The Golden Years

Chapter 1

Standing still and silent outside the medical tent, Private William Blackwood puffed on his cigarette and watched the show from the glass surface of a small, enchanted handheld mirror that allowed him to see through the eyes of his co-conspirator. On the other side of the burlap, Cambria Winterborn, the unit's Healer, fussed over a curse-stricken Aldric Graves with a tenderness William could almost mistake for genuine.



But he knew her far, far too well for that.



A silent chuckle rumbled in his throat as he watched the traitor he'd shot in the river slip back into consciousness from a fitful, nightmarish sleep, only to lean over the side of his sick-bed and vomit, violently, into a pot.



"Easy, now, Aldric," crooned Cambria, easing him onto his back with a hand on his shoulder. She left out the back flap of the tent, but only for as long as it took her to dump out the pot and put it back in its place. "How do you feel?"



"Miserable," Aldric groaned.



Cambria held the back of one hand against his sweat-slicked forehead, the ends of each of her twin braids, so pale blonde they were almost white, brushing his sunken chest through his uniform and thin blanket as she bent over him. "And still fevered, I see. Well, we'll work on that. I won't be sending you back to your civilian life on death's doorstep."



"And who-" Aldric interrupted himself to throw up yet again, nearly missing the pot on the dirt floor. "Who issued that order?"



"I did, actually," said Cambria. "Call it my bleeding heart; the General wanted you finished off, but I convinced him to settle for a dishonorable discharge."



That much was true, and even the General thought it was merely Cambria's conscience that compelled her to plead for Aldric's life. Only William knew that the sadistic Healer wanted him alive just so she could condemn him to a fate worse than death, just for flicks.



Flitting over to the corner of the tent, she drew from a cauldron bubbling over a small fire and returned to her ailing patient's bedside, steaming cup in hand. "All isn't lost, you know. You could go back to school; I know you wanted to do that. Now, drink."



"What is it?"



"Shadowroot tea," explained Cambria, with that lilt in her voice that told William she was up to something. "Infused with Aether-spun caramel. It'll help you hold your meals down. The curse has embedded itself deep into your bones. It's taking a terrible toll on your body and your magic. You need your strength back. You've lost far too much weight." As he began to sip, she advised, "You may begin to get nauseous again, but that's just your appetite returning, and you'll need it if you're to heal. You must let your medicine run its course."



"Actually," said Aldric, "I feel excellent now."



As Cambria came out the front of the tent, dainty yet regal despite the state of her uniform, soaked with not only her own sweat, but Aldric's bile and blood and whatever else had come out of him, William tucked the mirror into an inside pocket of his coat. Together, they walked away from the tent, and once they were out of her patient's earshot, he was the first to speak.



"So? How is our would-be defector?"



"Fine...for now," said Cambria, "and mending. Slowly. QUITE slowly." She gave him a sidelong smirk through a few flyaway curls that had fallen in front of her face. "He'll recover, later rather than sooner of course-"



"And the potion?" asked William. "What's it really meant to do to him?"



"Let's just say, it shall encumber him with a burden," said Cambria. "How big of one, I can't determine. Maybe he'll walk again, maybe he won't. I can't very well stick around and poison him forever. But soon, a dishonorable discharge will be the least of his worries, as he'll be the least of ours."



"And you're not worried he'll see through you?" asked William.



"What, because you strung him up on the flagpole by his drawers your first week of training, and he decided to avoid a repeat performance by ceasing to wear any? That's not cleverness, my love. That's desperation," said Cambria. "I assure you, he shall never be strong enough again to pose a threat to you."



"Good, I never liked him. Though, you're starting to make me glad my second shot missed."



"And now, we can focus on the true enemy."



"You mean...?"



"Absolutely." With a vigorous nod, she went on, "My betrothed shall be an even easier mark than Graves. Draeven is a pompous, self-absorbed bore. He thinks himself untouchable, but that arrogance will be his undoing. Even now, there are days when I wish he had chosen another...my cousin Helvetica, for example. She loves egotistical men. Well, she loves provoking them; it's a game to her. She doesn't lose unless she breaks, and she never breaks, even if her ribs do. I swear, the girl's got a mad streak. But the Dark Lord chose me-"



"And how lucky for me that you made for an amenable accomplice."



"And how lucky for me that you found me," she replied. "Draeven has the right ideas, but he's too weak to execute them. You, on the other hand..."



"And you, with your nifty parlor trick..."



"Excuse me! Gustatrix Arcana is more than a parlor trick, and Draeven's just about to see! He's already addicted to me, and once I leave him, he shall need to find a new addiction to plug that hole. You'll see, you'll see how he goes! Just like Graves will see! One day, the whole world will see!"



"Of course, darling, of course," he said, taking her into an embrace with sturdy hands on either side of her wasp waist. "Of course."



"Everyone," she repeated, resting her temple between the muscles in his burly chest and sturdy shoulder, "is going to see."



***



The scratch of pens and murmured incantations filled the lecture hall as Aldric Graves hunched over his desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he forced his hand steady. He had never thought he would step foot in Thornmere Academy again, at least, without crutches, and he still had his stick in case of an emergency, his left leg weak even after years of rehabilitation, but fate-or perhaps sheer stubbornness-had seen to it that he returned. Conscripted the summer after his first year, he was back, far too late, for his second. His uniform, despite an update right before the start of the school year, already felt too tight in places, a reminder of the weight he had continued to gain after his attempted defection from the Army of the Arcane. Cambria assured him it was normal in recovery from a blow from a Hexlock Revolver-many didn't make it at all. She said it was especially normal for his healing process to amplify his appetite in its beginning stages: after all, didn't his body and his magic need raw material, if they were to mend themselves?



Anyway, he'd never wanted to be a soldier.



Anyway, she was right: he'd never wanted to be removed from school.



Anyway, his new heft kept him safer from being called upon again for military service, in desperate times of war that warranted the overlooking of things like failed defections.



And anyway, it was nice to eat. Even after his injuries abated, his desperate appetite retreating with them, he'd grown too fond of indulgences to whip himself back into any sort of shape. So what if he was fat now? As long as he could hold a pen or a stir-stick in one hand, he could study magic. He thought not of Cauldron-ball, not of Draeven, the rising Dark Lord, not of witch-



"Ope! Scuse me, d'ya think I could borrow a pen?"



When he looked up, time seemed to stop.



The owner of the voice that had so brightly torn him from his thoughts was a fellow second-year, a young lady, maybe twenty, with curly, honey-brown hair, and this soft way about her every breath, every bat of her eyes and gentle smile. Aldric froze, his pulse quickening from a canter to a trot to a gallop. "Ah-yes, of course," he stammered, fumbling in his bag for a spare pen. It slipped through his fingers at first, clattering against the desk, then the ground after it rolled off. Swearing under his breath, he bent down to retrieve it, needing a few labored grasps as he contended with the impediment of his gut, but finally he managed to thrust it toward her. "Here."



She accepted it across the space between them.



"Thanks, Mister-"



He gave a stiff nod. "Aldric. Aldric Graves."



"I know who you are." Despite the spiraling rumors of his dismissal from the Army, despite the years he had on her and all of the other students, there was no derision in her tone. "You're coming to lunch after this, right?"



"I-what?" He blinked.



"Lunch." She twirled the borrowed pen between her fingers, something like mischief curling the corners of her lips upward. "It's the meal you eat between breakfast and supper."



That was how he met Marigold Moonshine.



***



With her charming smile, idiosyncratic accent, and quirky stories she brought with her from home, Marigold soon made it impossible for Aldric not to be captivated by her. However, he had no delusions that she might return the sentiment. He was simply too old for her, not to mention too fat and too broken. That she insisted, after their first meeting, on sharing her table in the dining hall with him every day was probably simply due to the fact that she had no one else to sit with. Other students followed her every move with scrutiny in their eyes, in disbelief that her father could have 'sullied' the Moonshine name, marrying 'that Mortal-born hussy'. He had no problem with who her mother was, and wouldn't have had room to judge her either way, given his own reputation as the coward who'd tried to run from his duty patrolling the border.



One day, he stood in the hallway waiting for her after Potions class, wondering what was taking her so long to catch up. After several minutes, she finally joined him on the other side of the door (which had been soundproofed; he knew because he'd attempted to eavesdrop). "Everything alright in there?" he asked.



"Oh, yah," she said, "Professor Vale just wanted to talk to me about my future."



"I surmise she said you're a student of great promise?"



"Well, gosh, I don't want to brag..." She dipped her head, her cheeks flushing. A stray curl fell in front of her face, and she brushed it behind her ear, her other hand modestly clutching her books more tightly against her not-so-modest chest. "She did say there'd be some good options for me that'd pay alright, once I graduate."



"But we don't graduate for another-"



"I know, I know. She just thinks I'm ready to start thinking about it, is all." As he followed her to their usual table, she asked, "Have you thought about what you're going to do eventually? We won't be at school forever, dontcha know."



He shrugged. "I don't even know what I want to eat for-"



She sat down across from him, her own decision made quickly. Commanded by her wish, the bowl in front of her filled itself with some kind of rich red stew covered in shredded cheese that was outrageously yellow-yet, by the aroma wafting his way, he couldn't say it struck him as unappetizing. "Actually," he said, "I'll have what you're having." Once his own bowl filled, he gave it a stir, imitating her, before taking an experimental bite, eyes widening. "Wow...Goldie, this is phenomenal!" (She signed herself 'Goldie' at the top of her assignments; it was what her family called her and she'd taken the nickname to school with her. He'd at first been reluctant to use it, lest he come across as too familiar, but it just slipped out one day and when he tried to apologize, she refused to let him.)



"Well, shucks. Ain't you ever had chili before?"



"Is that what it's called?" he said, giving another stir to the meaty, hearty stew.



"Yuh-huh. My ma makes it all the time."



"Mortal-world recipe, then? I think somebody made a mistake when they named the place she's from 'Misery'."



She laughed, low and musical. "It's actually 'Missouri', and out of the times she's taken me to visit, I could take or leave the weather, but the folks are awful friendly, which is nice."



He quirked an eyebrow. "Are they awful, or are they friendly?"



"Friendly! It's the second one, it's usually the second one. For example, if you ask someone a question and they say 'No, yah', that means yah," she explained, gesticulating in the air with her spoon.



"Are we planning a trip there?"



"Well, what are you doing for the break after the thingamajigger?"



"You mean the Winter Snowball?" Truth be told, he didn't know what he was doing. His family hadn't spoken to him since his attempted defection. They were humane enough to keep sending money, but disdainful enough not to send letters, and he could put two and two together and figure out they didn't want him home for the Yule party.



"Yeah, that thing." Just as she finished her lunch, something chocolatey appeared on a side-plate by her dessert fork. "Ooh, yay!" Peeling it carefully off the plate so that only a few crumbs stuck, she placed it in her open palm, cut it in half with her knife, and held out half to him. "Want to try some bumpy cake?"



Not one these days to turn down indulgences, he plucked it from her hand and took a bite, letting his eyes flutter shut with a nod and a soft sigh in the back of his throat as the sweetness and cream washed the spice from his palate. His cheeks flushed slightly, and for a moment, he worried about what a glutton he was making of himself in front of her, but when he looked at her again, she wore the triumphant smirk of someone who considered it a victory to have impressed him. "Another of your mother's tried-and-true recipes?"



"Yuh-huh!" she said, beaming with pride. "Oh! But back to the future! You should go into Potions with me! Vale did say there's a killing to be made."



"Perhaps if you tutored me, I could make the cut..."



"Aldric. Come on. You're second in the class."



"And you're first."



"You need to believe in yourself more," she said. "But fine, I guess I'll tutor you...if only cause it means I'll get to see more of you."



***



In retrospect, there were a lot of signs Aldric had missed.



That Marigold insisted on comparing class notes and practicing potions in her dorm room rather than the library struck him as merely a matter of convenience for their study partnership. This way, they could talk freely without disturbing other students. Plus, she had a window she could open at her leisure, in case they needed to air out the potion fumes while practicing or working on Vale's latest assignment. Her cupboards and dresser drawers were always full of Missouri delicacies, either sent in the mail by her mother, or else prepared herself in the extra cauldron she kept around for food. She was always up to share, which he chalked up as the result of the compulsory politeness and generosity intrinsic to the culture of her mother's homeland of 'midwestern Amer Rica' and nothing more.



When she began inviting him to picnic lunches out on the grounds, by the tree line, again, he chalked it up to practicality: they needed the fresh air after spending so much of their time together breathing in cauldron smoke, and the distance from the judgmental stares of the nobility in the dining hall took a lot of stress off both their shoulders. A few times, she insisted on taking him down Morrigan Street on the weekends, a known haunt of gaggles of friends and amorous couples alike, but it was also a great place to buy books and supplies, and if she ended up wanting to stop in one or more cafes on the way back to the university, and happened to buy a pitcher of cider to split instead of a glass, or a half-dozen hand pies instead of just the one, again, it was just the hospitality with which her upbringing had instilled her.



"Thanks for coming with me," she said one afternoon as they made their way out of a quaint, cozy cafe called Madame Cinnabar's with their haul of ingredients from the apothecary up the road...and no leftover pastries. He hadn't expected them to go through a whole deluxe box in one sitting, but time had gotten away from them as they crammed for the upcoming exams at a corner table for two. "What did I tell you? Best cider in the city, or what?"



On either side of them, the storefronts glowed with candlelight illuminating signs animated with a myriad of enchantments. "It's a lovely shop," he agreed, before returning to their game of quizzing one another on Potions trivia. "Okay, here's one: what's the last ingredient that goes in an Elixir of Lucid Dreaming?"



"Sap from a Nightshade Bloom," she rattled off mechanically. "Okay, here's one for you: the Interpreter's Brew requires what bodily fluid from what animal, along with a drop of the drinker's own what?"



"Quillfish ink and the user's own blood, now give me a hard one."



"You give me a hard one, why doncha?" she challenged, bumping his hip with her own.



"Okay...what do you get when you combine Shadowroot leaves with Aether-spun caramel?" That one wasn't in the textbook, nor would it be on the exam, but given her dedication to her craft, he figured she might know it.



Only, she glanced off to the side, a deep flush rising in her cheeks as if he'd just said something obscene to her. For a moment, he wondered what he'd done wrong, until she finally responded, "Nothing; those ingredients are inert together, unless...well, let's not worry about the exception to the rule, eh?"



Well, that was...not the answer he expected.



She began to turn an unfamiliar corner between a pair of ash-marred inns.



"Where are you going?" he asked, confused.



"Just to the bar; I'll meet back up with you at the school."



He scoffed. "Refusing me the invitation, are you?" She knew he could hold his liquor; many of their study sessions ended with him cracking open a bottle of whiskey for them to split, both to repay her for keeping him fed, and to manage his own chronic pain. Habitually, he drank more than he probably ought to have, but as far as he was concerned, it was better than getting hooked on potions: that was a much more expensive habit, not to mention risky. Better mages than himself had melted their brains in their skulls trying to medicate their way out of long-term curse damage. "Who are you," he said, growing suddenly bold, "and what have you done with the real Marigold Moonshine?"



Turning to face him, she sighed and admitted, "Look, Aldric, it's just that I've got myself mixed up with a bit of a rough crowd, and I-"



"You what? You didn't think I could handle it?"



"Are you kidding me?" she blurted. "Yah, no, not at all!"



"Just for clarification, it's 'no', it's the second one, right?"



"I just didn't think you were gonna want to. That's all," she said. Quick on the uptake with magical mannerisms, as she was with all things, she offered him her upturned palm, a gesture signified to say, 'put me to the test in the absence of a truth potion onhand'.



It was tragic, when he thought about it, that mage-kind needed a universal sign for 'I'm not an Avalon-besieged liar', but the fact of the matter was that so many of them were.



He placed his fingertips lightly upon her exposed wrist and found her pulse steady.



"Try me," he said.