The Grandmaster's Tale

Madame Clover’s eyes widened as I levitated Alan into the infirmary and dumped his frozen body on the nearest bed, then hurried to grab her wand and start casting diagnostic spells. I stepped back, taking Geraldine’s hand and pulling her out the way, too. Madame Clover was a practiced healer, one of the best in the world, but she could only do her work without interruption. Mistress Constance joined us moments later, her face grim. Madame Clover barely looked up as she snapped orders, demanding that I help her with some charms and the alchemist brew a pair of healing potions. She didn’t find anything for Geraldine to do, which might have been a mistake. The poor girl could only stand by the wall, watching in horror as the healer fought to save her friend’s life. I hoped—prayed—Alan would be fine. I hadn’t dared knock him out, not when it might push him over the edge. But being trapped in a wounded body, unable to move a muscle, wouldn’t do wonders for his mental state either. It might end very badly indeed.

I’ll keep an eye on him, I promised myself, although I knew it wouldn’t last. Alan would graduate, then leave without looking back. Perhaps I could convince my brother to give him an apprenticeship …

Madame Clover stepped back, after what felt like hours. “He will be fine,” she said, finally. On the bed, Alan looked almost childlike. The wound was gone, but his clothes were still stained with blood. “He just needs a few days of rest to replenish his strength, even with the potion.”

“He’ll …” Geraldine stepped forward. “Can I stay with him?”

“As long as you don’t disturb him,” Madame Clover said. “He’s in a healing trance right now. He has to come out of it on his own.”

She motioned for Mistress Constance and I to follow her into her office. “A bad business,” she said. The office was supposed to be secure, but I cast a handful of privacy charms anyway. “I was half-afraid the wound would be charmed to make it impossible to close and seal. Even so … he was lucky to survive. An inch lower and it would have sliced right through his heart.”

“Attempted murder,” I said, savagely. “They can’t get away with this.”

Mistress Constance looked at me. “Are you sure?”

I scowled. Boscha couldn’t cover for the little bullies now, could he? And yet, it had been hours since I’d broken up the fight and taken Alan to the healer. Anything could happen in a few short hours, from the bastards running away to their master finding a way to excuse their crimes. I couldn’t think of anything that would—it wasn’t a harmless little prank like turning a passing student into a toad—but that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t. Boscha wasn’t stupid. And he had a strong incentive to find a way to bury the whole incident.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, finally. I met the healer’s eyes. It pained me to say the next words, an admission of weakness as humiliating as confessing you were being bullied by your peers. “Will you stay with him?”

Madame Clover nodded. I allowed myself a moment of relief. No one, not even Boscha, would dare manhandle—physically, emotionally or magically—a healer. The Healers Guild would never stand for it and they’d bring immense pressure to bear on the community, convincing the board to fire Boscha before they lost access to healers themselves. The wretched man wouldn’t have a chance to bully Alan into forgetting what had happened … or something. I didn’t know how far he would go, but I feared the worst.

“There’s something else you need to know,” Madame Clover said, quietly. “I did a blood test. If I’d needed to find someone who could donate some blood to him ... it wasn’t necessary, but …”

I nodded. Healers wouldn’t use donated blood unless they were desperate. At best, it created a whole web of obligations and debts between the two that could be impossible to navigate or easy to abuse; at worst, it could bind the two together permanently or affect their magic in unpredictable ways. No one in their right mind would take the risk, if there was any other choice. Healers might be oathsworn to foreswear all debts, but the donor might not be so kind. Donating blood was so risky, and came with so many complications, that it was impossible to demand the donor do anything. And taking the blood by force was even worse.

Mistress Constance frowned. “What did you find?”

Madame Clover hesitated, noticeably. “He’s his son.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Alan is Boscha’s son,” Madame Clover said. “I checked twice. There’s no mistake.”

“Impossible.”