Tethered by Blood

by Jane Beckstead

  His voice turned gentle. “It is, on my honor. He gave the word to send her down the mountain in the barrel.”

  “That’s impossible. Ingerman died thirty years ago.”

  “Twenty. It happened at the beginning of old man Wendyn’s appointment.”

  Sickness welled up in me. I didn’t know what to think. How much of this was truth and how much lies? I felt a certain amount of kinship with poor, Punished Underwizard Ingerman. Her name brought a melancholy feeling of friendship ended before it could begin. Could Oscar have been involved? He didn’t strike me as the most mentally balanced individual I’d ever run into, after all. He studied killing spells for fun, talked to sticks, and made up outlandish stories about knitting with Robenhurst. I doubted his tale of discussing literature with Hutterland’s arch-councilor was any more true. Not to mention those mysterious outings he constantly disappeared on. What was he really up to?

  I strove to keep my voice steady. “Oscar said nothing about any of that.”

  “Then I suppose it’s safe to assume he hasn’t mentioned my family either.”

  “Your family?” I swallowed back the uneasy feeling that rose in me. This was a bad story that wouldn’t end. “Why should he mention your family?”

  Kurke shrugged, a nonchalant movement that belied the words that followed. “Oscar murdered them; that’s all.”

  I should dismiss his words. They were crazy. He was crazy.

  But one could argue that Oscar was just as crazy. Bones, I’d seen it myself. So where did that leave any of us in the grand scheme of good and evil?

  “How did they die?” I asked, wishing it didn’t feel like a concession. I didn’t believe his story. Not yet. But that didn’t mean I shouldn’t investigate it.

  “I was only twelve, and had been apprenticed for less than six months. I got word that my entire family had died in a buggy accident when their horse was spooked. But it wasn’t true. As I discovered later, much, much later, in truth Oscar killed my father himself. Then he sent the Council guards that murdered my mother and sister. If I’d been there, I probably would have died too.”

  I felt the sorrow beneath his words. For a brief moment I saw him for what he was—a grieving man broken by the tragedy of his childhood. “But you lived. In part thanks to Oscar, who’s looked after you all these years. And now you want to kill him?”

  “I lived thanks to him and they died thanks to him. One doesn’t cancel the others out, Avery. Can’t you see that? He has to pay.”

  My chin stubbornly jutted out. “I won’t let you kill him.”

  He sighed. Ran a hand over his face. “Fine. Fine, you want a concession from me? All right. I have a heart. If you can get Oscar to take responsibility for what he did to the Council, then I’ll cancel our oath. Oscar will live.”

  Hope beat its way through my chest. But still...“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” I demanded.

  “Just watch.” He muttered an incantation. “That’s called a deception defense spell. If I tell a lie now, I’ll get kicked in the head by powerful magic. It feels like being beaten with a brick.” He folded his arms. “I promise that if Oscar takes responsibility for killing my family and admits it to the Council, he can live.”

  A tightness eased in my chest. “Thank you.” My voice sounded stiff, but what was the correct response under circumstances like this?

  “Now will you tell me what you’ve found out about Oscar?”

  I sighed. “I’ll tell you,” I said at last. “But only because I think it’ll prove to you that you need to forget this whole thing. Oscar is a pathetic figure these days.”

  I told him the things I’d learned—Oscar’s love of sweets and outlandish clothing, his collection of scrying sticks, his hours in the meadow and forest playing scry and seek, his mention of Hutterland’s arch-councilor and recent visit from the PMW.

  “Robenhurst? What did he want?”

  “According to him, to knit. I tried a listening spell, but they must have blocked it somehow. I couldn’t hear any of their discussion.”

  His face turned thoughtful. “What are you up to, Oscar?” he said, halfway to himself. Then, “Well. You’ve done a good job, Avery. I knew this was a good idea. You’re a useful little partner.”

  The compliment felt more like a knife to the gut than a boost to my confidence. I frowned. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me when you plan to carry out this revenge?”

  “When the time is right, and that’s all you need to know.”

  I sighed deeply.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to ask you to dig a little deeper now, Avery. Most of what you’ve given me is mere fluff—unimportant things I could have figured out on my own. I want to know his darkest secrets, what he’s most ashamed of, and what he wants hidden from the world. Listen in on his private conversations wherever possible. Send anything you find in the messenger, care of Platten View. Questions?”

  My eyes flashed to his face. Every master wizard’s house had a messenger, a receptacle used to send letters and packages to other wizard’s houses across the three kingdoms. Master Wendyn’s was an ornately decorated white and gold sphere that sat on a table in the front hallway. Master Hapthwaite’s was a plain black box.

  “In the messenger?” I repeated. “Why? Are you going somewhere?”

  “Soon, yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Now, that’s none of your concern. I’ll be expecting to hear from you.” With a wave of his fingers, he dismissed the privacy spell and strode out of the dark hallway.

  It took several minutes for me to gather myself enough to move. My head felt foggy, my thoughts confused. I didn’t know what to believe. In the main hallway I stood next to Ingerman’s monument, running my gaze over the date listed there.

  Twenty years ago. Kurke had told the truth.

  My face reflected in the glass—a boy’s face. A girl’s face.

  A liar’s face.

  Now how in the three kingdoms could I get Oscar to admit he murdered Kurke’s family? Because if I didn’t, he would die.

  ***

  A hand fell on my shoulder, and I jumped, still skittish.

  “Careful, Mullins. It’s just me.” Master Wendyn stood beside me, looking cross. “What’re you so jumpy about?”

  I rubbed my nose. “You caught me off guard, is all.” An unreasonable wish came as powerful as it was ridiculous: I wished I could tell him the truth. I wished I didn’t have to hide who I was any longer. I wished I could be honest with him.

  He nodded and pinched at a spot between his brows. “Let’s return home. We need to talk, you and I.”

  The words had an ominous ring. “Talk?” I struggled to keep up with him as he strode across the floor to the opposite side of the cathedral hall.

  “Talk,” he repeated, his voice terse. He muttered a revealing spell, and his wizard’s door appeared near the head of the room. At least the place had emptied so no daydreaming underwizard was in danger of walking full tilt into it.

  “I can’t believe,” Master Wendyn went on in clipped tones, “the insolence of you. The brazenness, there in front of the Council and even the PMW.”

  I went hot, then cold. For a moment my steps faltered, but he kept up his brisk, stalking pace, and I had to jog to keep up.

  “Insolence?” My voice sounded like a mouse’s squeak to my ears. “What do you mean?”

  We were almost to the door by now. “Don’t play the fool. It doesn’t suit you. Get in there.” He swung the door and pushed me through, and I ran face-first into the tapestry. By the time I untangled myself and pushed it back, he’d followed me through and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary. I stood there, holding the tapestry until he cleared it and turned on me again.

  “Well? Explain yourself.”

  I dropped the tapestry and lifted my chin. I’d had just about enough of being groused at by angry master wizards. “Whatever it is you imagine I’ve done—�
�� I began.

  “It’s clear as glass, underwizard. As clear as that statue you reassembled almost perfectly today—something you’ve never once been able to do in our practice sessions. You’ve been lying since the first day you walked into my house.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Lying?” I repeated. Something panic-like rushed me. “Why should I lie to you?” My heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird.

  “You tell me.” He nodded at the still-swaying tapestry, shimmering lines of blue and green. “That performance back there on the dais was nothing like what you’ve been showing me in the library on any afternoon. ‘Oh, Master Wendyn, I can’t make fire.’” He fixed me with a look. “Is this all a joke to you?”

  My mouth opened in surprise. “No. I’ve been working hard at my spells, hours upon hours. When I improved, I wanted to surprise you.”

  He stared at me hard, his gaze so fierce it was almost a glare. “You wanted to surprise me? What in the three kingdoms convinced you I would enjoy being surprised?”

  He made a good point, and I felt my face flush as I realized how stupid my idea must sound to him. But I couldn’t just simply admit defeat. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d be proud of your apprentice for doing a fine job.”

  “Proud of you?”

  I wished he would stop repeating everything I said, as though it was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard. “Yes, proud,” I repeated with emphasis. “I passed, in case that somehow escaped your notice.” I moved to push past him, ready to flounce out in an unwizard-like and unboy-like manner, but he grabbed my arm. His fingers dug into my flesh, and I had to stop myself from wincing. I had no choice but to look up at him, his clean-shaven face and dark eyes inches from my own.

  “See you don’t do it again.” His glare subsided into an irritable frown. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s being surprised.” He dropped my arm and strode toward his desk, unbuttoning his robes as he went.

  I rubbed my arm. “I thought you’d be pleased. Everyone likes surprises.”

  “Not everyone.” His face twisted sourly as he looked over his shoulder at me, shrugging out of his wizard’s robes in one swift movement. “All the worst things in my life have been surprises.”

  Cailyn, I realized. He was talking about his once-sweetheart.

  “Oh,” I said. “Ohhh, I see.”

  He rounded on me. “Don’t imagine you know anything about me.”

  “Of course I know nothing about you. You never tell me anything, do you?” I folded my arms and glowered at him every bit as fiercely as he glared at me.

  “What do you imagine I should tell you? If any part of my personal life becomes pertinent to you, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I don’t appreciate being made to look a fool.” He loosened the collar of his white shirt, one of those lacy ones he seemed to be fond of.

  “You never looked like a fool. No one was even looking at you. They were looking at me.”

  He worked the sleeves at his wrists. “Sure they were. I was tense. Nervous, and I don’t like to be nervous. I’ll admit, I thought you would fail, Mullins.”

  So much for his reassurance to the contrary. “Yes, well, I was nervous and tense too. It’s normal.”

  “Not for me. And I don’t appreciate your toying with my emotions like that.”

  This was ridiculous. He was mad at me because he got a little anxious? “Look,” I said, “I meant no harm—”

  He tugged at the bottom of his shirt, and it came free of his trousers. All at once I realized he wasn’t just making himself more comfortable, the man was undressing.

  “What are you doing?” My voice rose in alarm.

  He tugged at the buttons. “Well, I can't keep it on, can I?” The shirt slid open, revealing a man’s chest underneath—a man’s chest—and I didn’t know where to look, and then he slid his arms free of the sleeves and held the shirt in front of my face.

  “Do you see the perspiration? The fabric is ruined. I may as well have just climbed the Sardath Mountains.” He balled the shirt up and then fanned himself with one hand. “This is your fault, underwizard. You owe me a new shirt.”

  “I—er—” I tried to articulate something, anything, rather than stare at his chest. But my mind was blank, and his bare torso was right in front of me. I’d seen a man’s chest before—there was Papa, of course, and Gavin—but this was not like that. What was this hot flush I could feel creeping up from my neck? I was not blushing, not over Master Wendyn. That would be ridiculous.

  “Yes...well, I’m sorry,” I stuttered, forcing my thoughts into place. “Give me the shirt, and I’ll see it’s cleaned.” I held my hand out, but he swung it out of my reach.

  “It’s ruined, I tell you. Beyond saving. This is silk; can’t you see that? Not even that overpriced laundress in Bramford could get this clean.”

  Laundry. There was a normal thought I could hold onto, and I grasped it like a drowning man thrown a rope. “Beyond saving? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a little sweat.” I eyed the material, which was looking rather yellowed and damp. “Sure, this is trickier because it’s silk, but I’ve gotten out much worse stains when I was taking in washing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oho. You took in washing? I didn't know I was speaking to a washerwoman.”

  My mouth opened and closed. “I didn’t—I mean—” But I could think of no way to backtrack my statement. “All right. Yes, I took in washing. Mama was dying, and Papa drinking night and day. Gavin and I had to eat somehow, didn’t we?” I snatched the shirt and pushed past him, stopping at the door long enough to toss back over my shoulder at him, “At least it was honest work.”

  “Now, now. There’s no call to head off in a snit. Sometimes your temper reminds me of Marelda’s.” His hand fell on my shoulder, and when I looked, he held a clean shirt in his other hand, retrieved from I-don’t-know-where. He probably had a stash in his desk for clothing emergencies such as this.

  “I remind you of your sister?”

  “Yes. She flies off at the least little thing. Always overreacting.”

  I wanted to explode that I wasn’t overreacting, but perhaps that would be an overreaction itself. “Fine.” I turned around to face him, brushing his hand off my shoulder. “I am not ‘heading off in a snit.’ If I clean your shirt, you won’t hold it against me that I surprised you by not being terrible at magic. Deal?”

  “Deal.” He sighed, and then to my surprise, he fidgeted with the shirt, twisting the fabric and fiddling with the buttons—almost as though he was uncomfortable. “God’s ghost, but I’m bad at this. I wasn’t meant to be a master.” He stepped closer and rested his hands on my shoulders, with the clean shirt still in one hand. It tickled the side of my face.

  Friar’s bones, now I was closer to his bare chest than ever! Would this torture never end?

  “You did well today, underwizard. I am proud of you.”

  That strange flush was back again, creeping up from my neck. This was the most awkward situation I had ever found myself in. “Oh,” I stuttered. “Erm...thank you.”

  “And if you are able to return my shirt to its pre-perspiration state, I will be even more proud.”

  Just like that I was back to being annoyed again. “Of course you will be,” I grumbled. “All I did was study myself to death. A shirt is much more important than that.”

  He gave me a blank look. “It’s my favorite shirt.”

  “Your favorite—” I stopped myself and took a deep breath. “I’d better get started in that case, hadn’t I?” I pushed his arms aside and made for the door.

  In my room, I rang for water and a washbasin and got to work on the white silk shirt, now heavy with dried gray-and-brown sweat stains. And even though the master was aggravating and preposterous and confusing, as the day wore on, my thoughts turned again and again to those two simple sentences, and I couldn’t stop the pleased tingle that pierced through me every time: You did well today, underwizard. I am pr
oud of you.

  ***

  My red hands stung from scrubbing the master’s shirt by the time I went down to supper. The clean shirt lay drying by the fire in my room. It would be dry by the time I returned.

  Ivan and the master were both in the dining hall already, although Oscar’s regular chair stood empty. As I slipped into my seat, Ivan dunked a slice of bread in his water glass and ate it while the master watched him with an annoyed glance.

  Or was it an amused glance? I had difficulty telling those two emotions apart on the master’s face.

  “Oscar isn’t joining us?” I asked.

  Master Wendyn shook his head. “He’s off on one of his harebrained jaunts. Who knows when he’ll return.”

  My stomach sank. I’d been hoping to talk to Oscar about Kurke’s family and gauge how difficult it might be to get him to admit his part in their deaths. “‘Harebrained jaunt’?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

  Ivan jiggled my elbow and motioned at the pot of rabbit stew. I took his bowl and filled it.

  The master shrugged. “Oh, you know his little game. What does he call it? Scry and seek? Once cold weather arrives, it’s a little more difficult to navigate the forests around here, so he takes himself off for warmer climes.”

  My mouth fell open in dismay. “For how long? He’ll return before spring, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know.” He raised a brow. “Is this going to be a problem?”

  I forced myself to swallow a bite of stew before giving him a smile I hoped didn’t appear as tight as it felt on my face. “No, curiosity. It’s an odd thing for a retired PMW to do, isn’t it? That game, I mean.”

  “Grandfather used to make more sense. Old age has addled him.” He tore off a piece of bread with his long fingers but paused just before placing it in his mouth. “Although, he was always a little unorthodox as PMW. He had a reputation when he occupied that office.”

  It didn’t surprise me to hear it. “Did he now? People knew him for being a little crazy?”

  He ate the bread before answering. “No, not crazy. Just out of the ordinary. He dealt with more drama than happens in the tenure of most that hold that position. I wouldn’t say it affected him badly, but still...perhaps it did.”