Free Wren Journeymage by Sherwood Smith

that old, much-unfolded-and-refolded note he’d written so long ago, the morning of her Basics test. There was Connor’s handwriting, slanty, hasty in lettering, just a funny poem about mages and turtles. But it had made her laugh then, and it made her smile now, as she brushed her fingers slowly over the letters his own hand had formed.
    Wren had three other treasures besides the note: an embroidered sash Queen Astren had given her during her first stay in Cantirmoor; a crumpled sketch Wren’s mother had made of Wren as a baby before she was killed as a caravan guard; a hair ornament from Tess. Teressa had given her lots of beautiful things since then, but that plain clip, with its straggling, inexpertly painted flowers, she’d made herself, not long after Wren and the boys had rescued Teressa from that horrible Andreus, then King of Senna Lirwan.
    She’d only brought Connor’s poem, which could be tucked into the book.
    She looked at the closely written pages, filled with abbreviations and symbols that only she understood. Some of the other magic students had scoffed at Master Falstan, saying that a single illusion over the cover should be enough, and anyone without the wit to talk themselves out of a bad situation deserved any trouble they met. But Wren had had enough adventures to know that you couldn’t always talk your way out of danger.
    And so she’d spent many tedious evenings casting a permanent illusion over each page, so that any hand that touched without her permission would spark the magic. What the nosey person would see would be pages and pages of notes and drawings about wild herbs and the properties of weeds. There really was such a botany book, written many years ago by a wanderer who had made books of lists of everything —trees, animals, rocks, weeds, even cloud formations. She’d used it as a model for her illusions.
    Smiling, she fitted Connor’s poem into the middle of the book, replaced it in her pack, tossed her pens, ink, and scraps of paper in on top of it, then folded in her extra clothes. Master Falstan had been right. Whoever had taken her scry stone had left the supposed weed book behind. She just hoped that the thief wasn’t able to break the surprise spell she’d cast over the scrying stone if anyone used it without her permission.
    Wren stowed her knapsack again, and leaned against the bulkhead while the water whooshed and thumped the wood on the other side. She comforted herself with the image of someone trying to use her stone to contact another thief, or villain, and getting nothing but images of pigwort, stinkweed, and pop-eyed toads for their pains.
    Thumps and creaks broke into her thoughts. Some day watch sailors entered, yawning and exchanging quick comments in Dock Talk. Wren picked out words here and there: mostly about sleep, work, and always the weather. One of the first things she learned was how everyone was always aware of the wind.
    She climbed into her hammock. S o I can’t talk to Tyron. But I am a journeymage, and I can still figure out the right thing to do. First thing is, not tell them I’m a mage. I’m just going to have to find out some other way who wanted me grabbed, and why.
    Until then . . . how about a few tiny spells she could perform in the galley to make her job easier? Most of them were probably things that bigger, richer ships had as a matter of course. This captain was far too parsimonious.
    Wren fell asleep in the middle of concocting an unlikely string of spells that could cause the vegetables to peel themselves.
o0o
    “Two weeks’ run then west to sun,” the sailors sang out in cadence as they hauled on their ropes.
    Wren and Patka, summoned on deck at midday for this change of all the sails, peeked at the captain, who stood by the wheel behind the second mast, narrowly watching the crew.
    “Two weeks east but ‘ware the beast!” The sailor in front of Wren had a loud, unmusical voice, but to make up for it she bellowed the word