by Steve Vernon
She felt like a lamb out of pasture. She had the touch, she’d always known it. At home, she’d never doubted her skill. Here, though, ever since she’d arrived at the imposing school, surrounded by the wealthy children of Dames and Wizards, she’d bungled most things, forgotten crucial ingredients, misstepped, fumbled her wand gestures. These two years had not been kind to her.
It was at these times she missed her granny the most, wished that her granddam had the power to say no to Winterton’s demand that she surrender her granddaughter. At home Misha’d been a respected hearth witch, skilled at delivering babies and animals alike, brewing potions and remedies. Here, the students considered her a poor peasant. And it was true. They were all from moneyed, illustrious families, her betters, and they never let her forget it.
Misha packed up her cloth, the beaker, and her wand, and tucked everything in the plain pine table, released the brakes and wheeled it off the stage.
She didn’t understand what had happened. She’d been totally prepared, had practiced that egg manifestation a hundred times before today. She’d even invented a really nice flourish as her signature. Things never went awry when she practiced her hearth magic, she simply did her job. It was the watching, the judging that ruined things.
Bricker, the King’s second cousin, was in the corridor. She couldn’t avoid him so she just kept walking.
“So bumpkin failed her test. I told you so. Winterton is crazy for bringing you here, thinking a hearth witch could make it at the academy. Not a single one of his hand-picked students have succeeded. You should just creep away in the night the way they all have.”
Her face was set, her eyes focused on the path in front of her. The gray slate stone floor was centuries old and sometimes the tiles weren’t flush. All she needed was to hit one with the table.
Misha gained her dormitory door and closed the door behind her. The stone walls were hung with bright tapestries regaling the history of the school and the graduates that went to work magic in the world. She’d stopped looking at them, but appreciated their thick wool, which kept the worst of the winter’s chill at bay. The cart she slipped into its cubby.
Removing her cloak, she smoothed the soft doeskin folds, once again appreciating its fineness. She’d have never owned anything so nice in Teller. Hearth witches did well, but not extravagantly so. Which suited her.
She removed Kellin’s dress and hung it on the hook, muttering a spell to clean it, even though she was certain the earlier spell had removed any trace of dirt or egg.
Taking her favorite spot in the window seat, she looked out over the craggy mountain that cupped the academy in its rugged fingers. Spring was fast approaching and the air carried the special sharp, crisp flavor which boded the turning of the seasons, even though snow still lay thickly on the peaks around them.
Her eyes burned and she scrubbed at them, simultaneously fighting the huge lump of frustration that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chest.
The door opened. Kellin, her roommate stepped through slowly. She was a pale, wispy girl, with white skin, and silver hair. Misha thought she looked like a ghost except for her full red lips and her wide ice blue eyes.
“I heard what happened.”
“Your suit is fine,” Misha said quickly. “I thank you again for the use of it.”
“If Winterton supplies all of your materials and that cloak, you’d think that he’d supply you with decent clothes too.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
Kellin paused and said generously, “As I appreciate the trick you taught me in my time of need.”
Misha had to smile. The reversal spell was one of the first her granny had taught her when Misha became her apprentice. It was intended to undo mistakes, dropped dishes, burnt dinners, but she’d discovered on her arrival it would also undo joker spells that people laid on her.
It had also helped Kellin the day Misha had found her weeping in their room. Misha had patted Kellin’s shoulder in sympathy, and then, worried, her head, her heart, her lips. The woman was bespelled.
Bricker’s swooning spell was a complicated love potion with flourishes and embellishments that made Misha smile for his arrogance. Misha couldn’t break it, but that was not always the answer.
“He doesn’t love you, Kellin, you know that. He doesn’t love anybody, not even himself. He doesn’t honor you or himself. Give him back what he really feels, turn it back sevenfold.”
Kellin’s gratitude made Misha smile.
“And back to you,” Kellin chanted softly, anger roughening her words as she felt out the shape of the spell she crafted. “Back to the beginning, all your words, caught back in your throat, turned back to your heart, blasted back in your face.”
The girl had used it on Bricker when he claimed his expected kiss, but what he got was a blast of loathing that turned his skin green for two days.
It had been their oath secret because both girls knew that if he ever learned what had hit him and who had taught it, they’d both pay.
“Well, then I’m going down for dinner” Kellin said. “I don’t expect you feel like showing your face, do you?”
Did everyone know? Probably. Salome had probably shouted it from the steps. The newly named Dame took her position and the prerogatives that came with it seriously. She was bossy and manipulative, but her father was the current King’s Mage, and so everyone just excused her boorish behavior.
It didn’t matter. Misha had a store of foods in her trunk.
Kellin opened the door and jumped back, with a cry. “Filthy beast. Do not let him near my things.”
Kellin swished out and the pale white and grey tabby tom padded in as she closed the door. He jumped up on the window seat to receive his attention.
“I’d spray her bed if it wouldn’t cause problems for you,” the cat muttered as he bumped her hand for attention.
Misha smiled as she rubbed the cat’s ears. A loud purr rewarded her efforts. He turned and stood on her, front paws on her breasts, lightly kneading them as he touched her nose with his.
“Why do you always go right there?” she asked, chuckling as she pulled his paws out of her bodice. She rubbed his body and he rubbed his face against her cheeks in return.
When she’d paid the cat his due, she opened the trunk and rummaged around, coming up with some dried venison, a hunk of cheese, and a piece of yesterday’s bread. Her surreptitious visits to the kitchen staff paid off with generous offerings. They appreciated a hearth witch’s skills if no one else here did and she enjoyed their company. She added some coal to the fire and swung the kettle over it.
When the water boiled, she made rose hip tea from her waning supplies, picked before the winter had closed in.
“I expect there won’t be too many more of these intimate dinners, Timmuk. I’m going to be leaving.”
The cat simply stared at her, his brilliant green eyes bright, his tail swishing as he waited for his share of the meal to be laid out.
“Nothing to say? Well, I’m surprised.”
He butted her hand and made the tiny “mrrp,” sound she loved so much.
“I guess, I’ll study,” she said after they’d eaten, “Although, I’m not sure why I’m bothering.”
Timmuk stared at her gravely. “I’ve told you before, do what’s expected. That’ll keep Winterton and the rest of them from looking your way any more than is necessary.”
The cat had been her friend since her arrival. He was the best informed and most talkative cat she’d ever met, and she’d known many over the years.
He shared secrets about the school life, tidbits that had helped her understand the hierarchy, and, if not fit in, then not flail about too desperately. It seemed amazing that a cat could be so well versed in the subtleties of human politics and the history of the kingdom. She finally decided the exposure to all the magic that suffused the walls and the very air of the keep made Timmuk so unique.
“Yes, you tell me, but y
ou won’t say why I’m here, what he expects.”
“You’re here because he wants you here. He expects you to do exactly as you’re doing—your very best.”
“But my best is not anywhere near good enough.” The tears rose and she let them fall. Timmuk climbed into her lap and sprawled in his most appealing position, upside down, head pressed against her, and paws kneading her the underside of her breasts lightly.
She, lifted his paws off her, stroked him and, when the tears passed, leaned down to kiss him on the head.
“Thank you, dear Timmuk.”
“You’re welcome,” the tabby said. “Now get to studying. Don’t you have a midterm exam?”
The next morning she woke. The room was frosty, the first light of dawn just glowing pearly white through the late winter snow. She burrowed down into the blankets, determined to skip the class.
“Up, up, Misha.” The words whispered through the room like a breeze slipping through cracks in the mortared stones. “You have class. That’s where I want you. That’s where you’re supposed to be.”
She tried to ignore the words, but Winterton and his insistent tug in the center of her chest wouldn’t be denied and he wouldn’t stop pulling until she obeyed it. When he first took her from Teller, she’d tried to return, tried to sit like a balky mule, but he could pull that string whenever he wanted. She had no choice but to follow where it led; scooting on her bottom or walking in surrender didn’t matter to him.
She sighed and got up, shivering, and put coal on the fire and swung the kettle over it. He didn’t stop pulling until she was in her seat.
The next day, during wand usage class, she received a notice on rolled parchment, tied in gray and yellow silk ribbon—the school’s colors—and sealed with the dean’s wax mark. She groaned, her heart suddenly thumping. Just as she’d begun to get the hang of the complicated movements, she had to stop. At least the waiting was over.
“All packed, Millik?” Bricker asked
She unrolled the parchment with sweaty hands, her stomach roiling. Misha’s eyes widened as she read the notice.
It said, in flourishing handwriting, “Be it known to all and sundry that Misha Millik is a student in good standing at Chisolm’s Keep and subject to the rules and privileges thereof. Signed, Dean Robarius Hribbar.”
“Why?” she asked Bricker innocently. “I’m not going anywhere.” Dang, it felt good to say that, even though the paper didn’t explain how that had happened and left her more confused than ever.
“Liar, let me see that.” He grabbed the parchment and Misha let go rather than allow it to tear.
He was incredulous and everyone crowded around to read over his shoulder.
“That’s a puddle of scum,” he said. “It just proves Winterton is off his rocker. He can’t pick a protégé for beans. He’s just been lucky with his own wizarding. Timing, that’s what my father says.” He threw the parchment down on the table. The moly extract they were practicing on tipped over and seeped into the paper.
She picked up the wand and waved it. Instead of pulling off, the moly spread itself throughout the parchment, dying it a subtle green. Sighing, she rolled it up quickly, sliding it into the sleeve of her cloak.
She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or crestfallen. In the end Winterton was not going to release her from what had become a torturous prison. He wanted her here and she could only make the best of it.
“All right, all right,” the Dame called from the front of the class. “Clean up your projects, tidy your tables.”
Misha, looked at the mess and sighed heavily as she cleaned up, stowing the recipe and the mixing bowl in her conjuring table.
She squared her shoulders and pushed the cart out the door, her face set and concentrating on the stone tiles before her. Off to the next class then.
The History of Dames and Wizards always seemed a pompous litany of self-promoting family history. The topic today, however, was Master Winterton. She’d done the reading. That she could do. She’d learned that he’d come up out of nowhere, from a small province in the far east of the kingdom. He gained notice by working some small magics that were of timely use to the king.
When she’d completed the reading, Misha realized his history seemed to ebb and rise in cycles.
Kellin raised her hand. “Why does he serve the Keep? Why doesn’t he stay at court and work on the King’s Wizard Council?”
Dame Fallis raised her eyebrows. “Not every magician has such an ego. Master Winterton is a self-effacing man, with humility and a generous nature.”
Bricker shook his head and snorted. Clearly, that was not a tack he was going to take on his rise to success.
The Dame glared at him. “It is enough for our Headmaster to oversee the keep for the last six decades, leaving to serve the king only at a crucial times with a fine piece of magic and then returning back to Chisolm Keep and his position as Headmaster.”
Misha frowned. Timmuk said Winterton was proud, eager to be counted among the names of the King’s Magicians. But she wasn’t going to risk ridicule on any level by mentioning either the fact or that she had it from a cat who shouldn’t know things like that, magic or not.
“What about the Rabbit Maid?” Bricker smiled at Misha.
“Regella Courmand was an animal mistress,” Dame Fallis said. “Animal control is a powerful magic. She was able to read any animal brought to her. She could train them to do the most amazing things. Calling her the Rabbit Maid does no justice to her powers. I remember the rabbits you spoke of, though. She got them to run an obstacle course by snapping her fingers. She trained the King’s war charger Barbor de Magni.”
“But she ran away in the night,” Bricker said, looking at Misha. “Disappeared. Threw away a perfectly fine future as the King’s animal mistress.”
“Magic is a fine art. It requires stamina and a personality not always found in balance amongst all students.”
Bricker nodded, staring at Misha.
“It didn’t matter,” the Dame continued. “Winterton was perfectly capable of turning the renegade Duke’s cavalry charge at the battle of Watampan. Such a shame, all those fine animals racing off the cliff. Many riders were caught in the harnesses and saddles and couldn’t get off or were trampled in the rush. But the King won the battle and saved the kingdom from civil war.”
Misha sat quietly, listening to the other students discuss Winterton’s contributions and his current posting at the Keep. She privately agreed with Kellin that it seemed a fall from grace and a high position to go from instrumental in the execution of the king’s business to serving as Headmaster of the magic academy. Misha felt sorry for Winterton. But he had time for me, whatever he thinks I’ll make of myself.
If that was true, what did he want with her? How did a hearth witch play into Winterton’s plans, and why bring her here, a full grown woman, to a school for youths? Why would he be interested in a hearth witch anyway, when he was so fluent in magic?
Misha woke early the day of the equinox. The room was dark, quiet, and chilled. Kellin always waited for Misha to get up first and tend the fire before she roused. Timmuk had left in the night and there was a cold, empty depression where he slept against her side, snugged up under her breasts.
What had woke her?
“Misha,” she heard, the softest whisper, the faintest soughing, like a breeze through a broken pane.
She lay still, her heart beating like a hammer against her ribs, her breath caught in her chest. She tried not to move out of the warm nest.
“Misha, come to me.”
The voice pulled like a hook in the center of her chest. She growled as she threw back the covers, hissed as her feet touched the icy stone.
She dressed quickly, pulling on her good boots, putting her hair up, and scrubbing at her face quickly with a cloth dipped into the basin of freezing water on the stand. Not taking time for tea or to put more coal on the fire, she threw her cloak over her shoulders, lifted the door catch, and
slipped from the room.
The tension pulling her was steady. What did Winterton want from her? Angry that he dragged her from her sleep without a by-your-leave or any kindness, she spoke a spell to counteract his pull.
“Like a fish on a line, I slip your hook, like a knot in the loom, I slip your bonds, away, I slip free.”
But the call was too strong and the pull settled deeper in her chest, her heart. A shock of fear lanced through her heart, making her gasp. It had never felt so strong, sunk so far into her.
“Don’t worry, Misha. This is exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. Don’t dawdle now.”
But why was Winterton was calling her? Ideas raced through her brain as she walked the empty corridors. Perhaps for a ritual. Yes, that had to be it. He was going to work an equinox rite with her. Maybe he’d prepared an initiation to take advantage of the power of this magical day to help her be a better magician.
But why her? Why not Bricker or Dame Salome? Why a hearth witch who fails at the most basic magic?
Because she was his protégé.
Her steps quickened and she shivered in the cool, damp breeze, allowing the thread to pull her, down past the classes, beyond the stone vaults where they stored the implements and tools of great magic sealed with great timber doors and latched with spelled bronze locks.
She stopped at a landing. The call pulled her, but ahead was a wall deeply carved with a sphinx.
“Press her beard, touch the tattoo on her breast, tap the cobra on her brow,” Winterton whispered, and those spots glowed softly on the carved wall.
A tiny door swung inward when she did so, barely enough room for her to fit. The stairs were dark, but the call led her on, the thread pulling her now softly glowing to illuminate the path.
Winterton waited for her at the bottom of the staircase.
“Very good, Misha. You’re exactly where I want you to be. Come in.”