The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

by Tapscott, Shari L.

  I give him a sideways look. “Did you need something?”

  The elf’s smile grows, though it’s a dark expression—one that seems contrary to his golden coloring. The man is beautiful, almost painful to look upon, but there’s something off about him, something different from the few elves I’ve seen. I just can’t place what.

  “The day is pleasant, isn’t it?” he says instead of answering my question.

  Stopping abruptly, I set my hands on my hips, balancing my basket on the crook of my arm. “What is it you want from me?”

  “What’s your name?” Though his tone isn’t exactly friendly, it’s cordial enough.

  Because he’s so tall, I’m forced to crane my neck up to look at him—not something I particularly care for. “Brynn.”

  He studies me. “Tell me about your master, Brynn.”

  “He’s a sorcerer,” I deadpan.

  A hint of amusement lights his face, but he patiently waits for more.

  “I don’t know him very well,” I finally admit.

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t served as his apprentice for long, and he’s often gone.”

  He seems to latch onto that tidbit of information, his golden eyes eager. “Where does he go?”

  Uncomfortable, I attempt to walk past the man, put an end to the conversation. “I don’t know.”

  Not surprisingly, he falls into step beside me once more. “It’s possible I know more about your master than you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No matter how he might have you fooled, believe me when I tell you he’s not a good man.”

  I glance at him, growing nervous as we reach the edge of the forest. I don’t sense dark intentions from the elf, but it’s obvious he has a purpose for this chat. I stop just before the village street becomes the mountain path and turn to him. “You’re looking for a woman, correct? That’s what you said when we first met.”

  Something flickers across his face—an expression that carries far too many emotions. Pain, hope, longing, anguish. It tugs at my heart, calls to that foolish romantic part of me that Father has no patience for.

  “I am,” he answers.

  “And you think she’s a friend of Marcus’s?”

  “Eva was romantically involved with the sorcerer. Their relationship ended badly.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “And you want to know if he still has contact with her?”

  “I only want to know if you’ve seen her, if you know who I’m speaking of.”

  “I would like to help you, truly, but I’ve never laid eyes on this woman, and Marcus has never mentioned her.”

  He nods, though he still wears a determined look that tells me he’s not ready to give up. “If he does, or if you happen to see her yourself, please let me know.”

  I nod, and to my relief, he turns back toward the village.

  “Do you love her?” I call to him, even though I should let him go.

  The elf turns, his expression careful. “I swore to her the day she was taken from me that I’d find her. I’ve searched for three years, and I’ll continue my search until I fulfill my vow.”

  It’s the devotion that cuts me to the core, the determination mixed with quiet desperation.

  “Be careful with Marcus, young sorceress,” he says, meeting my eyes. “He may speak pretty words, but he is a viper.”

  I snort at the thought of Marcus saying anything pretty. “My heart is already spoken for. Even if Marcus wanted it—which I can tell you with great confidence he does not—he can’t have it.”

  “He is a thief, Brynn. He takes without permission or remorse.” The man then turns, and I watch him walk away.

  “Elf,” I holler, stopping him once more.

  He looks back over his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and he waits. I imagine him and this raven-haired woman—the pair day and night, sun and moon. Is she out there somewhere, in love with him, waiting for him to find her?

  Or is she in hiding, not wanting to be found? Is it Marcus who is the true villain of this elf’s tale…or is the elf himself?

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He studies me for several moments. “You may call me Rune.”

  And then he continues once more, walking down the dusty street, leaving me to mull over our conversation.

  * * *

  I’m lost in thought when I arrive at the manor. Mrs. Stone is in her garden, tending her vegetables. Every day they grow a little taller. Right now, she leans over a patch of spinach. Bright orange carrots, with their fluffy green tops, already poke out of the basket resting on the ground next to her.

  “Good afternoon,” I say to the housekeeper as I pass her. Unlike most older women, she doesn’t wear a brimmed hat to shade her face from the sun. Instead, she seems to soak the rays in with relish. She’s dressed in blue, as usual, the skirt the same color as the summer sky.

  She’s intent on her task and barely acknowledges me before she goes back to harvesting her spinach.

  I go into the kitchen, my mind elsewhere. My meeting with the elf left me unsettled, but it’s Gavin, not the black-haired woman, I think of now. Even if I can’t see my guard as often as I’d like, at least I know he’s close. We’ll be careful with our meetings; Marcus will never find out I’m blatantly disobeying him.

  I glance around, wondering where Marcus is hiding himself today.

  He’s usually in his study. I assume Porter is with the sorcerer, as all the owl’s perches are empty. I clean up the stray feathers after I put my purchases in the cupboards. It’s become one of my chores, though no one has asked me to tend to it.

  Mrs. Stone, for some unknown reason, is terrified of the owl and won’t go close to him. The ornery bird knows his power and stares at her, unblinking, whenever they’re in the same room. It would be mildly amusing if it weren’t so odd.

  I glance at the cuckoo clock on the wall. It’s a pretty piece, carved of dark wood with intricate, delicate curls and swirls. The pendulum swings back and forth, and the minute hand clicks to the next spot. Marcus likes his tea at promptly one o’clock, and it’s already five after.

  Worried Mrs. Stone has forgotten and will get reprimanded, I step into the garden and find her bent over a small rosemary bush. She spots something, narrows her eyes, and then plucks what appears to be an insect from the ground.

  I’m just about to tell her about the time, when I come to an abrupt stop. Because right before my eyes, the matronly housekeeper sticks the insect in her mouth. Which, naturally, makes me gasp.

  The woman whirls around, startled.

  “I…uh.” I stare at her, unable to pull my eyes away. She keeps her mouth unnaturally still. Or does it only appear unnatural because I imagine what’s trapped inside?

  “It’s…past tea time,” I finally manage.

  She straightens her apron, picks up her basket of carrots and spinach, and then walks for the door. I step out of her way, slightly horrified. The woman continues into the kitchen, and I follow her out of sheer, morbid curiosity.

  I continue to watch her mouth, waiting for her to do something. Something like chew. Or swallow.

  Oh.

  The thought sends chills up my spine. I must have been mistaken—I had to have been. Perhaps she was taking a taste of radish, or one of the little pearl onions that are almost ready to come out of the ground.

  She might have dropped it and then popped it into her mouth.

  But it had legs.

  You don’t know that, I argue to myself, quite aware that I’ve been so isolated lately, I’ve become quite adept at striking a two-sided conversation with myself.

  They dangled.

  I shake my head. No.

  No, no, no.

  Nice housekeepers don’t eat grasshoppers. Housekeepers in general, nice or otherwise, don’t eat grasshoppers.

  As I suffer this slight case of hysteria, Mrs. Stone prepares the tea, paying me no attention. Surely—surely—she knows that I saw her.

 
Saw her do what? You didn’t see anything.

  Feeling the need to do something instead of just stare at the woman, I set out the silver tray and fetch the honey pot, a covered bowl of sugar, and the tiny porcelain pitcher for the cream. Mrs. Stone plunks the silver teapot down, along with a cup, and then picks the whole thing up and shoves it at me.

  “Oh,” I say, grasping the tray so it doesn’t clatter at my feet and make a great mess. “I can’t. I believe Master Marcus is in his study, and I’m not—“

  She grasps my shoulders, turning me toward the door, and shoves me this time.

  “Okay…” I glance over my shoulder, nervous. “I’ll just…knock first. I suppose.”

  I make my way down the hall and into the library, careful not to spill the tea, and end up staring at the study doors, my hands completely full. I said I’d knock…but with what?

  With no other choice, I gently kick the door—demurely, like a lady. Not the way an ogre would go about it.

  I stand here for a solid minute, maybe more. Perhaps Marcus didn’t hear me?

  Again, I give the door a nice, light kick.

  This time, the door flies open, and Marcus stands on the other side, his dark green eyes looking particularly agitated. “What are you doing?”

  “Uh…” I look down at the tray, thinking the answer to that question is obvious. “I have your tea?”

  He narrows his eyes and glances down at my boots—which, unfortunately, still peek out from the too-short hem of my skirt. “Did you kick the door?”

  “I’d like to think it was more of a kick-nudge.”

  “A kick…nudge?”

  I paste a pained, closed-mouth smile on my face. The baffled sorcerer shakes his head, turns on his heel, and waves me inside.

  Inside his study.

  “Are you just going to stand there until the tea gets cold?” he demands when I hesitate.

  I peer inside, so overwhelmed I can barely speak. There are wonderful things, strange things, magical things beyond the doorway. But nothing is more spectacular than the fat, leather-bound book that lies on its own personal table at the very back of the room, dead center. It even glows.

  Oh…wait. That’s a skylight above. It’s just sunshine beaming down upon the book—but the effect is very magical.

  Porter sits on a perch in the corner, his head tucked under his wing as he slumbers the day away.

  “I’m not allowed inside,” I remind Marcus, still taking it all in.

  He stands there, staring at me until I finally meet his eyes. “Generally,” he says in a droll tone, “if a person opens a door and invites someone inside, it’s good manners to go in.”

  “Unless the guest were a vampire, and then the polite thing to do would be decline,” I say absently as I stare into the space. “But sometimes hunger trumps manners, doesn’t it?”

  Again, silence.

  I finally look at him, feeling myself flush. Apparently, humor is lost on the man.

  “You’re a strange girl,” he says when he has my attention. “Are you aware of that?”

  Apparently Brunhilda was onto something.

  I give him a helpless shrug—a difficult thing to do while carrying a heavy tea tray—before I walk down the stairs, entering his previously forbidden lair.

  “Just set the tray on the desk,” Marcus instructs, sounding distracted.

  When I locate the desk, I realize it’s covered in papers and books and all manner of things that people don’t generally set tea trays upon.

  “Master Marcus.” I give the untidy desk a pointed look.

  “Oh, yes.” And with the wave of his hand, the papers and books fly into the air and arrange themselves into neat and orderly piles.

  And I just about drop the tray on my toes.

  “That was magnificent,” I breathe.

  And the strangest thing happens—high and mighty Marcus laughs. It’s more of a frustrated chuckle, but it’s a laugh all the same. Maybe there’s something human under that hoity-toity exterior after all. Marcus shakes his head, baffled that I could be impressed with what I assume he considers child’s play, and then sits in his chair. “You may pour the tea.”

  At least that’s something I know how to do. I pour him a cup of what looks like a horribly weak brew and ask, “Sugar or honey?”

  “Sugar.”

  “One lump or two?”

  “Half a lump.”

  I look up, meeting his eyes. “Half a lump?”

  What’s the point? Just drink it without. Difficult man.

  “Yes,” he says. “And a touch of cream.”

  I give him another tight smile as I delicately smack a lump of sugar with the side of a silver teaspoon. It crumbles instead of splits, and I do my best to scoop up half the granules and place them in his cup. After I’ve fixed it the way he requests, I offer the drink to the particular sorcerer.

  He grimaces after he takes the first sip, and I reach out, ready to snatch the cup right from his hand. “I’m sorry! Did I do it wrong?”

  Marcus angles away from me, taking another sip. His nose wrinkles once more.

  “No, it’s always like this.” He eyes me for a moment—my hand is still in the air, hovering awkwardly—and then he offers me the cup. “See for yourself.”

  Gingerly, I take a taste…and then I almost spit it out. “That’s awful.”

  “I’m aware, but I prefer coffee anyway, so it matters little.” He takes his cup back and makes a shooing motion—letting me know he’s finished with me.

  But will I leave? Absolutely not. I only just got into his study—I’m not going yet. “You know,” I say as I casually rest my hip against the desk. “I happen to make an excellent cup of tea. Perhaps I could take over the task for you?”

  He looks at me from over the brim of his cup.

  “I mean, if it would please you,” I add nonchalantly as if it makes no difference to me. But in truth, it makes all the difference in the world. If I can burrow my way under his thick and stony walls, perhaps I can convince him to teach me something instead of running all his pointless errands.

  “You wish to make my tea?”

  I study him for several moments—his black, thick hair, impatient gaze, and the striking features that make him both handsome and intimidating. Then answer, “I wish to prove myself useful so you’ll eventually decide to teach me magic instead of sending me to scour the woods for mushrooms and weeds and other organic matter that I quite honestly believe you have no use for.”

  Amusement, brief but bright, flickers across his face before he locks it away. After several moments, Marcus sighs. “Fine. You may make my tea.”

  I give into a relieved smile and turn to leave.

  “Brynn,” he says, calling me back, using the correct name for the first time. “Tomorrow, bring an extra cup. We’ll begin your lessons.”

  16

  I wake the next morning, fully alert and ready for the day. Finally, I am to begin my training. I will throw myself into my studies, working day and night, and I will leave this house as soon as possible. And Gavin will come with me.

  I don’t know what our future holds, but I believe, without the slightest doubt, we’ll be together.

  Stretching, I stand, glancing out the window, looking at the dreary day. Clouds are low, encroaching on the tops of the trees, and the forest is misty gray. The glass is cold to the touch. After several days of nice weather, it appears spring has gone into hiding.

  I let the curtain drop back into place and turn toward the room, wishing I didn’t have to walk to the village today. But I have no choice—it’s all part of my plan.

  As soon as I turn, I come to a dead stop. There, lying on a chair next to the small wash basin in the corner, is a gown. The smoke-colored satin fabric is fine, and the cut is modern, with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt.

  Oddly spooked by its sudden appearance, I creep forward and run a finger over the cool fabric, marveling at how smooth it feels against my skin. It isn’t unt
il I pick the gown up that I notice the small silver buttons running the length of the garment in the front. Also, the sleeves are long and full, tapering at the ends, ending in wide pointed bells of fabric.

  It’s not a gown at all. It’s a sorceress’s robe.

  A thrill runs the length of my spine, making me shiver. After marveling at the garment for a few minutes more, I prepare for the day, washing my face and hands. Then I stare at my hair, the long, long length of it, and pull it back creating a sleek chignon instead of my usual braided crown. In the mirror’s reflection, I look again at the robe.

  It’s finally happening.

  I put the robe on, grinning with unabashed pleasure as the skirt falls past my boots, just a hair away from the floor. Before I leave the room, I turn back to my mirror.

  My reflection stares back at me in my new charcoal robe, with my silver-white hair tame and in place, cheeks flushed, delicate sorcerer’s mark scrolling along my temple, following my hairline. I look like a different person—I look like a sorceress.

  I glance at the small table tucked in the corner, adorned with nothing, joined only by a tiny chair. After I take a deep breath, I finally sit down to write Mother and Father a letter.

  * * *

  I walk into the dining room, trying not to fidget. I feel self-conscious in my new robe, almost like a small child playing pretend in her mother’s old gowns.

  As usual, Marcus is reading. He pays me no attention until I clear my throat and find my way to my seat.

  I sense him look up—I can feel his eyes on me. Finally, when I’m seated, I glance over.

  Slowly, still watching me, he closes his book, leans back in his seat, and crosses his arms.

  “You meant for me to wear it, didn’t you?” I smooth a napkin on my lap, self-conscious.

  “I did.”

  Nodding, I clear my throat again and sit back as well, waiting for Mrs. Stone to bring in our morning porridge.

  “You’ve changed your hair.”

  I almost reach up to pat the chignon, to check that it’s in place, but I command my hands to be still in my lap. “Yes.”