Tethered by Blood

by Jane Beckstead

  There I was, exposed at the worst moment. I shortened by four inches, my chest leaped outward, and the deep baritone voice I’d magicked myself with disappeared. The shock of it destroyed my composure.

  It was fortunate for me that my bosom was so small to begin with, because the test proctor and judges were so distracted by my sudden decrease in height and my higher voice that they didn’t notice the most telltale sign I was a female. Instead, they snickered and coughed to hide it, and the test proctor said he hoped I’d learned my lesson about vanity.

  The damage was done, at least to my self-possession. Every spell I’d studied, every skill I’d practiced...all of it fled. I failed.

  Somehow I kept enough of my composure to not reveal my secret completely there on the dais. When I left the Conclave, head hung low in shame, I vowed to never rely on appearance-altering spells again. There were too many risks. Instead, I perfected my method for binding my chest and spent time around Larkspur House, watching the way various male servants moved. Even if I didn’t have the exact shape of a male, at least I could imitate them well enough to pass for one.

  Nowadays, the only two spells I relied on were a soiling spell for the monthly bleeding and a voice modulating spell, though a less deep version than I once used.

  “Peck told me you’d slept the whole morning,” Mrs. Pitts continued. “Mark this, underwizard. Master won’t countenance laziness. If you want to sleep the day away, crawl back to whatever backwoods village you came from and laze about there.”

  What did she mean, I’d ‘slept the whole morning’? I sat back on the floor and looked at the window again. It faced east. I’d been thinking the sun was not yet high enough to shine in my window, but I was wrong. That wasn’t early morning light filtering through the glass—it was the light of midafternoon. I had slept long and hard, the sleep of the concussed.

  My long slumber helped. I felt clear-headed in a way I didn’t yesterday.

  “I had hoped the bath would make you more presentable, but you’re more a mess than ever.” She shook her head as she took in my face. “Those bruises.” She sniffed at me. “At least you smell better. Now, on your feet.”

  I stopped myself from pointing out that any stench clinging to me yesterday came from my short stay in the Bramford jail. I’d been in fine form before being beaten and jailed.

  “On your feet, I said.” Mrs. Pitts’s sharp voice cut into my thoughts. “And you may as well know, the fool left. Climbed out his window and disappeared in the night.”

  “Gone?” I repeated, caught unawares. Dismay overwhelmed me, dismay I shouldn’t be feeling for a boy I barely knew, and I didn’t like it.

  “Gone,” she repeated. “His bed wasn’t slept in, and his bathwater is untouched. A relief to us all, I assure you. Now, get off your lazy bones. Master wants you in his study.”

  Once she was gone, I stayed on the floor for longer than I cared to admit. When I rose, I crossed to the window, opened it, and leaned out to see what Ivan might have experienced while climbing down. His window was far to my right, several arm lengths away. The foliage beneath the window, a bush of some sort, appeared rather trampled. I ran a hand over the stone exterior next to my window. It presented several handholds all the way to the ground. It would be an easy climb for an experienced wall-scaler such as myself. During our poorest days in Waltney, Papa and I became thieves, scaling buildings in the dark of the night to get at the finer wares within. But I wondered how Ivan managed that climb.

  He had chosen Bramford. A pathetic existence at best.

  No. I didn’t care. Ivan wasn’t my brother.

  “Sweet carrot sticks!” a voice exclaimed in the distance.

  My glance swung to the open meadow. A rotund man strode toward me, holding a mallet of some sort in one hand. Every few feet he stopped to hold his mallet high in the air while turning around in a circle. He wore short pants the color of old moss, dark socks that reach his knees, and boots. His shirt was plain and practical, the shirt a farmhand might wear. A wide-brimmed hat hid his face from view.

  It was impolite to stare, but even so, I couldn’t help myself, knowing Master Hapthwaite would have rapped my knuckles with something painful if he’d seen. It was the most unusual sight to greet my eyes in a long time.

  He looked at me and shouted, “Hullo, there! If you’re not busy, come help me find him!” He turned and trotted back toward the forest.

  What sort of place was this Ryker Hall? Was it possible there was a nearby lunatic asylum?

  I dressed, donning the new clothes I found in the wardrobe and found Master Wendyn’s study by asking directions of the first servant I saw, which turned out to be Edie, the maid from last night.

  After pointing the way, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small jar. “It was no trouble, sir.” She held the jar out, the color high in her cheeks. “Comfrey, remember? For your face.”

  The prudent thing would be to turn it down. This gift represented something to the girl, something that would be a problem for me. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it when I saw the hopeful look on her face.

  “Thank you.” I accepted the bottle, and Edie’s face split in a smile. She was a beautiful girl. For a moment, I envied her the dresses and the length of her hair. As much as I wanted to be a master wizard, I also longed to be myself—a female.

  But there was no use in thinking about that. I had made my choice.

  “Rub it on those cuts once or twice a day. In no time you’ll be all healed up.”

  I thanked her again, and when she continued to stand there, looking hopefully at me, I turned and walked away.

  The door to the master’s study was ajar. I stood there for a moment, peeking through the crack to see if I could glimpse the man and gauge his mood. My efforts were unsuccessful, and it only took a moment for me to realize how ridiculous I was being. If any of the servants should see me, I would resemble a frightened rabbit. I squared my shoulders and tapped on the door.

  “Enter.”

  I did so and found myself confronted with a shelf-lined room holding a variety of books and knick-knacks. A tingle of excitement ran through me upon sight of the books. I only learned to read three years ago when I entered Master Hapthwaite’s tutelage, and it took about two years to work my way through his collection. To have fresh, unread books at my disposal filled me with delight.

  Only they weren’t at my disposal yet. First, I must learn why I was here.

  “Don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open. Sit down.”

  The man sat behind a large, tidy desk. There was a chair opposite him, ornate, just as everything in this house was. I sat in it and looked, for the first time with more than a passing glance, at my new master.

  He was leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, dark hair hanging in his eyes. His master wizard robes—all black, whereas my novitiate robes were gray edged with red at the collar and cuffs—were neat enough, although there was a button missing near his throat, and the strings where it once sat hang loose. I was positive there was no Mrs. Master Wizard, who would have seen his hair trimmed and his clothes mended. He was much younger than I first thought, here in a well-lit room and without the lens of concussion clouding my vision. He couldn’t be over ten years older than me.

  “Your name?”

  “Avery,” I said. “Avery Mullins.”

  “Mullins. That’s right. The baboon told me you’re a borderline underwizard.”

  I took a moment to remember that by “baboon” he meant Master Hapthwaite, and that he’d just insulted me. A part of me wanted to fire a spell at him and prove just what I could do. The feeling reminded me of my brawling partners in the streets of Waltney, boys who had told me I was too stupid for learning. They usually took it back once I beat them into submission.

  “Borderline?” I repeated. “Perhaps you misheard him. Mightn’t he also have said my skills were divine? He told me so often enough.” Master Hapthwaite had never said anything of the sort, bu
t I had become very good at lying since I first disguised myself as a boy.

  He rubbed a hand along his jaw, rubbing the whiskers there. “Or maybe he said asinine.”

  The smugness on his face irritated me. “Then why am I here?”

  He shook his head as if even he didn’t know the answer. “I suppose because I’m too soft-hearted. Too blasted soft-hearted for my own good.”

  Perhaps the concussion was still impairing my judgment, because I said, “Yes. You ooze benevolence.”

  Annoyance flitted across his face. “And hasty,” he said. “I’m far too hasty. But never mind that. You will solve a problem for me, underwizard. I live here with my crazy—no, that’s not right; let’s call him my eccentric grandfather.” He reached for a piece of paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and scrawled something messy and dark across the page. “Master Oscar Wendyn is his name. You may have heard of him.”

  The name rang familiar, and it clicked into place. “Wasn’t he PMW?”

  “That’s right. He was Preeminent Master Wizard until about ten years ago when he retired due to age.” He was still scrawling. “His mind wanders these days. What he needs is an occupation. Something to keep him sane. There.” He picked the paper up and waved it in the air, drying the words he’d just written. I tried in vain to read what they said as he weaved the paper back and forth, back and forth.

  “Everybody needs an occupation,” I said, hardly aware of what I’d said. I couldn’t decide what he was getting at.

  “If you’re agreeable to becoming apprenticed again, it’s time for the apprentice oath.” He set the paper down before me.

  Relief washed over me. I would be apprenticed. There was still hope for my master wizard dream.

  Every master-apprentice relationship began with an apprentice oath. My oath with Master Hapthwaite was so long ago, lost amid my beginning days as an underwizard, that remembering its details was like looking into a fogged mirror. My behavior in Bramford would have rendered that oath null—I knew that much.

  I placed my hand on the paper, but Master Wendyn’s words checked me. “You’ll want to read it first. I want no claims you didn’t understand what you were swearing.”

  The oath couldn’t be that different from my last, but I removed my hand anyway and glanced over the messy writing, trying to make sense of its scrawls.

  I, Avery Mullins, do hereby promise and swear to become the apprentice of Oscar Carden Wendyn —

  My eyes darted upward. “I’m to be apprenticed to your grandfather?”

  He blinked at me, eyebrows raised, as though surprised at the sharpness of my voice. “That’s right.”

  “When you’ve as much as said the man is crazy?” My mouth gaped.

  “Not crazy. He needs a purpose to keep him sane. An apprentice, say.”

  More clicked into place. “He’s that man I saw out in the meadow, isn’t he? With the mallet? Carrying on like a lunatic?”

  His brow darkened. “I’ve said he needs an occupation. The man was a genius in his day. He can be again.”

  I couldn’t believe I was ready to swear an oath to a man who probably couldn’t remember his own name. I rubbed at my nose, just like Mama. She always rubbed at her nose when worried.

  “Do you have a better offer?” he continued. “You’re free to go if you think you can find another master, someone willing to take on an underwizard who’s already broken one oath. I wish you luck in that case.” He retrieved the paper and crumpled it into a ball.

  I deflated. I was certain of two things in that moment. One, he was right. Finding and convincing another master to take me would be a difficult—maybe impossible—proposition. And two, I hated him for it.

  “I will swear.” It took effort to get the words out.

  “Ah. I thought you might.” He smoothed the crumpled paper out. “Let me read it to you in full.” His deep voice commenced, and I found that I hated every nuance of the sound, every confident rise and fall in his tone, the smooth smugness underlying it. The general meaning of the oath was that I must promise to be a model underwizard and apply myself to my studies with dedication. I placed my hand on the crumpled paper when he finished. He did the same. We said the words, and the magic mixed between us, sparking off of our fingers and twining together. I glared at it.

  I was on the edge of a cliff, rage tugging me over the side.

  “Forget everything the baboon taught you,” he said, an afterthought as I turned to go. “Tomorrow your real training begins.”

  As I left, I couldn’t help but worry I just ruined my chances of ever becoming a master wizard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I didn’t choose a direction so much as look up and realize that I was outside. Mrs. Pitts’s voice echoed in my memory. I felt as though she might have called something at my retreating back about supper.

  A glance around showed that the meadow was empty but for a grazing cow in the distance. I started toward the trees with no destination in my head. But among the trees, at least there would be a place to think and walk undisturbed. The rage washed over me, and I let it. I needed to experience it and let it go before I did something stupid with it. That was another thing I’d learned about rage.

  I was halfway to the forest when a noise to my left drew my attention. I stumbled in surprise, because the hat-wearing fellow was beside me, his stride matched to my own. When I stuttered to a stop, so did he.

  “So you’re here to help?”

  This was old Master Wendyn, former PMW—Preeminent Master Wizard, or in other words, the highest magical office a master wizard could hold. The PMW ruled all magic-holders with the help of the Wizard’s Council. Up close, I could see that his chin was grizzled with a patchy white beard, his face wrinkled and tan.

  “Help?” I repeated.

  “Just playing a game of scry and seek. Would you like to help?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Oh. You don’t.” He sounded disappointed but recovered quickly enough, removing his hat to crouch down and place an ear to the ground.

  Seeing the man up close didn’t increase my anger. Up close, it was plain he couldn’t help what he’d become. Anger directed at him would be useless. It was the grandson I should be angry with.

  I gave him a short bow. “I suppose I should introduce myself, Master Wendyn. Avery Mullins at your service.”

  “Oscar,” he said, holding a hand out. I helped him up. Did I imagine I heard the creak of old bones? “Pleased to make your acquaintance. And don’t call me master. Nobody calls me that anymore but the servants and other people I don’t like.” He plopped his hat back on his head and gestured with one arm. “This is Forthwind.”

  “Er...who is Forthwind?” I asked, looking to the space he’d just gestured at.

  “Don’t be dimwitted, boy. The stick.” He waved the arm around more, the one holding the mallet.

  “You named your stick?”

  “Of course. I name all of them.” He gave me a look up and down, one eyebrow raised. “You’re the new apprentice, eh? I thought you’d be smarter.”

  I chewed on my lip and didn’t reply. I wondered how long this master-apprentice relationship could last. He didn’t look as though he’d live the period of an apprenticeship, which could sometimes exceed ten years. What happened if he died amid my studies? Would the grandson inherit me, like chattel?

  He raised his mallet in the air and turned in a circle. At last he stopped, squinted into the distance, and took off across the meadow. I was unsure what to do until he called over his shoulder, “Well, come on, then. He won’t just find himself!”

  By the time I caught up, Oscar had come to a stop at the edge of the forest. The trees all ran together here, thick as berries at the height of summer. Dappled sunlight filtered through the branches.

  “I saw that boy come out the window.” Oscar wheezed as he looked over at me, his voice almost mournful. The brim of his hat flopped back and forward on a breeze. “He might have broke
n his neck, but I slowed his fall.” His fingers twitched at a branch, and a leaf drifted to the ground at half the normal speed.

  “‘That boy’? You mean Ivan?”

  He gestured into the trees. “The boy that came with you. Then he ran into the trees. Seems a shame to leave him. Wild animals come this far sometimes, you know.”

  I stared into the blackness between the trunks. “He’s in the forest?”

  Oscar leaned the mallet over one shoulder. “It’ll be a day or two at the most before the big animals hunt him down. Do you want to help me find him?”

  I already knew I wouldn’t leave Ivan in the forest, though I couldn’t understand why. That boy wasn’t Gavin, but there was a part of my mind that didn’t seem to care. “I suppose so.”

  Oscar scrubbed at his chin. “Well, don’t sound so excited about it. Forthwind and I are just saving a life, that’s all. You needn’t feel obligated to join us.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. This broken shell of a mind—a man who named his mallet and spoke of it like a companion—was a master wizard? “Yes, I’ll join you and your stick. Lead on, Master W—I mean, Oscar. I’ll follow where you lead.” I let him pass me and then trailed after him into the forest, its needles and leaves and twigs crunching underfoot.

  It was an hour or more before we found Ivan, an hour of listening to the ground and twisting the mallet in air and Oscar calling out meaningless incantations. But at last we found Ivan by dumb luck when I spied his pale hair glinting through the foliage. He huddled against a tree, eyes closed and head leaned back, snoring. Dirt streaked him up and down. He was twice as dirty as the last time I saw him.

  “Impressive,” Oscar said, nudging Ivan with his foot. “It isn’t easy to accumulate so much filth. Is it a natural talent, or have you had to work to develop the skill?”