"No, they're effective. Magic creates easily exploitable weaknesses. Even when you know about them. Only older mages can resist it."
I never wanted to have magic, wasn't planning on learning it, but I still had to suffer the downsides. Great.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I know you have a grudge. Unresolved feelings. You still feel angry about what happened. I could manipulate you into forgetting it, but I won't. Instead, I'd like you to forgive me for real. Like you dark arall do; the old-fashioned way."
Dark arall are not known for forgiveness. There are, however, ways we've learned to deal with affronts without vengeance. Could he be…
"Are you offering a weregild?"
"Yes."
This was the first time anybody offered me a weregild. Nobody had wronged me like that, either.
"You do understand that forgiveness doesn't mean we get back together, do you?"
"Yes."
"So why are you willing to pay me a weregild? I wasn't going to avenge my honor or anything like that."
"I told you. I want to start over. A clean slate. And after you forgive me, I could try again."
"Let me think about the payment. It will have to be something more substantial than what you brought me today, though."
He nodded. I put my coat back on and left, this time without looking back.
Arall people, male and female, belong to their magic first. Our identity, character, status, moods, are all based on the tonality of our magic. The strength of the magic actually doesn't matter that much when it comes to its influence on us. Magic is spread through our bodies when we grow, it shapes us; it changes who we are. It magnifies certain feelings, desires.
I can't change who I am, nor do I want to: magic is too integral a part of me. I never wanted to go through Initiation and learn to use it, as I didn’t see the point. I have loved alchemy since I was a kid. I didn't want to stop being an alchemist, and I was afraid magic would consume it. And for what? To become another mediocre mage?
But who I am is not the most pleasant person to be around, to be honest. My family loves me and is used to my quirks, but I only have one friend, Joe, who was my teammate during a course and seems to stick to me in class. Whenever we have group work assigned, I tend to let him slack off, mostly because I don't like sharing — not even sharing work.
And I never had a lover who liked me for myself, either. Jack had hurt me deeply when I learned he was spying on me, that he was managing me. And that all the men before him, had been too. That nobody wanted to be with me, even when they were paid to do so. Everybody before him had broken up with me. He had been the first and last I broke up with.
And now he seems to want to go back with me. Probably because his superiors asked him to — in light of this project I was now involved with — manage me again. Well, this time, I wouldn't let my feelings get the best of me. That outburst, that expression of real feelings, would be the last one. I was going to use him now. For as long as his superiors wanted something from me, I could get things from him — information, advice, help. A weregild, he said? Ha! I was certainly going to get that — from his superiors.
As it seemed like I wasn't going to get any info the easy way, I spent the whole day working. Putting the notes and scribbled ideas into one coherent, solid unit took me the whole weekend. But I still did it, because I wanted to learn more about my grandfather. And to do that, I would have to stay close to him. My thesis plan was going to be really solid. After I put him in a tight spot during my presentation, I had to show him that I wasn't all about murky shenanigans, that I was willing to put in the work, too. So I didn't sleep that much, but, by Monday, my plan was ready.
When I sat in the class, in the same spot (this time, they kept it for me), I was quite surprised to see Prof. Derwen enter the class. The course only had one lecturer on it, and the schedule didn't mention anything about a different lecturer. In fact (I checked my notes again) we had a lecture by Prof. Bedwen scheduled again.
Prof. Derwen glanced around the class and took out the attendance sheet.
"As Prof. Bedwen can't give a lecture today, he assigned some independent study. I'll write the materials you're supposed to write an essay about on the blackboard. But before that, I'll check attendance, to make sure everybody came."
After a couple of minutes of attendance checks (seriously, what's with these guys? None of the other classes ever checked attendance at lectures), the class copied the notes on the blackboard and departed. This time, instead of dwindling, I purposefully strode through the rows towards Prof. Derwen.
"Prof. Derwen," I called, as he collected his things and headed to the door.
He turned around.
"Ah, Miss Bedwen. There you are. I heard you had an appointment with Prof. Bedwen, right? About your thesis topic. Prof. Bedwen said you could just tell me. I could be your co-supervisor."
The whole point of this thesis was to spend more time with my grandfather. The last thing I wanted was to have to write the thesis and spend more time with Prof. Derwen.
"Respectfully, sir," anytime you start a phrase with 'respectfully', it's not, and I wasn't going to be. "I approached Prof. Bedwen because of his vast experience. I want to work with him. If I'd wanted to work with you, I would have asked you. If Prof. Bedwen is too busy to supervise me, I'll have to rethink the thesis topic. Have a good day."
If Prof. Bedwen didn't come to the meeting, I would go to him. I didn't spend an all-nighter preparing all the work just to be ignored. Besides, it gave me an excuse to go to his home.
I'd already found where his home was when I was looking into the info about him. His house was walking distance from the university, so I went to his house, carefully navigating the slippery ice on the sidewalks. Thanks to the ice, the streets smelled nice, without the stench of rotten garbage we get in the summer. Every season has its benefits.
Prof. Bedwen lived in university housing. Those houses were temporary, so I was quite surprised that he hadn't found something more permanent yet. He could certainly afford it, at least according to the info I had collected on him.
When I knocked, a frazzled, but very stocky housekeeper opened the door.
"Good morning. Where is Prof. Bedwen? I am meeting him this morning." Being assertive is key in navigating people whose job description is to not let you meet the boss.
She put her hands at her hips, ready to fight.
"Prof. Bedwen is unwell. He isn't taking any visitors."
I squeezed my way inside. The housekeeper may be strong, but she's no match to me. The entrance led to a grand staircase. I headed upstairs, with the housekeeper beside me.
"But he told me to come to see him. I'm sure he won't mind," I said, running up the stairs. I felt the housekeepers' breath behind me. Something felt fishy.
As I went through the corridor, I kept opening the doors, looking for my grandfather.
"Prof. Bedwen is not here. This corridor is reserved for…" and then she stopped as if realizing she said too much.
Who else was living here? Was it my uncle? I heard a noise from one of the doors, so I headed towards that door. The housekeepers' feeble attempts couldn't stop me. I opened the door and pushed myself inside, with the housekeeper on top of me, trying to stop me from coming in.
The man inside the room, whom my grandfather was trying to calm, did indeed look very similar to mother. Unlike my brothers, who were more of a copy of my father and grandfather, I guess my mother and her brother were copies of their mother? Because they certainly didn't look too much like my grandfather.
Grandpa was holding my uncle down and trying to feed him. He seemed to be refusing to eat. They both looked up when we came in.
"Professor!" I said, ignoring his look. "There you are! I've been looking all morning for you. Now, let me help you with this, so we can have our meeting."
"I'm sorry, Sir," apologized the housekeeper. "I tried to stop her, but she didn't listen. Should I call the gr
oomsmen to kick her out?"
"Don't worry, Betty," he said wryly. "It's not like you could have stopped her. Miss Bedwen, since you're offering to help, why don't you hold my son?"
I approached the bed. My uncle was staring at me, curious.
"Are you here to play with me?" he asked.
I paused. This man didn't look crazy. He rather looked… like a child. A three-year-old child in an adult's body, sure, but like a normal child. His curious gaze showed an intelligence atypical to those born mentally challenged. There were only two reasons why an adult man could be like that. One, he was born like that. Two, his identity had been deleted, and it seemed like it was the second.
"Of course. If you're a big boy and eat your…" I checked the plate's contents, "porridge, I'll play with you. Would you like to play with trains or would you like to paint?"
"Trains! I don't like porridge. It's disgusting," he curved his lip in disgust like my brother did whenever we fed him porridge. He eventually started liking it when we started adding jam to it.
"Let me tell you a secret," I said, displacing my grandpa, who let me do it, with a look of apprehensive fascination in his face. "Porridge is actually delicious. It needs a secret ingredient though." I looked at the housekeeper. "Could you bring some redcurrant jam, please? And some more porridge."
She looked at me, but after a nod from grandpa, she left, puffing.
I grabbed his hand and shook it.
"I'm Dana. You can call me Dan. What's your name?"
"Billie. I like your name. Are you papa's friend? Do you like trains?"
"I am your papa's friend. He invited me because I am a specialist on trains. I know how all of them work."
"All of them? Even the Leopard?"
"How could I not know about the fastest train ever? The only issue with the Leopard trains is with the radius of the railway. It can go so fast, it would derail in most curves. Do you have a Leopard?" As a child, I used to make model trains myself, by machining parts in my father's shop. The toy models sold in the store were too expensive for us. I'd seen the little toy high-speed Leopard train (with special toy rails) when shopping for gifts for my brothers, but considering my brothers never liked trains, and I was too old for them, I didn't buy it. But I'd always wanted one. And building toy trains as an adult seemed so… undignified.
"I do! I will show you how to play it." He was looking quite excited.
The housekeeper then came, with redcurrant jam on a tray. It was my brothers' favorite. I never could understand how they liked that bittersweet red goo, but putting redcurrant jam on anything was the best way to make them eat. Maybe it works for all little boys in the family.
"Now, Billie. I will add the secret ingredient to the porridge. You should eat all the porridge before we play."
"OK, Dan. But you promised you'd play." He obediently opened his mouth as I gave him a tablespoon of porridge with jam. "It's delicious!"
"Sure it is."
Seeing the skeptic look my grandfather darted at the goo-porridge mix, my family's affinity for redcurrant must come from grandma. Me, I'm like father; he never liked redcurrant jam either.
"Now that Papa knows the secret ingredient, they can make it again for you."
Billie obediently ate all the non-scattered porridge I gave him, while I helped myself to some redcurrant-free porridge. I love free food; besides, I hadn't had lunch yet. When he showed me his train set, I was as happy as he was. Train models are just great. They're no match for the real thing, but close.
7
"So, Miss Bedwen. Have you learned what you wanted to learn?" grandpa asked me. "Because that's the reason you approached me, right? Not the thesis, the topic of which you came up with after meeting me."
"Billie is such a nice boy. He's got a great train set. It would be great if I can come to play with him again."
"It's quite weird to refer to an old man as a 'boy', Miss Bedwen. And I don't remember inviting you. I didn't invite you to come today, either."
"But you did! You said we'd have a meeting after class on Monday. You just didn't specify the location. So we're having a meeting after class on Monday. In your home. Since that's where you are." Being confident and oblivious is key here. He knows I'm not that stupid, but he can't make me admit that.
"OK, Miss Bedwen. I'll grant you that. Did you bring your proposal?"
I handed him the proposal. He started reading it, quickly scribbling notes on the margins. I sat in the chair, looking around. The room was sparsely furnished, with no personal touches. It looked like the temporary accommodation it was. The room was heated by a fireplace, which filled the room with warmth and red light, although the main source of light were the gas lamps on the walls. It smelled of a mix of tobacco, whiskey, and smoke. Considering I didn't see any ashtrays around, it probably came from previous tenants. The only personal items were the books on the bookshelf. I stood up and observed the spines. It was a collection of law and history, with no fiction whatsoever.
Grandpa was quick at reading the proposal. I was still going through the titles, trying to see if there was anything remotely interesting among his books (there wasn't) when he went through the last page. He then proceeded to tear the whole proposal apart.
At the end of the discussion, when I had run out of ideas (and even excuses), I was feeling a bit defeated. All the criticism was good, because, frankly, neither the law nor ancient history were topics I knew much about. The only thing that was keeping me interested in my own work was the connection to alchemy.
"So, Prof. Bedwen," I asked after he asked me a particularly hard question about how I would control for the effect of culture vs. the law in facilitating alchemical development, which I wasn't able to answer satisfactorily. "Will you still be my supervisor?"
"Well, of course I will be. You said so during your presentation, remember? But, Miss Bedwen," his voice turned a bit ominous’ " don't think, for a second, that you can use my personal life to get any concessions. While I don't particularly want everybody to talk about me, there is nothing shameful in my life."
"I don't, Professor."
"Good. We're done, then."
"Well…" I said. "I think it would be nice if I could stay for dinner, Sir. I'm sure Billie will be happy to see me at the dinner table."
He seemed amused at my self-invitation.
"Miss Bedwen," he said, his eyebrows rising, "your impudence knows no limits, does it? OK, you can stay for dinner. But don't try to stay the night."
"Oh, don't worry, sir. I have a room in the dorms. It's quite close from here. I can sleep there and come for breakfast tomorrow."
"And why would you do that?"
"To save money, sir. As you know, the scholarship does not cover living costs. And I haven't found a job yet. Feeding me is in the interest of our research project. If I have to get a part-time job, it will harm the research. Besides, Billie sure enjoys the company. He told me he'd love to eat with me."
"Billie told you that?"
"He also mentioned he'd like to learn to use the utensils. I'm sure you won't mind me teaching him?"
When the cheeky (and nosy) student left, the housekeeper, who had been working for the Bedwen family all her life, and had even followed the family to Ashford, brought a tray of tea to the living room. After putting it on the coffee table, in front of the armchair Prof. Bedwen sat in during the evenings, she paused.
"Mr. Bedwen. I'm really sorry to ask, but… why didn't you kick her out as soon as she broke into the house? You certainly could have. That story about the meeting for the thesis was all bogus. Besides, you don't have to accept students. Why did you allow her to spend hours playing traints with your son? And then invite herself to dinner?"
"Billie likes her, Bettie. Have you seen him eat like that? As long as Miss Bedwen wants something from me, and I assure you it's not writing this project, she'll be nice to him. Having her come here will help me keep an eye on her, find out what it is she wants."
"W
hat if she wants to harm your family, sir?"
"I can handle myself. And she won't harm Billie."
"Well, sir, she might like him, but she could be faking it. Dark arall are known to be quite cruel." The housekeeper had grown in a family that had served the Inquisition for generations; she'd always been skeptical about the Reformation, despite her master's current leanings.
"Sure they are. But never to children. Not because of morality — attacking children for revenge is considered a sign of weakness."
"But Billie is not a child, sir. Mentally, he may be, but physically, he's not."
"Miss Bedwen sees Billie as a child. And, for as long as she does, Billie is safe." Seeing the skeptical look on the housekeeper's face, he tried to assuage her. "You can keep an eye on her. If you want, you can keep observing Miss Bedwen all the time she's not in my presence."
That was the biggest concession the housekeeper could get out of Prof. Bedwen, so she headed towards the door.
"And Bettie," he said, and she turned. "Make sure to prepare breakfast for three tomorrow. And serve it in the living room. With adult utensils."
"For three, sir?"
"Miss Bedwen is coming for breakfast."
To my surprise, when I came to Prof. Bedwen's house on Tuesday morning, the housekeeper opened the door for me. She even let me in.
"I came to have breakfast with Billie," I informed her, taking off my coat and gloves. She collected them from me, stiffly.
"Of course. Please follow me." She said, after giving my clothes to a maid, and escorting me to the dining room.
Breakfast had been served. Grandpa was sitting, reading the newspaper. Billie was sitting at the table, drumming the fork on the table.
"Dana! You came!" he said, eagerly standing up.
Grandpa looked over his newspaper.
"Ah, Miss Bedwen. There you are. Billie didn't want to start breakfast without you. Please sit down. Bettie, you can serve breakfast."
The Apprentice's Path: The Alchemist #1 Page 6