Chapter 2 #3
Sorcery was inherently air magic, the strongest of all magics, as it was the very breath of being, which manifested from the voice. But if that voice had been cursed to stutter . . . other magics had to be employed.
Thus Bradley had turned to the dubious art of potions, the finicky magic of earth. The tower’s bookshelves had yielded quite a few volumes and scrolls on the subject, enough to get him set upon the right path. In theory.
It was a known fact that infusing natural ingredients with incantations made potions that much more potent, but with his stutter, Bradley could just as easily hex himself worse than before, so he stayed silent.
“So what makes this potion different from yesterday’s and all the rest?” Dirk wanted to know.
“H-h-honey.”
If honey and lemon in tea could sooth the nastiest of scratchy throats, perhaps it would be the lubricant needed in this potion to finally rid himself of the stutter.
Of course it wasn’t just any honey, but honey dripped from the red combs of the rare fire opal bees at high noon and blessed by no less than three Caelus monks.
Bradley set a gentle flame under the honey jar to make it runny, as it had crystallized in the desert chill overnight.
Meanwhile, he conferred with his notebook and a few other books on potions to add this and that to a beaker, being sure to swirl thoroughly after each addition with a glass stirring rod.
The potion started a faint green, turned into yellow sludge, then hardened into some horrible purple gravel that scratched the inside of the beaker, before relaxing into a dark amber liquid nearly identical to a strong brew of rooibos.
Dirk swatted Bradley with his feathered tail, much like how one would tag a bosom companion’s arm in excitement. “That’s the least disgusting potion you’ve made yet!”
Bradley grinned, the hope gained from this morning’s sunrise sparking and catching fire within him. It truly was the best-looking (and smelling) potion he’d ever created.
“Well, crack on and bottom’s up!”
The sorcerer apprentice removed his spectacles, folded them, and placed them on the far end of the trolley so they wouldn’t get broken. A lesson learned from Trial Twenty-Two.
After a deep breath, Bradley lifted the beaker and gave it a swirl like he was examining the legs of a fine pinot noir. It was perfect. It had to be.
He only had ninety-one days left in this place.
Ninety-one days to lift the curse, regain his power, return to the Prestigious College of Sorcerers, pass his Master’s exam, and earn his staff.
The College Board had given the peasant from the Cut with his freakish wild magic two gifts that he refused to squander.
First, Franklin Gladstone’s expulsion and disgrace. Second, a six-month postponement.
This third gift had been presented him by Grand Master Excelsior himself—the use of his private retreat and all the knowledge he’d accumulated (with the minor caveat that Bradley assume the role of caretaker while he was at the tower), plus some enigmatic advice.
He had tapped his student on the forehead and said, “This is only the beginning.” Then, as he’d urged his griffin into the sky, leaving Bradley on the northern balcony, he’d called, “The true power lies within!”
Bradley had the chance of a lifetime, and he would accept no other future. What awaited him if he failed was an eternity of fish and the soul-destroying knowledge that he’d once been magnificent . . . and never again.
The sorcerer apprentice threw back his head, the potion splashing sweetly against the rear of his throat.
Bradley swallowed, set the beaker down, and stepped quickly away from the trolley.
One of his more recent failed experiments had quite literally backfired, blowing a hole in his next-to-last pair of trousers and shattering half the glassware.
“Well?” Dirk gave his scales another shimmer. “I’m pouring everything I’ve got into this one. Not that I haven’t been before, but, you know, your potions have never looked this great, so— Bradley? Why’s your face doing that?”
The floorboards groaned as Bradley dropped to his knees. His palms hit a second later, his spine arching. With a cry, the sorcerer apprentice vomited black goo all over the floor.
“Oh, gross.” Dirk shot towards the ceiling.
Bradley heaved and heaved, eyes screwed shut, limbs trembling.
Tears from the strain mixed with tears of shame and sizzled against the black goo.
He could hear the voices of his fellow students now, his noble peers who had never seen fit to befriend a lowborn fisherman like him. Freak. Unworthy. Peasant scum.
Failure.
The last of the goo erupted from his throat, and Bradley slumped to the side, defeated.
“For the love of— Oh that’s never coming out of your clothes, is it? I think we’ll have to burn that set like we did with Trial Seventeen. Or was it Thirty-Seven?” Dirk coughed as the odor of Bradley’s failed experiment reached his haven. “Skin my scales, you’re on your own!”
The dragon shot out the nearest archway and fled across the desert.
And that was why Bradley never ate breakfast first thing in the morning.