“You saw,” I breathe.
Marcus nods, a cocky almost-smile gracing his lips, making my breath catch in my throat.
I gulp, trying to control my rapid breathing but failing miserably.
“You are reckless,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“But you have gained my attention.”
My breath leaves me in an abrupt exhale. What does that mean?
“Sorcery is poetry, rhythm.” He’s near enough I can smell the spice of his cologne, and he moves closer still. “You shouldn’t have been able to cast that spell, not your first time.”
I am a rabbit, trapped and helpless.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Don’t be.” And just like that, he takes a step back, letting me breathe. “As I instructed yesterday, read the book I gave you while I am gone.” He then presses a solitary finger to his lips. “Silently.”
“Yes, Master,” I whisper.
He meets my eyes. “Marcus.”
Unsure how to respond, I give him a hesitant nod. He turns on his heel, leaving me standing by the study door.
“Wait,” I call before he’s to the hall. “You worked the counterspell, didn’t you?”
He looks back over his shoulder, his green eyes bright. “I didn’t care to return to a swarm of locusts in my study.”
“You were in the room. Where?”
A half-smile graces his face, and he holds up a hand. With a flourish of light and smoke, he’s gone.
“Master Marcus?” I call after several moments. “Marcus…?”
“There are so many things I can teach you,” a voice says near my ear.
I turn, stumbling back. “Where are you?” I demand.
And then, just as quickly as he disappeared, he reappears once more. Without a word, he bows a goodbye, a gentleman for the first time since I’ve known him. His dark green eyes lock on mine for several long moments, and then he straightens and walks down the hall.
Later, at almost dusk, Marcus and Mrs. Stone depart from the manor, each on horseback. The only belongings they take with them are packed into a pair of saddlebags.
I give them a final wave, more than eager for them to leave.
Gavin had better be back to Whiteshire because I intend to find him. Tonight.
19
A length of sleigh bells above the door jingles as I step inside the book shop in the center of Heston’s most central square. Immediately, I’m hit with the smell of old leather, dust, and aging paper.
The shop is small, and the shelves are packed. Precarious piles also rest atop chairs, tables, and even the ground. A shopboy, not ten years old, stands on his tiptoes, muttering to himself as he skims a finger over the titles, looking for the proper place to shove a thick volume that’s never going to squeeze into the bookcase in front of him—or any other bookcase in the shop.
He turns when he hears the bells, frowning as if he’s displeased I’ve interrupted him. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my tunic and rapier. “The tavern’s two buildings down. Ale is only a copper a pint until five. He turns back to his task. “Careful, though. The barman raises the prices after nine. He figures that by that time, the lot of you are too drunk to notice.”
“Thank you for the tip,” I deadpan, hiding my amusement, “but I’m looking for a book.”
He looks back, frowning.
“Where’s your poetry section?”
“Poetry?” he parrots.
“Couplets. Rhyming. That sort of thing.”
His frown grows, and then his features suddenly smooth. “It’s to impress a girl, isn’t it?”
“Something like that.”
He leads me past several rows, depositing me in a dark corner, next to a wilting plant that leans so far toward the window, I’m surprised it hasn’t toppled out of its pot.
“I was supposed to water that,” the boy says, scowling at the plant. He then walks away without another word, leaving me to browse on my own.
Though I didn’t feel the need to prove myself to the shop whelp, I do read. Not poetry, as Brynn prefers, but stories of adventure. They’re an indulgence, something I don’t often have time for.
I only learned because Mother insisted it was an important skill and made me sit with her when I would have rather been outside, running through the village with a wooden sword. But I’m grateful for the lessons now.
Poetry, however, I think to myself as I choose a book from the shelf in front of me and cringe. I’ll never understand the purpose of flowery words, or why they make Brynn starry-eyed. But I do know she loves it, and that’s all that matters.
I skim through the book in front of me before I set it back on the shelf. Surely I can find something a little less droll than that.
Another book is dedicated to nature, a subject Brynn seems to be somewhat apathetic toward. I open another, pausing on the front page.
To Henrietta,
May this book express my feelings better than I ever could.
All my love,
Frederick
I read it several times, taking in the faded ink before I study the well-worn pages. The book is old, and it was obviously cherished. I have no idea who Henrietta and Frederick were, where they were from, or how many years they spent together, but I know Brynn. And she will cherish this because of the story that happened before the pages were ever opened.
Feeling like a sentimental sap, I close the book and make my way to the front of the shop.
“I don’t know,” a woman says from the next aisle. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
“I think that if you buy it, we can leave.”
The woman scoffs under her breath. “You’re very helpful. Thank you so much for your input—”
She cuts off abruptly when I step into view and turns her full attention to the books on the shelf. Oddly, the woman is alone. A long-haired, brown cat sits by her feet, tail twitching as he stares at me.
I pause, sure I heard a male voice.
The woman glances over and laughs, embarrassed…or possibly feigning embarrassment. “You heard me, didn’t you? I have a terrible habit of talking to myself when I’m trying to make a decision.”
But I am certain there were two distinct voices. My eyes fall again on the cat. He stares back at me, oddly knowing, almost as if he’s challenging me.
Surely not.
Brushing the absurd thought away, I’m about to bid her a good day when I see the book in her hands. “I’ve read that one. It’s good.”
“Is it?” she asks, looking relieved. “It’s for my husband’s birthday. We spend a great deal of time at sea, and I was hoping this might help pass the days.”
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy it,” I tell her and then I begin to step away.
“Poetry?” she asks, spotting my selection.
Not thrilled to be caught carrying a book of love sonnets, I force a laugh. “Also a gift.”
“For a girl? Someone special?” The woman is around my age, golden and pretty, with a friendly smile. And she looks vaguely familiar.
“Yes.”
“My husband just so happens to make the world’s finest chocolate. Let me pay for this, and then I’ll take you to our shop, and you can pick something sweet to go with your book—on the house of course.”
Recognition dawns, and I lower my eyes as soon as I realize the woman isn’t merely the wife of a local merchant. Feeling like a fool, I say, “Your husband is the marquise who owns the chocolate empire. Forgive me, my lady, I did not recognize you.”
Several years ago, the pair set up one of their shops in Brynn’s home village of Levinfeld. They moved on once it was established, off to the next prosperous kingdom, and then the next after that.
“You may call me Etta,” the marquise says, laughing as she heads for the counter. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Come on, cat.”
The feline stares at me for several more moments before trotting after her.
I gl
ance at the clock over the counter. I’m already late to return. It will be long past dark when I arrive back in Whiteshire.
But Brynn does love their chocolate… And taking her some would be like bringing her a piece of home.
Resigning myself to a long ride in the forest at night, I follow the marquise and her cat companion to the front counter.
20
I pull on a cloak and hurry from the manor, hoping to make it to Whiteshire before twilight turns to night. I could wait until morning, walk in the light of day, but I want away from here now.
Porter flutters on his perch, watching me with an air of impatience. The moment I open the door, he’s out, disappearing into the darkening forest, off to hunt. I’m sure I won’t see him again until morning.
By the time I reach the village, night has fallen. Torches burn from the village street, beckoning me. In the far distance, a lone wolf howls, its cry a warning in the night. Goosebumps rise on my arms, and the hair on my neck stands on end.
Gavin’s warnings about these woods circle in my mind, making me question my sanity—though the thought of staying alone in the sorcerer’s manor is nearly as unsettling as walking this dark forest at night.
I figured out what kind of spell it was that I cast earlier. At first, when the locusts were swarming about me, I was too frantic to think. But now that I’ve recovered, my mind is clear. The spell is a farming plague, meant to wreak havoc and destruction and famine.
Because my mind has been filled with more history texts than I’ve ever had a taste for, I know what sorts of sorcerers wield spells of that variety. They’re no different than mercenaries, employed by greedy kings willing to pay handsomely. They become tools of war, using their magic for political advantage.
It was a common thing of old, in the dark ages, before magic was regulated. But now such practices are strictly forbidden. I know this to be a fact—I stood for over an hour before the Sorcerer’s Council, vowing I would never use magic for dark, destructive purposes.
Thankfully, this spell unleashed a small, manageable number of the pests, but in the past, millions of the insects were released, creating massive, devastating swarms.
I think of the elf’s warning. Marcus is not a good man.
Why would Marcus keep a spell book of that kind, especially on display? And what else lurks in its pages?
I sigh with relief when I walk past the first of the village shops, feeling safe in its meager borders. Two local guards stand by the road, near where many sentries stand outside larger, wall-protected cities. I’ve never seen either of the men before; probably because they’re needed at night, and I haven’t been to Whiteshire after dusk. They wear simple clothing, unmarked. The village must pay for their services.
“Madame Sorceress,” one says, and they both bow their heads as I pass. They don’t look surprised to see me, so I assume that even though I don’t know them, they’ve heard rumors about me.
I pause, quietly returning their greeting, though I feel like a snake in the grass. Perhaps they wouldn’t treat me with quite so much respect if they knew I was capable of unleashing a swarm of locusts on their crops.
Shame cloaks me. I’m disgusted with myself, sick that I dabbled in a spell of that nature.
You wouldn’t have done it on purpose.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter to myself when I am well away from the guards. I’ll never play in things I don’t fully understand again.
Brunhilda’s shop is closed for the night, the windows as black as the night. I round the open-air workshop. Red-hot embers shift and glow in the forge, just peeking out under layers of spent ash and coal, staying hot for when Garrett wakes them up in the morning.
The family’s home is at the back of the shop, connected but with a separate entrance. I’ve never been back here, and I feel like I’m trespassing.
Beds of soft pink coralbells line the path to the front, giving it a cheerful appearance. A lantern burns on a post by the steps, further adding to a feeling of welcome.
It’s all right if I knock on the family’s door, I convince myself.
What harm is there in that?
I work up the courage, raising my fist to the door, only to realize inside the house is as black as the shop.
What am I going to do?
After standing for several moments, weighing my options—which aren’t plentiful at this point—I turn back to the street.
Gavin is obviously not back yet, and I haven’t made any friends here. At first, I thought there was a chance Kella and I could be close, but I know she finds my robes and mark off-putting. Not to mention we fell for the same man, one she’s admired since she was young. I don’t hold that against her, but I don’t wish to rub salt in her wounds. I can only imagine how I would feel if someone new had stepped in and stolen Gavin away from me before I had a chance to win him.
That could still happen, even now.
He said he loved me, but what good is love if he refuses to get close?
Pushing the thoughts away, I turn back to the task at hand. I might as well return to the manor.
I dawdle down the street, practically dragging my feet like a child. I adjust my cloak at my shoulders, dreading my walk back through the woods and desperately wishing I’d had the forethought to bring a lantern with me.
“Aren’t you out a little late?” a man says from the inn’s porch as I pass.
Startled, but not terribly surprised, I turn toward the elf. Rune leans against the railing. Flames from the nearby torch illuminate his figure in the night. Though he appears to be the picture of ease, I know better. He is a man on a mission, a player in this game I’ve found myself in, and he knows more than I.
Questions burn in my gut, none of which I’m overly eager to ask. “I was hoping to find the blacksmith.”
A knowing almost-smile lights his face. “The blacksmith? Or his nephew?”
I raise an eyebrow, refusing to answer.
He chuckles under his breath and ambles down the stairs with grace only an elf can possess. How do the people in the village not see him for what he is?
“What has Marcus done?” he asks when he’s near.
“Excuse me?”
“Your sorcerer. He’s done something to upset you. I can see no other reason why you’d travel through the forest after dark, on foot, to see your guard.”
My eyebrows twitch. “How do you know what Gavin is to me?”
He laughs, though as usual, it’s a humorless sound. “It took me several days after our first meeting, as I didn’t venture into Levinfeld often while I resided in Tillendall and you were younger then, but I finally remembered you, Lady Decarra—Lord Calvin’s youngest. Brilliant prodigy destined to join the esteemed academics at the College on the Mount.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I whisper, growing more unsettled by the moment.
A smile, somehow both sad and hard, graces his face. “Let’s just say I was good friends with your queen when she was nothing but the daughter of a bitter peddler. Perhaps you remember a time when she sold flowers in your village?”
I suck in a sharp breath as the pieces fall into place. The girl who spun gold…the girl who befriended an elf who could spin gold.
“Why are you telling me this?” I hiss, knowing this knowledge is not something Her Majesty would wish to circulate. It’s bad enough people call her a witch. But a fraud as well? It could ruin her.
“Because I need you to know me—I need you to decide you can trust me.” His amber eyes lock on mine, and I can feel his determination—his desperation. “I need your help.”
“I swear to you—I give you my solemn vow—Marcus hasn’t spoken of the woman you’re looking for,” I say, finally letting my frustration show. “He’s never, not once, mentioned any woman, and especially not a woman with black hair specifically—”
I stop abruptly, and I feel the blood drain from my cheeks.
My heart quickens its pace as I think of yesterday’s u
nsettling metamorphosis demonstration—Marcus’s odd demeanor, his strange almost-obsession.
“What is it?” Rune asks, leaning forward, his eyes widening with hope. “Have you remembered something?”
“Not exactly.”
“All I ask is that you give me time to tell you my story.” And though his words are spoken with urgency, he crosses his arms, fully expecting another rejection.
A cool breeze blows through the village, and I clutch my cloak tighter. What a strange sight the two of us must be—the sorcerer’s apprentice and the handsome, golden foreigner—having a heated discussion in the dark street.
“Where can we talk?” I finally ask, rubbing my temples.
He pauses. We can’t go to the tavern—the village is too small, and the building is far too intimate for the kind of conversation we need to have. And for numerous reasons, common sense being the largest, I can’t go to his room in the inn.
“Forgive me for my bluntness, but I am not comfortable inviting you back to the manor,” I say.
He laughs, but he looks like he’d rather groan. “I cannot go even if you were.”
“Cannot?”
“Marcus has set an impressive web of wards around the estate and a great deal of the woods surrounding it.”
“Wards?” I frown. What an astute apprentice I am—I haven’t even noticed. “To keep out what?”
“Elves.”
“Why?”
“You must take those sorts of precautions when you kidnap the sister of Ivalta’s elven king. As I’m sure you can imagine, your sorcerer has made a rather long list of enemies.”
His sharp words startle me. “The woman you’re looking for is an elf?”
Rune nods.
“But how can she have black hair if she’s one of you?”
“The elves of Ivalta are our cousins, with hair as dark as ours is fair. We keep to ourselves, for the most part, rarely crossing kingdoms.”
So Gavin and I both were right.
I think about his words a little more, and then I look up. “You think Marcus kidnapped your friend? Surely not—”
The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Page 12
