Part IX: The Breaking of Many Things

But nothing Enru or Bèatrix said would dissuade Tristan. He felt something different when he was around Bronwyn, not just the physical attraction to her body, but something else, something bigger, beyond all of them. He knew, somehow, that she was right.

And so he continued, in small, unobtrusive ways, to show her that he was still there, he remembered her. He knew his own reputation in the village; scores of girls had had their hearts and reputations broken because of him, over the years, and by now his former flames were mothers with daughters of their own they were warning away from him.

He didn’t care about that now. He kept on, bringing small surprises to Bronwyn. Once, a jar of honey, so sweet it seemed sinful. Occasionally, he would rise before even she did and have the fire ready for her in the morning, though he was always careful to be gone before she woke. She rarely saw him, but he made his presence known to her.

It was in October, when his small gifts became sporadic due to the harvest, that Bronwyn finally decided to take matters into her own hands. She was eighteen, by now; her birthday had passed unobserved in mid-August. A woman, by the law and the eyes of everyone. So one night, she added some herbs that induced sleep into the herbs, and breathed a hefty sigh of relief when Tristan did not appear. She did not partake of the dinner herself, claiming a stomachache, and went to bed early, waiting for Enru and Bèatrix to start their snoring competition. It wasn’t long before the rafters were shaking.

Smiling to herself, Bronwyn slipped out of bed, sliding on her dress and cloak silently, clutching her riding boots in her hand. She went to the kitchen, where the embers kept it warm, and finished dressing in there. The door to the yard swung open easily; Tristan had oiled it several days before.

The night was cold, but Bronwyn saddled Trylla quickly and mounted, and in a matter of minutes she was following the path up the mountain to Tristan’s little cottage. The moon was full, lighting her path with its cool silvery light, sparkling in the frost that touched the grass.
A light was burning in the window when Bronwyn finally came in sight of Tristan’s cottage. The beehives glimmered whitely like ghosts as she dismounted and took off Trylla’s saddle, placing a blanket over the horse’s back from the pack she’d slung over her shoulder as she left.
The door to the cottage opened, and Tristan came out, holding a candle aloft. It danced in the soft breeze, casting crazy shadows over the ground.

“Hello?” he called, his voice guarded. “Is anyone out there?” He paused, his breath coming in clouds as he took a few steps toward Bronwyn. She stood tall, walking forward to meet him.
“Hello, Tristan,” she said softly, her voice husky.

He nearly dropped the candle in surprise. “Bronwyn!” he whispered loudly, though there was no one within several miles to hear them. “What are you doing here?” He looked at Trylla, already dozing in the chill night air.

“I’ve come to see you. It seems there is a conspiracy to keep us apart.” She paused, searching his face. “Are you unhappy with me?” she asked.

Tristan stared at her, his face still stricken with the shock of her clandestine visit. “Of course not,” he said, recovering himself. He gave her a warm smile. “Let’s get you out of the cold, shall we?”

A few flakes of snow fell in the crystalline air and Bronwyn smiled, brushing them off his shoulders. “All right. It’s starting to snow, anyhow.”

“I’ll take Trylla to my stable. It’s small but she’ll fit in with Jethro, no problem. You go on inside and get warm; you must be freezing.” Tristan took Trylla’s lead rope and led her away. Bronwyn slipped inside the door to his cottage, finding the teakettle screaming and two mugs set out on the table.

Smiling to herself, Bronwyn set about pouring the tea into a pot and steeping the leaves into a potent herbal drink. While it brewed she sliced some coarse brown bread and retrieved some butter from the cooler to spread on it. As she was arranging all this on the table Tristan came in, stamping.

“The snow is really coming down,” he said with a worried frown. “You should be getting back.”
“I just got here,” objected Bronwyn softly. “Besides, the tea is ready. At least a cup?” He reluctantly nodded, and sat across from her, holding the warm mug in his cold hands. Bronwyn regarded him with gleaming dark blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked at last, and Bronwyn set her mug down, watching the swirl of the amber liquid within.

“I haven’t seen you in several months, but I’ve seen signs of you. The kitchen door hinges being oiled, jars of honey appearing in the kitchen…” She smiled at him. “And there were two mugs out when I came in. Were you expecting company?”

Tristan opened his mouth, seeing the trap. “I was meditating and I saw you on the path, and I saw the storm coming, so I figured I might as well get the tea going.”

Bronwyn reached across the table and touched his hand. “Thank you,” she said quietly, watching him.

He smiled and looked at where her hand was reaching for his, and he gave in, clasping her fingers around his. He raised his eyes to hers and sighed. “You’ve probably heard all kinds of rumors about me,” he said heavily.

“I don’t believe a single one,” declared Bronwyn abruptly. Tristan winced.

“You should,” he said swiftly, loudly. “Most of them are true. I’ve hurt a lot of girls, and their-our children.”

Bronwyn was silent, pale-faced. “How many?” she said brusquely., her hand tensing in his. He set his mug down and cupped her hand in both of his.

“Seven, eight, by last count. Could be as high as a dozen," said Tristan miserably. He stroked her fingers, unable to meet her gaze.

“Let me ask you something,” said Bronwyn after a pause. Tristan glanced at her, and she held his eyes, looking at him steadily. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Tristan feigned ignorance, but Bronwyn caught him. She shook her head violently.
“You know what. It’s-it’s like…” She broke off, not wanting to sound trite like the older girls at Appleby Manor.

Tristan spared her. “Yes,” he said, dropping her hands and grabbing his mug again. He looked at the tea inside, and back at her. “Is that what you wanted? That I think of you every waking moment? Or that when I see you about your duties I wonder and hope that you’re thinking of me?”

Bronwyn’s heart leapt in her throat but she shook her head. “No. It’s bigger than that. It feels like a great storm is gathering, like there’s electricity in the air. It gets hard to breathe, like it’s humid, and everything becomes sharper, more detailed.” She pursed her lips, withdrawing her hands to her lap, staring at the contents of her own mug.

“Yes,” murmured Tristan. “I don’t want to but I do.” His voice broke and Bronwyn looked at him sympathetically.

“I bet Bèatrix threatened you to keep you away from me, didn’t she?” she asked gently. Tristan nodded. “And you promised, and want to respect that promise. She made me, too,” she said, and Tristan chuckled, grabbing a slice of bread and stuffing it in his mouth, chewing in silence.

He swallowed and took a draught from his mug. “So where does that leave us? We’re already betraying our word by being here together, and by the looks of it, you’ll end up here for the night. It’ll be too dangerous at night to go down the mountain.”

Bronwyn stood, gathering the empty mugs. “Well,” she said. “It’s bound to be a cold night. Shall I get a stew going?” She raised her eyebrows, purposefully ignoring the bed just visible in the room over Tristan’s right shoulder.

“I think the time for food is passing,” said Tristan, standing and facing her. She stared at him, ghost-pale and trembling. He took the mugs gently from her grasp and setting them on the table, then gathered her hands in his, looking at them. “Your hands were so soft and pretty when you came here…Now they’re losing that delicacy, but you can tell how fine-boned you are.” He squeezed them gently, feeling the small bones move beneath his fingers.

“Tristan-“ said Bronwyn, suddenly unsure, but he looked at her, a glance so swift and fierce that it pierced her soul. He drew her close and kissed her, gently at first, then rough.

Bronwyn embraced him with enthusiasm, feeling the lean muscles beneath her palms. She sighed, melting against him, and he grabbed a candle from the table, leading her to the bedroom.
Bronwyn ignored all the alarm bells ringing in her head, all the honest parts of her integrity, and willingly followed him.

Part VIII: Honesty Is Not the Best Policy

Tristan took Bronwyn home after he fed her fried eggs, onions, bacon and toast. She was comfortably full and more than a touch sleepy; this was the most exertion she’d had since she’d overstretched her powers with Millie Thatcher.

Bèatrix was waiting for them, sitting on a bench out front in the sun. “Ah,” she said softly when they approached, “The fine Mistress has come home at last.” Bronwyn dropped her head meekly, biting her tongue. “How kind of you to deign arrive on time for a meal!”

Lunch, thought Bronwyn, mortified. She had taken to preparing all the meals for the family, and had totally forgotten to make something ahead of time for Bèatrix.

“I am sorry, Bèatrix,” she said. “I-forgot.”

“We lost track of time up on the trail,” said Tristan smoothly. “I’m sure we’re all starving now.” Bronwyn looked at him but nodded, feeling how full she really was.

“I’ll get some water boiling,” she said, moving to dismount, but Bèatrix waved her off.

“You think I’m so helpless I can’t make a simple meal for myself?” she complained. “You’ve been spending too much time with Tristan. He’s always telling me I need to retire.”

“She always tells me this is her retirement.” Tristan twisted a smile at Bèatrix, dismounting easily. Bronwyn had a little more trouble; her legs were still sore from the long morning ride.

“Aye, a comfortable enough life it is, birthing the occasional baby, living simply in the countryside, not bothering no one…” Bèatrix shrugged. “I like it.” She fixed Bronwyn with a stern eye. “You, however, miss, have been bothering someone, and it needs to stop.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Bronwyn timidly, trying to lead her horse away, trying to hide behind Trylla.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Bèatrix with a sigh. “Tristan will put up Trylla, won’t you, boy?” Tristan nodded and shrugged.

“Sure, Bèatrix. Anything for the Sorceress.” He took Trylla’s reins from Bronwyn, and his hand brushed hers. She felt the point of contact on her skin burn after he was gone, and she resisted the urge to touch it, rub it, kiss it.

Once Tristan had rounded the corner of the house to the barn, Bèatrix looked at Bronwyn. “Inside,” she said tersely. “Now.”

Bronwyn sighed and obeyed, pulling her apron from its hook just inside the door and tying it on out of habit.

“Sit,” commanded Bèatrix, entering behind her and closing the door firmly. Bronwyn glumly sat on the bench in front of the table, leaning her elbows on it and resting her chin in her hands. Enru was perched on the opposite side of the table, and he wouldn’t look at her. He exuded an injured silence that infuriated Bronwyn.

Bèatrix sat next to Enru, filling her pipe and lighting it. She puffed a few smoke rings thoughtfully before she spoke. “Bronwyn,” she said, and her voice was surprisingly gentle. “I know what you feel towards Tristan. It has to stop. Now, before it goes any further. He is not the sort of man you deserve.”

“Isn’t he your great-great-great-grandson?” asked Bronwyn. Bèatrix nodded.

“Aye, he is, and many more greats beyond that. But he-he is not a gentleman. He could get you with child and think nothing of going off with a milkmaid from the village while you were in labor. He has done it before, to too many girls, and I will not see him ruin you!”

Bronwyn shook her head; this was not right, that didn’t describe the Tristan she knew. “He’s nice to me,” she said finally. “He shows me things.”

“Enru can show you, or I can. He should know better than to even talk to you, let alone whisk you off to gods know where without letting anyone know. If the village knew, your reputation would already be ruined.”

Bronwyn stared at Bèatrix. “Why would I care about my reputation in the village?” she asked, perplexed. The incident with Thomas and Millie Thatcher was the only contact Bronwyn had had with the village in the nearly six months of her residence.

Because reputations travel, and especially bad ones. Someday you will need to find a husband and settle with a family for a while, to continue the line of Sorceresses. Without a good reputation, you cannot find a good, decent husband who would take care of you as you deserve. Enru’s voice was sad. He finally looked at Bronwyn. And that’s all I care about, for while you have your family I cannot guard you, I cannot be with you.

Bronwyn stood. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll stay away from Tristan,” and her voice was sad, too, because he was...She sighed. Tristan was Tristan, and she would miss him.

The next morning Bronwyn had already forgotten their plan to trap Bèatrix in her daily deception. She was frying some bacon and cornmeal together when the door opened, and he appeared. Her heart leapt, then sank, because she remembered her promise to Enru and Bèatrix.

But he barely glanced at her. That must be the construct, Yldan in disguise, or whatever, thought Bronwyn, watching the figure out of the corner of her eye. She filled a mug with warmed cider and placed it in front of him.

“There you go, Tristan,” she said cheerfully-and loudly. Bèatrix appeared within two minutes, and Enru twined around her ankles. She dropped him a piece of sausage, humming quietly, for now she remembered, and knew the real Tristan would be showing up shortly.

She set the plates, heaping with steaming food, on the table, and sat herself down, looking around. She waited, and waited, and finally the three humans began to eat. Enru sat on Bronwyn’s lap, purring softly when she fed him bits of bacon and sausage and egg.

The real Tristan did not show up for breakfast, and Bronwyn’s heart was heavy as she began clearing the empty plates and setting them in the basin of soapy water for washing.

Enru sat before the fire, watching her as she scrubbed. He could tell that she was upset, but marked it down as Tristan’s silence at breakfast. He hadn’t even greeted Bronwyn today.

After the dishes were done, Bronwyn set to sweeping the kitchen, opening the door wide to let the sweet summer air in. She was banking the fire, letting the embers smolder for when she needed to stir it up again for supper, when there was a soft knock on the doorframe. She stood, turning, and smiled self-consciously. Tristan was standing in the doorway, a large basket of fragrant herbs and flowers in his hands.

“These are for Bèatrix. She’ll show you how to dry each one, and explain what they’re for.” He set the basket on the table, and, mindful of Enru, Bronwyn smiled faintly.

“Thank you, Tristan,” she said formally, and turned. His eyes watched the way the skirt of her dress swirled around her hips, and when she knelt before the fire his eyebrows arched up.

Abruptly he felt a sharp pain in his calf, and he looked down. Enru was biting him. That’s enough, Tristan, he said. You’ve delivered your goods, now be on your way.

“All right, all right,” grumbled Tristan, throwing Bronwyn’s backside one last wistful glance as he left the kitchen.

And you, sashaying around to catch his attention. Enru leapt on his mistress’s shoulders, and she stood carefully, scratching his ears.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked innocently. “I was sweeping the embers into the fireplace.” She smiled as she pulled several red roses from the basket, separating them out carefully.

“Those aren’t for you,” said Bèatrix irritably. “They’re for the rosehips, and the petals. They make good tea.”

“Right,” said Bronwyn with a straight face. She didn’t believe a word of it; there were rosebushes aplenty right next to the house, in the garden by the gate. He didn’t need to find such perfect specimens when there were many more adequate ones so close by.Bèatrix, of course, knew this too, and she resolved to have a stern talk with Tristan about his wooing of her Apprentice.

Part VII: A trick discovered

Enru waited until Bronwyn was fast asleep before he leapt lightly off her bed, padding toward the kitchen where he knew Bèatrix waited for his report. And, he reflected, my dressing-down. I seriously screwed up this time…

Sure enough, Yldan was waiting, perched above the fireplace. Bèatrix sat before the fire, smoking her pipe reflectively. The owl ruffled his feathers to acknowledge the cat’s entrance, but Bèatrix didn’t say anything for a long minute, her eyes fixed on the leaping flames.

“She doesn’t remember her life before her Introduction,” she said finally, her words weighted. “Whatever happened to erase her memory?”

Enru sat on his haunches, wrapping his tail around his back paws. His ears flicked back, and he ducked his head. She almost did not survive the process, he said. She was so small, so frail…It took nearly all my own life-force to keep her alive, in this realm of existence, just until the completion.

“And you had no assistance? Why did you not come here?” Bèatrix finally fixed the cat with one of her Stares.

Enru hung his head further. She is not of your province, Bèatrix. She came from the West, in the mountains. A small valley, fertile enough to support a village, but totally isolated. It was where her father chose to take her mother.

And who was her father? Yldan murmured, stretching his wing.

His name is Deryan. His familiar was a cougar.

Bèatrix sucked in a breath; Deryan was a very powerful Sorcerer, one who had disappeared nearly twenty years ago. He’d stopped coming to Councils, and concealed his Abilities so that they could not be tracked. The Council, including Bèatrix, had thought he had died somehow, because his familiar’s corpse had been found. A beautiful feline, powerful and sleek and sinewy with muscle, her half-eaten body had been found by its magical signature with its throat slit. They never found Deryan’s body.

He killed Nadua? Grief and sorrow colored the owl’s voice. She was so beautiful…

“To kill your familiar is to renounce the Path of Sorcery,” said Bèatrix solemnly. “Is Deryan alive still?”

I do not know. I took Bronwyn from him when she was still very small. I couldn’t risk my own life; I couldn’t risk her becoming him. Enru’s voice broke. I think her mother knew that her familiar would be feline; she was terrified of cats, and wouldn’t have any even in the barn.

“And so that is why her training has been so haphazard?” asked Bèatrix. Enru flattened his head in humiliation again.

Forgive me, Bèatrix, but it took some time before I could lead her to Appleby Manor, and even there, as you saw, her power keeps bursting through. It isn’t consistent, so her training hasn’t been consistent.

“We’ll have to work on that, now won’t we?” said Bèatrix grimly.

After three days Bronwyn was able to walk to the kitchen to take her meals, and go for short strolls in the yard. She tired quickly, though, and Enru was very firm when he ordered her back to bed.

This was incredibly frustrating for Bronwyn, because it seemed any time she got near where Tristan was caring for the horses, or feeding the chickens, or milking the cow, or chopping firewood, Enru decided it was time to go back inside.

Once, though, she managed to slip away without her cat hounding her heels. She made sure her hair was only partially plaited, the waves spilling over her shoulders, glistening with dark red highlights in the high summer sun. She meandered over to the horse paddock, patting the old grey mares, offering them a few apples.

“You have a way with the animals,” commented Tristan. Bronwyn spun and smiled self-consciously, dropping her last apple. “Like Bèatrix.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m nowhere near as good,” demurred Bronwyn, but her heart was pounding at his praise. She peeked at him through her eyelashes, and he was smiling gently at her. She turned a little, conscious of how her skirt swished around her knees, and how his eyes glanced at her bare legs appreciatively. “What are you doing today?” she asked.

“Not much. Most of my chores are done for the day, and I saw you here talking to Naden and Trylla,” he said, gesturing toward the mares, who were both whickering at him. “So I decided to say hello. I haven’t seen much of you since…” He fumbled for the words.

“Since I nearly killed myself out of sheer stupidity?” asked Bronwyn, but she was smiling as she said it. “Enru’s been on my heels since. I haven’t had a moment’s peace!”

Tristan looked uncomfortable for a second as he said, “I’m sure he’s just worried about you. You know, making sure you don’t find a sparrow with a broken wing and try to save its life.” She chuckled.

“What if I were to saddle Trylla and my gelding and we went on a ride?” asked Tristan suddenly.
Bronwyn felt a wave of shyness roll over her, but she boldly accepted. “I think I would like that very much,” she said. “Let me go get my riding boots and my cloak.”

“Surely you don’t need your cloak. It’s such a beautiful day, and I won’t have you long.” He winced, knowing that if Enru had caught that slip of the tongue the cat would have his head. And his balls.

But Bronwyn didn’t catch it; either she was too engrossed in the concept of riding alone with Tristan, or she was too naïve to understand the innuendo. Probably both.

Bronwyn managed to elude Enru and Bèatrix both for long enough to slip in and out of the house and retrieve her riding boots. She rounded the corner of the barn and there was Tristan, Trylla saddled and waiting patiently next to his spirited gelding, Jethro. Tristan assisted her into the saddle and then mounted himself, leading the way to a path that wound into the woods at the northern edge of the property.

Before long, the pair were deep in the forest, following a trail that was barely there, and Bronwyn looked about. The woods seemed almost eerie; she’d never wandered this far away from the safety of Bèatrix’s home.

“Where are we going?” she asked, but Tristan merely turned in the saddle and threw her a grin.
“It’s a secret. It’s my own place that not even Yldan will really go. He doesn’t like the noise, he says.” They trotted on for several hours, the miles passing beneath the horses’ hooves easily.
Just when she was going to suggest a break, they broke through the treeline into a great field, strewn quite liberally with wildflowers of all types, their blossoms bobbing ponderously in the breeze. As they moved across the grass, Bronwyn became aware of a great thrumming, a deep buzz that she felt in her chest.

Tristan led her to a small cottage, in front of which was a number of wooden boxes. There was what appeared to be a black cloud swarming around the boxes, and they had nearly come upon the cottage when Bronwyn realized what they were.

Bees.

“A beekeeper?” she asked wonderingly. Tristan didn’t seem the type.

“The preferred term is apiarist, but yes, I keep bees. I collect their honey and wax for Bèatrix, and these wildflowers are mixed with wild herbs, so I can help keep her stores supplied.”

“Do you live here?” asked Bronwyn, gesturing at the cottage.

“Yes, I do.” Tristan dismounted and led Jethro and Trylla to the hitching post. “Would you like to see inside?” he offered, rather shyly.

“Oh, yes!” said Bronwyn, sliding off Trylla before he could assist her. She felt an inquiring tug in her mind, but ignored it. It was Enru, trying to find her, and she wasn’t going to help him, not now, anyway. Maybe later.

Tristan led Bronwyn inside. There was a large central room, with just one door leading to the bedroom. She sat at the table at his insistence while he began making preparations for tea.

The kitchen was small and neat; a fireplace stood against the shared wall between the two rooms, and a wooden table, smaller than Bèatrix’s, stood in the center. There were shelves with some earthenware mugs and plates arranged carefully on their surfaces, and some decorative tiles were propped along the mantel.

It was a fairly bare room, but it was clear it was tidy and well-kept. Bronwyn accepted the mug of tea from Tristan and sipped it carefully, suddenly extremely self-conscious.

“So how do you protect yourself from the bee stingers? Do you use your Ability?” she asked, trying o find a topic of discussion.

Tristan laughed. “No, that would take entirely too much energy. I use woodsmoke to make them sleepy, and I have a special suit to protect me so they don’t crawl in my clothes.” He began chattering about his bees while Bronwyn surreptitiously watched him.

It was the first real opportunity she’d had to study the young man, and she took full advantage now. His skin was pale, like hers; his eyes dark liquid brown, sometimes gold, and his hair was dark like hers. His hands, his whole body, was long and slender, yet strong. He had the general aura of a powerful feline, relaxed for now, but ready to spring and kill in an instant.

Tristan had fallen quiet, watching Bronwyn watch him. She didn’t realize for several moments that they were staring at each other, and when she did, she flushed and looked away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think me terribly rude.”

“No,” said Tristan softly, surprising her. “I think you’re beautiful.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but now it was out, it felt right. “Around Enru and Bèatrix you’re very self-controlled, as though you’re trying to impress them. Here, you’re just…you.” He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Do-do you like what you see?” whispered Bronwyn, unable to look at him.

He reached across the narrow table and touched her chin, the swiftest of contacts, but it went through her like an electric jolt. “I like it very much.” She met his eyes, then, and they leaned toward each other.

What in the name of all that is sacred are you doing here? Enru’s voice was outraged, and out of breath. The two humans sprang apart; Tristan stood and walked a few paces away, trying to catch his breath.

“Enru!” groaned Bronwyn, thoroughly irritated. “I might ask you the same thing!”

You are not well enough to be traipsing all over the Province, Bronwyn. I am lucky that Yldan saw Trylla hitched outside, else I might never have found you. I certainly would never have looked for you here, Enru said nastily.

“Well, you can just go back on home, then, can’t you. Now you’ve found me, you can unfind me.”

No, Bronwyn. You need to come home. Bronwyn’s face burned. She felt like an errant child in the face of Enru’s scolding, and she hated it.

“For gods’ sake, Enru, I am seventeen years old! I am a woman by anyone’s standards, and I will not take orders from a thrice-damned cat!”

Enru was quiet; Bronwyn closed her mouth. She knew she had gone too far; she knew that Enru had her best interests at heart. Yes Mistress, he said meekly, slinking out of the room.

Bronwyn sat in silent surprise. Enru had never given in so easily, and it made her suspicious now.

“You had better go home and tend to his ego,” said Tristan after a moment. “That one is prideful and you shamed him in front of his sworn archenemy.” He chuckled, reaching into a cabinet and withdrawing a handful of onions. “Would you like to stay for a moment and eat first?”

Bronwyn couldn’t answer; her stomach growled loudly before she could open her mouth. She giggled, blushing a little. Tristan laughed aloud. “I’ll have you fed quickly, and there are swifter ways back to Bèatrix’s than the one we took.” He pulled a copper-bottomed skillet from a shelf above the potbellied stove and a knife from the butcher block. A pat of butter was thrown into the skillet, melting as it heated as he began to slice the onions very thinly.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” said Bronwyn in surprise. Tristan nodded, throwing the onions in the skillet as he sliced. “I thought you came to Bèatrix’s for every meal because you couldn’t.”

“I don’t come to Bèatrix’s for every meal.” Tristan turned and frowned. “I come for dinner, yes, but none of the others.”

Bronwyn shook her head. “I see you every morning,” she said with half a smile, puzzled. “And usually for lunch. We all sit at the table and…” But Tristan was shaking his head. “I rarely come to Bèatrix’s for lunch, and never for breakfast. I’m not up that early.”

“Then who is it who comes to breakfast and lunch? You’re not very talkative; I’ve always assumed you were thinking about your…duties…” Bronwyn trailed off, utterly confused.

“I’ll bet that it’s Yldan. In construct.” Bronwyn narrowed her eyes, thinking.

“Why in the world would she have you around more than you actually are? If anything, you would think she’d be like Enru and discourage any relationship between us.” She bit her lip.

“I don’t know, honestly, and I don’t much care. But now that we know about it, we should…mess with her a little.” Tristan raised an eyebrow, turning back to the stove and poking at the onions, grabbing the handle of the pan and flipping them around a bit.

“What did you have in mind?” asked Bronwyn, a wicked gleam in her eye.

Part VI:Millie Thatcher's Baby

“Gods above!!” bellowed Millie, hanging onto the knotted sheets for dear life. They had one end tied to the bedpost; the other she pulled on as she bore down. Bronwyn laid a cool wet cloth on her forehead, making soothing noises.

“Ah, Millie, ‘tis not all that bad now, just breathe deep, love, and I’ll get you some more kingsfoil for the pain.” Millie nodded, gasping as her eyes bulged in agony. Bronwyn turned, opening the jar easily and extracting a thick stem of kingsfoil, knowing that chewing even the dried stems would release the pain-relieving and muscle-relaxing compounds. She slipped it inside Millie’s mouth. “Bite, love, bite hard and suck on it!” Millie obeyed, and Bèatrix looked up from her position at the foot of the bed.

“I can see his little head now, Millie, and fine dark hair she’s got.” Bèatrix knew, of course that it was a girl, but she always took care to mix the genders when she talked about an unborn baby, as though she didn’t know.

“Shh, Millie,” soothed Bronwyn in almost a singsong voice. “Your baby’s head is out, and a fine daughter or son she will be.” Millie screamed and gave one last great push, and suddenly the baby was in Bèatrix’s hands, bloody and wet, covered in a caul. Bèatrix whipped it off and busied herself cleaning the infant, while Bronwyn whispered words of congratulations and praise in Millie’s ear.

But Millie didn’t hear any of it. She had passed out, and now, unseen by Bèatrix busy with her daughter, she was bleeding, slowly at first, but then great red squirts began pulsing from between her legs.

Bronwyn saw them and cried out, causing Bèatrix to turn her head. In what seemed like a dream Bronwyn reached out, her hands crackling with blue energy, focusing it at the blood as she ran to the foot of the bed. She stuck her hands deep inside Millie, her eyes closed and her energy seeking the source of the blood, healing the torn tissue and restoring rent blood vessels.
Bèatrix watched her charge apprehensively. This was most unusual; Bronwyn had shown hardly any inclination toward the Path of Healers before now, and Bèatrix had been increasingly worried that Enru had been mistaken in his assessment.

But this, this was amazingly complicated and energy-consuming, what Bronwyn was doing. The older woman reached out and touched her shoulder, lending her own strength to the younger woman.

A good twenty minutes passed before Bronwyn collapsed against her mistress, exhausted, and Millie took a breath and began whimpering. Her eyes opened and she looked about, taking in Bèatrix holding her Apprentice up and dragging her to a chair.

“Wh-what happened?” mumbled Millie Thatcher.

Bèatrix turned her head slowly, her blue eyes burning with anger. “My Apprentice nearly killed herself Healing you,” she said, her voice smoldering. But though Millie was the recipient, she was not the intended target of Bèatrix’s rage.

She shrank against the pillows, white as ever, and glanced at the wailing infant. “Is that-?”

“Your daughter, a fine healthy girl.” Bèatrix’s expression softened. “Here…” Leaving Bronwyn propped against the chair, she wrapped up the baby and handed her to her mother. “You know what to do. I imagine she’ll be hungry.” Millie beamed down at her new child and began cooing at her while Bèatrix gathered up her herbs.

Master Thatcher, Thomas by name, peeked in through the doorway. “Millie?” he whispered.

“A girl!” she cried joyously. “Finally, a little girl of my own!” The Thatchers had five sons.

“Master Thatcher, I would appreciate it if you would harness my mares again. My Apprentice has taken ill and needs to be transported back home as quickly as possible."

Thomas Thatcher took one look at Bronwyn, pale and unconscious at the small dressing table in their bedroom, and nodded.

“Aye, Bèatrix, I’ll get you girls saddled. Jonathan!” he called loudly. A boy of twelve appeared at the door, hay sticking out of his straw-blonde hair. “Go harness the midwife’s mares to her wagon. Quickly now, they have a sick one on their hands!” The boy disappeared with a flash and patter of bare feet, and Bèatrix gently lifted Bronwyn’s head, crooning softly in her ear.

In minutes the boy was back and helped carry Bronwyn to lay in the hay he’d placed in the wagon’s bed. He held her with exaggerated care, as though she was made entirely of glass, and it was clear by the expression on his youthful face that he was stricken by her.

Bèatrix climbed into the driver seat and took up the reins. “Congratulations, Master Thatcher. Do come see me if your wife or daughter have any trouble.” She gave him a brief smile and then was off, clicking the horses into a canter.

Bronwyn was lost in a swirl of blue patterned light. It was almost as though she were swimming in a deep, clear lake, the bottom sandy, the waters still and crystalline. She heard a few muffled sounds, but they were very far away, and it was so comfortable here…She lay her head down, sinking deeper, watching the light play…

A sharp pain brought jagged flashes of red across her vision, and she was going up, up, up…the world was becoming lighter, then…

She opened her eyes and it was very bright. Squinting, Bronwyn lifted her hand, surprised at how heavy it was, to shade her face.

She is awake, said a voice, unfamiliar, with some relief. Welcome back, little one.

Bronwyn? Enru sounded terrified. She blinked, and he was crouched on her chest, his nose almost touching hers. Are you alright, Bronwyn?

“Don’t speak, child.” Bèatrix’s voice was extremely weary. She sounded, for the first time since Bronwyn had known her, old. “You delved too deeply into your well of abilities to save Millie Thatcher. She didn’t deserve it, not your life.”

“My life?” croaked Bronwyn.

“Hush. Yes, your life. If I hadn’t been there you would have poured your entire life’s energy into her to stop her bleeding. Sometimes you need to know the herbs and other healing ways before you use your Ability.”

Indeed. You delved so far into your inner wellspring that in order to restore you, Bèatrix needed my help and Enru’s. Bronwyn moved her hand; the voice was emanating from a great horned owl perched on the foot of her bed. Noting her confusion, the owl seemed to smile. I am Yldan, Bèatrix’s familiar. I dwell in the forests about here, keeping tabs on the surrounding area. Bèatrix is the Guardian of this province.

Bronwyn was quiet. Guardians were very powerful, and why she hadn’t realized this before struck her as odd. But before she could comment on it Tristan appeared in the doorway. Enru curled protectively on his mistress’s chest, glaring at the young man.

Bèatrix rose, holding out her arm. Yldan fluttered to it, carefully gripping her with his sharp talons. “I shall take my leave now,” she said gracefully, and nearly floated out of the room, leaving an almost tangible aura of smugness in her wake. Tristan pulled back to allow her to pass, then hung in the doorway.

“I see you’re awake,” he said softly. Enru noted the hammering in Bronwyn’s chest and glared harder at Tristan as he took a few shy steps forward. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He looked down awkwardly.

“Thank you,” whispered Bronwyn. She felt incredibly weak, but Tristan’s presence gave her enough strength to sit up a little, dislodging Enru, who settled in her lap.

“Listen, Bronwyn, I wanted to apologize for the other day. You were right; to insult a familiar is to insult his Sorceress. I am sorry.” His eyes dropped and his pale cheeks flushed, just a little.
Bronwyn waved her hand slowly, dismissing his apology. “No worry. ‘Tis already forgotten.” She smiled at him, and Tristan felt a strange twinge in his belly. Her dark hair, usually plaited severely away from her face, now fell in dark glossy waves that spilled over her pale shoulders, and her dark blue eyes sparkled.

“Bèatrix says you did very well, until you overexerted yourself,” offered Tristan.

“Oh, did she?” asked Bronwyn. “I’d never seen a birth before. I was so very scared at first, but then I guess my Gift took over.” She stopped self-consciously, blushing a little.

“Yes, she said you took care of Millie Thatcher so well.” The way he said her name made Bronwyn tilt her head.

“Do you know Millie?” she asked, curiously, but also trying to sound casual.

Tristan snorted. “Aye, I do, and a dumber girl you couldn’t find. She’s not Thomas Thatcher’s first wife,” he said. “She’s his third. He’s had boys by all of them, and Millie’s had seven stillbirths, premature all of them. You’d think she’d take the hint and stop breeding, or trying to.”

“She seemed nice,” said Bronwyn timidly. “She was trying very hard.”

“Oh, aye, because of the rumors of Thomas’s second wife. She couldn’t bear him children, and he needed sons to run his farm, so rumor has it that he went out of the province to see a witch and she had five boys in five years before the sixth killed her, and him with her.”

Bronwyn stared in horror at Tristan. “Why are you saying these things?” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “That’s so awful!”

Tristan burned with shame. “I am sorry, Bronwyn,” he said rather earnestly. “I did not intend to upset you. I just…Millie is not very smart. And she got herself in a world of trouble when she lay down with Thomas Thatcher and got herself with child before they were even betrothed. A bad way to start a marriage; the child did not survive. Nor did any after till now. And you helped to save her life.” Tristan smiled and patted her foot; he’d shuffled forward to the edge of the bed.

Bronwyn considered this, and smiled. “I did. I did something good, didn’t I?” Tristan nodded and smiled back.

How touching, interrupted Enru. Bronwyn, you should get back to sleep. You need to replenish your energy; you’ll be bedridden for days as it is.

“Days!” cried Bronwyn in distress. “I’ll get so bored!”

“I’ll bring you some of my books,” said Tristan.

And you can practice your mending and other lessons. Like meditation. Enru snorted softly; Bronwyn didn’t have the attention span for meditation. In any case, I think this visit should be over soon.

“Alright,” said Tristan, raising his hands in mock defense. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He smiled at Bronwyn again, his manner remarkably warmed since the beginning of her visit.

Bronwyn slid back down in the covers, closing her eyes with a happy sigh. She felt so girlish and stupid, but, she thought with glee, I think he likes me…

Part V: The Midwife's Apprentice

Tristan was not in the kitchen when Bronwyn ate dinner that night, and in fact, she did not see him for the rest of the night. Despite her promise to Enru, or perhaps because of it, her curiosity toward him was fully aroused, burning like a candle in her breast. She remembered, or imagined, his dark liquid eyes, his long artist’s hands, and ached in a way she’d never experienced before.

Her Path of Sorcery lessons with Bèatrix did not begin for some time; there were too many other duties to be mastered, the duties of a midwife’s apprentice. Bèatrix served the nearby village as their midwife and wisewoman, and though she was generally regarded as a Crone, or worse, a Witch, she was given proper respect by every villager. Her powers were legendary, or rather, the tales of her powers were, and few residents were stupid enough to cross her, and usually regretted it for a long time after.

But Bronwyn’s education up to this point had not included any domestic instruction whatsoever; she was ignorant of even the most basic housekeeping tasks. Laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending; all were beyond her, though the cooking came quickly. She was a natural at it; cooking very nearly the same things as Potionmaking, and though she hadn’t learned it yet, Enru and Bèatrix both privately agreed their charge would prove to be formidable at crafting and brewing potions.

Bèatrix told Tristan, at first, of the difficulties in Bronwyn’s training. Mostly it was complaints, disbelief that she was so inept at the basic duties of a woman, but it soon turned to praise at how swiftly the girl was learning. Enru watched the young man every moment he could spare, distrustful of his intentions.

Through it all, Bronwyn sailed cheerfully, eagerly learning each new skill, practicing her mending and embroidery far into the night. Her quarters became immaculately kept; she began rising earlier even than Bèatrix to light the fire and prepare the morning meal.

The first time this happened, Bèatrix woke to the smell of smoke. She leapt out of bed with an agility belying her physical age, and raced toward the source. Bronwyn knelt there, in the kitchen before the fire, the bellows in her hands, her face black with ash and soot as she stubbornly worked at an ember, trying to breathe life into it.

Even as Bèatrix skidded through the door, the flame burst forth, singeing Bronwyn’s eyebrows as she sprang back in surprise. She looked up, her face glowing through the filth, at Bèatrix, her eyes shining. “I did it!” she exclaimed happily.

After catching her breath, Bèatrix smiled weakly. “So you did.” She sat heavily on the bench at the table. “Would you make me some tea, Bronwyn?” she asked. “I didn’t expect you to get up this early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Bronwyn, bustling about. “Rosehip tea?” Bèatrix nodded and Bronwyn filled the tea kettle and set it above the fire to boil. “I just kept thinking how pleased you would be if you woke up to breakfast.” She began cutting some coarse brown bread. “I didn’t think it would take so long, though, and I certainly didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s alright,” assured Bèatrix, yawning slightly. She glanced out the window to the lightening morning sky. “Where’s Enru?”

“Asleep still, the silly cat. He was out all night hunting mice and only came in about an hour ago.”

“The only good thing about that animal,” declared Tristan, startling both occupants of the kitchen as he came in from outside. Bronwyn lowered her eyes and concentrated very hard on arranging the bread on a plate with some butter.

“Oh, come now, Tristan,” chided Bèatrix gently. “He’s good for more than that. He warms my feet at night!” Both of them chuckled.

I’d thank you not to discuss me when I am not present, Enru said dryly, slinking into the kitchen and sitting at Bronwyn’s feet. You would be surprised what I can hear.

“Oh, did I hurt poor Puss’s feelings?” sneered Tristan, openly contemptful of the cat. Bronwyn whirled to face him, her cheeks red with anger.

“How dare you insult my familiar,” she said quietly. “You live with Bèatrix, one of the most renowned Sorceresses ever. You should know that to insult a familiar is insult the Sorceress.”

“But you’re not a Sorceress, girlie. You’re a Midwife’s Apprentice, and it would suit you to remember your station!”

“Tristan!” Bèatrix’s voice was sharp. “Bronwyn is right. Though she is in training you must still respect her as you would respect me.” Tristan narrowed his eyes but said nothing, merely sitting at the table and reaching for a slice of bread.

The kettle began to scream and Bronwyn hurried to pour its contents into the teapot, stirring in the herbs that would make it into rosehip tea. She set it and several mugs on the table, reaching for a saucer to put some milk on for Enru. Her face was pale with anger, her mouth set in a thin line as she finished setting breakfast on the table. She sat for only a few moments, to wolf down some bread, her eyes trained on her plate, not saying a word. In fact, the whole table was silent, a strained silence.

As soon as she was done eating Bronwyn jumped up and began sweeping the cinders into the fireplace, careful not to catch the broom on fire. Again. Enru watched her sadly, knowing she was fighting back tears. He was the only family she had known for many years, her only friend. And Tristan had said she was no Sorceress-that must have stung.

But Enru didn’t know just how much it did sting-the main reason Bronwyn learned her duties with such eagerness was not to impress Bèatrix; it was to impress Tristan. She wanted to show him how smart she was, how quickly she learned; she wanted him to be proud of her, to look at her with fondness.

Bèatrix felt the humiliation rolling off her charge in waves, and from the expression on Tristan’s face, he could feel it too. He shifted guiltily in his chair and excused himself almost as soon as Bronwyn finished her breakfast. Enru leaped lightly after him, his ears back with anger.

“Bronwyn,” said Bèatrix gently, rising and placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She froze, trembling, on the verge of tears, and was afraid that if Bèatrix was too kind she would dissolve and shame herself further.

“I am sorry, Mistress, for quarreling with Tristan. I shall not speak to him again.” She sniffed and began sweeping again, furiously.

“Don’t,” said Bèatrix. “Tristan behaved absolutely crudely. You have no need to apologize to me; he was completely out of line. And he will apologize to you. I promise.”

“I don’t care,” said Bronwyn, forcing a careless tone in her voice. “He doesn’t mean anything. He’s just…stupid.” She stopped, realizing how childish she sounded, and clamped her mouth shut again. Bèatrix watched her quietly with her intense blue eyes, and said nothing in her wisdom.

After a moment Bèatrix shuffled and sat at the table again, watching the fire as she tamped and lit her pipe to smoke with her tea.

Once Bronwyn finished sweeping, she wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, sliding her hands in the pockets. She watched Bèatrix watch the fire, and both were lost in their thoughts when a great clatter arose outside.

“Bèatrix!” an urgent voice was calling. “Bèatrix!” Immediately the old woman was on her feet and at the door, peering out.

“Oh, halloo, Master Thatcher, has Millie gone to childbed again?”

“Aye, Bèatrix, and she’s in sore need of your skills. We’d be most grateful should you come down.” He averted his eyes and bowed his head a little, shuffling his feet and pressing his back to his horse.

“Well then, I shall come down, me with a new Apprentice to be breakin’ in.”

Master Thatcher looked up a little and saw Bronwyn behind Bèatrix in the doorway. He smiled a little. “A new Apprentice? A right pretty one-she’ll be leaving ye to have her own littles before you get her trained!”

“No, she won’t, if she knows what’s good for her,” said Bèatrix darkly. Her expression brightened. “But come now, I must harness the horses to the carriage to bring all the supplies and my Apprentice.”

“Much obliged, Bèatrix! I’ll set to harnessing your mares.”

“Thank ye,” said the midwife, and turned to the kitchen, gathering herbs and bundles with remarkable speed. Bronwyn stood in the center of the room, her face pale.

“Go fetch several bundles of linen, girl,” commanded Bèatrix, wrapping a glass jar of kingsfoil in rags to protect it and setting it gently in a large straw basket. Bronwyn didn’t move. “Go!” snapped Bèatrix, turning around. She took in Bronwyn’s terrified face and sighed.

“Bèatrix,” said Bronwyn. “I’ve never seen a birth before.”

“Not even a cat, child?” asked Bèatrix in disbelief. Bronwyn shook her head.

“If I did, it was before my Introduction. And I don’t remember anything before that.”

Bèatrix stopped cold. “What?”

Bronwyn frowned, trying to understand what had caught her mistress’s attention. “I don’t remember before my Introduction?” she asked.

“You don’t remember your life before your Introduction. Why?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “Enru said that it was normal, that even though mine was difficult, hardly anyone remembered.”

Bèatrix opened her mouth to say something but Master Thatcher was back at the door, peering in. “Bèatrix? Your girls are harnessed and waiting. I’m going to go back to Millie.”

“We won’t be long after, Master Thatcher!” called Bèatrix. She looked back to Bronwyn. “Go fetch an armful of clean linens, and pack them in this basket.” She thrust another large woven basket at the girl and turned her, giving her a gentle shove. “And don’t worry. You’ll do fine. Your inner magics will take over, trust me.” And if they don’t, then Enru will be doubly beaten! she swore grimly to herself as Bronwyn scurried away.

Part IV: Promises Are Made to Be Broken

When Bronwyn woke again, twilight was falling beyond the curtains in the window. She sat up slowly, painlessly, and was surprised. The room was utterly silent, and no candles were lit against the swiftly encroaching dark. She looked about curiously, trying to see before it was too dim.

Abruptly the door opened, spilling warm golden light in the room. Bronwyn started back, flexing a shield between her and the door. But it was Bèatrix, bustling in.

“Ah, you’re awake. Lovely. Here is your new uniform, and once you’re dressed, Enru will take you to the kitchen for supper. Hurry on, now, and wash.” She set a candle and a red-and-white bundle on a table near the door. The candle’s glow revealed a basin and a silver ewer filled with water that was steaming softly in the dusky chill.

Bèatrix bustled out, businesslike, and Enru slipped in before she closed the door.

You are awake, little one, he said softly, sitting down washing a paw. Despite his nonchalant behavior, his tone was affectionate. I was beginning to wonder how long you would sleep.

“Why? How long has it been?” asked Bronwyn, sliding out of bed and yelping. “I’m naked?” she cried. “Who did this?”

You did, replied Enru with some amusement. When you changed forms.

“When I what?” Bronwyn asked.

You changed forms, dear one. You shed your physical form and became pure energy, which travels much faster. However, your physical form also included your clothes, which did not endure the journey.

“I see,” said Bronwyn. She paused, reflecting on all this, absorbing it in her usual quiet way. She drew on the clothes slowly, surprised at how well they fit. “Did Bèatrix make these for me?” she asked, turning and observing how the fabric hugged her curves.

Yes, said Enru, his voice somewhat disgruntled. She did a very fine job.

Bronwyn looked at her cat, then smiled. “You don’t like it, do you?” she asked softly. The animal flicked his ear, then suddenly began washing his paw a little too industriously. “Why, is it too…” She glanced back at her reflection, trying to find the word.

Formfitting? Low-cut? Revealing in general? supplied Enru sullenly.

“Oh, Enru, you want me to stay a little girl,” sighed Bronwyn, gathering her kitty in her arms and nuzzling his head. “But if I am to become a great Sorceress-like Bèatrix-then you have to let me grow up.”

Enru wriggled out of her grasp. You think I don’t want you to fulfill your potential? he said irritably, flicking an ear and grooming his mussed fur smooth. That is not my chief concern here.

“Then what is it?” asked Bronwyn, exasperated. She smoothed her apron, secretly very pleased at how well it fit. She’d not owned anything this nice in several years; Appleby Manor survived well enough from the family who worked it, but there was very little money for its wards to clothe themselves with. Enru was silent, licking his haunch so his expression was hidden, until Bronwyn poked him with her toe. “Enru!”

He looked at her, blinking his green eyes owlishly. Fine then. If you must know, it’s not the dress, it’s not Bèatrix, it’s not you. It’s that Tristan. He’s trouble; he’s notorious for his…appetite…for young girls. And he’s dangerous, so stay away from him!

Bronwyn stared at him, utterly bewildered. Enru was always in control of himself, and she trusted him implicitly. His reaction to the young man she vaguely remembered seemed far out of place, but she shrugged it off. “Alright, so I stay away from Tristan.”

Promise me! Enru’s voice was low, urgent.

“Okay, okay, Enru. Don’t worry. I promise.” Bronwyn looked about, sniffing the aromatic air. “Bèatrix said supper was ready. Will you show me the way?”

Part III: Pigs and Toads

“Is she awake?” a voice said.

“Is she even alive?” a second voice whispered.

Bronwyn opened her eyes, but everything was fuzzy. It was terribly bright.

So she is both. Awake, Bronwyn. You’re absolutely fine. Not a scratch on your body. Enru sounded amused, relieved even.

Bronwyn tried opening her eyes again, and found it much more bearable this time. She peered around.

Enru lay on her pillow, sitting regally. His black fur shone, his eyes squeezed shut in delight. Welcome back, little one, he purred.

“Did I pass?” asked Bronwyn hoarsely.

You did most wonderfully well, dear one. Enru flicked his ear. But we will not be returning to Appleby Manor for some time; we are quite far away from it.

“What?” Bronwyn tried to sit up in alarm, but hands-human hands-gently pushed her back down. She looked up for the first time, to see the two who had first spoken. One was an older woman, with kind blue eyes. Her exact age was impossible to determine; her hands and face were worn by weather and years of hard work. She had curly white hair that escaped in wisps from the handkerchief that held it back from her face; it fell in a long braid down her back.
The other belonged to a young man with dark eyes and hair. He bore a strong resemblance in his facial structure to the woman, but the coloring was entirely different. His skin was smooth and dark, almost olive, his hands long and slender. Where she looked like a typical wise woman, he looked rather like a highwayman.

“Welcome to Willowood,” said the woman, smiling. “I am Bèatrix. This is Tristan, my grandson, of a sort.”

“Welcome,” echoed Tristan, already turning away. His dark liquid eyes darted everywhere but Bronwyn’s face, and he seemed distinctly uncomfortable now she was awake.

“B-Bèatrix?” whispered Bronwyn fearfully. Of course, she knew by now that true witches were few and far between, but she remembered the name Bèatrix as being one of the more renowned names associated with the Darkness.

She is NOT a witch, Bronwyn, muttered Enru. She is a most powerful Sorceress, and it just so happens her powers coincide with yours.

The test, the memory of the bears, and then-the flying? All if it came back to Bronwyn in a rush. She collapsed, exhausted, back against her pillow, her eyelids drifting closed.

“Yes, dear, rest now. We shall awaken you to eat soon, but for now, sleep.” Bèatrix smoothed the young girl’s hair from her brow; her fingers glowed faintly blue for a moment as she helped ease Bronwyn to sleep.

Bèatrix now turned her gaze on Enru. It was no longer kindly; her blue eyes flashed.
“Her powers coincide with mine, do they?” she asked quietly, but the undercurrent of anger was unmistakable in her voice.

Aye, Lady, they do. She is of the Healers. There is no mistaking it. Enru hopped off Bronwyn’s bed. Let us continue this elsewhere, so that we do not disturb her.

They adjourned to the kitchen, a spacious room with an open fire at one end. In front of the fireplace was an enormous trestle table, ancient and scarred with use. Bèatrix went to the fire and poked at it, stirring the flames higher around a large black cast-iron stewpot hanging from its hook. Delicious smells bubbled forth with the steam rising from its surface, and Enru jumped hopefully to the edge of the bench nearest Bèatrix.

“So, cat,” she said, not looking at him. “Tell me of her Test.”

While Bèatrix bustled about, preparing tea, Enru explained the bear cub and its mother, and how he could see Bronwyn trying to help the cub in its pain. She did not attack it once she knew it was hurting, he said. She followed it and tried to help, before the mother-construct appeared. Then she began running.

“And I suppose she found a hill and launched herself off of it?” asked Bèatrix sarcastically, sitting at the table with a steaming earthenware mug of chamomile tea.

Actually, yes. It was all I could do to follow her here, even after shedding my physical form. Bèatrix blinked in surprise.

“She led you here? Not the other way around?” she asked, setting her mug down.

Aye, Lady. She led me here, and she had already shed her own physical form. He paused. She’s never done it before; she will be most disturbed to wake up unclothed.

“Well, then I had better get some garments made for her soon, then!” Bèatrix stood and disappeared up a narrow set of stairs, creaking with each step. Some time later the creaks announced her return; she entered the room with an armful of red and white cloth.
“If she is truly my new ward, then I shall make her some garments. We shall tell the villagers she is my new apprentice in midwifery, and they will be none the wiser. They never are.” Bèatrix snorted. “Fifty generations and you’d think there’d be some legends, but I certainly have never heard any, nor has Tristan. In any of our forms.”

That’s disturbing, murmured Enru. There should be something, you are most correct. I shall look into it.

“You’ll have plenty of time, too. How old is she, fourteen?”

She is seventeen and will have your head if you call her younger. She has always been small; I, too, was surprised at how…little…she was when I first saw her. Enru’s tone was musing. But she is very pretty. You’ll have to watch Tristan.

“Tristan can watch himself,” said the young man, entering the kitchen through the back door. “He is, after all, a big boy.” He rummaged in a cupboard until Bèatrix scolded.

“What are you doing, child? There’s soup in the pot, and bread on the cutting board, and cheese in the cellar. Don’t be messing my organization.” She sighed, exasperated. Tristan retrieved a bowl and spoon sheepishly from the sink and approached the cauldron.

“It is edible, I suppose?” he asked cautiously.

“It’s soup, like I said. If you can’t tell the difference with your nose then you deserve to eat my tinctures.” Bèatrix sniffed injuriously. This was clearly a common occurrence, Tristan eating her medicinal brews.

“And if you can’t tell the difference between my herbs and yours, you deserve to have a headache for four days. You’re supposed to smoke it, not eat it, Bèatrix,” shot back Tristan, grinning.

Her mouth dropped open and she turned away, grumbling. He chuckled, ladling the stew into his bowl and tearing a chunk of bread to dip in it. Enru watched hungrily.

“Oh, all right, mangy beast. You’re worse than a barn cat in the rain.” Enru flattened his ears.

Barn cat, am I? In a blink, Tristan had turned into a filthy pig, snorting with surprise and laughter. You appear to be rather dirty, you little swine.

“Enough!” thundered Bèatrix. “Your Knowledge is supposed to be used for good, not for turning each other into toads, you frivolous children!” And abruptly, both Enru and Tristan were toads, which Bèatrix scooped up and set in a jar with a plate on top. “Serves you right. You can just hop around for a bit while I finish supper and make this dress.” With that, Bèatrix settled down near the fire, her gnarled old hands going in and out of the fabric with a flash of her needle. Occasionally she cast a dark look at the jar when it rattled, but other than that, quiet reigned in the kitchen for the next several hours.

Chapter II: The Test

Bronwyn had lived in the same house since her Introduction. In the same room, in fact. It was located in a hall with three other rooms, all occupied by other girls in varied stages of Study. They rarely interacted; Study was conducted very solitarily, by their respective familiars. It was all very secretive, hidden in the country, disguised as a farm. There was a man and woman who did have children who did operate the farmwork aspect of the household; they served more as servants and caretakers than anything else. In fact, Enru and the other familiars seemed to be the landlords of this place, its true stewards.

Appleby Manor, it was called, and it housed mainly apple orchards, though a sizable vegetable patch and livestock barns also had their place on the property. It was in a gently rolling river valley, bordered by high mountains and thick pine forests. In the fall, patches of aspen trees interspersed among the pines provided patches of pure gold, and silvery groves in the fall that reminded Bronwyn of home. Now she knew why; the dream had told her.

She roamed the northern pastures, leaning on the edge of a paddock fence that housed her grey mare. She held some apples in the pockets of her skirts, and she pulled one out to munch on now. The mid-afternoon sun beat warmly on her shoulders, and the stillness of the summer afternoon weighed heavily on her. Not even a cricket stirred; the air was hazy and thick with the scent of cut hay.

Bronwyn. Enru appeared at her feet. Come with me. Obediently, the girl followed the cat, threading up into the forests. She focused on the placement of her feet among the stones and roots of the trees, breathing evenly and deeply to concentrate her inner abilities. She knew a test was upcoming; the terse way Enru had spoken to her belied it. She could always tell.
They emerged some time later in a highland meadow, almost perfectly circular in shape. At one end lay a pool, fed by a small trickle of a waterfall. In the center was a great boulder, worn smooth by time and the elements.

Sit, commanded Enru. Bronwyn approached the stone, feeling the building of magical energies like a crackling of static in the air as she drew near. By the time she reached it, her hair felt like it was standing on end.

This is the focal point of two great Energy channels. It is a sacred place; the reason we chose Appleby Manor as one of our training grounds. Enru was quiet a moment, pacing around Bronwyn agitatedly. Your test will come soon. His ears flicked back and forth, as though irritated by a fly or disturbing noise and his steps were restless, back and forth, back and forth.
Bronwyn nodded and lay back, still breathing deeply. She closed her eyes to meditate, feeling the warmth of her inner power surging in response to that of her surroundings. She let her unspoken question float away, knowing Enru would catch it without her speaking aloud.

Passing this test is vital to the continuance of your training. It will show us, once and for all, in which domain your powers chiefly lie. From this point, we shall specialize your training. Assuming you pass.

Bronwyn nodded again, silently, and waited. She waited so long that she had begun to doze slightly in the warm sunshine, against this warm rock, when a loud crackling filled the air like thunder.

Immediately Bronwyn was on her feet, eyes open, senses alert. All appeared normal in the meadow, before she scanned it with her internal sight.

There. In the bushes. Darting forward stealthily, Bronwyn send magical queries forward, probing the energy signature. It was whimpering, hurting, and Bronwyn strode forward a little more confidently, though still wary.

She was about ten paces from the signature, but could not see the source, when it burst out of cover, barreling toward her. She leapt aside just in time; its claws snagged her skirt with a rending sound as it passed, ripping it from knee to ankle.

Swiftly, Bronwyn send a ball of crackling blue energy at the thing, simultaneously forming the sign of protection with her left hand. Keeping the sign between her and the thing, she circled it, much more cautiously. She still couldn’t see it with her human eyes but it appeared to her inner sight like a fiery ball of energy.

But she still sensed it was hurting, and lashing out due to fear, not aggression.

She approached it cautiously, sending out psychic waves, calming ones, projecting comfort. It trembled but allowed her to come quite close, to the point she could see its physical construct of a bear. A cub.

Whirling around just in time Bronwyn slammed her magic-shield against the mama-bear construct. A trap! she thought, panicking. Now at she stood between a mama bear and its cub. Worse, a magical construct of a mama bear and its cub. She thought for a split second about her options, and ran.

Her feet pounded her out of the field quite quickly; it was a small meadow. She was in the thick pine forest now, using her inner sight to sense where to place her feet. She saw a rise up ahead, but could not see beyond it. Rising up its height, she leapt off the top, expecting to land after a few feet on the other side, and continue downhill.

She didn’t. She kept going up, with no land beneath her, and her breath coming in ragged gasps, and her heart exploding in her chest-up and up and up-

She looked down.

Nooo! howled Enru from somewhere below as she immediately began to plunge, downward, the wind whistling in her ears, her rent skirt flapping wildly about her as she tumbled. Mercifully, blackness took her before she hit the ground, sparing her the pain of impact.

Introduction

Halloo. This shall be the place where The Path of Sorcery, The Sorceress's Apprentice shall be birthed.


Any comments, criticisms etc are welcome, but please, be nice and honest. Don't be mean and honest, lol. And no flaming each other or me. Yeah. Flames are bad. They burn.

With all that said, I shall post the first bit here, the "Introduction."


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A small dark child crouched beneath a lilac bush in full bloom, its heavy heads of blossom exuding an intoxicating perfume. The lilacs formed a hedge; they were ancient bushes that had grown, over the years, to resemble small trees, their trunks gnarled and twisted at the base. It was here, in the private coolness afforded by the leaves above, that she came in nearly all her spare moments; this was her alone-place.

She sat on a gnarled root thrust from the earth like a natural bench, hunched over a small rag doll. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her tongue poked out of her mouth at one corner. In her small grubby fingers was a needle and thread; she was attempting to sew the arm back on the doll. It had been roughly ripped off, however; the tear was jagged and a chunk of stuffing had fallen out and not been replaced.

Abruptly, she gave out a roar of frustration, flinging the doll, needle and arm at the trunk of the lilac. The needle sailed off with a silvery flash, disappearing into the darkness beyond, under farther bushes. The child burst into tears; she would be beaten for losing the needle; they were rare and precious around this household.

“Bronwyn.” The child froze mid-sob, but the voice was gentle, not reproving. She peered around her fingers, trying to identify the source, but no one had entered her cool green cave; at least, no one in her limited range of vision.

“Bron-wyn,” the voice repeated, almost singsong, calling to her. She dropped her hands from her face, peering around curiously now.

“W-who are you?” she dared to ask, whirling around, seeing no one. “How do you know my name?”

She caught movement at the edge of her peripheral vision and whirled again, watching wide-eyed as a petite cat-not a kitten, but almost as small-emerged from the shadows. The animal was a glossy black, with large emerald eyes flecked with gold. It blinked sleepily in its patch of sun, lifting its nose to her, as if scenting her.

“Y-You?” breathed the child. “Are you-?”

“Aye.” The cat dropped its head; it did not speak, but the words seemed to appear in the girl’s mind. “Don’t be afraid-I won’t hurt you.” Bronwyn couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female; it was just very soothing, and familiar, somehow.

“Yes, that is what I am. I am your familiar.”

“My familiar?” whispered Bronwyn, shaking. “Am I a w-witch, then?”

“No!” said the animal vehemently. “That is a lie. Witches do not have familiars.” He spat the word ‘witch’. “But you are magical.”


Bronwyn woke with a start. She blinked once, twice, aware that something had woken her. She just couldn’t remember what.

There was a scratching at her bedchamber door. Ah, that was it. Enru was locked out, and couldn’t get back in. Bronwyn rose, wrapping a robe over her nightclothes, and opened the door a crack. “Come on then,” she chided as a black shadow darted between her ankles. She closed and latched the door, hurrying back to bed to escape the chill of the dawn.

Already warming himself on her pillow, Enru proved difficult to dislodge. Bronwyn had to flip the pillow over to get him off and reclaim it. Watch yourself, girlie, threatened the cat.

“Best watch yer own self, beastie,” muttered Bronwyn in response. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of her bed, but sleep did not come again. The dream was foremost in her mind.

“Enru,” she said finally. It took some poking before the cat would respond.

Whaaaat? he said grumpily.

“Do you remember the day you came to me?”

Yes, of course. You were in those lilac bushes. I ate most heartily in that barn. Your mother was right to fear cats.

“My mother?” asked Bronwyn hopefully. The cat was silent, but it was a guilty silence. Bronwyn’s memories of her life before Enru came to her were dim and hazy at best; at worst, they were the sadly disillusioned dreams of a lonesome child. The process of Introduction onto the Path of Sorcery was not an easy one, and it served fairly effectively as a rebirth into the world. Most memories of the Inductee’s previous life were wiped away, and Bronwyn’s Introduction had been especially difficult; she had been very small physically and the shock had nearly killed her.

Besides, knowledge of their previous life, their families, only distracted those who studied the magics. And provided the enemies of the Path of Sorcery with ammunition to use against the practicers.

“Enru?” asked Bronwyn again, prompting him. She poked him to ensure he hadn’t fallen back asleep.

I heard you, replied the animal grumpily. Your mother feared cats, and with good reason. A c at took her only daughter away from her.

“Did I have brothers?”

No. Now go back to sleep. Enru resolutely shut his eyes, leaving Bronwyn to ponder her dream in the early morning twilight.