“I… I don’t know…”
“Exactly, you don’t know. And until you know what you want, you won’t be able to move forward.”
“I want to do magic,” she grumbled.
Once again, the man stopped abruptly.
“Do magic. ‘Do magic,’ she says!” he brought a hand to his forehead impatiently. “No one ‘does magic,’ little assaliya—only the Gods knew what he meant by that. Magic isn’t made; it’s not an object you can create. You haven’t been paying attention at all. You will learn spells, which are essentially recipes, and the ingredients you use will be provided partly by magic and partly by yourself.”
“But how am I supposed to know all that if this is the first time I’ve heard you talk about magic?” the girl muttered.
“Because you ask the wrong questions instead of listening. You’re not listening. Just like when you made the mushroom stew: you know the recipe, you know the steps, but you haven’t listened to everything I’ve told you these weeks. For example, now we’re going to look for more mushrooms because you’ve used them all up. Do you know which mushrooms to look for and how to cut them? Do you know which ones are edible and which aren’t?”
Frägnyn was stunned and silent. She didn’t have an answer to any of Aeshanúl’s questions, and the worst part was that she did remember her mentor giving all those explanations.
The young girl looked at her master’s stern face as they continued on their way. It seemed they were heading toward the ruins in the center of the Valley. She really didn’t know if they could find mushrooms there or not, nor which mushrooms she needed.
And now that she thought about it, she wasn’t interested in gathering mushrooms or making mushroom stew, for that matter. In fact, she didn’t like the taste. There was something about it that reminded her of the food from the shelters, although she knew they didn’t serve anything with mushrooms there, really.
If Frägnyn had ever eaten any food with mushrooms, it was from mold and spoiled, decomposing food.
But she did like bread. Bread filled her up, the aroma was comforting, and it was an easy meal to share. Bread felt familiar.
In the distance, she saw the wheat fields and the crops decorating the Valley. She knew where bread came from, she had read how to grind wheat to get flour, and she knew how to light an oven. Then, the young girl sighed deeply.
“Could you teach me how to make a loaf of bread?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”