After gracious goodnights dryads led Mayard and Rhiann down a spiraling stairwell to an opulent guest room. Braziers provided light and burning incenses saturated the air with smoky floral essences. The old sorcerer said little as they prepared to retire. Rhiann sensed his great uncle’s preoccupation. The youth’s thoughts returned to the pleasantness of Decima’s touch and her wonderful kisses. He stood before a looking glass, peered at his reflection in the dim light, and held the unusually long strand of braided hair in his hand. Decima’s hair and the flax woven from Nona’s distaff were indistinguishable now from his own flaming red hair that was intermingled with them. Decima had adroitly braided the hair and paced a barrette made of translucent ribbon at its tip.
Mayard mumbled, “Don’t ever cut that hair.”
Rhiann asked, “Will I die if I cut it?”
Mayard chuckled, “Not unless you use a very dangerous shears. Decima gave you her greatest gift.”
The old sorcerer removed the weathered pointed hat that seldom left his head and allowed a long strand of graying hair fall to the floor. Mayard continued, “Nona shared with me in my youth, just as did her sister Mors with the first sorcerer, our ancestor Cydney Klarje. Cydney welcomed Old Ones, associated freely with them, and learned many of their ways. I’ve tried to follow his path. In all the sorcerers of the past several generations, only you and your mother Caye have any inkling of Cydney’s attitudes. Only you bear the mark of the Klarjes. The Three Sisters recognize this too.”
benjamintowe 