by Jeff Wheeler
“Something caused it,” Dwyn replied. She didn’t bother, anymore, to point out when he called her by her mother’s name.
“I’ll tell you what it was,” her grandfather said, pointing out the window at their neighbor’s house. “I caught those goblin neighbors of mine nosing around my garden last week, trying to steal some of my ingredients. I’m sure they messed around with the powderpods and got something else in them. Goblins are always doing things like that.”
“The Jameses aren’t stealing from you, Grandda.” She pulled a tray of dark green leaves from one of the shelves and sniffed it. They had a strong scent—the smell she hadn’t been able to identify in the potion. “What is this?”
Her grandfather stared at the tray for a moment and then turned red. “Well, that’s just some of the starleaf that I found in my lawn.”
“Grandda . . .” Dwyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “We discussed this—it’s not starleaf, it’s a weed!”
“I know starleaf when I see it.”
“Where’re the points on the leaves, then? Where’re the silver veins?”
Her grandfather turned away with his lips pursed stubbornly.
“It’s a weed, Grandda,” Dwyn continued. “It’s a weed that’s been growing in your yard and soaking up stray bits of magic. It’s what made the potion explode.” Shaking her head, she dumped the weeds off the tray and into the dustbin beside the workstation.
“Dwyn, don’t!” her grandfather shouted, hurrying forward and snatching the bin from the floor. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to scrounge for wild starleaf if I still had any in my garden.”
“Scrounge . . .” Dwyn gritted her teeth, fighting for calm. “The starleaf needed to be harvested before the full moon, Grandda! You’re the one who taught me that! I kept asking if you were going to pick it, and you never did. Half of the crop went bad before I harvested the rest.”
Her grandfather mumbled something under his breath as he began picking the weeds out of the dustbin and placing them carefully on the tray.
Dwyn shoved the tray aside. “And then—then I brought you half of what I picked. You said you didn’t want it, remember? I had to force you to take it, and what did you do with it then? You left it in the sunlight and it withered!”
She realized suddenly that she was almost shouting, and went quiet, breathing heavily. She rubbed her temples. How had her mother dealt with him for so many years?
Her grandfather simply pulled the tray back into place and resumed picking leaves from the bin. After a moment, Dwyn sighed and turned away.
“I’ll bring you some starleaf later,” she said, “and we’ll dig through this place and find the cauldrons I gave you. Are the other potions ready? I’ll take them down.”
“I’ll take them,” her grandfather replied. He dropped the dustbin and shuffled past her to a half-buried chair near his completely buried bed, grabbing a small leather satchel that was balanced precariously on the edge. “I need to make sure the lad knows the proper dosages.” He tromped from the room.
Dwyn took a deep breath, reminding herself how glad she was that he wasn’t hurt, and followed him down the stairs. She eyed the stacks of junk along the wall; it couldn’t have been more than two months since she’d last cleaned it out. Where did he even get all that stuff?
A young man was sitting on the grass outside with his back against the fence—she hadn’t even noticed him earlier, or the rusty bicycle that leaned on the fence beside him. The lad’s hair was a dark brown, a little lighter than Dwyn’s, and when he scrambled to his feet, he was just a few inches shorter than her.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, wringing his hands.
“Everything’s fine,” her grandfather replied. He held up the satchel. “Here are the potions for your father.” He proceeded to list off when the young man should give his father doses of which potion, as though he expected the lad to remember it all from the one lecture. Dwyn shook her head—his instructions made little sense, anyway.
The young man nodded, wide-eyed, and bowed once her grandfather finished. “My whole family gives their thanks, High Wizard,” he said. “Our local hedgeman has tried to treat him, but it wasn’t helping. I couldn’t believe it when he told me I could go to the great Arliss Bobydd himself!”
Despite her frustrated mood, Dwyn smiled slightly at the look on her grandfather’s face—he was beaming. He stood up a little straighter and adjusted his robes. “Yes, well . . . I’m always happy to help. If anyone else in your village falls ill, you just come back to me.”
“Thank you, sir!” The lad hesitated, biting his lip. Just as Dwyn’s grandfather began to turn away, the young man blurted, “Why is everyone talking about war, sir?”
Dwyn’s grandfather blinked. “What?”
“It’s just . . . won’t the Peace Ward—”
Dwyn stepped between them and placed a hand on the lad’s arm. “How far is your village?”
“Oh—I’m from Llanelwedd,” the lad replied, glancing back and forth between them. “About seven hours away on my bicycle.”
“So you probably haven’t eaten since you left home, have you? In what . . . eleven hours?”
“Oh . . . well, no.”
“Come inside and have a meal before you go, then. That’s a long ride to make on an empty stomach.” Dwyn forced a smile and gestured to the cottage, pushing the boy along before he could bring up the rumors of war again. If her grandfather heard about that, he’d want to run off to the continent to fix things, and no one would be able to convince him that he wasn’t able to anymore.
Her grandfather was frowning, but he didn’t follow them. Grumbling, he turned and headed back into his tower. Dwyn sighed; that good mood hadn’t lasted long.
The young man hesitated, glancing down at the satchel he still held against his chest. “I just . . . I worry about keeping my father waiting for his medicines.”
“We’ll get you something you can eat while you ride, then.” Dwyn took him by the arm and began pulling him toward the cottage.
The lad looked up at her with a frown. “Miss, can I ask you something?”
“Certainly.”
“If the Peace Ward is still protecting us, then why is everyone so worried about war?”
Dwyn winced and glanced over her shoulder involuntarily. Her grandfather was nowhere in sight . . . not that he would have been able to hear them if he was. “Wards don’t last forever,” she replied, turning back. “They fade over time.”
The young man’s eyes went wide. “So . . . there could be a war?”
“Don’t worry.” Dwyn tried to make her tone reassuring. “We can always make another peace ward.”
“Would the high wizard do it again?”
“Well, he’s retired now,” she said. “But I’m sure that Lord Wizard Churchill will make one if things come to that.”
The young man nodded. His shoulders relaxed a bit, and he smiled as they entered the cottage. “Thank you, Lady Wizard.”
“I’m . . . not actually a full wizard. Just a student.”
“Are you the high wizard’s assistant?” the young man asked as she sat him down at the kitchen table. “Is that why you live here?”
“I’m his granddaughter,” she replied, digging through a pouch at her waist. “This was my mother’s cottage until she passed last year.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He was silent for a moment. “Can you do magic too?”
She pulled a small handful of suspension powder from the pouch. “Yes, I can.” She tossed the dust in his face and whispered some words of power in Old Welsh.
The lad barely had time to react; his eyes went wide and then he stopped moving, frozen in place.
Dwyn took the satchel from his hands and opened the bag, wincing when she saw the potions inside. Only one was anywhere near the right color, a dull green that could almost be mistaken for the vibrant wellrest potion that its label said it was. The virulent orange potion that was lab
eled “Elixir of Healing and Restoration” should have been a rosy pink, and the brownish goop her grandfather claimed was a clearthought potion should have been pale blue.
She glanced at the boy, making sure that the suspension spell had taken effect properly, and then left the kitchen. A knock at the door interrupted her before she could reach her workshop. She groaned and turned back, hoping it wasn’t another petitioner. A glance through the peephole showed her neighbor, Mrs. Reilly. Dwyn opened the door.
“Good morning, Dwyn,” Mrs. Reilly said, smiling. The middle-aged woman had prematurely silver hair and was wearing a pale green long-skirted summer dress. She held up a worn disk of wood carved with spell knots. “I’m not imposing, am I? I was hoping you could get me youth charm working again. Me husband’ll be getting back from sea this week, as long as things on the continent haven’t gotten any worse, and I want to be sure I’m looking me best for him.”
Dwyn gave a thin smile and took the charm. “I’d be happy to. Come in.” She stepped back to let Mrs. Reilly in, and shut the door behind her. “I just need to take care of one other thing first, if that’s all right.”
“Oh, of course, dear, take your time.”
Dwyn turned and headed to her workroom, trying not to feel irritated. She really was happy to help Mrs. Reilly—the woman was always so kind and solicitous, and Dwyn would have to be completely thoughtless not to appreciate her. It was just that she wasn’t getting done any of the things she’d planned to do that morning . . .
Mrs. Reilly followed her down the hall and stood in the doorway to the workshop, looking around with a curious eye. Dwyn set the youth charm on her carving table and then turned to her row of simmering cauldrons. She carefully removed all the flasks and vials from the satchel—old and poorly washed, every one of them—and placed them on a stand beside her sink. She would pour them out later, after she’d made sure that none of them would damage the plumbing or cause trouble if it washed out into the river. Most of them were probably harmless, but . . . you never knew.
“What’re all those, then?” Mrs. Reilly asked as Dwyn began filling new flasks with the potions she’d been brewing before the explosion interrupted.
“Potions for a petitioner,” Dwyn replied without looking up. “Clearthought, wellrest . . . a few others.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you’d begun taking petitioners!” Mrs. Reilly hesitated a moment. “I . . . thought students weren’t allowed to do that. Aren’t you still on leave from the academy?”
Dwyn paused her pouring without looking up, a familiar sinking feeling settling into her stomach. “No, not anymore.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Reilly placed a hand on Dwyn’s shoulder. “They wouldn’t extend it?”
“It’s all right.” Dwyn took a deep breath and resumed pouring. “It really is. They’d already given me a year’s leave, after all. It wasn’t really reasonable of me to hope . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.
Mrs. Reilly leaned down and gave Dwyn a gentle hug. “I’m so sorry, dearie.”
Dwyn shrugged. “It should be all right, really. I found some of my grandfather’s old spellbooks buried in one of the lower tower rooms—the books he was just positive the Jameses had somehow broken in and stolen. I’ve been studying some of the spells he designed, trying to learn them myself. It will give me an advantage if I . . . whenever I reapply to the academy.”
“Well, that’s good, I suppose . . .” Mrs. Reilly sat down quietly in a chair by the wall.
Dwyn forced a smile. “Anyway, no—I’m still not taking formal petitioners. I’m just . . . helping my grandfather with one of his.”
“Helping him?” Mrs. Reilly glanced at the dirty potion flasks that Dwyn had removed from the satchel. “I take it he doesn’t know you’re helping?”
“Well . . . no.” Dwyn corked the final flask and began loading them into the satchel. “I hid eavesdropping spells in the protective wards I put on his tower last year. I just listen in when a petitioner comes and then switch his concoctions out for the proper ones when no one’s looking.”
Mrs. Reilly bit her lip. “You know, Dwyn . . . there are homes for older people, when they become this troublesome.”
“Oh, I’ve thought of that, believe me,” Dwyn replied. More and more every day, she’d thought of that. “But . . . I couldn’t do that to him.”
“They’re not so bad, these days,” Mrs. Reilly said. “Especially after all the work your grandfather did for the kingdom back in the day; I’m sure his pension could get him in a prime, government-run home where they’d take wonderful care of him. He’s the High Wizard Bobydd, after all!”
“That’s the problem, Mrs. Reilly.” Dwyn frowned at the older woman. “He’s the man who single-handedly ended the Great War, the greatest Welsh wizard since Gwydion. Everyone knows it. I can’t put the legendary Arliss Bobydd in an elderly home. Even before word of it got around, he would be so ashamed; he wouldn’t really be alive after that.”
Mrs. Reilly sighed. “Is it really much worse than living a lie, thinking he’s still living up to his old reputation when he’s not?”
Dwyn hesitated, staring down at the potions in the satchel. She wondered that every day. “Yes, it would be worse than this,” she finally replied. A year ago, when she’d come home from school, she wouldn’t have hesitated. “He spent his life building that reputation, and he deserves to keep it. The only times I really see him happy now are when he thinks he’s helping someone, or when he gets talking about the old days, and I won’t take that away. If . . . if I have a hard time because of it”—she shrugged her shoulders—“that’s just too bad.”
For a moment, she thought that Mrs. Reilly was going to cry. “Well, that’s right compassionate of you, Dwyn. Your mother would be so very proud.” Mrs. Reilly hesitated, biting her lip. “But . . . and I hope I’m not being too forward saying this . . . but I don’t think your mother would want you to give up everything you cared about. She was so proud of you, going off to the academy so young. All of those offers of employment you had and whatnot.”
Dwyn leaned her head into her hands. Her temples were throbbing again. “I know, I just . . . I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”
“Oh, I wish I knew, dearie.” Mrs. Reilly hugged her again, patting her hair. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to give up what you want. You can, if you think that’s best—but you don’t have to.”
Dwyn nodded. She would think over it some more later, when her head didn’t hurt so much.
Mrs. Reilly squeezed Dwyn’s shoulder and then stood. “I’ll come back for me charm later, dearie—don’t worry about getting it done right away.” She turned and headed for the door.
Dwyn tucked the last potion into the satchel, the clearthought. Years before, her mother had convinced her grandfather to take a little of it every morning. It had helped him keep things together for a while. But the potion no longer helped enough to waste the resources.
“Mrs. Reilly?”
The older woman stopped in the doorway. “Yes?”
“How did my mother deal with all this, while I was at school?”
“Oh, dearie,” Mrs. Reilly smiled. “She talked with me. When I stop by for the charm, you can let out all your frustrations. It’ll do you good.” She waved and left.
Dwyn smiled. She took a deep breath and then returned to her work, penning a list of instructions for using the potions. Then she returned to the young man in the kitchen, placing the satchel back in his arms. After checking to ensure she was standing where she had been before, she let the power fade from the suspension spell with a whisper. The young man blinked once or twice, and then his brow furrowed.
“All right,” she said, turning to her cupboards before he could ask what had happened. “How about some pasties? I’ve got some with meat and potatoes, and some with raspberry. That should get you through the day.”
She looked over her shoulder at the young man. He blinked a few more times, visibly c
onfused, and then he nodded. “Um . . . yes. That sounds wonderful, thank you.”
“Of course,” she replied, pulling the pasties from the icebox and placing them in a small basket. She handed the young man the note of instructions. “Now, I know my grandfather went over the instructions for those potions very quickly, so I just wanted to make sure you remembered what to do. Give your father a spoonful of the restorative and the wellrest potions before he sleeps each night, and let him sip at the fortitude potions whenever he’s feeling weak. Give him a teaspoon of the clearthought potion each morning—that will help him focus through the day until the fits pass—but don’t give him any more than that. If he has too much, his mind will become overworked and he’ll go into a coma. Understand?”
The young man nodded, wide-eyed as he looked over the note. Dwyn smiled and handed him the basket. “You’ll do fine. Let us know once your father’s doing better.”
He smiled and stood. “Thank you so much, ma’am.” He bowed, clutching the satchel and basket. “I can’t believe we got help from Arliss Bobydd himself! I’m going to have to tell my whole town about this. Thank you!”
She smiled again and led him to the door. The young man’s gratitude made her feel a bit better about things. As he hurried down the walk to his bicycle, however, she noticed her grandfather on his hands and knees in front of the tower, picking weeds out of his lawn and placing them carefully in a basket.
Dwyn sighed and leaned against the door frame, rubbing her forehead to try to clear her head. Her plans had been to spend the day researching some new spells, but it didn’t look like that would happen. The morning had been taken up with potion making, and she needed to replace the tower’s protective wards since the old ones had used up all their energy containing the explosion.
She turned to head back to her workroom and immediately tripped over the stacks of newspapers by the door.
* * *
Dwyn made the physical focus for the new wards out of tungsten wire and oak branches, weaving in small bits of other materials here and there while constantly double-checking her work against one of her grandfather’s old spellbooks. The design for the wards was his, discovered when he’d been younger and somewhat more . . . stable. Like all of his spells, it was intricate and amazing and difficult.
