After that, he brought out a large flat piece of dark grey slate and a piece of chalk. He began scratching symbols onto it. “This morning you’ll learn the sounds of the alphabet.”
Will frowned. “Shouldn’t you be teaching me something more important?”
Large, bushy brows went up questioningly. “Such as?”
“Magic,” said Will immediately.
“Why the hell would I do that?” said the old man in genuine astonishment.
“But…”
The hermit went on, “You can’t cook or read. Your vocabulary is so poor as to be nonexistent. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to find you’d never learned to wipe your ass. You have far more important things to learn than magic.”
Will was beginning to get used to the insults, so he refused to take offense. Instead, he asked, “After I learn to read, you’ll teach me magic, though, right?”
“I’ll teach you herbology, and if you’re lucky, a little alchemy.”
Will’s shoulders slumped. “If I wanted to learn that, Mom could teach me,” he complained.
The hermit’s eyes twinkled with hidden mirth. “Who do you think taught her?”
Surprised, Will answered, “She told me it was her great-grandfather.” Then he remembered his previous doubt. “She lied, didn’t she?”
The old man grew still, his face taking on a serious expression and his eyes misting slightly. After a long pause, he said, “No. No, that’s the truth.”
Will couldn’t believe it. “You’re not old enough!”
“Hah!” said the old man. “I don’t look my age. How old do you think I am?”
Trying to think of the oldest person he had ever met in the village, Will guessed, “Sixty?”
The hermit began to laugh. “I’m a bit older than that, but if anyone asks, sixty will do.”
Something else occurred to Will then. “What should I call you? Mom says I can’t use your name.”
Hard eyes bored into him. “She told you my name?”
Will shook his head. “I overheard the two of you. Your name is Arrogan, right?”
“No,” declared the old man. “Arrogan died a long time ago. He’s a historical figure. Best to forget him. Someone mistook me for him once, and it’s caused me all sorts of trouble ever since.”
“Who was he?” asked Will, his curiosity piqued.
“The betrayer of Darrow,” said the hermit, referring to a country that neighbored Terabinia. “After you learn to read, you can look him up in one of my books. I’m not interested in talking about him.”
He could sense that the topic was considered closed, so Will went back to his previous question. “Well, what should I call you? You do have a name, don’t you?”
“You’re barely weaned from your momma’s teat. Calling me by my name would be disrespectful,” said the old man, deflecting the true question.
Will thought for a few seconds. “If I’m your apprentice I should call you ‘Master,’ shouldn’t I?”
“Probably,” admitted the hermit, “but I’d die of embarrassment if anyone heard you and attributed your idiocy to my teaching.”
“How about ‘Grampa’?” suggested Will, watching the old man carefully.
The hermit froze a second, then blinked, his face taking on a strange expression. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, if you’re Mom’s great-grandfather, then you’re my great-great-grandfather, so we’re family,” said Will hopefully. He wasn’t sure why he had made the suggestion. The only family he’d ever had were his cousins, his uncle, and his mother. For some reason the thought of calling someone ‘father,’ or in this case, ‘grandfather,’ appealed to some inner need he didn’t fully understand.
The old man coughed, then cleared his throat. When he answered, his voice seemed thicker than before. “Fine. You can call me Grandfather if you want, but if we’re ever around other people use ‘Master.’”
“You said that would be embarrassing,” Will reminded him.
His grandfather glared at him. “Not as embarrassing as having people know I’m related to a lackwit.” He pointed at the slate. “You need to learn these ten letters. Once you’ve managed that, I’ll show you the rest. If you can name them all and tell me their associated sounds, I’ll teach you something interesting after dinner this evening, assuming you don’t poison us.”
“Magic?” asked Will hopefully.
The old man paused. “Why are you so damned interested in magic?”
Will looked evenly at his grandfather. “You and Mother both seem to think I’ve got some talent. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”
“I brought you here to teach you to be an herbalist,” said his grandfather. “Along the way I hope to teach you only enough magic to keep you from killing yourself or getting yourself put in prison.”
Defiantly, Will spoke up, “I don’t want to be an herbalist! I want to be a sorcerer, like you.”
The old man’s face hardened. “What did you call me?”
“You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?”
His grandfather stood, towering over him, his face angrier than Will had yet seen. “I’ll take your ignorance into account this once, boy, but if you ever call me that again I’ll cut your ears off and sew them on backwards. Do you hear me?”
Confused, Will nodded. “Aren’t the most powerful mages sorcerers, though? Like the king?”
The old man’s eyes lit with fury. “Sorcerers are the weakest, most morally corrupt, vilest, and most despicable examples of humankind ever to crawl mewling out of their mothers’ wombs. They aren’t even fit to be called ‘mages.’ I’d sooner be accused of trafficking with demons and named a warlock as to be called a sorcerer.”
The vehemence in his grandfather’s voice set Will back on his heels. It made little sense to him. All the most powerful nobles, and even the king himself, were sorcerers, commanding powers so vast they could wipe out entire armies, or even level mountains, if the stories were to be believed. It had been King Lognion’s distant ancestor, the first sorcerer, who had defeated Darrow and established Terabinia’s independence. By comparison, warlocks were known to be degenerate magic wielders who traded with demons and evil spirits for their powers. Being named one was a capital offense.
So what does that make him? wondered Will. He remembered the old man saying he had once devoured a demon’s essence. Was he really a warlock?
The old man noted the fearful expression on his face. “I’m not saying I am a warlock, dunce! That was a rhetorical device.”
Will wasn’t sure what ‘rhetorical’ meant, but he got the gist of the old man’s statement. “Then what are you?”
“Someone who isn’t going to teach you magic,” spat his grandfather. “You’ll learn to be an herbalist, and I’ll teach you just enough magic to keep you alive and to understand why you don’t want to be a sorcerer.” Will didn’t reply, and after a moment the old man took his silence for acquiescence. Pointing at the slate, he said, “I’ll go over the letters again. Pay attention. I expect you to use the rotten gourd you call a head.”