Free Magic of Thieves by C. Greenwood

refused to apologize.
    “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my input, friend,” Dradac was saying. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you on the point of what’s best for Ilan. She’s growing up faster than you realize and is learning to fend for herself. You’re doing her a disservice if you won’t allow her a little adventure once in awhile.”
    Brig sputtered, but I shot Dradac a grateful look.
    In the end, we settled the matter with a compromise. It was determined I was to be given more freedom in the future, but this hinged on the condition that Brig wished me to improve myself in certain areas. He had taken up a strange notion I needed what he called “scholarly learning,” although neither he nor anyone else in our band had ever possessed anything of the sort. I readily agreed to this, confident I was getting the best of the deal.
    However, when I discovered a few days later exactly what he had in mind, I was no longer so sure.
    I sat beneath a shady tree, a smooth plank of wood across my knees for a table. A yellowed sheet of parchment rested beneath the tip of my hovering quill. Terrac crouched behind me, leaning a little over my shoulder to observe my efforts. The quill’s ink skipped and spattered irregularly as I attempted to copy out the letters Terrac had set down across the upper half of the page. At Terrac’s direction, Brig had fashioned the writing implement from a quail feather and Brig and Terrac together had made the ink from the juice of wild berries. The parchment was a contribution from one of the outlaws. It had been confiscated from the hands of a reluctant scribe two seasons past and the thief had no use for it.
    I silently cursed that outlaw now and the scribe before him. For an hour of every day I was forced to practice my letters, under Terrac’s guidance. I knew Brig well enough to be sure he would see to it that I always had that hour to spare. He’d been pleased to learn Terrac had been taught to read and write by Honored Thilstain and quickly insisted the boy’s learning be passed on to me.
    “No, that’s not it,” Terrac said with a frown, snatching the pen from my fingers. “You’ve still got it wrong. Your lines should curve at the bottom—like this.” He demonstrated and returned the implement to me.
    As usual, he didn’t complain or scold me for my slow fingers and slower wits, but his patience only served to irritate me further. I didn’t know how Brig had threatened or cajoled him into tutoring me, but I was certain he could be enjoying the experience no more than I. I was well aware I made a sorry pupil. In fact, I wouldn’t have blamed Terrac if he beat his head against a tree, in frustration, by the end of our hour, but for some reason he never did. The fact that he never laughed at the pitiful results of my effort only served to aggravate me further. I was sure he knew that and derived a twisted satisfaction from it.
    After contemplating the untidy marks on the parchment before me, I threw my pen down in disgust. “Can’t we just forget this and tell Brig I did the work?” I asked.
    Terrac didn’t blink at my outburst. I decided he was growing used to them.
    “Of course not,” he responded absently. “That would be lying. Now look, I think your trouble is how you keep confusing the first and third letters. They look alike but are a little different.”
    “Oh, I forgot priests don’t lie,” I mocked, ignoring his direction. “A simple untruth would probably torment your conscience for all time.”
    He regarded me with puzzlement and I realized he had no idea what I was talking about. I sighed and asked myself how I was going to endure another million lessons like this one. My companion was so good and patient he grated unintentionally on my every nerve. Or at least most of the time I believed it was unintentional. I doubted he possessed an ounce of spite in him. His only character flaw was his habit of frowning down his nose at