A Spell for Heartsickness (The Rune Tithe #1)

CHAPTER 1

I t was the eve of the Witch’s Rede, and Briar Wyngrave had run out of time to break up with his boyfriend.

“Boyfriend” was a generous term. Hardly anyone knew about Briar and Celyn’s relationship, as it was a strictly casual arrangement. If the secret theater of sneaking off at parties and trysts in potion pantries hadn’t been so appealing, it might not have lasted. Yet it had—for their last two years in Wishbrooke, no less—so a bittersweet goodbye was in order. Tomorrow, their paths would split.

The difficulty was Celyn had been avoiding him.

Music and the chorus of voices floated in from the street below Briar’s flat, barely muted by the single-glazed windows. Every pub in Wishbrooke heaved with witches celebrating their final day as apprentices. Glass shattered and beer splashed to a chorus of “Eyyyy!”

Eager to join the party, Briar tied the last stitches on his outfit. The fabric shimmered midnight blue, gold embroidery forming swirls of shooting stars. He’d fashioned it from scraps of velvet found in the bin behind a textiles shop. It had taken a lot of magic to heal the seams so the cloak didn’t look like a scarred patchwork of misbegotten trash.

His familiar, Vatii, clacked along the windowsill, peering sideways at Briar’s clothes.

The magpie croaked, “You look like a harlot.”

“An expensive one, though.” The sheer top wasn’t the most conservative of choices, but no one ever described Briar as shy. With the new cloak he’d made, his ensemble would look tasteful enough.

Briar’s television crackled as the news switched segments. It was an ancient, boxy thing—static scored the screen unless Briar touched a very precise spot on the top. Outfit procrastination aside, he’d waited to join the festivities so he wouldn’t miss the unveiling of Linden Fairchild’s autumn fashion line. With his hand on the warm spot, the television’s picture came into sharp relief, and he watched a journalist interview Linden. The designer’s raven-black hair had been plaited into a patterned scarf over his shoulder. He smiled, blushingly nervous despite how often he’d made public appearances.

“This line marks the end of a very successful apprenticeship,” said the journalist. “Fans and viewers are all dying to know: What’s next for Linden Fairchild?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer yet,” Linden said. “I have ideas, but nothing set in stone. For now, I’m just enjoying this moment.”

Linden had clear blue eyes, fringed with lashes pretty as a girl’s. The journalist sounded dazzled as she asked about the fashion line. The camera cut to models strutting the runway in thick, woolen fabric. Neutral colors with splashes of terra-cotta, mustard yellow, hunter green. The garments looked austere and expensive while recalling the coziness of drinking hot chocolate in an indie café. Linden recounted his time spent in the countryside, the haunted beauty of the wild. His voice was mellow as red wine.

Briar sighed. “He is so dreamy.”

“Sounds like a posh wanker,” Vatii argued. “For autumn, those models have a lot of skin on show.”

“He’s a savant, Vatii. You’re just a prude.”

“And you’re late for the party. We’ll miss the food.”

“ You’ll miss the food. Go now, if you’re so eager.”

Briar slid the window open for her. Music and the pop of firecrackers drifted on the spring breeze, along with the honeyed smell of lilacs and cinnamon buns, roasted pork and Bramley apples. Briar’s flat, with its groaning taps and cracked plaster, smelled perpetually of raw meat due to its dubious convenience of being located above a butcher’s. The party smells were a welcome substitute.

Cuffing Briar with her wing as she flapped into the night, Vatii screeched, “Hurry up, and don’t forget your potion!”

Briar groaned, but he rooted through his bedside drawer for a full vial of the viscous scarlet liquid. His last dose. He’d have to refill his prescription tomorrow.

He downed the acrid brew and got dressed, donning his cloak and swooping about in front of the mirror. The way it billowed satisfied his affinity for the dramatic. Even by Briar’s picky standards, he looked quite good.

In the streets, the party spilled out of pubs with reckless enthusiasm. Charmed fairy lights winked from ivy-covered eaves and pots of blooming larkspur. Non-magical folk joined the witches. Any excuse to party was a good one, but they’d also befriended many of the potion masters, tarot readers, and witches apprenticing with their local apothecaries over the past four years. Some witches would stay on as permanent staff. Others would find job placements elsewhere.

Briar prayed for the latter—had been praying for four years—but he wouldn’t know until the Witch’s Rede.

He headed for the city square. One of the main benefits of apprenticing in Wishbrooke was proximity to everything that mattered. Built upon a slim finger of a peninsula on the southern sea, the city could not sprawl outward, so it stretched upward, everything built upon the old foundations in a game of architectural Jenga.

He set out to find Celyn but found Vatii stealing finger sandwiches from an outdoor buffet instead. “You should try the cucumber ones,” she said from a lamppost. “Crunchy.”

“Have you seen Celyn?”

“Why would I be looking for him?”

“You’re my familiar. You’re meant to help me.”

“That stuck-up friend was knocking around drinking home-brewed philter. Purple dress. Philter has something extra, so be quick. She’ll be away with the fairies soon.”

That sounded like Sybine.

Briar found her whirling around the fountain, half-empty glass in hand. They rarely spoke, as her aura gave him a toothache like he’d been chewing tinfoil. With the number of people milling around, the auras all blended together, muting Briar’s perception of them. Up close, the protection of the masses lifted, and the bruise-colored malaise of Sybine’s collided with him just as she did. Bodily.

He caught her. “Have you seen Celyn?”

“Briar! Hello!” She had never before looked so delighted to see him.

“Yeah, hello, where’s Celyn?”

“Callum?” she shouted. “Callum Holt? He’s fit, isn’t he?”

“No, Celyn. Kell-in.”

“Oh, Celyn!” Said as though her best friend’s name was an epiphany. “No. Hm, maybe I did? Hard to remember. I think he had a stupid scarf on. It’s nearly summer, I told him.”

“Whereabouts, can you remember?”

Sybine lurched, catching herself on Briar’s shoulder. “Mmm, Green-heath Park, maybe? No, wait! The Raven’s Brew! You know, pub up that-away, nice part of town?”

Briar knew of it. “Are you all right?” This close, her aura made him feel like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in weeks. He couldn’t leave her like this. It was early in the night to be so pickled. She surged upright and waved him off.

Briar took the near-empty glass before she dropped it. “Where did you get this?”

“Made it myself. Why? D’you want any? I have a flask. You’ll never guess where I’ve hidden it.” She procured the flask from between her ample bosom, like pulling a rabbit from a hat—no secrecy charms required. At Briar’s furrowed brow, she laughed. “Don’t worry. I know you don’t team for my bat. Pitch for my team. Swing my way!”

Triumphant, she unscrewed the flask. Briar sniffed it and barely avoided retching. The vile decoction reeked of magic. Enchanted liquors weren’t unheard of or particularly frowned upon in the right doses, but this would do more than let your hair down. Get the balance of liquor and spellcraft wrong, and the resulting potion could render a person impotent, poison their magic well so their spells were all cursed, or make them forget who they were.

Briar loved a party as much as the next person, but too much of this would be dangerous. He’d have scolded Vatii for not intervening sooner, but familiars could only communicate with their particular witch.

“Have a sip, babes!” Sybine slid sideways. Briar caught her and lowered her onto the edge before she fell in the fountain. She put her head between her knees.

He checked around them. Most of the people nearby were drunk or distracted. He slipped a stick of charcoal out of his pocket and pulled up his sleeve. Inky scars covered his arm in a litany of runes, sigils, and magical symbols from mid-forearm to above the elbow. He only lifted the sleeve enough that most remained hidden. Just in case anyone noticed.

Magic didn’t require words or wands—though some witches found they helped. What magic did require was a tithe. The sort of tithe depended on the spell. A crushed berry to dry your clothes, a feather to make a heavy load lighter, or a buried tooth to help a garden grow. The rarer the tithe, the more powerful the spell.

If you didn’t have the ingredients, there were alternatives.

On his wrist, he drew a rune.

Stuffing the charcoal back in his pocket, he covered the mouth of the flask with his hand, focusing until his well of magic responded like water to the tidal pull of the moon, but sluggishly. More like molasses than water. Electric light fizzled between his fingers. His skin burned under the rune as the magic took a tithe of flesh from him, but he was so used to it he hardly flinched. The magic left behind another midnight-colored scar to join the rest. With a flick of his wrist, his sleeve covered them. Spell finished, he brought the purified flask to his nose and sniffed. The toxic odor had dissipated completely, but the magic had tired him.

He put out a hand to steady himself on a lamppost. The dizziness passed quickly enough, but it was becoming more common with each spell he cast.

Sybine looked up at him quizzically, and he put it out of his mind. He couldn’t tell whether she’d seen him use the flesh tithe, or whether she was only waiting for him to take a drink.

He drank. The alcohol still burned going down, but with a balmy aftertaste of soothing aloe. A counter spell to heal whatever damage the drink had done.

He handed back the flask. “It’s good!”

Sybine beamed and, to his relief, took a swig. The pride in her face flickered. The drink didn’t taste the same, but she was too drunk to place what he’d done. He briefly worried she’d think he’d spiked the drink for nefarious purposes, but she went on chatting nostalgically about their final days in Wishbrooke.

Briar lingered long enough to ensure she was all right before politely extricating himself. “I’ll see you around!”

He headed for the Raven’s Brew. He’d never been inside before. The floor didn’t stick to the soles of his shoes, nor did the music pump through his blood. Celyn was there, drinking from a novelty horn, telling a gaggle of friends tall tales about a prank he’d played on a new apprentice. He looked at ease, lounging in a leather armchair. In his smooth smile and affable posture, Briar understood why they’d wasted so much time together, and it made him a little sad to think that this party might be the last they would see of one another.

Celyn caught sight of Briar, and his smile faltered. Some of Briar’s fondness faltered too. That confirmed it: Celyn really had been avoiding him.

While one of the girls elbowed her friend and jibed that it had been she who cleaned up after the prank, Briar sidled up behind Celyn’s armchair.

“Hey.”

“Hey?” Spoken like a question. Celyn’s frostiness didn’t go unnoticed amongst his friends. Some paused to greet Briar with mirrored looks of curiosity. At most, Celyn’s friends knew him as a casual acquaintance. The only one aware of their relationship was Sybine. But sod it, if Celyn wanted discretion, he shouldn’t have left their goodbye so long.

“Enjoying the party?” Briar said.

Celyn unwound a fraction. “Enjoying it more with this cider. My parents sent it from their trip to South Orillia. Famed for their apple orchards, you know. But I gave it an extra kick.” He held up the horn with a wink.

“Can I try?”

Celyn glanced toward his friends. None outright stared, but some looked inquisitive. All the same, Celyn held out the horn, and Briar took a sip, giving him the excuse to lewdly lick his lips.

There was no reason they couldn’t make this goodbye a memorable one, and no mistaking the way Celyn’s eyes stuck to Briar’s mouth. Celyn lived only a couple blocks away.

Briar seized his moment. “Can we talk?”

Celyn shifted uneasily. “Uh, sure.”

He led Briar to a private alcove. Enchanted lights flitted like fireflies, and in their faint glow, Celyn’s expression hardened.

“What is it?”

If Briar hadn’t rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind, Celyn’s callousness might have thrown him off. Their relationship hadn’t been serious. For witches, casual sex was fine, even encouraged, but it was kept private. Serious courtship was a more public affair, with announcements to the family and marriage intentions in the cards. Briar and Celyn never had any illusions about the fact that they were solidly in the former camp. But it had still been companionship through a… rough period of Briar’s life. A cold, isolated time in which his only solace was Celyn’s bed.

They could pretend all they liked that the relationship meant nothing, but two years was two years. They’d shared spell-casting textbooks, the squished bed of Briar’s gray flat, kisses in deserted aisles of the library. Celyn had been the one to console him when Briar’s mother…

They’d shared a lot of time . That had to matter.

“I just wanted to say that it’s been wonderful knowing you,” Briar said, “and I’ve appreciated our time together. Even if we were never serious, we had a lot of fun. So I wanted to say goodbye. Officially break up, I suppose.”

“Break up?”

“Yeah. And I wanted to wish you luck in the Witch’s Rede tomorrow.”

“Oh. Uh, okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks? Good luck to you too.”

The brusque delivery undercut Briar’s confidence. Why did it feel as though he had to justify the need for a goodbye? “That’s all?”

“I mean, it’s not like we were together together,” Celyn said. “You don’t have to make a big deal of it.”

“A big deal of—I’m not. You’d rather I just never spoke to you again?”

As Briar’s voice rose in volume, Celyn cast a furtive look toward the bar, to the milling people who might overhear. “It’s not like that. Only, it’s obvious, isn’t it? We knew it would end by the Rede.”

“But we could still say goodbye . Besides, it’d be awkward if we both ended up in Pentawynn after spending these last few weeks ignoring one another.”

Celyn’s face did something very unattractive that Briar hadn’t seen before. He sneered. “Come on, Briar. I know you love your flights of fancy, but be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Yeah, but Pentawynn? You don’t really believe—” Celyn cut himself short. It struck Briar like a physical blow.

“You don’t think I’m good enough.”

“No, Briar, come now,” Celyn said. “You’re very talented, it’s just that it’s Pentawynn, isn’t it? It’s a touch out of reach for someone—”

“Someone… ?”

Celyn cringed as he tried to finish as delicately as possible. “Someone of limited means, I meant.”

Briar choked on his outrage. He’d worked hard, shared his lofty aspirations with Celyn, and all the while Celyn thought he’d been blowing smoke? Watching Celyn glance toward the pubgoers, another realization dawned. The secrecy of their relationship was traditional—no need to raise the expectations of friends and family that he and Celyn might marry by making their dalliance public—but it had also served to conveniently separate Briar from Celyn’s network of wealthier, more influential personalities. The reality settled over Briar like a lead shroud.

“You’re ashamed of me.” He could see the truth of it in Celyn’s face.

“Hey, now. It’s not like that.”

“It is!” Briar’s voice rose in pitch. “I thought you’d been avoiding me because we weren’t serious, but actually you were just, what? Embarrassed to have wasted so much time with a peasant like me?”

At the increase in volume, Celyn’s head snapped around to the bar again. He raised a quelling hand. Briar sidestepped it, moving out of the alcove into full view of the patrons. His blood boiled. The marks on his skin itched. He remembered Celyn tracing his scars with a finger, telling Briar they were a mark of bravery, to practice a taboo magic that many found disgraceful. The warm memory turned fallow with the seed of doubt that any of it had been honest.

Briar’s hurt curdled into anger. If Celyn feared their conversation would draw attention, he had insulted the wrong man. Briar lived for attention, and he was immune to embarrassment.

Louder than before, he said, “So all of this? All the nights we shared? They meant nothing to you?”

“Wait, no, that’s not it.”

Celyn made to grab his arm. Briar danced away, backing out of the alcove and into the full light of the pub. Conversations hushed to listen. The witches watching rugby on the television turned to look. Their audience captivated, Briar let loose.

“You said I was your honeybee!” He flung the saccharine pet names like missiles. “Your pretty little secret! Your sweet candy peach! And all along you just wanted me for my body ?”

He heard someone snort into their cocktail.

“Briar, stop it! You wanted to talk? Let’s talk. Come here?”

Ignoring his pleas, Briar puffed up to his not-insubstantial height and threw up his hands as theatrically as he could. “Well, I am not some trifle!”

“Briar, please—”

“Some toy to be played with and discarded when you’ve grown bored!”

“Please, I will pay you to shut up!”

“And now you treat me like some strumpet who can be bought with your big, fat—”

“Briar!”

“—bank balance!” Turning on his heel with a swirl of his cloak, Briar delivered the final verse of his punishment over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Celyn. I curse you. May all your socks lose their matching pair.”

This parting shot gave him infinite satisfaction. Amongst witches, flinging curses at enemies ranged from harmless pranks to generations of grave misfortune. Briar’s curse was somewhere in between, neither friendly nor grave enough to befit a rival or nemesis. It was an inconvenience. A condemnation of Celyn as too unimportant for something grander.

That Briar hadn’t used actual magic was irrelevant. Celyn might still have matching socks tomorrow, but he’d have a harder time locating his dignity.