Page 3 of The Wand of Lore

At their cottage, Gwenneth guided Nayla to the bed, then fell into a heap next to her. Performing magic was exhausting. Especially, for some reason, healing this illness that gripped the village. She was an experienced witch, having spent her entire life casting spells and summoning the spirits, and though it was natural to be drained by performing magic, the Devil’s Plague took more out of her than most common illnesses. She shuddered at the speed at which the plague took its victims once symptoms emerged. The child had almost been too far gone for Gwenneth to help, and many in the village hadn’t been so lucky.

No matter how tired she was, she had to help Nayla before it was too late. Gwenneth inhaled deeply, summoning the last reserves of her strength, then rested her hand on Nayla’s forehead. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander, pushing aside thoughts of the illness and the stranger with the dark eyes and the growing tension in the village, until in her mind’s eye, she saw her sweet sister, who had been but a baby when she became Gwenneth’s charge.

Gwenneth’s nerves calmed and her exhaustion disappeared. As she breathed, she could see the illness swirling through Nayla’s blood, like a black, muddy sludge. She mutteredan incantation, flicked her wand, and offered the goddesses her energy, which they greedily drank.

Pain swept through her body as the goddesses sucked the energy from her. She incanted and begged that the energy would be used as intended, to heal her little sister. She prayed the fickle goddesses would take pity on her, or even reward her for her loyalty in serving them. She prayed and incanted and watched as the sludge dissipated until all that was left was a chord of oily black wisps in Nayla’s blood.

Gwenneth gasped as her eyes flew open. Her sister would live for now. The illness had been deeply integrated into her small body, but now no more than a sliver existed. It would inevitably regain its foothold, but she had bought her sister some precious time. As the rush of magic coursed through Nayla, color flooded her cheeks once more. She breathed freely, oblivious to how close she had been to death, and how close she remained.

No, Gwenneth decided,I will not lose this child. Nayla was the last family she had left, and together they shared a sweet life. Gwenneth could stay indoors all day and pore over her scrolls and spells, or even the occasional book she managed to get her hands on, lingering in the scent of cedar or sage. She didn’t miss other people and was happiest in her cottage, oblivious to the outside world. Nayla was the one who went to the market, either to buy or sell produce or even charmed talismans they had created together. Nayla was the one who shared meals with neighbors or offered blessings to passers-by. Sweet Nayla didn’t understand how quickly the folk could turn a witch into a scapegoat to pay for the sins of the village. How could she know? She had been so little when their mother had been burned alive.

Gwenneth shoved the thought aside and let herself fall into the pillow. Her body crumpled onto the bed like an overfull bag of leaves. Two life-saving spells in less than an hour. She hadrarely been so brazen as to summon that much powerful magic in such a short span, and she was lucky to survive it. She wanted to lie awake and consider the nature of the plague ravaging her town, to revel in the knowledge that her sister would survive the night, and also to relive the fear that Nayla was still sick with no obvious cure, but exhaustion overtook her.

Her eyelids fell closed, and she slept while visions of their mother, Sarri, leaped across her dreams. Sarri dancing with the villagers while Gwenneth watched from behind a hay bale, Sarri smiling at friends and neighbors as she peddled potions, Sarri pouring a cup of tea for a lovesick woman in their own cottage. Sarri handing Gwenneth the baby and hiding them with a spell as she went out to talk to the angry villagers gathered at their doorstep about failing crops and stillborn babies.

Gwenneth awoke in a fit of fever, lamenting that she could not match her mother’s abilities to brew potions and cast spells, nor would she ever have her mother’s charms. The villagers would never love her the way they once loved Sarri. Perhaps that was best, though; perhaps they would not be so quick to kill Gwenneth as they had been with her mother.

She tried to stay awake in bed, fighting the weight of her eyelids. She could just make out Nayla, a blur of bright color bustling about the cottage. The child clipped some of the dried herbs hanging in the kitchen, heated some water in a cauldron on the hearth, and finally approached Gwenneth with a warm mug smelling of lavender, honey, and fresh lemons.

“Sister, sip this,” ordered Nayla as she brought the mug to her lips.

Obediently, Gwenneth sipped and felt the warmth spread through her body.

“One day I will be able to assist you more. I am not as strong as you, but I will keep practicing, so you won’t have to do this alone forever,” said Nayla.

Gwenneth touched her little sister’s cheek. It was true that Nayla was less adept at wielding magic, and that Gwenneth had been a full-fledged witch at a much younger age than Nayla was now, but she wouldn’t say this to her sister. “You had a brush with death yourself. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better. I’m more worried about you. I’ve never seen you so depleted after casting. What happened?”

Gwenneth closed her eyes, and she could still see the wisps of illness dancing through Nayla’s body as the goddesses drank her energy. She swallowed but said nothing.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Someone else must be calling on you for your healing ability,” said Nayla with a smirk. “They have been so mean to us of late, but they know they need you! I will tell them to get lost. You can’t do any more casting today.”

“Best not to advertise our limitations,” Gwenneth murmured.

Nayla nodded and opened the door. “Who are you?” she asked and stepped back.

Gwenneth gave a sigh, pushed aside the cloud of exhaustion, stood up, and took a look at the stranger standing in her doorway. She let out a little gasp. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and his velvet cape was draped over a smooth tunic that did little to hide his tattooed arms. And oh, those arms! They were taut and large, and Gwenneth could make out every single line of muscle. His hair was as dark as a moonless night, and his eyes burned brown. A sword hung sheathed at his hip, and even from across the room, she could see the intricate golden design on the handle. This was no peasant. He scowled at her. She averted her gaze, hoping he hadn’t noticed how blatantly she had been staring.

Chapter Four: Vaylor

When the younger of the sisters opened the door, he couldn’t help but gawk. The first thing he noticed was the charming little cottage. From the ceiling hung tied bundles of dried lavender, dandelions, and many other flowers and herbs that he could not identify. Even with the door open, he inhaled a rich floral scent mixed with fresh earth and possibly the smell of basil, although he couldn’t be sure. The cottage was small, and from the doorway he could see the bed in one corner, a space for preparing food in another, and an oak table with intricate carvings off to one side, yet still prominent. A hearth sat squat in the middle, from which radiated a small fire that took the edge off the chill of the autumn day. On the walls were shelves lined with jars, some full of fizzing liquids of all colors, others containing still more plants. A vase of freshly cut flowers burst with color atop the oak table. Scrolls lay in piles near the hearth and were scattered around the bed, and on the table was a massive book beside a rocking chair in front of the hearth. He had never before seen a book in a peasant’s cottage, and nor had he seen so many scrolls outside of an academy.

And then his eyes caught the older sister as she rose to her feet. Her face was smooth and soft, those beautiful purple eyesblazed at him, and her cleavage showed her breasts were perfect. As she took a step toward him, she looked away, as if oblivious to his presence. For a second, he imagined how it would feel to hold her in his embrace, to touch the delicate skin bubbling out of her bodice, to run a hand along the curves of her body.

Wicked. He had to stay focused.

“Can we help you?” asked the girl as she tapped her foot.

He had to snap out of it. Yes, the woman was beautiful, but he was here on a mission.

“I’m here to discuss some local goings-on,” he said in a voice he hoped was cold and intimidating, even as his insides felt inexplicably mushy and soft. He envisioned brushing her smooth skin with his fingers, then shook his head clear of the vision.

“We have nothing to discuss with you,” said the woman, and though she held his gaze fiercely, her head drooped just a bit to one side like a thirsty flower.

“I started off wrong—forgive my manners. I’m Marvin.” The lie slipped off his tongue easily; he had grown accustomed to pretending to be someone else.

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