Contents
Prologue
1. Four Years Later
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Also by Shari L. Tapscott
About the Author
The Sorceress in Training
A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
Fairy Tale Kingdoms, Book 3
Copyright © 2019 by Shari L. Tapscott
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing by Z.A. Sunday
Cover Design by Shari L. Tapscott
Special Thanks to Christine Freeman and Leah Feltner
For Railey,
The bookshop scene is for you.
Prologue
Reading in an apple tree, surrounded by leaves and blossoms, sounds romantic. In reality, it’s a little uncomfortable. I stretch out on my back, hoping the branch can hold my weight, and ignore the way random twigs poke into my spine.
It’s a hot day, already sweltering in the shade. Several pins jab the back of my head. I lean forward, precariously balancing on my perch, and yank out every one of them. My hair falls past the branch in a sheet of silver-white. It’s an unusual color, something my sister has teased me about since we were children. She was blessed with golden hair, the color of sunshine and buttercups.
I try to get comfortable, try to disappear into the words on the page, but not long later, all I have to show for my climb up the tree is a sore neck and a leg which is quite asleep.
I’m just plotting how I’ll return to the ground—should I grasp the branch and drop or shimmy to the trunk and crawl down?—when I see him.
Sucking in a breath, hoping I’m hidden, I watch the guard cross the orchard. He walks swiftly and with purpose. He wears a crisp, new tunic with my father’s crest in green and gold, but I’ve never seen him in my life.
I lie still, studying him from the safety of the leaves. He’s striking and young, with rich brown hair and deep, brooding eyes. His rapier gleams as if never used, and his boots shine. He must be new.
And he’s going to walk right under me.
I freeze as he passes below, not daring to move a muscle. It’s only when I hear his footsteps cease that I remember my hair, hanging down, not blending in with the leaves and flowers.
Knowing I’ve been caught, I turn my head, angling it to the side to look down at him. My breath catches when our eyes meet. His are blue.
An agonizingly perfect second passes. My chest warms; butterflies fly in my stomach. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my sixteen years, or at least since I was old enough to read stories of love.
“What are you doing in the tree?” he finally asks, frowning.
He’s older than I am by several years, fully grown. A man and not a boy.
A very handsome man.
“Reading.” As if I must prove it, I show him my favorite book of poetry.
“It looks uncomfortable.”
“It is.”
He shakes his head. “You should leave before someone catches you trespassing in Lord Calvin’s orchard.”
I sit on my branch, hoping to look graceful when I’m actually trying not to fall on my nose. “It’s hard to trespass on your own father’s land,” I say, and then I boldly hold out my hand, hoping he’ll take it.
And like a valiant knight of old, the guard steps forward, coming to my aid. “You’re Lord Calvin’s daughter?” he asks, incredulous.
I set my hand in his, allowing him to help me. Briefly, I imagine him grasping the sides of my waist and pulling me close as he lowers me to the ground, after which I’d end up breathless in his arms, staring into his eyes.
In reality, he does grasp my waist to assist…but then he places me on my feet at arm’s length and takes several steps back. I try not to let my disappointment show on my face. Perhaps he doesn’t realize this is our moment—the one reminisced about in so many sonnets. The moment we meet, the one we will look back on fondly for the rest of our lives…or at least until I’m twenty years of age, when my world will end.
“Brynn,” I offer, giving him what I hope is a coy, but demure, smile.
“You’re Lady Brynn?” His frown grows.
I straighten my skirts. “Yes.”
His eyes fall on my hair, and I try not to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze. How I wish it were golden.
“Does your father know you read in trees?”
I eye the handsome guard, not caring for his tone. This isn’t going at all how I hoped. “No, and I don’t intend to tell him.” After a moment, I set my hands on my hips, book and all, and add, “I don’t intend for you to tell him either.”
“Very well,” he says, dismissing me like I’m nothing but a young, foolish girl, and then he bows his head and turns to leave. “Good day.”
“Wait,” I call, both exasperated and disappointed. “What’s your name?”
The young guard turns back, though he hesitates first. Finally, he answers, “Gavin.”
“Thank you for helping me from the tree, Gavin.” I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting a grin before I go on. “If I find myself stranded once again, I hope you’ll be around to offer your services.”
“I don’t think either of us is under the delusion that you were stuck, my lady.” He pauses, his expression becoming as stern as my father’s. “And you are too young to be making eyes at guards. Go home, young Brynn.”
I suck in a startled breath, gaping at him as he leaves the orchard.
1
Four Years Later
Bumpy roads make it difficult to read, especially when you’re hiding a collection of sonnets behind a particularly riveting book titled Lofty Heights: A History of Bridges.
My head smacks the back of the cushioned seat as we hit yet another bump, but this time there’s a strange cracking noise to accompany the jostling. Suddenly, the carriage is falling at an odd angle, and I’m sliding to the left and careening into the side panels. My books—both the history and the collection of sonnets—go flying to who-knows-where.
Someone hollers from outside—something about the wheel. Wait—did he say it fell off? How is that possible?
But that’s a thought best pondered when your face isn’t smashed against the window or your shoulder shoved at an awkward
angle between the back wall and the bench.
Moments later, the door flies open…and then falls closed once again because the carriage isn’t precisely level at the moment.
“Lady Decarra!” the footman exclaims when he opens the door a second time. I would laugh at his stricken expression, but my legs are up at an awkward angle, and my skirts are practically around my waist.
I scramble to sit upright, but all I manage to do is flail my feet in the air like a toppled sheep.
“Help,” I beg through a mouthful of skirt, waving my hand, unable to get the momentum to sit up with the bulk of the gown’s fabric keeping me down.
The man averts his eyes, his face pale, and gives my hand a solid tug, all while murmuring a thousand apologies. The poor footman manages to yank me up, and before I know it, he’s pulling me from the leaning carriage and helping me place my feet on the ground.
Once I’m settled, I let out an embarrassed huff and straighten my gown and underskirts. The driver and several of my father’s men stand about, frowning at the carriage, which is indeed missing a wheel.
I pause for a moment to take in our surroundings. It’s early afternoon, and we’re in a grassy clearing in the forest. A marmot sits on a boulder not far away, sunning his fat, brown body in the spring sunshine, watching us with dark, suspicious eyes. The smell of warm grass and earth surrounds us, and it does its best to convince me this is just a holiday outing—a pleasant mission.
But it’s not.
Shaking my head, reminding myself it’s best not to dwell on it, I walk to the broken carriage.
“Can you, I don’t know, put it back on?” I ask, peering over the shoulder of the guard kneeling in front of the spot where the wheel should be. His name is Calvert, and he used to sneak me sweets from the kitchen when I was very young. He married one of Mother’s maids, and they have two daughters whom I’m very fond of. I won’t see any of them again after today.
He glances at me, frowning as he runs a hand through his sandy brown, just-beginning-to-gray hair. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that, my lady. It seems we’ve busted an axle and…” He goes on, using words that might as well be in a different language even though Father insisted I study mechanics, along with a plethora of other subjects, from the time I was five.
“Oh. Yes, that sounds serious.” I step back. “Well…carry on.”
As they fuss, I purse my lips, trying not to grin. From what I understood of Calvert’s explanation, that last rut caused a right fine mess. Which means we might not make it to the College on the Mount by evening.
Such a shame.
And here I am, so looking forward to arriving at my new home…my new permanent home…my new permanent home where I will enjoy studying dusty tombs for the rest of my life. In celibacy.
You might think I did something awful to deserve such a fate. Well, it’s true. I had the audacity to be the second born in my family. Charity—my older sister—married a handsome young lord last year, and they’re expecting their first bundle of joy in five months.
But there will be no handsome lord for me because of family tradition. I am expected to dedicate my life to knowledge, to learning and transcription—to utter and complete boredom.
One of our party returns from up ahead. The guard crests the hill, coming into view. His bay horse is filthy, covered in road dust. The man himself isn’t much cleaner than his mount. He comes to a stop near us and swings down from his horse, the epitome of masculine grace. “What happened?” he demands.
Gavin is handsome, if you’re partial to the heart-stopping, muscular, trim and tantalizing sort…which I’m afraid I am.
The guard steps forward to survey the damage and then glances my way almost as an afterthought. Our eyes meet and hold for a fraction of a second—a fraction too long. At twenty-six years of age, he’s six years older than I am, but for how he treats me, we might as well be a generation apart.
He wears a solemn expression, as usual.
Gavin is one of those stoic types—quiet and fiercely loyal to my father. His eyes though. They’re deep set and light blue, lined with dark lashes. Frankly, they’re startlingly pretty against his no-nonsense face.
I’ve daydreamed of those eyes a hundred times since we met in Father’s orchard four years ago. Well, not just his eyes. His face too. And I might have imagined his lips brushing mine a time or two, his hands on my waist…
Gavin looks away after giving me a courteous nod, and I resist the urge to fan my face. I am hopelessly besotted with that man, and he couldn’t care less. But then again, it wouldn’t matter even if he did.
“Busted axle,” he says, shaking his head, glancing at our surroundings, looking concerned even though it’s only mid-afternoon and the sun is still high in the sky.
I stay out of the men’s way while they work, soaking up the smell of fleeting freedom and wildflowers. The mountains loom in the not-so-distant distance. The college is up there, in those pretty peaks, a prison in the rock and trees.
We’ve traveled for weeks, all the way from my home village of Levinfeld.
I find a boulder to sit on and watch for hours as the men fuss with the wheel. My eyes land on Gavin most often, as he’s interesting to look at and I won’t have the opportunity to do so much longer.
My chest tightens with something that feels very much like panic, but I ignore the sensation, telling myself I’ll be fine in the college. It’s not as if I haven’t prepared for this day my entire life.
It’s finally close to evening when I grow so bored, I can’t stay in one place for another moment. I end up leaving my granite perch to wander the area. When no one says anything, I go a little farther.
In fact, no one pays me the slightest bit of attention as I start down the road. I wait for someone to call me back, to tell me it’s dangerous for a young woman to take off on her own, but they don’t even notice my absence.
A wicked thought crosses my mind—one I would never, not in a thousand years or more, act on: what if I kept walking? What if I run away from duty and tradition?
I laugh aloud—a dark, self-indulgent sound. I have no idea where I am, and I have no money. Where would I sleep? And what would I do to make a living?
And even if I had answers to those questions—which I don’t, there’s the tiny fact that my family would never forgive me. I am to be a scholar, not a wanderer.
“Good day to you,” a female voice calls from up ahead.
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I haven’t been paying attention to my surroundings. I look up and find a woman by the side of the road. She gathers kindling and places it into a donkey-drawn cart.
“Good day,” I parrot.
She wears a simple dress, with a shawl draped over her head to protect her fair skin from the sun. Apparently, she plans to be out here for a while.
Straightening, she brushes her hands on her apron and gives me a smile. I can’t tell how old she is, but she’s very pretty. “Quite the commotion up ahead.” She nods down the road, from the direction I just walked.
I glance behind me. You can’t see the carriage from here, but you can certainly hear the racket the men make as they try to fix the axle. “We’re having a bit of trouble with our carriage.”
She nods as if she figured as much. “If you’re stretching your legs, you should continue down the road for a bit. There’s a small waterfall ahead—it’s very scenic this time of year with the spring runoff.”
“Is there? I’ll see if I can find it.” I thank her and continue.
As I let my mind drift once more, the sound of a rider reaches me. I move to the side of the road, expecting a traveler or another friendly commoner. But it’s not a peasant who comes into view.
I inhale sharply as I take in the man atop a striking gray appaloosa stallion. He’s handsome, disconcertingly so, but it’s not his black hair and fine features that have my attention. No, it’s the swirling black tattoo at the very edge of his hairline.
T
he man is a sorcerer.
And judging from his intricate mark, I think it’s safe to assume he’s a masterful one.
He looks at me as he draws near, frowning when he sees me standing in the weeds, all but gaping at him. Without a word, he pulls his horse to a stop and studies me. After several long moments, he asks, “Are you lost, young woman?”
I open my mouth, but I’m too befuddled to speak. A thought swirls in my mind, words I spoke in my head not five minutes ago. Never in a thousand years…
He narrows his eyes, perhaps questioning my sanity. I give myself a good mental slap and step forward, shaking my head. “No, master sorcerer.”
“Very well.” He gives his horse a nudge, content to leave me on the side of the road.
On impulse, I block the sorcerer’s path. My better sense screams at me, demanding to know if I’ve gone mad. I ignore that pesky voice of reason and meet the man’s eyes. “Are you in need of an apprentice?”
He frowns, looking as surprised by the question as he is the fact that I’m blocking his way. You simply don’t disrespect a sorcerer like this.
“Please, my lord,” I continue in a rush, “I swear you’ll never have a more dedicated apprentice than I.”
He stares at me, his dark brows knitting together. “You want to be a sorceress?”
“Desperately.”
There are few professions I could pursue that would appease my parents. They’ll be livid at first, of course, but to have a sorceress in the family? What an honor.
He tilts his handsome head to the side, studying me. “The coincidence is intriguing. The Council has been hassling me to—”
The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Page 1
