Rival Magic - Softcover

Fagan, Deva

 
9781534439061: Rival Magic
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1534439064 ISBN 13: 9781534439061
Verlag: Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2021

Inhaltsangabe

“Clever, fast-paced fantasy punctuated with surprising twists and plenty of girl power.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Full of fierce girls, fabulously fun magic, humor, and so much heart. I loved it!” —Stephanie Burgis, author of The Dragon with a Chocolate Heart and Kat, Incorrigible

A young wizard’s apprentice discovers that the best magic is not the biggest or the brightest, but the magic unique to you, in this cinematic middle grade fantasy in the tradition of Kiki’s Delivery Service and The School for Good and Evil.

Antonia may not be the most powerful wizard the world has ever seen, but she’s worked hard to win her place as apprentice to renowned sorcerer Master Betrys. Unfortunately, even her best dancing turnip charm might not be enough when Moppe, the scullery maid, turns out to be a magical prodigy. Now that Betrys has taken Moppe on as a second apprentice, Antonia’s path to wizarding just got a bit more complicated.

But when Betrys is accused of treason, Antonia and Moppe are forced to go on the run. To prove their master’s innocence—and their own—the rivals must become allies. As their island province teeters on the brink of rebellion, they’ll face ancient spells, vengeful mermaids, voice-stealing forests, and one insatiable sea monster.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Deva Fagan writes fantasy and science fiction for all ages. When she’s not writing, she spends her time reading, doing geometry, playing video games, hiking, and drinking copious amounts of tea. She is the author of several books, including Rival Magic, Nightingale, The Mirrorwood, A Game of Noctis, and The Delta Codex. She lives in Maine with her husband and their dog. You can find her online at DevaFagan.com.

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Chapter 1 1
IT’S HARDER THAN YOU’D THINK to make a turnip dance. I mean, obviously you need to use magic. But it’s not a difficult spell.

I learned the magespeak word for turnip almost six months ago, on my very first day as Master Betrys’s apprentice. She says turnips are the perfect subjects for practice because they’re plentiful and won’t do too much harm if I accidentally send one zooming out her window across the plaza. I think the real reason is that she hates eating them and is trying to thwart Cook. There’s no reason we couldn’t be using carrots or quinces, except that Master Betrys hasn’t taught me those words yet. I had to look them up myself, secretly, in her study, when she was out repairing Arles Nevin’s enchanted clock.

But she did teach me the words for animate and dance. So I shouldn’t have been having any trouble. And yet…

I tried my best to scrub the scowl from my face, to evoke the exquisite grace Master Betrys always displayed when casting even the most challenging incantations. I forced myself to ignore the ache in my shin from when I accidentally bumped into—well, kicked in frustration is more accurate—the kitchen table after my last failed attempt.

The innocent purple-white vegetable lay waiting atop the oak bench, bathed in the soft red glow of the banked hearth fire. I hadn’t bothered to light a lamp. Everyone else was asleep at this hour, except for Master Betrys, who was out at a dinner party. And I didn’t particularly want to be observed, especially if I failed again.

Master Betrys was expecting me to perform the enchantment tomorrow morning. And I would do it. I had to. In just over two weeks it would be my half-year anniversary as an apprentice. I was running out of time.

I still remembered my mother’s words as she frowned over the banknote paying for my first half year of study with Master Betrys. Six months, Antonia, she had said. I’ll give you six months to demonstrate that this fascination of yours is of any practical use to our family. If not…

I shuddered. I could already imagine the fine lines denting my mother’s perfect brow, and the look in her bright green eyes. Not disappointment. You had to expect something from someone in order to be disappointed. If I failed as a wizard, my mother’s eyes would say, I told you so. Then she would summon me home, and all my dreams would die. I’d lose the one thing that made me feel like there was a place for me in the world.

I shoved Mother out of my thoughts. I could do this.

I kept my arms loose at my sides, remembering how Master Betrys rolled her eyes at mages who indulged in what she referred to as “unnecessary theatrics.” I took a deep breath and held it, setting the three words firmly in my mind.

Turnip. Animate. Dance.

Then I spoke them. Carefully. Slowly, but not so slowly that they sounded unpracticed and halting. I bent every scrap of my will at that cursed purple root. A tickling ripple of magic flared through me. For one brief moment I was part of something greater, one perfect stanza in the song shaping the universe. Glorious anticipation thrummed in my chest.

The turnip shivered. Slowly, slowly it bent one fibrous root. I’d specifically chosen a turnip with several rooty “legs.” In theory it made no difference to the spell. It could have been an egg and it would find a way to dance, if the magic was strong enough. But I was going to take any advantage I could get.

My turnip clambered upright. It looked as if it might topple over at the slightest puff of breeze.

I said the words again, louder. The turnip executed a wobbly pirouette. Good. I could do this. I’d show my mother she was wrong about me. I could already see myself, arriving home with my robes of mastery flowing all about me in a glory of blue velvet. And Mother, coming to meet me, her eyes shining with pride, the way she used to look at my brother. The way she’d never, ever looked at me.

That was when I heard the noise. I frowned, cocking my head. I could have sworn someone was snickering. I eyed the turnip suspiciously as it attempted another drunken pirouette. But animation didn’t work that way. The turnip would only do what I specifically ordered it. And I certainly hadn’t told it to laugh at me.

The sound came again. A giggle of mirth, barely muffled. I whirled around, searching the dim kitchen for the source. There. A shadow beside the pantry. A shadow with gleaming eyes.

I grabbed one of the fire irons. “Who’s there?”

Master Betrys had told me not to heed the news criers, but I’d heard the stories. The rebellion was gaining ground, and I knew all too well the deadly lengths they would go to in their quest for independence. What if some rebel had decided Master Betrys was a loyalist, in spite of all her efforts to remain neutral? What if they’d come to burn down her house?

Or they could be here for me. Mother was an outspoken loyalist and a member of the council. Though I pitied anyone who actually tried to use me as a hostage. Mother wasn’t the sort to negotiate. She’d probably be glad for a chance to be rid of me. Still, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

I brandished my fire iron at the shadow. “Come out! Show yourself! Or I’m going to enchant every blade in this kitchen to slice you into—ouch!”

The ungrateful turnip had jumped off the bench and sashayed, very hard, into my ankle.

The shadow let out a hoot. “But I’m enjoying the show! It’s even better than street puppets.”

It was a girl’s voice.

She was laughing at me. She thought I was ridiculous. And she was right. I snapped out two more words in magespeak, a spell I knew well. Candles. Ignite.

Above us, the heavy iron ring suddenly blazed with light, as all twelve candles burst into flame. I could see my heckler clearly now.

She was around my age, twelve, but taller than me. Her olive skin was bronzed by the sun, making it a shade darker than mine. A patched and faded nightdress barely reached below her knees. She’d recovered from her laughter and now lounged idly against the door, arms crossed.

“Who are you?” I demanded, drawing myself stiffly upright. “What are you doing here?”

Her black curls bobbed as she gave a snort of disbelief. “I’m Moppe Cler.”

“Mop?” I asked dubiously. “Like the thing you clean floors with?”

“No, Mopp-eh,” she repeated, so that I could hear the very faint second syllable, like a forgotten breath. “And I’m here because this is where I live.”

I blinked. She was wearing a nightdress, after all, which seemed an unlikely choice for a rebel or thief. “Where?”

She jabbed a finger toward a curtained alcove tucked into one corner of the kitchen. “Right there.”

“Oh!” I said, finally understanding. “You’re the new scullery maid!” I’d heard Cook telling Master Betrys she’d hired a girl to help in the kitchens last week.

She lifted her chin. “I’m an under-cook. Not a scullery maid.”

An odd longing pinged in my chest. She looked so… confident. Like she was exactly where she wanted to be, like she knew...

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Verlag
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Erscheinungsdatum
2021
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1534439064
ISBN 13 
9781534439061
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
320
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV
info@simonandschuster.nl

Herculesplein 96
Utrecht
3584 AA
Niederlande

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