“And where exactly is here?” I ask as Gavin helps me from the horse.
He seems content to pretend our conversation never took place, and I’ll let him play his game—for now. But the truth is, I’d give up everything—the apprenticeship, the life of luxury I’m accustomed to, the ease that comes from having noble blood running through my veins—if there were even a chance Gavin loved me as I love him. If we could be together.
Gavin gestures me forward. “My stepfather’s home.”
Instead of walking ahead, I step next to Gavin and slide my arm through his, daring him to object. My guard’s eyes shift down. After no more than a second, he frowns and tugs away. “Don’t,” he says softly.
Boldly, I meet his gaze. “Why not?”
“Because I am not worthy of escorting you on my arm.”
“According to whom?”
He glances down the darkened street. “Anyone who might see us.”
“You say that like I care.”
“I care.” Gavin meets my gaze, his light blue eyes indigo in the twilight hour. “About your reputation, your life, your future. I will not sully it.”
“We rode down the street on your horse together,” I object. “Surely the harm is already done?”
“Brynn,” he says, frustrated, looking very much like he wants to push me away…or yank me closer.
Emboldened by his reaction, I step in, silently challenging him.
Before he can respond, the front door opens, and a woman appears, silhouetted in the warm firelight. “Gavin!”
6
My mother runs down the steps, arms open, looking like she’s going to cry. Her brown hair, several shades darker than my own, falls from her bun in soft ringlets. She’s not so very old, but there are laugh lines around her mouth and eyes—the product of years upon years of smiles.
I return her embrace, laughing at her exuberance. I’ve never taken her by surprise—have always written her weeks before a visit. Apparently, she doesn’t mind the short notice. Her husband, on the other hand, might object.
The man in question appears in the doorway, looking thankfully amused. He’s older than Mother, fifty-three years to her forty-five. He owns a local goods shop, the most successful in the city. My mother, a weaver by trade, sold him cloth for years before he finally declared his affections and asked for her hand last summer.
I have nothing against the man. Mother is happy, and he seems to treat her well. Still, I’m not sure how he’ll react to us showing up on his doorstep like paupers.
After Mother lets me go, she turns to Brynn, and her eyebrows shoot up. Even disheveled, with loose, wild hair, Brynn looks like the lady she is. “Hello,” Mother says, her smile turning cautious.
“Lady Decarra, may I introduce you to my mother and her husband, William.” Then I turn. “Mother, William, this is Lady Brynn Decarra, daughter of Lord Calvin Decarra.”
Mother bows her head and dips into a gentle curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I am in debt to the kindness your family has shown my son.”
Brynn takes Mother’s hand, moving in like she’s genuinely elated to make the acquaintance of the woman who raised me. “Brynn is fine, thank you.”
Mother’s gaze flicks to me, and there are a thousand questions in her eyes.
William bows. “You are very welcome. Please, come inside.”
We enter the house, and pride surges in my chest. William might not be my father, but he has given my mother a beautiful home and a place I am proud to bring Brynn.
“Oh, it’s so warm,” Brynn breathes, letting her head fall back as she closes her eyes.
Mother laughs, unsure how to answer. At the same time, her sharp eyes take in Brynn’s bedraggled appearance, and she shoots me a look as Brynn hurries to the flames crackling in the entry fireplace.
“Spring evenings are cold in the mountains, aren’t they?” Brynn says, holding her hands in front of her. “And I thought Morgenbruch was cool.”
William steps forward, looking as perplexed by our strange arrival as Mother. “We have four months of winter to your three. Five at the higher elevations. Spring is only beginning here.”
“Mmmm,” Brynn says thoughtfully, a momentary blanket of melancholy cloaking her face. Perhaps she’s thinking of the College on the Mount, where she was to spend her life.
“My lady has an appointment at the College of Sorcery at the end of this week,” I explain to Mother and William, getting to the point. “I am accompanying her while she is in Heston, and I was hoping we might trespass upon your hospitality.”
“Of course,” William says immediately, impressed by Brynn’s appointment—after all, who wouldn’t be? “We have more than enough room for you both.”
“Forgive me,” Mother says to Brynn, “but I thought you were going to the College on the Mount?”
Brynn looks away from the fire, and her eyes meet mine. “Plans have changed.”
Our gazes hold for several seconds before she looks back to the flames. The moment was brief, but it wasn’t lost on Mother or William. They exchange a worried look, one that mirrors the unease that brews in my core.
“I’ll show you to your room,” Mother says to Brynn after a long pause. “I’m sure a hot bath would be welcome after your long travels.”
Brynn beams, a dreamy look on her face. “That would be lovely.”
“I’ll fetch your trunks,” William says, already heading for the door.
“I have no trunks.” Brynn waves her hand flippantly, but I don’t miss the way her fair cheeks flush with embarrassment.
William looks perplexed, and Mother’s frown deepens. I offer her a tight smile, hoping to dispel some of her worries. After giving me a pointed look—the kind that promises she’s going to interrogate me very soon—Mother leads Brynn away.
Once they leave, I exchange several minutes of small talk with William and then excuse myself to his library, knowing Mother will track me down no matter where I hide. I might as well make it easy for her to find me.
Not twenty minutes later, footsteps sound outside the hall. I turn toward the door as it swings open.
“Do you have any idea what her father will do to you when he discovers you’re together?” Mother asks the moment she steps into the library, closing the door behind her.
I take a seat in a leather chair that’s grand enough for Lord Calvin’s own home and stare into the fireplace. “We’re not together.”
“She’s in love with you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re in love with her.”
I pull my eyes from the flames to meet Mother’s anxious gaze. “I know that too—but she doesn’t.”
“What happened?”
And because I have no one else to tell, I divulge my story to the one person I wholly and completely trust.
She shakes her head when I’m finished, wringing her hands at her waist. “If Lord Calvin finds out—”
“He won’t.”
“Gavin, you’re playing with fire.”
“I won’t leave her, not until she sends me away. I swore my blade and my allegiance to her. Not only that, I swore an oath to Lord Calvin that I would protect his family. What kind of man would I be if I abandoned his daughter when she needs me most?”
“And what happens when Brynn gets her mark? You don’t think tales of a young, silver-haired sorceress will reach Lord Calvin? She’s unique, and you know it. The two of you can’t hide from him forever. What do you think he’ll do when he finds you—the guard who abandoned his post—at his daughter’s side?”
She’s right.
I nod, knowing what I must do. “Once Brynn is settled in the sorcerer’s household, I’ll go back to Levinfeld and formally resign.”
“No, that is not—”
“I must. It’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re throwing your life away for a girl you can never be with.”
Slowly, I stand. We study each other, at an impasse.
Finally, I say, “But it’s my life to throw away.”
Mother rubs a hand over her face, anguished. After several moments, she nods. “I trust your judgment, Gavin. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”
That makes two of us.
7
I clasp my hands at my stomach, silently begging them to stop shaking. The College of Sorcery looms before me, a tower of stone and sparkling glass.
“Are you ready?” Gavin asks from behind me. He wears an unmarked tabard in gray that stretches across his broad shoulders and a cavalier hat complete with a feather. His rapier is at his side, and his boots gleam. He’s stepped into the official role as my personal guard, and without him behind me, I’m positive I’d lose my nerve.
“No,” I tell him, running my hand down my newly laundered gown, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. A week ago, I was supposed to wear it to meet the academics at the College on the Mount. How things change.
“You’ll be fine,” he assures me, but it’s easy for him to be brave.
Stepping forward, Gavin opens the door, standing perfectly straight, looking directly ahead—a picture perfect guard.
I walk inside, idly listening to the click of my heeled boots on the stone floor.
A woman sits at a desk just inside the foyer, and she looks up when I enter. A black scrolling tattoo, thin and delicate, runs down her temple at her hairline, just above her ear. “May I help you?”
“I have come to claim an apprenticeship,” I say, standing a smidgen taller.
“And who will you be apprenticing?” She flips open a thick book in front of her.
“Master Marcus—” I stop abruptly, realizing I don’t know the rest of his name. “The…Sorcerer.”
She tilts her head up, raising a brow, giving me a look so wry I feel my cheeks heating. “Master Marcus the Sorcerer,” she repeats, looking back at the book. “Assuming you mean Master Marcus LeBrail, we are expecting you. Ironically—or not so—it appears Marcus couldn’t remember your name, either. He has here—white-haired girl, tall.”
I force a light and friendly smile. “That would be me.”
“Perhaps you could provide a name for our records?”
“Lady Brynn Alera Decarra, of the Levinfeld Decarras.”
“And how do you know Marcus?”
“We met on the side of a road, and I asked him if he was in need of an apprentice. Apparently, he was.”
The sorceress gives me an unamused smile, perhaps thinking I’m sassing her. Thankfully, she makes a note in her book and sets it aside. “Wait here. Someone will come for you momentarily.”
The woman then leaves Gavin and me alone in the vast foyer. The door opposite us closes with an audible “thud” behind her.
I exhale loudly, worried I’m going to be sick right here on the gleaming stone floor.
“Are you all right?” Gavin asks, sounding too amused.
“That was humiliating.”
“Next time, I suggest you exchange full names when you set up an apprenticeship agreement.”
I try to give him a stern look, but I end up holding in a laugh. He smirks back at me.
“Be careful,” I warn him. “Soon I’ll be able to turn you into a frog.”
“I believe that’s more witch territory.”
“A goat then.”
He chuckles—a deep, highly amused sound, and rests his hand on the hilt of his dagger at his side. “You might as well build a house of gingerbread and lure unsuspecting children into the woods.”
Before I can answer, the door opens once more, and the sorcerer from the road strides forward. He’s just as I remember—tall, handsome, haughty. His features are sharp but pleasing, and his eyes are a startling shade of dark emerald. His hair is black and short, not a strand out of place. As before, he wears a fine doublet instead of a robe.
“So you’ve come,” he says.
Unsure if I can answer without my voice trembling, I nod.
“Follow me.” He turns and then pauses to look back, narrowing his eyes at Gavin. “Alone.”
I turn to Gavin, opening my mouth but unsure what to say. My guard merely nods me forward with the jerk of his chin.
Taking a deep breath, I pull my eyes from Gavin’s and follow Marcus through the door.
* * *
“Have you ever, to the best of your knowledge, performed acts that would be considered, or could be considered, witchcraft?” a man with a long, white, and unnaturally smooth beard drones.
I glance at Master Marcus, wondering if this interrogation will ever end. “No.”
For at least an hour, I’ve stood in front of the Sorcerer’s Council—a group of five men and women, answering questions and watching the man in the center jot down my responses in a book. The room is circular, made of the city’s favorite stone, lined with torches burning in sconces. There are no windows, but the ceiling is at least five stories tall, and I swear it twinkles with starlight.
“Have you ever associated with a witch or wizard?”
“No.”
“Do you understand that witchcraft will not be tolerated by the College of Sorcery?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand the key differences between witchcraft and sorcery?”
“Not yet, sir, but I—”
“Will you apply yourself to your studies to ensure you do not accidentally dabble in witchcraft?”
“Yes?”
The man looks up, and his mustache twitches. It’s so glossy. “Is that a question or a statement?”
I blink, pulling my eyes from his gleaming facial hair. “A statement.”
I’m half frozen with fear, and my palms sweat. Never in my life have I stood through such an ordeal.
But finally, it seems we’ve come to the end.
“Your signature is required.” The head sorcerer turns the book to me. “We sign in blood. If you’ll simply prick your finger—”
I gasp, horrified.
For the first time, the man laughs—sort of. It’s more of a chortle. “That’s just a little sorcerers’ jest. We’re not barbarians, now are we? Ink will be sufficient.”
With a trembling hand, I force a shaky laugh, take the quill, and sign my name at the very bottom of the document.
“Very good.” He snaps the book closed. “All that’s left is your apprentice mark. Please follow Lucinda.”
The tawny-haired woman at the end stands, smiling warmly. “Right this way.”
I admire her robe, which is a fitted burgundy velvet, belted at her waist. It’s not only as lovely and flattering as a well-made gown, but the cut is similar as well.
Without a word to the council, Marcus follows us.
“Sit here,” Lucinda says when we enter a small room off the circular chamber we were just in.
Gingerly, fearing the process is going to be a painful one, I sit in the chair. Marcus leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching the process like a bored house cat.
The sorceress pulls various bottles off a shelf, mixing this and that, and then she comes over with a small bowl and a cloth. I hold my breath as she presses the sharp-smelling tincture to my skin. It’s extremely cold and strong enough to make my eyes water.
“We must make sure the area is clean before we begin,” she explains brightly.
“Is it going to be uncomfortable?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“Oh yes. It hurts something horrible,” she says, still smiling. “But it doesn’t take long, and I have a lovely design in mind for you.”
“Is the needle very large?” I clasp my hands in my lap as I peer at the items she took out of the cabinet.
Lucinda laughs. “We don’t use needles.”
Before I can ask her what that means, a pain like I’ve never known—bright and hot and searing—races across my lower temple, spreading all the way to my face. I cry out, unable to stop myself.
“See there?” Lucinda coos, like a mother tending her timid child. “It’s all over
now.”
Finally, the pain ebbs, and I’m able to catch my breath. “What was that?”
“The spell. It stings, of course—I marked your skin after all. You wouldn’t expect it to feel like a stroll through a meadow, now would you?”
“Just that quickly?” I ask, blinking so tears won’t run down my cheeks.
With a smile, the sorceress hands me a mirror. There, along my hairline on the right side of my face, a thin, fine scroll of shimmering black marks my skin.
“Lovely, don’t you think?” she says, leaning down to admire her work in the mirror. “Remember to wear your hair back, or it won’t be visible. Also, it will be tender for a while. Clean it two times a day until it heals.”
“I’m a sorceress,” I whisper to myself, accepting the corked bottle of tincture she offers me as I stare at my reflection.
“You’re a sorcerer’s apprentice,” Master Marcus corrects, pushing away from the wall. Then to Lucinda, he asks, “Are we done?”
A brief look of irritation flits over her face, and then the sorceress lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Marcus, we’re finished.”
“Come along,” he says to me, almost as if he’s calling a dog.
I look back at Lucinda, and she rolls her eyes. “Best of luck to you, Brynn. I’m certain you’ll do marvelously.”
8
I step into the foyer and immediately look for Gavin. He’s on a bench near the main entrance, and he stands the moment we step through the door. His eyes meet mine, and then they shift a fraction of an inch to my apprentice mark. His brow knits slightly, but the expression is quickly wiped clean, replaced with something impassive.
“My lady,” he says, bowing his head.
I’m feeling a bit woozy after the interview and then the marking, but I tilt my chin high, worried Marcus will think I’m weak if he notices I’m about to crumple like a newborn deer.
But he doesn’t even notice. Marcus barked out directions to his manor as we descended the long staircase, and now he’s apparently done with me.
The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Page 4
