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Help the archive! Please tell us if any story tags are missing or incorrect. Every three years, as the snows began to melt and drip from the silver spruce and great cedar, the boys of High Weyfort would grow nervous. Their natural rambunctiousness would become tempered, their moods a little more pensive. They would steal more looks down the roads up from the valley and down from the mountain, peering at times, even without thinking about it, to see if he was coming.
He had a name, although the villagers used it rarely. Normally Wizard sufficed. Not that he was the only wizard who passed through the huddled stone lodges of the village on his way between mysterious errands.
Indeed, the land was famous for them, although that did not make them common. But the other magic workers stayed longer, talked more, helped in little ways, and then moved on, their timing random and unknowable. This particular wizard on the other hand, came every three years, on the first days of spring, and had for as long as any villager could remember. Each time he would select a half dozen boys between sixteen and adulthood, and lead them up onto the mountain.
Sometimes for a single night, other times longer. What happened up on the wooded slopes was a secret the older boys kept tight, and the younger ones speculated about without end. And now that the days were growing longer, and the first green shoots were poking through the last of the snow, that speculation was feverish.
