Brightly Woven(26)

The water squelched out of my boots as I followed him through the labyrinth of shelves, running my fingertips lightly over the leather spines. There wasn’t a gap or cranny a book hadn’t been crammed into, red, brown, faded blue. They all looked like they were fighting to slip out from their constraints, to be open on a table or even the floor.

In all, Francis Colar had three hundred twenty-four books on magic, of which fifty had been written in the past thirty years, and only two were of any remote use to us.

“This one,” he began, tugging at a clunky volume, “is a reference guide, covering every possible subject in every possible detail.”

He opened the book, blowing out a small cloud of dust from its pages.

“Black ether…black ether…black—here it is.” Mr. Colar cleared his throat. “‘Black ether, a poison rumored to be developed by a hedge witch community outside of Provincia in the years of King Siegbright. Its contents remain a guarded secret, though its effects are easily recognized. Victims of this poison will display erratic, nervous behavior, severe cramping in abdominal muscles, uncontrollable shaking, and, most noticeably, crescent-shaped welts on the back and chest. Though the pain and welts can be treated with simple elixirs, there is no known antidote.’”

“Nothing about wizards?” I asked.

“Perhaps they have a cleverer way of counteracting it, but the effects would be the same,” Mr. Colar said. “Not even a wizard is immune to poison.”

“If the effects are the same, then any treatment…”

“Would also be the same,” he finished. “But you heard what I read. There is no antidote.”

I still wasn’t fully certain that this poison was causing North’s strange behavior. It was a strong possibility, though, given the disgust that had rolled off him when he told me about the hedges.

“Remember that it was only rumored to be this poison,” Mr. Colar said, snapping the book shut. “Although…if you’re interested in antidotes and elixirs, I do have a book that might be useful to you.”

“I would love to see it,” I said. My eyes followed the line of books in front of me. A Brief History of Casting, Casting Fire, Reign of Magic…

He dropped to his hands and knees, digging through the books he had already cast aside. The book that emerged from the pile was also black, but it was soft and worn down. My eyes fell on the gold-embossed title: Proper Instruction for Young Wizards.

“It’s what all the young ones use while apprenticing. Must have put out a new edition, though. I had a dozen old copies flood in a few years back. It’ll tell you anything you want to know about elixirs and how to make them.”

“This is perfect,” I said, my eyes drifting over the pages. Seeing I was sufficiently distracted, Mr. Colar returned to the front to sweep out his brother-in-law and the rainwater that had flooded in beneath his door. Mr. Monticelli called out to me as he crossed back into his own shop, but I barely acknowledged him.

I leaned back against the shelf, paging through until I found an elixir that listed honey and lavender as ingredients. Those were the two strongest smells I had been able to make out in North’s bottles.

Sleeping draft, it read. Mix one part honey, two parts lavender with essence of mandrake root. If ineffective and more restful sleep is required, grind and add a strong dose of rosemary and poppy. As is the case with many drafts, dependency may arise from misuse and ill care.

That had to be it—the night of the battle with Dorwan, he had told me to take it and go to sleep. So why had he decided not to take the elixir himself?

I could be useful, I thought. I could mix the elixir for him. I had charged the air between us with anger and hate—I had seen him as a villain and nearly missed the fact that he was suffering.

The rest of the book was slightly less useful to me. Most of the sections discussed the proper concentration for casting spells, others were history lessons about great wizards of the past, and I was surprised to find a few outdated maps lining the covers. I was just about to close the book when a passage caught my eye.

Magical inclinations (humans)—often a rare occurrence of a wizard’s blood being diluted by many marriages to non-wizards. Though they are unable to cast spells or break curses, they often make excellent assistants for their ability to mix powerful elixirs and, in some instances, repair a talisman.

All this time I had suspected that there might have been something else involved in North’s choice of me. I would have read more had a large crash and a booming voice not broken into my small sanctuary.

“By the heavenly bosom of Vesta! It’s a raging downpour out there!”

I leaned around the edge of the bookshelf, unsure of whether I wanted to be seen.

“It certainly is!” Mr. Colar said cheerfully. “Please come in. I already have one refugee!”

“Oh?” Owain said. “Any pretty girls with hair as red as roses?”

“About this tall?” Mr. Colar asked.

“Wearing a blue dress?” Owain replied. “Blue eyes?”

“Lots of freckles?”

“Just a bit on the nose and cheeks—smallish nose, a little upturned?”

“For goodness’ sake!” I stepped out from behind the bookshelf. “I’m right here! You could have just called for me.”

“Oh, lass!” Owain galumphed the entire distance between us, heaving me into a bone-crushing embrace. The mail across his chest was frozen against my cheek, but his hug was warm and inviting—even if he smelled like a wet horse.