The Sorcerer’s Flock
Aryn, Witch of Anacaris
Nobody questions how the Sorcerer Kaelthar grows the most potent herbs in Anacaris, but an hour into tilling his garden, I discover the bones. I loft a glittering femur, too long for a dog, too short for a stag, and present it to Ember’s kneeling form. “What is this?”
Ember snaps to attention, sandy hair splaying as their head jerks. Their green eyes flare, catching sight of the ivory scepter. “Could be a bludgeon the way you’re holding it.”
Trust Ember to take literal death in stride. The least flappable apprentice in our group, their sub-magical mother deposited on Kaelthar’s doorstep straight off the family farm. Late at night, they’ve guiltlessly described butchering livestock, hefting slabs of carcass to slice off the meat. That’s the expertise I need. “But what does it belong to?”
Crooked teeth poke out of their adorable, lopsided grin. “A baby unicorn? Or a griffin?”
Hearty guffaws spill out. “That’s an awfully tall, skinny griffin. With backwards knees.”
“Maybe it’s the skeleton of the last apprentice who gave Kaelthar lip like you,” Ember says.
“Is that why we’re stuck with garden duty?” I swing the bone toward the tower where the other students are learning the role ancient Sorcerers played in the Great War.
“It explains you.” Ember returns to the soil. “But why punish me?”
I brush the dirt off their roughspun tunic. “You, my friend, have made the mistake of showing you’re useful with plants.”
Ember balls a fist. “If he gave me the chance, I’d prove something else. I could’ve stayed home and farmed. I came to Kealthar to learn something of value.”
“And because you got pissed off and cooked a chicken running through the field,” I remind them.
“Oh right. There’s always that.” Quiet shame fills their voice.
Few apprentices are proud of the earliest ways our magical talents manifested.
Ember stabs the ground with their trowel. “But pulling weeds won’t teach me control.”
The bells toll, signaling our freedom from physical toil. I abandon the bone behind a shock of rosemary, and we rise, stretching our legs and shaking dirt from our clothes. Ember’s arm encircles my shoulder, sliding my messy braid aside, towering over me by a foot, and I smile up at them. “You’ll prove your abilities; you’ll even impress him.”
“Thanks,” Ember’s cheeks redden, “but I don’t have your talent. You can already conjure anything you want. Flick a finger, and your will instantly concentrates.”
I wave them off. “I’ve just had more practice.”
“Aryn, humblest Witch in all Anacaris,” Ember scoffs.
“Trust me, I still have a long way to go,” I protest.
“You’ll get there,” they promise. “Someday, you could have enough power to supplant Kaelthar. All I can hope for is amassing more skills than my parents.”
Ember’s jealousy breaks my heart. I rub their arm. “Just focus on Alchemy,” I advise. “Then we eat.”
***
Tyrak slams his plate beside Ember’s. “You missed the entire show! Did you know King Talarion fought with a squadron of dragons? And the Alerics rode unicorns! Master Kaelthar cast a spell showing us a battle between the forces.”
“Everyone knows that.” Catching Ember’s amazement too late, I often forget the privileges growing up with my Witch mother has afforded me. She presented such cheap light shows as bedtime stories. My friends shake their heads at my faux pas, aware of my bias after the six months we’ve shared.
“Sounds amazing.” Ember chases a morsel of sausage.
Rebellion makes me smile. I lean in to shelter our activities from the view of the other dozen students. Swirling my index finger, I direct my will, recalling my mother’s scenes. Glowing figures form and charge across the table. Ancient soldiers riding red dragons race to meet their foes atop silver unicorns. Fire and sparkling beams of power clash between the opposing forces. They clash in the circle’s center and evaporate into smoke.
Ember claps their hands, grinning with delight.
Tyrak slumps in his seat. “That’s not how Master Kaelthar showed it.”
Boney fingers clamp onto my shoulder, power mixed with rage flowing through them. “No, it isn’t,” the strict voice declares. His grip intensifies, crushing my clavicle, until it burns where his fingers dig into my skin. “Aryn, you will refrain from unauthorized uses of magic. Your poorly trained abilities do not excuse you from the rules of order.”
“Yes, Master Kaelthar.” I would say anything to get his hand off me, and he knows it. He grunts and moves on, but doesn’t divert his stare. I haven’t mollified him.
“There you go, making it worse,” Ember teases wryly. “He already hates you.”
Tyrak digs at his meal. “You give him good reason to. You’re always breaking rules and questioning his teachings.”
I frown distastefully at Tyrak shoveling his food into his mouth. “My momma didn’t raise me to swallow a whole putrid meal in one gulp without a critical glance.” I pick a huge chunk of gristle out of my sausage and plop it on his plate.
He glares at me and flicks it back. “Your mother sent you here to learn like the rest of us. Get used to the idea. A Witch isn’t a Sorcerer. If she had the skills to develop your talent herself, she’d have kept you home.”
The word conjures images of my mother’s cozy hearth bubbling with some thick, unknown concoction. Visions of exploring the forest, gathering the medicinal herbs we used to create potions for the village. Half-bits of the rhymes singing the recipes to common cures and phrases from the stories she animated with her magic.
“Can’t fault her for wanting the best for her daughter.” There’s no force behind my words. Kaelthar is Anacaris’ preeminent Sorcerer; I understand why I’m here, but I don’t have to enjoy it. I poke at my potato and huff, giving up and dumping it in the trash, then sulk to the library for the remainder of our free time.
Twenty minutes later, Ember catches up to me, meaning to be supportive, but isn’t about to leave lunch unfinished. They plop into the seat next to me. “You could’ve asked me before you threw your food out.”
I slide the tattered volume I’ve been reading toward them. “This says three dragons were involved in the Great War. Kaelthar’s version isn’t historically accurate either.”
Ember shrugs. “It’s a better story the way you tell it.”
“Only a child would believe some tale about great hordes of mythical beasts, even from a thousand years ago,” I continue. “Can’t believe Tyrak bought it.”
Ember throws their head back and laughs. “Really? Tyrak repeats anything the old man says. He doesn’t have the sense to question it.”
I can’t help but join. “How is that doofus not a sub?”
Ember’s face glows. “I don’t-”
Propelled by magic, the book snaps closed. We glance up and into Ortha’s glare. “You shouldn’t say that,” she huffs. “You might have more raw talent, but you’re not better than anyone, Aryn. If I catch you two bragging again, I’ll tell Master Kaelthar.”
Ember and I keep our faces straight during her diatribe, but once she stomps off, we dissolve into giggles. “Someone has a crush,” I observe.
“On Tyrak or Kaelthar?” Ember asks.
“Both?” I call out loud enough for Ortha to hear.
“Poor Ortha,” Ember chuckles, “destined for disappointment. Or worse.”
***
The afternoon wears on. In herbology class, we brew love potions. I fill my notebook with three pages of variants while Kaelthar drones on about the basic recipe. Only when it comes time to mix our concoctions do I notice Ortha is missing.
I vie for Ember’s attention, but they’re hunched over, pinching herbs onto the scale to obtain a precise weight when a ratio of ingredients would do. Tyrak elbows Jelric and whispers something in his ear, and they both laugh. He’s oblivious to Ortha’s absence. It seems unlikely Kaelthar assigned her discipline duties, but anyone can tire of her uppity attitude.
By the end of class, I brew three potions: a basic spell to cause the recipient to develop romantic feelings for the enchanter, another tweaked to compel the consumer to dote upon the first person they see, and one specific to breeding horses.
Ember saddles up to me, waving a flask containing a heterogeneous puce fluid. “Would you drink this?” they ask.
I push the vile-smelling juice out of my face. “Not a chance.”
We flow the crowd through the stone halls, matriculating downstairs and out the servants’ entrance, into the side yard. Ember tugs my elbow, leading me to the duty roster to check our assignments. They click their tongue; the list shows our names on opposite ends. We’re never stationed together.
Ortha’s name is somehow absent. Everyone quickly finds their tasks. Nefia, the cook, comes to claim the students assigned to work kitchen duty. The rest of the apprentices disperse throughout the grounds.
My assignment relegates me to the stables. It sounds like an afternoon of working with the horses, but it’s hours spent mucking stalls. My shovel drags and imparts a strong smell to my tunic and hair. The dinner bell rings, but I follow the group only to the bathhouse.
Arriving late and wet, I can find no trace of Ortha. Her words flutter into my mind, and I’m flooded with guilt. Did I upset her so much she ran off to sulk?
I gather my food and search the room for Ember. Sandwiched between Tyrak and Jelric, they need a friend. I plop down across from them and am gifted with a grateful glance.
“There she is,” Tyrak says. “What’s wrong? Afraid you got dirty?”
“Unlike you, I bathe after working in the stable, instead of forcing my stench on everyone around me.” I pinch my nose.
“You smell nice,” Jelric assures me.
Changing the topic. “Speaking of missing people, has anyone seen Ortha since lunch?”
Ember releases their fork and gazes meaningfully into my eyes. “Do you think we upset her?”
I huff. “I hope not. But we should hunt for her after dinner.”
Tyrak’s brow furrows. “What did you say to her?”
I shake my head. “That’s not important.”
“What matters is we find her,” Ember says.
“We’ll help.” Jelric takes a bite of his chicken. Tyrak snorts.
I drum my fingers on the table, considering the offer. Is Ortha’s love unrequited? Shuffle the thought aside lest I giggle. “Alright.” I ladle forkfuls of mashed turnips into my mouth, making quick work of my meal. The others do the same, and soon we’re ready to search.
One at a time, we dispose of our dishes and exit the dining room without drawing attention. We reconvene in front of the thick oak door barring Kaelthar’s massive hall.
Ember glances around the group. “If you wanted to mope by yourself, where would you run to hide?”
“We’ve been to the bathhouse, the kitchen.” I tick off locations. “Where could she go?”
“The cellar?” Jelric poses brightly.
Lightning passes between our eyes, and we know we must pursue it. Ember takes the lead, their broad shoulders becoming a shield. We descend the cold, spiral staircase into the dark until I squeeze past Tyrak and catch up with them, flicking a glow at the tips of my fingers to illuminate the path.
A century’s worth of dust greets us when we reach the bottom. Books and wine bottles caked with the fluffy, gray layers fill the space. But in the center of the room, two suspicious trails lead across the floor to a small wooden closet in the corner.
We skulk along, our footsteps muffled, following the tracks. Ember and Tyrak grip the massive iron handle, which groans in protest, tugging the door open. I gasp, and my light sputters out, leaving utter darkness.
But it doesn’t matter. We all saw her. Ortha hangs there, suspended by her arms, pale and drained of blood. Dead.
Editor: Michelle Naragon
