Chapter 8

As time passed, Cedric started feeling the effects. However, it was far weaker than he anticipated.

When waiting didn't produce the intended outcome, he prepared another serving, upping the dose. Because of how mild the previous one was, he wasn't shy about it. It was at least three times as concentrated, stronger smelling and terribly bitter.

This time, it didn't take long for him to realize something was going on. Cedric wasn't sure what he felt, but it wasn't anything like people's accounts. He wouldn't say it was unpleasant, but neither was it pleasant, exactly.

What it was, was weird.

He felt as if his skin suddenly became a size too small, tugging and pulling in a way that wasn't painful, but uncomfortable. His eyes were unblinking, prickling from the light shining through the shutters. He could see every whorl in the wood, every mote of dust in the air. Yet, it was somehow also more blurry, reflections on the brass kitchenware gaining a strange glow, diffusing light beams like an out-of-focus camera lens.

He spotted his hands on the chair arm-rests, veins standing starkly like pale worms. The sight made him feel slightly woozy, so he rose, stuffing them in his pockets.

He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, and his breaths, while even and slow, were deeper than usual, sucking in and expelling more air. His chest started heating up, and Cedric undid the buttons of his collar, glad when it provided some relief.

Unable to help himself, he started pacing back and forth in the hallway, his woolen socks doing a good job of muffling the sound. The drug's initial calming effect was gone, replaced by a restless energy. It was accompanied by faint lightheadedness—noticeable, but not enough to make him feel ill.

As time passed, the effects diverging further from what he'd predicted based on accounts from his past life, he came to a conclusion—the plants were too different, despite his… meddling. Or perhaps it was because of his meddling, manipulating the herbs, and attempting to enhance the active component. He had to go back to the drawing board.

However, before he could write the experiment off as a failure, he suddenly had an idea. How could he know it was a failure for sure without even trying magic? It was so obvious, but Cedric forgave himself, given he was a little out of sorts.

He rubbed his hands in his pockets, wondering what to try. Absentmindedly scanning the house's interior, his gaze once again rested on the brass pitcher, standing on the windowsill. He thought about heating it up, bending it, levitating, making it ring like a chime…

Extending his hand, he instinctively conjured information related to that brass pitcher: its feel in his hands, the metallic, almost rusty smell, its burnished color. Memories sprung unbidden to his mind, sensations of comfort, recalling Fitch with it, heating goat's milk in winter, chilling berry-juice in summer, carrying water for kitchen-washing…

Calm washed over him, and with a slight tug, that strange, yet familiar sensation flooded his mind. Unlike usual, he attached no purpose, no intent to the magic. Instead of trying to control, he just… let go.

He doubted it was something he'd usually be capable of, were he in the right state of mind. He almost felt like an observer inside his own body, as if the magic had a life of its own.

Motes of light emerged from his fingertips like a dandelion caught by a gust of wind. Majestically, they floated into the air, hanging suspended for a moment before being drawn to the pitcher, like iron-shavings to a magnet. One by one, they landed onto its surface before being slowly absorbed, like water-droplets on a sponge.

Cedric's eyes were wide-open, watching unblinkingly as the pitcher started glowing. The light was red and dim, like embers burning in a hearth. It was a cozy, comfortable color.

Aside from that, there wasn't much fanfare. Within a few seconds, the mysterious lights were gone, the pitcher still standing there in one piece. However, as Cedric drew closer to have a look, he saw its surface, covered in pictures and patterns. It almost reminded him of those Greek pottery from his past life.

Lifting it tentatively, he held it at eye-level.

It was… an engraving, rough, but with innocent charm, almost like something done by a child. It depicted two figures, a shorter one and a taller one. It showed them doing all sorts of things together—gardening, household chores, playing games…

The last image was of a grave. The taller figure was gone, while the shorter one crouched in front of a tombstone, head hanging low.

Cedric stared at it, his face impassive. It was a minute or two before he sighed, heading into the kitchen.

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"…I thought I'd find you out here."

On the farm outskirts, between blades of waving grass, Brom emerged, his staff in his hands. He looked stoically ahead where Cedric sat, his back toward the old storyteller.

In one hand, he held a cup, and an engraved brass pitcher in the other. After pouring something, he held his arm out, dribbling liquid onto Fitch's grave. Then, he poured his own, drinking it down.

Brom huffed, drawing closer.

"What do you have there? Let me see, my throat's dry from all this walking."

Cedric looked over his shoulder, half-smiling.

"It's gramps' stash. He thought he hid it from me, but he didn't have to bother. The stuff's terrible, closer to fruit-vinegar than wine."

He handed his cup to Brom, who took one sip before his face scrunched up, coughing a few times.

"…did he make this himself? For god's sake…"

Cedric shrugged, returning his gaze to the rolling green hills.

Brom stared at him, his eyes flickering. Then, he took a seat next to the boy, sipping on Fitch's bootleg apricot wine.

"I went to take a look at that stone."

"…and?"

The old man grunted, his face betraying nothing.

"You're not wrong. At least, it's no normal stone. But we'll have to wait and see…"

Cedric glanced toward him, thinking the crusty bastard was really full of shit. He knew exactly what it was, and was probably losing his mind on the inside, but was still putting on a calm act.

The conversation lulled again, but Cedric spoke up before the atmosphere got too awkward. His mood wasn't great, but he'd keep it to himself. Venting his emotions onto other people seldom went well.

"I was wondering whether to tell you, but decided I might as well be honest. If you're going to be helping me, then there's no sense in lying."

Brom's expression turned curious, watching as Cedric plucked a long grass-stem, holding it between them. Suddenly, his eyes widened into dinnerplates as it burst into flames, turning into ash and blowing away within the span of two breaths.

For a moment, he just sat there, disbelieving of what he'd just seen. Then, he leapt to his feet, the cup of apricot wine spilling onto the earth.

"You…!"

Cedric allowed himself a smile, enjoying the old rider's reaction. It seemed he wasn't above showing off, after all.

"What's the matter? Can't you do something like that, old man? What wizard worth his salt can't even conjure fire?"

Brom's pupils dilated further, his throat moving as he swallowed. The hairs of his beard seemed to tremble as he tried and failed to get his emotions under control.

"How…? Since when…?"

Cedric's amber eyes stared unblinkingly into Brom's grey ones. He answered slowly, trying his best to appear sincere. He certainly had his issues with the old man, but ultimately he knew Brom's character was solid.

"The first time it happened, I was five years old. I was trying to light some straw on fire, and by complete accident, I created a spark with magic."

Not a lie, but neither was it the complete truth.

Brom managed to school his reaction. Only his voice betrayed him, sounding slightly hoarse.

"I see. And after that… you used it again?"

Cedric nodded.

"As a kid, well… who wouldn't want to believe they were secretly a magician? I wasn't sure if the spark was just my imagination, so I decided to try again."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"…it worked. I could feel something going out of me. I don't know how else to explain it, but yes, I made a flame. Eventually, I could do it without really trying, and it didn't make me as tired as before."

Brom looked like he was about ready to faint. He raised his hand to his forehead, using a handkerchief to wipe the sweat beading on his brow.

"When was that…?"

Cedric shrugged.

"When did it stop being hard? I don't know, when I was around six? At that point, I also started being able to… read minds. Of animals, and… people."

Brom just stood there, motionless. The only movement was his fingers, slowly tracing the runes of his staff.

Cedric looked down at the ground, plucking another stem of grass, twirling it around. This time, he didn't light it on fire.

"That's not exactly normal, I take it?"

It was a while before Brom responded, but when he did, he'd regained some of his composure.

"…no, it's not. However… that's only when comparing yourself to human wizards. Elves, riders, dragons… they're capable of the same, and more."

Cedric hummed, and it was impossible to tell whether the news pleased or displeased him.

"But you're just a human wizard yourself, old man. Pardon if I'm being rude, but if you're not even my equal… how will you teach me?"

He looked up to see Brom's eyebrows twitching, and his moustaches bristling.

"…I may only be a human wizard, but that doesn't mean I can't deal with a wet-behind-the-ears brat! If you think for a moment I-…"

He was still in the middle of his sentence when a strange look crossed his face. There was a hint of urgency in his posture, leaning over and grabbing Cedric by the collar.

"…never mind that! Tell me, did you touch that stone!"

Cedric raised his coppery eyebrows, surprise on his face.

"What? No! I told you, that thing gave me a weird feeling. I knew it wasn't normal, I didn't dare touch it."

Hearing this, Brom regained a measure of calm.

"…I see. I don't know whether that's good news or bad news. Forget it, you're coming back with me immediately. I wanted to delay, but since you're already at this stage, there's no sense in it…"

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