Page 10 of Reluctant Witch (A Course in Magic #2)

10

Sondre

Sondre was on the third floor of the castle attempting to turn an unused classroom into the headmaster’s office. His existing office was no longer meeting his needs since he’d decided to move all of his magic-related books and supplies out of his castle living suite. Having a completely nonmagical teen living in his quarters now had Sondre feeling like he had to reduce the threats.

So here Sondre was, trying to sort through a tower of textbooks, many obsolete, rather than leaving these in the reach of a belligerent teenager.

“Why do I still have all these books?” Sondre muttered as he looked at textbooks that hadn’t been used in several decades. Each headmaster added to the library that their replacements would have for reference, but the result was that there were duplicates of several texts. Magical textbooks were replicated and revised, and in his possession he had no less than four versions of Basic Magical Skills for the Remedial Witch. He wasn’t even sure they used that book currently.

“Headmaster.” Her voice entered before she did, but even if she hadn’t spoken, Sondre would know that the intruder was either his wife or Prospero. And Maggie wouldn’t call him “headmaster.” That left his former nemesis. There was no one else foolhardy enough to barge into his private space.

“How did you even find my new off…” His words faded as he turned around and saw Prospero. Her clothes were ruined. Streaks of blood on her cheeks and throat made it hard to look at her. Sondre stared at her. “What happened to you? Why is there blood… are you hurt or is that someone else’s?”

“Not mine.” Prospero paused briefly.

Sondre had an abject terror that the blood was Maggie’s or Craig’s or—

“Scylla,” Prospero said, interrupting his mental listing of the worst possible answers. Her voice was dry and cold, and he was certain she was in shock. “Scylla was shot, and the barrier is down. I need the school secured, Headmaster.”

“Is she alive?” Sondre dropped the stack of books on the desk, and tiny clouds of dust from the pages released a not-unpleasant scent of old paper. When Prospero didn’t speak or move, he repeated, louder now, “Is Scylla alive?”

“So far.” Her voice was a flat rasp, and that alone was reason for him to pause. Prospero was not the most emotional person he knew, but she certainly wasn’t this cold. Their unfortunately intertwined interactions of late had led to an understanding that made it harder to hate her.

“She’s with Mae?” he prompted in a gentler voice.

Prospero sighed, like she was starting to deflate, and said, “She’s with Mae’s people. Mae is unconscious. She saved Scylla so far, snatched her back from death, and then collapsed on me.”

“Of course she did.” Sondre smiled, despite the dire news. Few people in Crenshaw could outpace Mae for selflessness or kindness.

Prospero’s hands were folded tightly together, as if she were trying to hide the blood from her own sight.

“The barrier is down,” she repeated. “We need to… I don’t actually know what we need to do. I need to tell you, then Walt, the Congress, and… Ellie. I should tell Ellie. And…” Prospero stood there looking like she was one wrong move from falling apart.

“How can I help?” Sondre asked when Prospero’s words drifted into nothingness.

“Keep the castle secure. Tell the hobs. Doors and windows sealed. Don’t let them out, Sondre. None of them. If the barbarians come…” She shuddered slightly, as if envisioning that regular folk—nonmagical folk—would start flooding Crenshaw and attacking.

It was that fear that divided them, had done so for years. Some witches were Traditionalists. They believed the worlds must stay apart, or else doom would come. Others, the New Economists, wanted to tear down the barrier and meld the worlds.

It hit him then.

It was us. My side. We… almost killed Scylla.

Sondre swallowed back the bile threatening to rise. How had their differences come to this? They’d created the rift that was killing witches in Crenshaw. Weeding out the low magic, Agnes had called it. Now, they’d moved to attempted murder.

And they told me nothing of the plans.

Why?

Admittedly, he had waffled in his commitment after the rift, even considered telling Prospero or the chief witch what he knew, but some of his associates were dangerous. Agnes, head of House Grendel, had transitioned from a witch whose house was focused on justice to a witch craving violence. Sondre had seen it in the army; some soldiers were there for violence, not for a cause. There were those who were lesser threats.

And there were days he’d understood that impulse. The danger of being able to disconnect from his own fears and guilt over taking lives did something to him. The doctors, back when he lived over there, had still called it “shell shock.” These days, it was PTSD or something. Whatever it was, though, he’d felt it more years than not. The itchy feeling that led to starting fights, the satisfaction of a good brawl, the paranoia… He understood why Aggie was so off-kilter, and maybe that was why he’d initially agreed with them.

“Who?” His voice was a thin sliver.

“Aggie. Jaysen. Jenn. They were there.…” Prospero looked angrier as her voice faded. “Someone else, too. The one who pulled the trigger.”

“ Not Aggie?”

Prospero shook her head. “I don’t know her two lackeys very well, but… they will have a name of the other witch. I’ll find him. I’ll find all four of them.”

Sondre could practically taste her rage, not magically but because she was vibrating with it, and that he understood. “Jaysen? He’s harmless—”

“He was there with those who shot my friend.”

“Yes… Have you checked if Allan is still in Crenshaw?” Sondre was done, ready to full-out confess what he knew. It was one thing to have different opinions, but bullets? Shooting the witch who kept Crenshaw hidden? That changed everything.

“Not yet.”

“I didn’t know what they were planning,” Sondre blurted out. “Whatever your spy said, I wasn’t—”

“My spy said nothing,” Prospero interrupted. She pierced him with a look. “He didn’t know what they were planning. ”

Sondre stared at her, hoping he misunderstood. “ Me? I’m the spy?”

She nodded. “You aren’t a bad man, Sondre. You get a spell of guilt, confess to me, and then I erase your memory of doing so.”

“The fuck?” He took a step back. “How many times? I’m going to get dementia from your meddling in my brain.”

Prospero looked at the ceiling as if she could find divine guidance above them. “Look. We can go through that argument later. I didn’t muddle your brain. That’s not how my magic works. What we need to do right now is figure out how to keep our world safe. Find Aggie, Jaysen, Jenn, and whoever else was with her. Magic loose over there? You’ve seen it. Chaos is coming, and we need to stop it.”

Sondre stepped out from around the desk. “Don’t erase my memory this time.”

She leveled a look at him. “ They don’t trust you anymore, Sondre. You’re no use to me as a spy… and honestly, spying is no use. They shot her. They could’ve just left. They could’ve just walked out. We would still need to go after them, but… they shot Scylla. They shot her just to expose all of us to discovery.”

Whatever shock she’d experienced was letting go, and Prospero’s seeming numbness was giving way to something more familiar to him. This was the frigidly angry woman he was used to seeing. It was strangely comforting, hearing that knife’s edge slide back into her voice. Briefly, Sondre was glad that they hadn’t told him their plans. He enjoyed a brawl, but he didn’t want to be in their shoes when they faced Prospero. For all her flaws, she had equal strengths. No one was more loyal than her.

“I’ll go after them as soon as we locate them,” he offered. “You stay with Scylla, and I’ll go bring them back.”

“I need to talk to Walt first. See if Allan is here. Get… permission.” Prospero pulled her shoulders back. “I appreciate revenge, Sondre. On that we are in accord, but we need a plan to protect our citizens first. I need to be sure Crenshaw is secure. I can’t have Ellie in peril, too.”

At those words, Sondre looked at her with more sympathy than he typically thought she deserved. He held her gaze. “Your wife will be safe within the castle, but we both know how deadly she can be. Take her.”

“She has classes and—”

“She’s not any more likely to sit by idly than you are.” He swallowed, hoping he wasn’t about to have an emotional woman on his hands. Prospero never saw reason when Brandeau was the topic. He wouldn’t blame Prospero for striking out at someone, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be the target. He certainly didn’t want to be the one to comfort her. Even now, they weren’t actual friends, merely occasional accomplices.

Prospero’s expression gave nothing away. After a moment, she said only, “She is integral to Crenshaw, Sondre. Keep her safe. Keep them all safe. I will speak to you once there is a hunting plan.”

Then she whirled away and left with not another word.

He was grateful that he hadn’t had to deal with either her rage or tears, and for a moment he wouldn’t admit later, he felt sympathy for her—and gratitude that he wasn’t on her hunting list.