The insult stung, even though my master might have meant nothing by it. I knew the story of Hammond Ecklebert. He’d been brilliant, raised in a master wizard household, and had performed his first spell accidentally at just over a year old. I didn’t perform my first spell until I was fourteen, the same year I learned to read. I was no master wizard prodigy.
“Still.” Oscar reached across the table to dish me up more potatoes, without my asking, as I had finished the food on my plate. “Just to try. What could it hurt?”
“A good deal if he fails. Too many appearances at the trials could bias the judges against him and affect his confidence. Let’s have no more talk of Hammond Ecklebert.”
At least Master Wendyn and I were in agreement on that.
For a moment or two quiet reigned, until Oscar broke it by asking, “So, Mullins, I understand you were disapprenticed for fighting in Bramford.”
I sat up straighter, looking from Oscar to the master to Ivan, who had started on a piece of bread. He dipped it in the saucer of jelly whenever he thought no one was looking. The master gave him a pained glance and didn’t look at me at all.
Oscar was still staring at me, sipping at his tea. “Is it true?” he asked. “Because if so, I can’t help but wonder why you didn’t use magic when you have it at your disposal. Why fists?”
I shrugged. “It felt fair. Besides, I’m good with my fists.”
“A little too good,” Master Wendyn inserted.
“Use what you have at your disposal, I suppose,” Oscar mused. “What about your parents? You had some, I’m guessing.”
“Father’s a drunk,” Master Wendyn supplied, and I shot him a glare. Trust him to remember the worst thing he could.
"Yes," I said, before Master Wendyn can insert anything else. "Papa drinks too much. And Mama—well, she died when I was younger."
“From what?”
“Overwork, I suspect.” I shoveled a forkful of potatoes in my mouth, hoping he’d quit talking.
He didn’t take the hint. “What about siblings? Are there little Mullinses at home, eager to see their older brother become a master wizard?”
The potatoes in my mouth tasted like crumbled ash. I had to swallow twice to force the food down. “There was one,” I admitted. “But he died too. From the wasting sickness.”
Oscar nodded. “I suppose none of us are immune to tragedy. Losing my dear Anelina was a blow. And Garrick here—”
The master stood. “There’s work waiting, underwizard,” he said, nodding at the door. “If you’re done eating, I suggest you get started on your studies.”
“But we were getting to know one another,” Oscar said, dismay in his voice.
“That trammel won't fall off on its own. You’d best get to studying.” Master Wendyn pointed at the door. The subject was not open for discussion.
“Fine.” I pushed myself to my feet, and Ivan scrambled to follow. I stopped long enough to grab a piece of fruit for each hand and headed to the library.
***
Over the next few days, I shared time between memorizing spells and studying out the new problems dropped in my lap. My goal to become a master wizard hadn’t changed, but the obstacles blocking me had. There were two people in my way now—Masters Wendyn and Kurke. To keep Wendyn happy, I had to memorize spells and regain my five levels within three months. And to keep Kurke happy, I had to spy on Oscar Wendyn.
The truth was, there was more to the task than just spying on Oscar, but I wasn’t prepared to confront that just yet—the part where Kurke wanted my help to dispose of my master’s grandfather. I’d never killed a man before. The fact that he was nutty as a fruitcake and probably innocent didn’t make me feel any better about it.
I'd let that problem simmer until I found a solution.
One evening when I was sick to death of memorizing spells, I pulled out parchment and ink and worked on another idea that had been developing in the back of my mind.
To Masters Garrick and Oscar Wendyn, I addressed the letter. It only made sense for me to address the letter to both. Oscar, because he was the one whose life hung in the balance, and Master Wendyn, because he was my master.
I’d written the letter’s opening with no confusion or swimming thoughts, and that was a fine beginning. Perhaps there was a simple answer to my problem after all.
I am writing to inform you that a few days past, I
The next word I meant to write was swore. But though I put pen to paper and tried to make it write, something stopped my hand from moving. And then the confusion overtook me, pulling me under, so I blinked and stared at the paper before me. As I watched, the words I had written faded and disappeared altogether. Even the imprint of my quill disappeared.
I blinked and looked at the pen in my hand and the paper before me. What was I writing again?
A few minutes passed before I remembered and made another attempt. I readdressed the letter and began once more.
Everything repeated itself as before. A third attempt was no different. At last I wadded up the parchment and tossed it into the fire.
Kurke certainly did all he could to ensure I couldn't tell anyone the truth.
***
“Again.” Master Wendyn leaned forward, his head in his hands, staring at the floor. “Show me fire.” He was sitting in an armchair in front of the library’s fireplace while I stood before the south window, its light falling around me. There was a slight chill seeping through the glass, a sign that autumn had arrived. It was soothing against my skin. The vibrant colors of the Waldrin-woven rug beneath my feet gave me something else to look at besides my disgruntled master.
Today marked the end of the second week of my apprenticeship with Master Wendyn and four days before I was to take the first trial. In that time, I had focused my efforts on three things: memorizing spells, trying to learn things about Oscar, and preparing myself for the first trial.
The magic felt reluctant when I summoned it to my hand. There was not much left. We’d been at this all afternoon, and I was tired. A faint blue flame flickered in the palm of my hand and then went out. It was a half-hearted attempt.
“There.” I had the grace to feel embarrassed by my poor showing.
He looked up and said, “Perhaps you haven’t been listening. You must hold it longer than that.”
“I heard you. And the last five times.” I kept my voice polite.
“Then stop wasting my time and show me a flame.” He rubbed at his eyes. “And without the impudence this time, unless you’d like to wear the trammel again.”
I had worn that contraption until the day before, when he released me after I recited all hundred and seven of the spells he required me to memorize. The recitation alone took the better part of an hour. He even paid me a sort of compliment after I was all finished, saying, “You’re quick, Mullins, and that’ll serve you well. Perhaps you ought to consider becoming the next Hammond Ecklebert after all.” But from the quirk of his eyebrow, I knew he wasn’t serious. And then he ruined it by saying, “I admit, it’ll be a relief to have you out of that trammel. You’re so theatrical in your supposed suffering—creeping around the house looking like a haunt, missing meals, staying up all hours—that the sight of you has been ruining my appetite.”
That night I had my first full night’s sleep in a long while.
With the master watching now, I pulled the magic to my hand again. The flame glowed and lit, and I held it in place with everything I had. It built to a respectable size and paused there, then sputtered out without warning. It was the biggest flame I’d produced all day, but if I was expecting a celebration, I was disappointed.
“Bigger.”
I dropped my hand and paced back and forth in frustration. “I can’t get it any bigger!”
“You can’t, if that's what you believe. Stop thinking so much, Mullins. You must let go of your emotions. Empty yourself. Feel nothing.”
“I’m trying.”
“There’s your problem. You can’t just try. Y
ou must know it will work. If you spent as much time practicing this spell as you do following my grandfather around, you’d be an expert by now. Go again.”
Kurke had ordered me to spy on Oscar, but I wasn’t doing it to help him. I was following Oscar around out of curiosity mixed with a healthy amount of desperation. Maybe if I could figure out why Kurke hated Oscar so much, I could talk him out of this foolish plan. Besides, Oscar was in and out so often, constantly disappearing on things he termed “adventures” that I couldn’t help being a little curious. Half the time he was just playing around with his scrying stick, but I knew for a fact that sometimes he left the Hall and the grounds altogether, even when he claimed not to. I’d searched the place up and down for him a few days before with no luck. I had yet to figure out where he went during these times.
I rubbed my hands on my trousers. Producing fire was hot work, and I had shed my robes an hour past. I brought my hand up in front of me, emptied my mind, and summoned the magic.
Flame flickered and disappeared.
“God’s ghost, Mullins.” Master Wendyn came to his feet, striding at me. “You can’t get more basic than making fire. If you’re unable to pass the first trial, there’s no point in my keeping you here.” He stopped in front of me, his hands on his hips, dark brows low over his eyes as he glared at me.
With only three months to become a fifth level underwizard again, and the tests given once a month, I should be taking more than just the first trial. But I’d given such a dismal showing at fire that my master had informed me I was incapable of more.
Even I was wondering if I was capable of more, though I’d never admit it to him.
I scowled. He’d like nothing more than for me to give up. “I will pass,” I informed him.
“Then go again,” he said.
He wasn’t wearing robes today either. He seldom did around the house. Today’s attire involved long droopy sleeves with frills at the wrists and a lacy tie of sorts at the neck. Pretty fussy, but then again, it suited his disposition.
I raised my hand and something warmed in my chest, reminding me of Kurke and the tether that bound us. It happened now and then, that warmth, and I didn’t know what it meant. I hoped it was a chance occurrence, just the tether reminding me it was there and not that Kurke was off somewhere thinking about me and all the ways he could use me to his advantage.
What if every time I thought about him, he felt the same sensation on his end? It was an unsettling thought.
“Well?” Master Wendyn asked crisply. “Today, if you please.”
I bit my lip and raised my hand, reaching out for any tendrils of magic I could find. The room felt devoid of it. I was pulling from a dry well and might as well be wearing the trammel.
“There’s nothing left,” I told him, dropping my hand. “I need to rest. I’m too tired.”
“Too tired?” my master said. His jaw tightened. “Too tired? Do you think you’re the first wizard asked to perform magic under demanding circumstances? The first to feel exhausted? Come here.”
He grabbed my hand, not gently in the least, and flattened it against his two, palm up, the fingers splayed. I was taken aback by his touch, so I could only stare at him with what felt like consternation on my face. Friar’s bones. This was a first. He’d never touched me before. Not on purpose. It was frightening.
“Don’t you think I’m tired too after these irksome days of trying to force learning into your impenetrable head?” His voice was as hard as the stone that surrounded the fireplace behind him. “This is the sort of magic you must perform if you want to be a wizard, whether you’re fresh or whether you’re all done in. Now observe.”
I didn’t hear the words of the spell. All I saw was the fire that roared to life in our hands, blinding and hot in its intensity. I tried to wrench myself backward away from the flame, but his grip held me in place until the conflagration died down and then flickered out.
His face was sooty, and sweat glistened on his brow as he glowered down at me. “No matter how exhausted you are, you must find the magic, underwizard. It’s never far. I don’t want to hear you say that there’s nothing left ever again.” He dropped my hand and wiped his brow on his sleeve. “I’m going to Bramford. I want fifty more tries on that spell before supper. Understood?”
Bramford. That would mean official wizard’s business, helping townsfolk who had requested his services. Master Hapthwaite sometimes took me along on such calls for practice. But Master Wendyn had never even mentioned taking me along. He disappeared to do the work and returned, barely paying me a glance.
It was probably because I was so dreadful at magic. He thought I needed the practice here more than the hands-on practice. And he was right.
I swallowed and nodded. “Understood. Fifty tries.”
“Good.” He was halfway out the door when he turned back as an afterthought and said, “Oh, and you should do something about your hair. It’s smoking.”
CHAPTER TEN
For two days I split my time between practicing the fire spell and following Oscar on his ridiculous jaunts through the woods. My fire spell didn’t seem to be improving, and following Oscar yielded quirky but useless bits of information. He had a profound weakness for all things sweet and told me he was developing a “sweets box,” as he called it, a container that magicked desserts into existence.
Additionally, he was under the impression that his mallet game, which he called scry and seek, had the ability to save the world, though he’d never elaborated on how. But he had informed me it was not a mallet—Forthwind was a scrying stick. Also, I was beginning to suspect he wore the same homespun farmer’s shirt every day, just magicked into different colors. I’d seen it now in white, red, blue, yellow, and a brilliant orange, the color of a sunset.
The time spent with Oscar only emphasized the need to find a way out of the blood oath so I never had to harm him. I began a perusal of the master’s library for books on blood magic, but after two days of searching, I still had no results. On the third afternoon, as I was skimming the titles, my finger running over the spines, I noticed a presence by my side.
Ivan stood next to me, engrossed in running his fingers over the books as I was, almost as though he was reading their titles.
I stared in consternation. Was he mimicking me? Or could he read?
He looked over at me and then back at the books. He pulled one out and opened it up, running his finger over the page as though he was reading and following the words. Then he turned to the next page.
The book was upside-down. I sighed. He was mimicking me.
Still, it was a start.
I reached out, took the book from him, and asked, “Ivan, do you want to learn how to read?”
He held his hand out toward me. His fingers touched the palm, and then he opened his hand again. Open and closed, open and closed.
Ivan and I had developed our own form of communication, one that involved pointing and guessing and nodding. But this was different. I’d seen him do this gesture before, but I had assumed it was just a—I didn’t know, a twitch or idiosyncrasy or something.
“What does that mean?” I held my hand out and copied his gesture—open and closed, open and closed. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Then Ivan did something I’d never seen him do before—he smiled. He made the open-and-closed gesture several more times and seemed to be enjoying himself enormously. One last time and then he turned and went back to his usual crouched position behind the bookshelf nearest the corner.
My gaze moved away from Ivan’s corner and back to the bookshelf. But this time, my eyes lit on the magical device perched at the end of the row of books I was standing in front of—a trammel.
The master seemed to have a strange affinity for magical contraptions. Various magicked mechanical boxes and spheres and funny shapes with gears were all over this library and his study. Whenever the master or Oscar was in the room, I asked about the uses of each one.
I t
raced one finger over the trammel’s cold, metallic edge, wondering what it would be like to clap this contraption around Kurke’s neck. To see him as helpless as he had me in the library. My fingers tightened on the device, and Ivan made a guttural noise. I glanced up. He was on his feet, pointing. I followed the line of his finger, and my gaze stopped on a shimmery something wavering into existence in the middle of the library.
As I watched, a large rectangle appeared in the middle of the room.
It was a door. A wizard’s door.
They were the best method for wizards traveling between far distant locales. Master Hapthwaite had a wizard’s door hidden in several rooms in Larkspur House, one that led to the Conclave, another to Vickermond, and another to Mergendale, both remote cities he often visited for various wizardly duties.
The door’s edges pulsed with magic. I didn’t know whether to be frightened, on my guard, or if this was a normal occurrence here in the Wendyn household.
The golden wood of the door swung open, and a bright-eyed, beautiful young woman crossed the threshold into the room. She held a child in her arms. She paused in the middle of the room and looked around until her eyes fell on me.
“Oh, hello there,” she called, waving, her gaze alight with interest. “Who are you? Are you an apprentice? You must be; I recognize the robes. When did Garrick take on an apprentice? Mother, did you know about this?”
“Rrrrk,” said the baby in her arms.
A woman with brown hair streaked with gray crossed into the room on the heels of the younger woman, a small boy gripping her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, Marelda. How would I know anything about what Garrick does? Why should he tell his own mother anything?”
I nearly choked on my tongue. Mother? I rose to my feet and took several steps in their direction. Ivan, meanwhile, scampered off to hide in some corner somewhere.
“Can you make magic?” the boy asked, staring at me with large adoring eyes. He tugged his hand away from the master’s mother.
“Er—sometimes,” I answered. “What can you make?”
“Messes,” Mother Wendyn answered for him.
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