To Catch A Sorcerer

Ten minutes later, Gray had messed up.

A hush fell over the alchemy lab, and heat stole up through Gray’s thin boot soles, crept up his legs, and bloomed fire-hot in his cheeks. His pot bubbled in front of him.

Longwark stalked between the desks and cauldrons. His intense ice-grey eyes were on Gray.

‘Sorry,’ Gray rushed out. ‘I stopped it – before …’

‘Give me the fierilion essence.’

Gray handed him the jar of bright yellow essence. He pinned Gray with his glittering gaze, and then drew up the essence through the dropper, and very carefully, squeezed two drops into a clean dish. He nudged the dish towards Gray.

‘Thank you,’ Gray muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.

‘You stupid boy,’ Longwark said, softly. ‘You’re attempting the Dragon Curse Fury?’

Gray hesitated. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ambitious little upstart, aren’t you?’ He turned to the rest of the class. ‘Anyone else who needs volatile ingredients, speak with me first before handling. It says so, right there on your exam instructions. And do not put fierilion essence near your flame.’

The class murmured their assent. Longwark moved off, sitting behind his desk, and Gray let out a shuddering breath.

‘Gray.’

Longwark said Gray’s name like one of the northern curse words he’d spat out earlier.

Gray hesitated. The creation of Dragon Clay needed a close eye on it, else it would develop a skin on the surface while it was in the liquid stage, and be useless. And before that happened – right before – Gray needed to cool it fast enough to create the clay.

Leaving it even for a moment could mean failing.

‘Gray Griffin. Now.’ Longwark waved Gray forward with two fingers.

Gray glanced up at him, curling his fists. He stiffly walked up to Longwark. His surname was Keep, he shared Alistair’s surname, Elona had given him that name, but Longwark would switch to Gray Griffin whenever it suited him, like an motherfu-

‘Detention,’ Longwark said.

‘Detention?’

‘I believe you know what that word means?’ Longwark shuffled papers around his desk. ‘My study. This afternoon, after your last exam. Alistair, too. You tell him.’

Gray’s mind was half back at his dragon's clay. ‘Yes, Mr Longwark.’

Skin was growing over the mixture, clinging to the edges of the pot.

Gray grimaced.

He grabbed up a ladle and began stirring counterclockwise in swift threes.

It began turning murky brown.

That was wrong.

Trying to appear unconcerned, Gray went over to the store cupboard and rustled through the jars and supplies, searching for dragon’s breath and gold dragon scales, and then strolled back with them.

Gray added these. But it wasn’t working. The murky brown had changed to a black brown. Swearing internally, Gray screwed his eyes shut, trying to picture his textbook and the notes he’d scribbled in the margins.

Overripe Dragon’s Clay was a component of the Dragon Calling Curse.

It could be used to call any dragons in the area.

Dragon’s Calling Curse was not on the list for the exam.

But otherwise Gray would be handing in nothing. If Gray didn't even show he could make Dragon Clay, there was no way he’d pass.

No, decided Gray immediately. If it’d been a Hounds Calling Curse, or a Horses Calling Curse, it’d be worth a shot. But, even if he managed to pull it off, a Dragon’s Calling Curse would as likely land him in jail as it would save him from an F.

The town wouldn’t appreciate dragons crashing through Krydon in droves.

Though, Gray wouldn’t mind dragons, right now. They’d be better than the humiliation of bombing his alchemy final.

Gray rubbed his face, his palm slippery with sweat.

The only other thing he could think of was Liquid Fool’s Gold.

Liquid Fool’s Gold wouldn’t cause any chaos or danger to the town. It worked like a love potion, only minus the magic, and minus the falling in love with a person. You’d become infatuated with the Liquid Fool’s Gold itself - a favourite among con artists and those who’d fallen on the wrong side of loan sharks.

Liquid Fool’s Gold was complex, though. Gray’d never done something so complex without a partner.

Gray glanced up at the clock. If he hurried …

He ran back over to the store cupboard, too stressed to pretend unconcern.

Mined quartz. He’d need that.

Fool’s Flower pollen. He’d need that.

Dragon eyelashes. Fledgling griffin feathers. Ground iron pyrite.

Arms loaded up with ingredients and herbs, Gray sprinted back to the lab bench. No one noticed. He wasn’t the only one running. Rowan Conn, who worked on the bench behind Gray, had exploded something and the girls next to him were rushing around, trying to salvage their work. Longwark had completely lost it, shouting at Rowan, and trying to control the damage with his wand.

Gray sweated over the cauldron for the next twenty minutes, fumbling everything in his haste, chewing his lip.

‘Time’s up,’ said Longwark. ‘Everyone step back.’

Gray wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. His pot was filled with an amber yellow liquid, and trailing a coy scent.

It was perfect.

Longwark walked through the desks and benches, pausing at each cauldron.

Everyone watched him in silence, waiting for him to ask them to add their breath and words of intent to activate the conversion.

Small and perfect displays of firebreath fury lit up the room, with fire that snaked and exploded but had no heat.

The girl beside Gray did it perfectly, leaning over her conversion, and blowing her breath into the pot.

Heatless fire exploded like miniature fireworks.

Longwark paused over Gray’s cauldron, his face betraying nothing. He leant over it. Slowly, stirred it with the ladle.

‘What’s this supposed to be?’ he said, without glancing up.

‘Liquid Fool’s Gold, sir,’ Gray said.

‘This is not what I asked for.’ Longwark stirred it again, sniffing. ‘Can you read, Gray?’

He moved on. Gray’s stomach plummeted.

Longwark hadn’t even asked Gray to activate it.

Gray rubbed his face, his hand sweaty.

Gods.

Longwark leaned over Rowan Conn’s work, his nose wrinkled. The cauldron had a buzzing, blue fog above it, like a storm cloud heavy with rain.

‘Dragon’s Curse Fury,’ Longwark said, softly.

Rowan looked at him, a mixture of hope and anticipation. Soot fell out of his hair and eyebrows every time he moved.

‘Do not activate this,’ said Longwark. ‘Do you know why?’

Rowan shook his head.

‘That brimstone scent,’ said Longwark. ‘Your foundation conversion - the Dragon’s Clay - was poorly prepared. If activated now, we’ll be trapped here for hours with roaring dragons and flames in the sky.’

‘You can salvage it,’ said Longwark softly. The class leaned closer. ‘It needs tears of a virgin mage.’ He deliberated for a beat. 'Or sorcerer, for more potency.'

Longwark slowly turned. He and Gray locked gazes over his bench.

Hot blood flamed Gray’s cheeks. He dropped his gaze onto Rowan’s pot, his breath shallow.

‘Not an easy ingredient to access, though,’ Longwark said softly, to the class. ‘Mage and sorcerer parts are heavily monitored. As they should be.’

Silence.

‘And seeing as there’s something like twenty known sorcerers in existence,’ said Longwark, ‘and less than five thousand mages, those ingredients are in very short supply. Not to mention sorcerer tears are the most valuable component in the world, and this school is not going to waste something like that on the likes of you.’

One of the girls next to Gray muttered something under her breath. Gray only caught the end, ‘all the same stuff and I’d never touch sorcerer or mage parts.’

‘Same … stuff?’ said Longwark.

Longwark was more taught and motionless than a hawk perched on a cliff edge. ‘It’s the same stuff as ingredients from a domestic dog and a wild wolf are the same stuff.’

‘Right,’ muttered the girl.

‘Mages and sorcerers are entirely different beings,’ said Longwark, his words tight with control. ‘Power from a sorcerer far out strips a mage’s.’

There was an unsaid sentiment hovering over the class: sorcerers were violent psychopaths and mages were - well, not. Sorcerers were uncontrollable and mages were kept on a - figurative - royal leash. Sorcerers were executed on sight, and mages were handed every possible privilege a lapdog could want.

And in the north, neither sorcerer or mage were particularly welcome.

Sure, they could walk into any job they wanted because they had skills that no one else had, and because they were only a handful of the population.

But, northerners lived by the axe.

They trusted what they could see, and what they could fight.

Magic, at the very least, was barely tolerated.

The general consensus was that mages could brew what potions people needed, they could scribe what the people needed, but were also soft, poor fighters, prone to speaking nonsense like the halflings, all magic and no muscle, and not worth wasting arming with an axe.

Which was not true, in the way that any blanket statement is not entirely true, because Gray had seen - they all had seen - Longwark fight in the town battle tournaments. He was a force and a half to be reckoned with.

And he never spoke in riddles.

‘Yes, Mr Longwark,’ said the girl. Her voice trembled at the end.

Gray kept his face ducked, feeling very hot and uncomfortable.

Longwark made a sound like he was holding back words with difficulty.

‘Sorry,’ murmured the girl, ‘Mr Longwark.’

Gray edged away from her.

There was a long moment.

‘You’ll get your results next week,’ Longwark said. ‘Dismissed.’

Gray hightailed it out of there with the crush of kids.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and scanned the grounds for Alistair.

The grounds were quiet.

A few girls sat on the weedy lawn in the small courtyard, and Gray’s stomach did a weird flop as he noticed Rosie Thindrall, her face tipped towards the sun, in the midst of them. Rosie was a creature made of sunlight, it seemed, with her blond hair and golden eyes.

Rosie was … torture.

You wouldn’t think of it at first glance.

She always had red laces in her boots and she always walked around everywhere humming and then would blush whenever anyone noticed or pointed it out.

But, every time Gray got within three feet of her he got paralysed.

His insides would do this thing, like his soul leaving his body.

She was a senior with Alistair, generally preferred the company of girls, and Gray was … Gray. Smelt like horse and grease from working at the tavern. Bastard mage kid. Only had one friend and Gray had just hung him out to dry.

Gray watched her, as she and her friends took turns scratching each other’s backs.

Quickly, Gray averted his gaze before she could catch him staring, scuffing his boots at some loose gold and tawny feathers left over from the senior prank last week (Alistair’s brainchild. The pranks were always his).

Gray searched the quiet grounds for Alistair.

Mostly the kids were lined up outside the many old-fashioned timber doors shut against the almost-summer sun. He skimmed their faces, but there was no Alistair. It was two minutes until Gray’s next exam.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, squinting against the glare of light after being in the dimly lit alchemy room, and jogged to the closest boys’ toilets.

The bathroom was small and gently lit by thin windows set high in the wall, and smoggy with cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke was a good sign. Gray crossed the puddled floor, his footsteps echoing against the vaulted ceiling.

‘Ali?’

Gray checked the stalls.

Empty.

Gray wanted to tell Alistair it didn’t matter. That they didn’t need that stupid alchemy class anymore. If they entered the royal alchemy and potions competition during the summer, and one of them got scholarship money, split it between them, and they could go to the Alchemy Academy, or one of the alchemy colleges, for a few years at least. It wouldn’t matter, then. The grades in their alchemy exam wouldn’t matter, the competition would override it …

Gray stared at his reflection in the spotted mirror. He looked like something that had been dragged out of the drain, all messy, dark hair, colourless cheeks, and serious grey eyes. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow.

He couldn’t believe the boy staring back at him in the mirror had failed his alchemy final.

‘Shit,’ he said.

Gray turned on the cold water and thrust his hands under it, allowing himself a moment to let the water cool his blood. He watched the water stream and swirl and then shut it off, making his hands as steady as he could.

The bell out in the courtyard chimed twice. Gray needed to be outside the mathematics classroom right now, lined up with all the other kids.

He wiped his hands on his trousers and sprinted out of the bathroom and across the courtyard. He skimmed the crowd of kids for Alistair’s familiar curly mop of hair, but he wasn’t there.