Page 9 of Witchcraft and Fury (Chronicles of the Divided Isle #1)

‘Aye, else someday you’ll find yourself up against a brute like me who’s impervious to the little magic tricks Sir Gaderian teaches, and then you’ll wish you’d learned how to swing a good, honest weapon,’ chipped in Binns, before spitting a large glob of phlegm onto the ground.

He pressed a crescent moon amulet, just like the one Grubber wore, to his lips with an enigmatic smile.

So just four missions to complete, then I can carve myself a staff and set out to find Father , thought Solar resolvedly. I’ll wait not a moment longer before heading abroad, alone .

‘That reminds me,’ said Loveday, picking up a slender sword and sheath that lay on top of a bundle of weapons at Binns’ feet.

It was buckled to an old leather belt that sported gashes along its surface.

‘You will be needing a sword whilst you are training with us. This one here is a plain piece, but it should be just the right size and weight for you. Wear it night and day, until it becomes a part of you.’

Loveday handed Solar the weapon and gestured for her to follow him towards the tents. ‘Sir Dirk is not as open-minded as I am,’ he said once they were out of earshot, ‘and may be less than happy to be tasked with training a witch. But don’t let him give you a hard time because of it. ’

Solar had no idea how she could possibly prevent the master-at-arms from giving her a hard time, if he chose to. His mere presence was intimidating. But she said nothing.

‘This will be yours,’ said Loveday, as they reached one of the smaller tents.

‘It is fully equipped with everything you will need for the road and lessons. The other two small tents are occupied by Sir Dirk Binns and my apprentice, Cal Roundtower, the older lad you saw sparring with the master-at-arms a moment back. One of the larger tents is shared by your fellow junior trainees: Bear Kingsley, Pingot Humby, Oswald Goldmont and Wyman Shadowmarsh. All are seventeen years old, like yourself. The other large tent is mine.’

They carried on towards a group of horses and mules grazing behind the tents.

Solar felt the eyes of the boys following them as they went.

Despite her efforts, Solar could not stop her gaze from being drawn to Cal, who had taken a seat on a log by the campfire and appeared to be absorbed in cleaning his boots.

Perhaps it was because he was the only one not staring at her that she found herself looking at him.

Or perhaps it was the combination of haughty, aristocratic features and unruly, tangled black hair that was so striking.

It lent him a wild handsomeness that she had never seen before.

As if he sensed her gaze, his eyes, sapphire blue and flecked with silver, rose to meet hers.

‘You will also need a horse, of course, for when we are on the road,’ continued Loveday, oblivious to Solar’s distraction. Solar looked quickly away, letting her attention be dragged back to her instructor.

As they left the tents, Loveday clucked his tongue and a young horse walked towards them. ‘This is Mae.’

She was beautiful. Her sleek white coat shone in the sunlight. She nuzzled against Solar’s outstretched hand, her soft brown eyes radiating curiosity and intelligence.

‘She’s gorgeous,’ breathed Solar. She stroked Mae in wonderment, feeling her fine hair and the muscles rippling beneath. ‘I suppose this means we’re quits, then?’ she said, looking up at Loveday.

‘Sorry?’

‘My tent … Mae … my sword. They all cost something. It’s a good thing I helped you cheat Grubber of a small fortune in gold. I reckon that makes us square.’

Loveday opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it again, speechless.

*

That night, long after Loveday and the master-at-arms had retired to their tents, Solar and the other students stayed huddled around the campfire.

The imps lay close to the flames, flat on their backs and snoring, their stubby noses pointing to the moonlit sky.

The boys, who had worn silk shirts of rich reds, purples and greens during the heat of the day, had over these donned linen tunics ornately embroidered with spiralling patterns of gold and silver.

Over their shoulders were thrown dark, hooded cloaks lined with fur.

They had feasted on roast pheasant, mushrooms, onions, wild garlic and thyme, all smothered in thick game gravy.

Solar had never eaten so well in her life and felt quite bloated.

She stared contentedly into the flames, reflecting on the past few days as the others talked.

Beyond introductions they had barely spoken to her, but this suited Solar fine.

The afternoon had been overwhelming enough as it was: behind her stood a tent far more comfortable than any roof she had ever slept under, she had found a new friend in Mae and tomorrow …

tomorrow she would begin learning magic .

‘My uncle is the Earl of Falcontop. Why has he never mentioned you? He knows everyone worth knowing in the city.’ Cal Roundtower’s voice cut through the crackling of the flames. It took Solar a few moments to realise that Loveday’s apprentice had directed his question at her.

‘Well, I don’t know the earl, but I’m sure Hroth Archdale would recognise me,’ said Solar truthfully, thinking back to him wetting his trousers.

‘What does your father do?’ asked Cal bluntly.

‘He … he went missing fighting King Edric’s wars in the Arid Lands. I’m still waiting for him to return home.’

‘He’s a general?’

‘No, he’s a … carpenter. He was called upon to fight for his country.’

‘A carpenter ,’ spat Cal, as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Gods, you’re not just a woman but a commoner too! I should have guessed from your appalling accent.’

‘My father is a great man, and I’m training to be a witch. That makes me no different from you!’ shot back Solar, her face reddening.

‘You’ll never be like me,’ said Cal, his voice cold fury. ‘I was expecting my cousin Hroth Archdale to be sitting where you are now, and instead we get some street urchin hoping to learn black witchcraft.’

‘My father, the Duke of Craftshire, burned three witches at the stake last year,’ said another boy, Wyman, looking Solar directly in the eye, his voice cool and low.

He had sandy hair and a long nose as straight as a rapier, and he wore a permanent look of disdain.

His voice oozed with such conviction of his superior status in the world that Solar had to remind herself that he was the same age as her.

‘Mine has four old hags rotting in his dungeons as we speak. I’m sorry to be missing their execution, they’re always so entertaining.

I swear, once the flames are done with them it’s impossible to tell which witch is which,’ quipped Wyman’s cousin, Oswald, who sat to his right.

The two would have been alike as twins were it not for Oswald’s hair, which was a deep walnut brown.

His voice drawled with blue-blooded languidness.

The pair had done everything together that evening, and they shared a clear admiration for the older Cal, one that Solar thought bordered on hero-worship.

‘You know,’ said Pingot, the boy who Solar had seen cooking when she first entered the clearing with Loveday, ‘there are examples of good witches, especially from the time before King Campion the Austere all but banned women from practising magic. I was reading about them earlier. For example, there was Rymenhild of Elmswater—’

‘I don’t want to hear about what you’ve been reading,’ snorted Cal.

‘We all know the sort of crimes that hags are capable of. We left the comfort of our castles to learn magic and combat skills in the wild – skills that will help us defeat such enemies. And now here we are sharing our food with a young hag whose father is a carpenter! It’s an insult to us all!

’ He got up and threw open the flap to his tent, the shadows not hiding the final look of loathing he threw in Solar’s direction.

Oswald and Wyman took this as their cue for bed as well, and Solar was left alone with Pingot and Bear, the auburn-haired boy who earlier that day had been examining bones on the ground.

The three of them sat a while in awkward silence.

Then Solar too headed silently to bed, despondent and exhausted.