“Mooorning.”

  Iwy opened one eye and regretted it instantly.

  They had spent the night at the Headless Turnip, which was every bit as folksy and charming as it sounded if you considered straw mattresses and as many cockroaches as you could eat to be worthy of those descriptors.

  She should have finished milking the cows by now, it was her turn. She sat up as realisation set in, ran her hand over the pillow and thankfully found nothing but unscorched scratchy linen. Iwy tried to remember the weird dream she’d had but it had already decided it was needed somewhere else.

  Somehow, within the span of only one week, her life had become absolute chaos. Now she was in an inn miles away from home in a village she’d never been to and yet Iwy counted her lucky stars because Triand was already mostly dressed. She wore long trousers and a normal linen shirt under her robes, which surprised Iwy; she had reckoned magic types wouldn’t wear anything underneath, enjoying a magically cool breeze.

  She spotted a sort of amulet on her chest before the robes closed over it, a weaving nest of copper cradling a round, dark red stone. It looked heavy. Maybe more protective magic?

  Triand yanked the rest of the blanket off her apprentice. “Up, up, we gotta run. Probably literally. I took the liberty of casting some diversion spells last night, but our new best friends ain’t gonna be fooled forever, strange as that sounds.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “No sense of humour before noon, I see. Chop, chop, get ready, pack up, I left you some bath water, and the innkeeper’s frying up sausages. With a bit of luck, they’re only half racoon.” And with that, the mage flew downstairs.

  In the washing tub Iwy looked at her right arm. The wound had closed up nicely, though still red. Triand had shooed her into their room at the inn as soon as she was done haggling with the landlord. “It’s only a graze, it’s fine,” she had said, but for some reason mostly to herself as she dropped some essence from a small bottle on the cut after cleaning it and mumbled something, which at least answered Iwy’s question if she knew any healing magic. It wouldn’t leave a scar, she had said and Iwy had shrugged. It would have fit in with the one on her left knee and the one on her shoulder; you didn’t get off a farm without a few injuries. What bothered her were her stupid powers. Recently, she couldn’t seem to do anything right. All day not a spark, but at the worst possible moment ...

  “How d’you do that?” Iwy had tried her best to not be curious about this whole magic thing, but it was hard to keep the valve closed on the dam of questions.

  “Do what?”

  “The wasps. The roots. The whatever you did so they lost their trousers. How does it work?”

  Triand had waved her hands in front of her face. “Magic. Do I detect a hint of honest interest?”

  “No,” Iwy said quickly. “I mean, I can only do fire.”

  “Yet. You’ll learn.”

  It was probably a good idea to wear her change of clothing, the sturdier plain brown dress that had once belonged to her sister Josie. She had stitched up the rip in her sleeve last night and wished she had Josie’s talent for that. It showed up quite a bit.

  Iwy took inventory of her other clothes. Her best blue kirtle was already in dire need of a good laundering, but her bodiced petticoat could withstand some more punishment. Sometime in the previous day, she had also ripped the garter that held her left stocking. She needed a piece of string. Was there a spell that held your stockings up? No ... no, that’d be too silly.

  Or maybe she should also switch to trousers. With this amount of walking involved, it might be a sensible choice, only she had barely enough money on her. Iwy began to wonder if apprentices to mages got paid.

  A handful of people sat scattered around the gloomy tap room when Iwy came in. Some looked like travelling sellers, two or three seemed to be regulars.

  The tiled stove in the corner sported the same pattern as the pub’s in her village and Iwy tried not to wince. Only a week, and she already missed the family pub nights. Sometimes there would be a traveller present; news travelled slow and every bit of it, even if outlandish and frankly bollocks, was better than another discussion about wheat. The stories became a lot more interesting after nine when the children were sent home, the older ones tasked with looking after the younger ones, which usually earned silent groans. Being fifteen and trying to get a word with a handsome girl or boy was hard enough; a chorus of tiny goblins shouting “K-I-S-S-S-E-N-G” behind you dropped very cold ice on the beginning flames of romance. By the time Iwy was twelve she took care of the younger siblings, Elisia and Jendrick, on her own so Josie and Derek could nip off for a stroll with their respective interests of the day. Iwy had never understood that.

  In the present, she put her bag down next to Triand’s and started on breakfast. The sausages weren’t even that bad considering their racoon percentage.

  Triand took one sip of her ale and made a face. “This stuff is weak. Innkeep! What’s the point of ale if there’s no alcohol in it?”

  The tap room awoke with an intrigued start. Someone arguing with the landlord was among the top five entertainment options in the Midlands, not quite as engaging as a pub brawl but still better than an angry chicken chase.

  The stout man at the counter threw her a disinterested look. “Why don’t you magic yourself some in, wizard?”

  This earned was quiet laughter from the morning crowd.

  “Why don’t I magic you a boil on your arse?”

  Someone in a corner went, “Oh!”

  The innkeeper was the only one who didn’t seem amused. “That’s my wife’s ale. You can’t insult the ale without insulting my wife. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “Of course not, not after all the fun I had with her last night.”

  That did it, and the room erupted in guffaws while the innkeeper went red as a turnip.

  The mage ducked as a mostly clean mug was thrown in her general direction. The next thing Iwy knew they were out of the door and down the street, kitchen gadgets flung after them. Triand was still cackling maniacally when they finally came to a stop on the dust road.

  “That was fun,” she commented.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Iwy said sourly while she checked her bag for anything she might have forgotten.

  “He was so busy throwing us out he completely forgot to bill us. Isn’t that weird.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “You did that on purpose?”

  “Well, yes. But also, that was some tremendously weak ale.” Triand pulled a map out of her bundle and unfolded it. The paper was so old and frayed by rights it should have come out of her bag in pieces. Borders and places were defaced by faded pencil scribblings, circling this town or that, small notes next to roads or landmarks; one read “Bring bribe”, others “Here there be dragons”, a bridge was indicated by “Tollkeeper takes nap after lunch”, and there was an abstract smiling face doodled over a southern area.

  “That joke about his wife might have gone a bit far.”

  “What do you mean, joke?”

  “Wha... you didn’t. Did you?”

  “Hush now, need to read this map.” She mumbled to herself as she followed the different routes with her forefinger.

  “Riestra’s that way.”

  “I know. Is this road still there?”

  “I think so ...”

  “We’re taking the eastern route.”

  “The northern route’s shorter.”

  “Yep, and there’s more people and more witch hunters, and while they’re not our biggest problem at the moment I don’t wanna do a spell again, not with my lack of proper ale.” The mage stuffed the map into her bundle without much care as she began to walk.

  “What’s ale got to do with anything?”

  “First rule of magic: Use only when you have to. And when you’re not too sober.”

  “I don’t think you’ve been sober one day in your life,” Iwy said before she could stop herself.

  “Nonsense, I was born sober. Ready for some more arcane knowledge?”

  “What’s arcane?”

  “Well, most people think it means ‘magical’, but it’s actually an old word meaning secret. Which is why it’s very funny when people talk about arcane secrets.”

  She had been up for only an hour and Iwy felt tired again already. It was going to be another day full of information, and that so shortly after breakfast. She hardly remembered what Triand had told her yesterday.

  “Can I see that book again?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s the spell for invisibility?”

  “‘You can’t see me, you twit’.”

  “What? No, come on. That’s not a spell.”

  Triand raised an eyebrow at her. “You would know.”

  “Aren’t spells supposed to be in some other language? A really old one? Where every word ends in -us?”

  “No reason a spell should work in a language no one uses anymore and not in another. Also, in a thousand years, this will be an ancient language. A spell has no business caring about that.”

  Iwy turned the page. “‘Don’t go near my possessions or your nostrils will fill with cheese’?”

  “It’s an anti-thief spell.”

  Some pages didn’t contain spells at all but some sort of diary entries about plants or animals, jotted down so hastily Iwy couldn’t decipher them. Others were listings of addresses with female names noted down next to them. She quickly turned the page every time she saw those.

  A casual traveller wouldn’t have known which route was shorter. The landscape gave no clue; it consisted of more fields, stretching in every direction.

  Triand jabbed her thumb at the next barren field. “Wanna try your pyromancy again?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll do it anyway.”

  “I don’t think it’s any use.”

  “It worked yesterday. What were you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. I was nervous. D’you think it’s tied to that?”

  “You always seem nervous and you’re not a walking torch. Try it.”

  I know you’re in there, Iwy thought, looking at her own skin as if it was her aunt’s annoying little dog that had gotten stuck under the hearth again. You had no problem leaking out yesterday, come on.

  And exactly like an annoying little dog, it didn’t. And you couldn’t bribe an element with treats. She didn’t even know what that might be. Kindling?

  “Alright, try thinking ‘fire’. Are you thinking about fire?”

  “Ye-hes.”

  “Think about a bigger fire.”

  “Can I think about setting you on fire?” Iwy said irritably.

  “Whatever works.”

  She had her try it with the staff, without the staff, with saying fire out loud for fifteen minutes until the word lost all meaning, and without any of this. Nothing.

  The mage scratched her chin like someone who had never encountered a summoning problem this severe before. Iwy wished it would have worked once so her master would give it a rest already. If she wanted to get to the city in this life, she should stop wasting time.

  Of course, this mage was always ready to defy logic.

  “Looks like you have to learn other things before we delve into your specialty.” Triand had her flask out again as they moved back to the road. Her other hand held a copper piece. “I want you to take the coin out of my hand.”

  “Alright.” Iwy shrugged and reached out.

  “Ah! Without touching it.”

  “I don’t know any spells yet.”

  “You don’t need one. If it helps, just think or say ‘Come here’.”

  “Come here!”

  The coin stayed where it was.

  “Why do you think it doesn’t work?”

  “Because that’s not the right spell?”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  “Because I’m not talented?”

  “Nope.”

  “Because I can only do fire, if anything?”

  “Nope.” She flicked the coin from one hand to the other without moving her fingers. “What do you think happened?”

  “You threw it.”

  “Nope.” She flung the coin across the path. “Now I threw it.” She held out her hand. The coin came flying. “There are connections between everything. The coin, the street, the grass ... and yes, I can see by the look on your face you realised also between you and me. I want you to imagine a thread between your hand and the coin. And I want you to pull on that thread.”

  Apprenticeships needed to be taken seriously. Someone had hammered that sentiment into Iwy’s head a long time ago. It was currently deciding to take a break.

  “Pull on a thread, is it?”

  Triand’s encouraging nodding did nothing to encourage her. This was ridiculous. Magic couldn’t just ... work that way. It couldn’t be that simple.

  Iwy forced herself into seriousness again. Alright, so this was ridiculous but since she didn’t have anything else to do, she might as well try. Wool thread between her hand and the coin, like her mother’s knitting. She even made a pulling motion.

  The coin was unimpressed.

  “I feel stupid doing this.”

  “Good.”

  “No. Not good. It’s not a nice feeling.”

  “This isn’t supposed to be nice or comfortable. Settle into feeling stupid. Relish in it. Then you’ll get somewhere.”

  Iwy was almost certain that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. She could not imagine any old, bearded wizard in history ever saying, ‘Welp, I feel a bit silly doing this, especially with this hat on, but when it works, it works’.

  “Basic object manipulation. You’ll use this often. Try again.”

  * * *

  By midday Triand said she felt the coin jiggle a little and gave her a break. Iwy suspected she was being nice.

  The scenery changed only slowly. The fields on either side of this road had already been through stubble burning; nothing but dark brown and blackened earth, still smoking. She had seen this every year of her life; and every time since she was seven years old she ignored the pang of guilt the sight brought with it. “Must have been an early season if they got done already,” Iwy commented, trying hard to think of something else.

  “Hm?”

  “They’ve already burned the stubble here.”

  “Oh, no, it’s been this way for forever.”

  “It’s smoking, that’s recent.”

  “And it has been smoking for forever. I learned this in magical history, there was a battle there between the whattheycallemselves ... the Circle of Something led by Phenitar the Wise and Ukzor, Scourge of the Wastelands and his lot. During the Third Wizard War of the First Foundation or something, damn, I really should have paid attention.”

  Iwy turned from her to the field a few times. “There were wizard wars here?”

  These were still the Midlands. If there were a contest for the most boring part of Gaetland, this area wouldn’t be considered on account of putting the judges to sleep before they could enter their score.

  “Oh, sure. Hundreds. So many I can’t keep ‘em straight. Anyway, this is what happens when wizards fight each other. You can still feel the magical residue. And listen ...”

  The mage stopped. Iwy looked around, unsure. “What am I listening to?”

  Triand raised her thick eyebrows and gave her an expecting look. It took another full minute for Iwy to notice.

  The lack of birds wasn’t surprising giving the openness of the place; but there wasn’t a single buzz. Not one fly or cicada. The smoking fields were drenched in absolute silence.

  “How long has it been that way again?”

  Triand resumed her walk. “A thousand years, give or take. Not sure if anyone except wizards still remembers. I mean, they built this road right through it. Gives people the creeps, though, places like this.”

  Iwy didn’t know about that, but she had something else on her mind. “Can anything grow there?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you lot aren’t using your magic to fix this because ...”

  “‘Cause it doesn’t work. There’s lots of places like this. Nothing stays alive there.”

  Iwy shielded her eyes against the sun as she looked out over the smoking ground that smelled as if it had been burned the day before. “Well, find a way. A field this size, you could feed an entire village.”

  “Very practical thinking. Still not possible as of now. Maybe the druids will have a breakthrough in a couple years.”

  This druid business seemed more and more like a great idea if she could ask the mage how to join those. She’d much rather work with earth and plants than with fire.