“I don’t want to put it down,” Sir Griffons said. His smile was so bright that I couldn't help thinking it made him look like a little boy. “What can it do?”
“Cut through almost anything, if you press it against something,” I said. “You do need the intent to cut.”
“It would be embarrassing if the blade was dropped on the floor,” Sir Griffons said. His smile grew wider. “It might cut its way to the planet’s core.”
“That can’t happen,” I assured him. “Your intentions are important.”
I paused, gathering my thoughts. “You should be able to block curses and hexes with the blade - the magic should give you some additional immunity, even if you don’t manage to swat the curse before it strikes you. You should also be able to cut through wards, but a skilled sorcerer could probably design wards capable of trapping or reforming around the blade.”
“I’ve met warlocks who did just that,” Sir Griffons said.
“And you won’t be able to hide the blade,” I added. “The magic is quite distinctive. Once you take it out of the wards, anyone within fifty metres will probably be able to sense its presence.”
Sir Griffons didn't look displeased at the thought of being made a target. If anything, the prospect of everyone seeing him coming seemed to delight him. And yet ... I shook my head, feeling a flicker of disquiet. I couldn't sense the blade, not even if it was right next to me. The effect was predicable - my calculations had indicated that it would be there - yet I would never see it for myself. I was probably the only person in the world Sir Griffons could sneak up on while carrying the blade.
He took the scabbard and slipped the blade in and out, testing how it moved. “Who else can use it?”
“Anyone closely related to you,” I told him. “A brother or sister, a child ... anyone else would simply find it too heavy to lift. You might be able to give it to your cousin, but I don’t know if it would work for him.”
“Good,” Sir Griffons said. He smiled, as one does at a particularly bad joke. “I wouldn't want someone to steal it.”
“No,” I agreed. “And don’t let anyone steal the gemstone either. It would cancel the magic.”
“I understand,” Sir Griffons said. He swung the sword through the air. “This is ... brilliant.”
He reached out and slapped me on the back. “I owe you a boon, young lady,” he said. “You may have anything, anything at all, as long as it is within my power to give it to you.”
Within reason, I added, silently. Dad had taught me to be careful what I promised. Bad things happened to people who didn't keep their promises. Sir Griffons really should have known better. If I asked him for something that conflicted with his other oaths, I might put him into an impossible position. It might even kill him. If I ask for the wrong thing ...
I pushed the thought aside. “If I need a boon, I will ask you,” I said. It wouldn't have been polite to decline the promise. “And I hope you enjoy the blade.”
“Oh, I enjoy it already,” Sir Griffons said. He held it up in front of his face. “This is perfect, absolutely perfect.”
I had to smile. He looked like an overgrown puppy.
“Thank you,” he said, as he picked up the knife and bloodstained container. “And I meant what I said.”
I rang the bell for Lucy, then sent Sir Griffons and her back to the guest wing. I had a feeling Sir Griffons wasn't going to stay, not after bonding with the blade. He’d probably start riding back to Tintagel, just to show off his blade to his fellow Kingsmen. They wouldn't believe it, not at first. And then they’d all want one too ...
And I can make them, I thought, as I started to clean up the workroom. The thrill would fade, I knew, so I determined to enjoy it as long as I could. And who knows what else I can make?
Chapter Six
“I trust you had a good breakfast,” Mum said, in a manner that made it very clear that I was in trouble. “You have a lot of work to do.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Mum had ordered me out of bed at stupid o’clock - the sun had barely been peeking over the horizon - and sent me to join the maids for breakfast before getting changed into gardening clothes. It was a very clear sign that I was in disgrace, even though I knew Mum loathed Great Aunt Stregheria as much as everyone else. I had been unforgivably rude and my parents were not pleased.
But it could be worse, I thought. They could have sent me to clean the bathrooms instead.
Mum looked me up and down, then nodded in grim approval. I concealed my amusement as she shoved a basket of gardening tools into my arms, before turning to march towards the door. Gardening was the only time I was allowed to wear clothes that would have shamed a beggar on the streets. The rough, ill-fitting shirt and trousers made me look like a tramp, but they could endure more abuse than my regular clothes. And when I came back to the house, covered in earth and mud, they could be dumped in the washroom for a thorough cleaning without worrying about damaging them. I tied my hair back into a bun, then followed Mum through the door and out into the garden. The warm air - tinged with a hint of the oncoming winter - brushed against my face as I closed the door.
“Don’t dawdle,” Mum snapped.
“Coming,” I assured her, as I hefted the basket and walked after her. “What are we doing first?”
Mum didn't answer. I sighed and kept walking. I’d find out soon enough.
Our herbal gardens are my mother’s pride and joy. Master Potioneers like Mum prefer to grow as many of their ingredients as possible, even though some of the rarer items - like dragon scales or octopus tentacles - can only be purchased from a handful of very high-class stockists. Mum insisted that being able to produce her own herbs helped keep prices down, although it also ensured that she knew everything about how the ingredients had been produced. Even something as simple as cutting herbs can cause problems if one uses a silver blade instead of an iron knife.
And that can make a difference, I thought. Using a silver blade could make it harder to use a herb in a potion.
I put the basket down as I reached the edge of the herbal garden, my mother chanting a handful of spells to unlock the protective charms covering the chessboard patchwork of herbs and other ingredients. Alana had once tried to break into the garden on a dare; she wound up hanging upside down until Mum had come along to free her, then rebuke her for daring to even consider trying to sneak through the wards. They were designed to keep out pests, but not all pests walked on four legs. Alana had never dared try to enter the garden without permission again.
The wind shifted, blowing towards me. I took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of dozens of herbs mingling together. Mum claimed that gardening was relaxing, and there were times when I was tempted to agree with her. We’d spent many happy hours planting seeds and cutting herbs, back when she’d been trying to use potions to bring out my magic. It had been futile, yet it had actually worked in my favour. I’d learnt the value of precision long before I’d needed to use it.
“Come inside,” Mum said. She pointed to a barren patch of fallow ground. “You’ll be breaking that for me today.”
I picked up a shovel and carried it into the garden. Mum had left the ground fallow for three years, long enough to allow it to recover from whatever she’d been doing there. It had grown hard, unsurprisingly. Breaking it up so that something new could be planted wouldn't be exactly back-breaking labour, not here, but ... it would be boring. And I’d wind up covered in mud.
“Make sure you put any stones to one side,” Mum directed, as I pushed the shovel into the earth. It was hard, resisting stubbornly until I put all my weight on the shovel. “And dig as deep as you can.”
The sun rose steadily as I dug, picking up pieces of earth and breaking them up before dropping them back on the ground. There weren't many stones, thankfully. Mum had cleared the area long ago, back before I was born, and kept it warded ever since. The handful I did find I put aside, save for one that looked like a long-lost gemstone. It was pr
obably nothing, but Dad would want to take a look at it anyway. The hall was so large that we kept finding things former generations had lost or concealed over the centuries.
My hands and back were aching when Mum finally called a halt, passing me a bottle of sweetened lemon juice as I leaned on the shovel. I sipped it gratefully, feeling sweat trickle down my back. The clothes were starting to itch ... I promised myself, silently, that I’d take a long bath when I got back to the hall. Mum would probably insist on it. I’d be washing off so many layers of dirt that I might clog up the pipes.
“Not too bad,” Mum said, grudgingly. She studied my work for a long moment, then pointed me to a second patch. “You can start work there now.”
I nodded sullenly. The sun hadn't even reached meridian, let alone started to descend. It felt like we’d been outside for hours. But there was no point in arguing. I walked to the next patch of ground and started to work. Mum stayed where I’d been, using a smaller towel to dig holes and plant seeds. It would be months before our labour bore fruit, but I was confident it would be worth it. The herbs we didn't use would be packaged up and sold to the local apothecary.
“What you said to Stregheria was cruel,” Mum said, without looking up from her work. “You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. I knew better than to stop working. “But she was very rude to me ...”
“Yes,” Mum said. “And you shouldn't have let her get to you.”
I looked up. “What would you have done if she’d been insulting Lady Meadows?”
“I might have pointed out that she was wrong,” Mum said. “A common-born magician could make a good apprentice, as you know. Or find something else to do with her life that doesn't include grovelling in the dirt.”
“Yeah,” I said, reluctantly. “But I didn't think of it.”
Mum stood. “I understand that you were angry,” she said. “And I understand that you had reason to be angry. But you cannot let your anger rule your life.”
“I know,” I said.
“You are a child,” Mum said. She dropped the towel back into the basket. “When you are an adult, such behaviour will have far more serious consequences.”
I scowled. “Why doesn't it have any consequences for her?”
Mum smirked. She’d deny it, I was sure, if I asked, but I knew what I saw.
“Stregheria is welcome in very few halls,” she said. “Hosts are very inventive when coming up with reasons why she shouldn't attend formal gatherings. She is very isolated, for all she pretends it doesn’t bother her.”
She met my eyes. “And while that doesn't excuse her behaviour,” she added, “it may go some way towards explaining it.”
“Hah,” I muttered. I wasn't interested in explanations. The only way Great Aunt Stregheria could make me happy was if she never intruded on my life again. “She’s a crone.”
Mum shot me a warning look. “Be careful what you say,” she said. “I dread to imagine what would happen if you had been an adult.”
Feuds have started over less, I thought.
I broke the last patch of ground, then stepped back to admire my handiwork. It didn't look any different from the flowerbeds, but I knew it was bursting with potential. A few dozen seeds, some water and patience ... it would soon give birth to new life. And the herbs we seeded would be turned into ingredients for potions in a few months. I wondered, idly, if any of them would be sold to Jude’s. The school went through more potion ingredients in a day than my mother went through in a year.
“Very good,” Mum said. “And just in time too.”
I turned. Lucy was approaching, carrying a covered basket in one hand and a picnic rug in the other. I smiled at her as she laid the rug on the ground by the edge of the garden, then placed the basket on top and strode away. Mum walked over to the basket, opened it and produced a set of sandwiches. I followed her, shaking my head as I saw just how much food the staff had crammed inside: ham and cheese sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, a selection of apples and oranges and a bottle of ginger juice. I couldn't help wondering if they thought they were feeding a small army.
“Sit down,” Mum said. She passed me a sandwich, then took one for herself. “Are you looking forward to going back to school?”
I took a bite, feeling suddenly ravenous. Gardening had always left me feeling hungry.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’m looking forward to seeing Rose again, but ...”
Mum nodded. “I was pretty good at school,” she said, “but I don’t remember it with any fondness.”
Pretty good, I thought, wryly. She was being very modest. Mum had been valedictorian for two years running, then gone straight into a brilliant potions apprenticeship that had catapulted her to fame and fortune. Dad had done very well too. Are any of us going to live up to them?
“It has its moments,” I said. I had enjoyed some of the classes, as well as the chance to learn from some of the most experienced magicians in the world. It was just the other kids I disliked. They’d sensed my weakness and attacked. Perhaps I’d taught them a lesson, when I’d beaten Isabella, or perhaps not. “I just wish ...”
I shook my head as my words trailed off. What did I wish? That I’d been born with power? Or that I’d been raised somewhere where my lack of power wasn't an issue? Or ... I shivered as I remembered Rose’s bare feet. The pockmarks from a childhood disease were too embedded to be removed without magic, yet Rose’s family hadn't had the funds to hire a healer. And she’d been one of the lucky ones. She’d told me that far too many of her peers hadn't lived through their first decade.
“No magic can change the past,” my mother said. Her dark eyes were sympathetic. “All you can do is make the best of it.”
“Or not,” I muttered. Did Great Aunt Stregheria make the best of it? “It just doesn't seem fair.”
“The world is not fair,” Mum said, flatly. “And sometimes bad things happen to good people.”
She finished her sandwich, then pulled a bottle from the basket and put it to her lips. I felt an odd rush of affection, knowing that my mother normally wouldn't do anything as lowly as drinking out of a bottle. But then, she was wearing tattered old clothes and getting her hands dirty too. Dignity and gardening didn't really go together.
“I found several new potion recipes we might want to try,” she said, as she passed me the bottle. “They all require very precise infusions of magic.”
I took a long drink. The ginger tasted strong enough to make me cough. “And perhaps cannot be made by real magicians?”
“Perhaps,” Mum agreed. “You have managed to answer a great many questions, Cat. But you have also given me far more.”
I nodded as I reached for another sandwich. There were hundreds of potion recipes that no one, not even my mother or Magistra Loanda, had been able to make. I’d read the long-winded articles written and distributed by the potioneers guild. Every attempt had either failed completely - dissolving into a muddy sludge that was only slightly more magical than myself - or exploded violently enough to burn through wards and do serious damage. And yet, the promise kept potion masters trying to brew the recipes. A potioneer who managed to get just one of them to work would make his fame and fortune overnight.
Particularly the one that grants superhuman strength, I thought. The ancient tomes insisted that it had been invented in a tiny village, now long since wiped off the map. But no matter how one fiddled with the ingredients, the best anyone had managed to get was a reasonably tasty lobster stew. Something must have been left out of the recipe when it was written down.
“I can design a stirrer for you,” I said. Mum had more than enough control over her magic to charge and use it, I thought. And even if she didn’t, she could practice before she actually tried to use it. “And I’ll forge it over the summer holidays.”
“You could also help me brew them,” Mum said. “This time, you won’t fail.”
I looked down at the ground. I’d brewed countless potions w
ith my mother, but they’d all failed. Without an infusion of magic, a potion was just a collection of exotic ingredients in pure water. I knew now how I could get that infusion of magic, but the memory of those failures still haunted me. Alana and Bella had rubbed them in at every opportunity.
And Bella expects me to help her with her homework, I thought, feeling a flicker of tired amusement. She was just too lazy for school. I dreaded to think what her half-term report would say. Dad would probably hit the roof when he read it. But if I help her, I can get her to help me.
“I hope so,” I said, finally. Mum wouldn't want to be anywhere near when I brewed ‘Caitlyn’s Boost’. The risk of an explosion was just too great. I didn't think Magistra Loanda would let me brew it in school either, not again. I might have to beg Dad to let me set up a potions lab in the summer house. “But ...”
The Zero Curse Page 6