The caravan’s wheels clacked against the rough stones of the seldom-used path as Willow watched her town, her home, and everyone she knew recede into the distance. On her wooden bench she gripped the iron cane tightly between her hands, hard enough that her muscles began to ache. She willed herself not to cry. Not now. Maybe later, but not now.

There were others in the covered wagon—two elderly men, a middle-aged woman, and a young man around her age. He sat on the other side of the cart, surreptitiously glancing at her every few seconds as the caravan trundled on.

The small village of Bridgewater was almost lost in the dust haze on the horizon, and Willow became painfully aware that this was the farthest she’d ever been from home. The wilds were dangerous, and she’d never been well enough to venture outside of town.

The young man glanced again, looked away, and they were all jostled as the wagon went over a particularly large stone. Willow groaned at the impact and tried to find a more comfortable position on her folded cloak. Her muscles ached as they always did, but now her back was joining the symphony of pain, courtesy of the caravan’s incessant rumbling. And she was bone-tired from all the packing; physical activity like that sapped her completely. How many more miles until they stopped to rest?

“Hey, um. Excuse me,” the young man from across the wagon said. Willow’s grip tightened on the iron cane, her thoughts immediately going to the bag at her feet and the small fortune it contained. He’d already been in the caravan when it stopped in Bridgewater—she didn’t know anything about him.

“Yes,” Willow asked, slowly shuffling her heels so they came in contact with the heavy bag. It had battered her spine something terrible as she carried it into the wagon, even with the gold coins padded within layers upon layers of clothing. It was all the money she’d have for tuition and lodgings for two years. As for food, well, she’d need to find some other gainful employment once she reached the city.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I noticed we’re of the same age,” he said, and adjusted his glasses. Short, sandy blonde hair, and a slightly round face which spoke to a comfortable, pampered life. Hers would be round like that too, if it weren’t for her condition. If his clothing was any indication—a fine leather vest over a white linen shirt and light canvas pants—they probably had more in common than not. Only a couple of families in her village, hers included, had been able to afford clothing like that from the traveling caravans. She was also dressed in comfortable and quality travel-wear, tailored to fit her strange proportions.

“And,” Willow asked, unsure of where the conversation was leading.

“Well, I was wondering if you were also seeking entrance at the Arcanum.”

She looked more closely. A large bag tucked under his bench-seat, wedged between his feet. Cloak also stuffed under his backside, as hers was, to cushion the rough ride. And it was a fine cloak too.

Like hers.

“I am,” she said, caution tempered by a brief flash of excitement. He’d said ‘also’, hadn’t he?

His face cracked with a smile and he leaned forward, hand outstretched. “Leopold.”

“Willow,” she said, and he grasped her hand. She winced as his handshake pressed her swollen knuckles together, and his face transformed from excitement to shock as he released her.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” he said, and Willow withdrew her hand and lightly massaged the fascia between the knuckles.

“No, it’s no problem,” she said, and she saw from the corner of her eye his gaze flash from her emaciated fingers to her tailored sleeves, the fabric drawn tight against her swollen joints.

“You’re going to the Arcanum,” she asked, to get back on topic. The pain in her hand had almost faded. She knew he hadn’t left a bruise—there wasn’t much of her to bruise.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I am. Hoping to,” he said, and smiled shyly. She returned the smile.

“Well, I hope we both have luck,” she said, and prepared to look out of the back of the wagon again before he caught her eye.

“But you’ve been practicing for the entrance exams, haven’t you,” he said, excitement saturating his voice. “If you’re going to the Arcanum?”

Willow dodged. “It would be foolish to attempt entry if you hadn’t.”

“Can I see? I’ve never seen anyone else work real Arcanum spells. All anyone does in my town are the farming ones.”

Willow’s mouth dropped slightly. “Um, I…” She searched for an excuse. “I just got on. I’m a bit tired from the—”

“Just a simple magelight then,” he said, nearly jumping with energy. Willow glanced back and saw the other passengers in the wagon all watching them. Whether she liked it or not, she had an audience.

Oh what the hell. Simple magelight indeed.

Willow sighed and brought her hands up in the spell-form: an open bowl, fingers pointed inward. All eyes went to her skeletal hands, little more than skin and bone, joints swollen to almost grotesque size, and she felt the energy in the cart change as the others shifted uncomfortably. She tried to ignore them, tried to remember that where she was going no one was used to the way she looked.

She exhaled a long breath, closed her eyes and tried to get her mind calm and focused. It was difficult with the cart jostling this way and that, but she finally got to a place she thought she could work from.

She started in on the spell.

“Blazing light,” she intoned like a mantra, over and over. She could feel the essence in her body respond sluggishly to her visualizations, creeping through her arms and down her hands. As the essence emerged from her fingertips, she concentrated on influencing its concept to that of blazing light. The structure she made with her cupped hands provided the scaffold for the essence’s behavior: condensing inward, releasing its blazing light.

As she repeated the intoned concept over and over, between her cupped palms appeared a pale spark. It grew slowly until it hovered at just over the size of a copper and emitted a faint but discernible light.

And then she passed some interior threshold and the exertion was just too much. With a gasp she dropped her hands and the ball of essence boiled away in an instant. The exertion had left her weak and shaky, like she’d been wrung out. Willow leaned her head back against the clattering wood of the wagon arch and let out a breath.

“Ah,” she said. “There, magelight.”

There was silence in the cart. She opened her eyes to find everyone looking away, suddenly engrossed in their own business. Even Leopold was looking at his feet. He almost seemed embarrassed.

“Well, lets see yours,” Willow prodded, suddenly annoyed. He had the gall to ask her to demonstrate magic and wouldn’t even meet her eye. They were both going to the same place, trying to get into the same school. He wasn’t any better than her.

Except, as the twisting sense of dread in her gut whispered, he would be.

“Maybe I’ll make a flame,” Leopold said, and Willow shook her head.

“Let’s see your magelight,” she said, and he sighed. She watched as he assumed the same spell-form with his hands and repeated the words.

“Blazing light.”

With each repetition, the sphere of essence between his palms grew in size and intensity. It lit up the covered wagon brighter than the sun outside within seconds. A few moments more made it nearly impossible to look at.

He aborted the spell and the sphere of essence boiled away. He wasn’t watching Willow; in fact he was looking out of the back of the wagon again away from her. For a moment she allowed herself to feel a surge of anger. And humiliation.

“Impressive,” she forced herself to say. “You should do well at the Arcanum. How long have you been practicing?”

Leopold shook his head, then closed his eyes. “A couple weeks. It was my first spell.”

Willow had been working on the same spell for the last five years.