by Frank Hurt
Her mother’s posture softened almost immediately. She sat down on the bench at the foot of Ember’s bed and said nothing at first. Ember knew her mother to be compassionate—as most Healers are—but she was more used to seeing that compassion second hand. Her parents were loving but expressed that love in indirect, sometimes distant ways.
Ember recalled the last time she remembered her mother focusing her healing energy on her. She was learning how to ride a bike and had just fallen off her bicycle, skinning both her knees. Ember was hysterical and afraid to go near her bike. Her mother calmed her down and focused her healing touch to repair both the physical damage and her emotional bruising. Ember didn’t know that her mother was channeling her healing magic at that time, but she recognized it now.
Her mother patiently talked her through the rite of passage all young Malverns go through in undergoing the test when they reached puberty. “True, there are some Mage Tracks which are perhaps more desirable in our culture—more respected, even. Analytics, Arts, Healing. These are at the core of what makes our people special from other humans. But even if you were to test highly as an Investigation or Elemental track, that doesn’t mean you aren’t an important part of Druw society.”
“But…” Ember swallowed. “But what if I don’t test highly in any of the five tracks?”
“You may not rise to prominence, but you will not be a disappointment, not to me nor to your father.” Mrs. Wright seemed to choose her words carefully. Even as she pronounced them, though, Ember could tell that her mother was lying.
That’s when the guest arrived.
4
You are the Murderer
The Senior Investigator who was assigned to interview and test Ember was not at all what she was expecting. Judging by her parents’ reactions, they were expecting something else, too.
Wallace Livingston was a tall, lanky old man with a handlebar mustache and scuffed, black boots. His car was the very definition of a jalopy, clanking and whining as it rolled across the pavers, oily smoke belching from its tailpipe. When he had to slam the door of his weathered sedan a second time to get the door to stay, the hinges groaned in rusty protest.
Ember’s father huffed and murmured. “This is the man you insisted on, Bennie?”
“It’s not as though I had ever met him before, Olly.” Ember’s mother spoke through gritted teeth. “He’s supposedly called ‘Legend’ by those in the know.”
“He certainly doesn’t look like anyone legendary. Though I suppose that rust bucket of his may qualify.”
Ember warmed up to this stranger the more she observed her parents’ disapproval of the superficial aspects. Here was a man who did not meet their expectations of class and societal distinction. They wanted and expected only the best for their family. She couldn’t help but find amusement in the fact that her parents had called in favors among their bureaucrat friends to have this specific Investigator assigned to test their daughter.
When tea was served, Wallace sipped noisily. Biscuit crumbs remained in his mustache, letting loose onto his faded grey jacket when he spoke.
Ember snickered as she watched her mother try to keep calm and act as though it didn’t bother her. Mr. Wright sat stoically, but Ember could see that he was agitated—she always could pick up on subtle cues. He was nervous, anxious. Not for the subtle low manners of their guest—Mr. Wright was never too concerned with such things. No, Ember figured that the anxiety that her father was trying not to show was out of concern for his daughter. She imagined him thinking the same thought as she had fixated on: “what if she tests poorly in all Mage Tracks?”
Ember watched her mother and imagined her thought process centered around Ember rating highly in one of the more respectable tracks—those which would yield increased status for the family. She imagined her mother bragging up the youngest daughter in the same way she bragged up Cyn at dinner parties. She had a difficult time believing that scenario.
The small talk continued, and Ember noticed Wallace watching her. She got the feeling that he was appraising her, even when she was just sitting there saying nothing.
“Do you read much, Miss Wright?”
“Oh, she constantly has her nose in a book.” Her mother answered before Ember had a chance to speak.
“I love reading. Mostly westerns from America.” Ember knew that her mother wouldn’t appreciate her admission. Pulp fiction wasn’t considered classy reading material, after all.
“She reads the classics too, of course.” Benedette Wright chuckled nervously. “Shakespeare of course. James Joyce, as well. CS Lewis is probably her favorite author.”
Ember could see the look of incredulity on the Senior Investigator’s face, though he didn’t say anything. She had barely heard of Joyce, much less read anything of his. She saw no point in lying to an Investigator. “Actually, Louis L’Amour would have to be my favorite. Especially his Sackett series.”
“Ah, an American. Yes, I’m familiar with his work.” Wallace stroked the crumbs out of his mustache with a thumb. “What is it that you like about the Western genre?”
Ember thought for a moment before answering. “I suppose it’s the conflict between good and bad. And that the good guy almost always wins.”
Benedette started to speak until Wallace set his teacup down and said that he would like to proceed with the test. He asked if they had a garden where he could walk with their daughter (they did). He picked up his oversized briefcase and followed Ember out into the back garden.
Wallace and Ember strolled in silence for a while. A gazebo surrounded by manicured hedges was where they stopped. He gestured for her to sit, which she found somewhat strange, as it was her own home, her own family’s gazebo.
“I would imagine you are wondering when the test would ever begin,” Wallace said as he sat the briefcase on a small table next to him and released its latches.
“Something tells me that your test began the moment you arrived at our home.”
Wallace blinked with surprise and a smile appeared in his eyes, though he didn’t allow it to reach his lips.
This man isn’t used to being surprised, I see.
Wallace unwound an unnecessarily long string from a coffee-colored folder. Within were sets of documents, on which he began to check boxes and write notes.
“You don’t have an affinity to social mores, do you, Miss Wright?”
“Hmmm, I don’t quite understand the question.”
“Tea and chat. Small talk in the foyer. ‘How’re the children. What do you think of this weather?’ and all that.”
Ember shook her head vigorously. “I don’t, no. I never know what to say in such situations, and…and it bores me.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Wallace nodded slightly. “I don’t think you appreciate being lied to either, is that correct, Miss Wright?”
“Just Ember, if it pleases you, Mr. Livingston. And no, I don’t. Are there people who do appreciate being lied to?”
“Just Wallace, if it pleases you, Ember. And yes, you would be surprised at the lies people embrace. Lies they are told, lies they tell themselves.”
Ember thought on Wallace’s words and felt as though she understood what he meant. She told him such.
Wallace glanced at the form in the folder and read aloud. “Two men are stranded, alone in a boat in the North Sea. They are slowly starving to death. One man decides to kill the other and then eat him. He throws the remains overboard for the sharks. He never tells anyone about his dark deed. Which man was the murderer?”
Ember furrowed her brow. She hated riddles. Cynthia warned her that the test was strange, unknowable questions and puzzles. Ember was about to admit that she didn’t know the answer. Instead, she blurted out. “Why you are, Wallace. You are the murderer. How else could you know this story?”
The Investigator did not react, but jotted down a note, checked another box.
Wallace produced a set of cards with colorful patterns on one side and plai
n numbers on the back. He proceeded to show them to Ember and asked her to tell him what she saw in each one. A sort of Rorschach Test. To each card and response, he jotted something down in the column on the form. There were many such cards, and Ember was exasperated. She didn’t know if she was answering correctly. She suspected there was no correct answer.
As she stared at the sixth or seventh card and was about to provide a response (she thought it looked like a purple giraffe wearing a flowered hat), Wallace suddenly spoke up.
“Quickly now: Mr. Montgomery was killed on Sunday afternoon. His wife said she was reading a book. The butler said he was taking a shower. The chef said he was making breakfast. The maid said she was folding clothes, and the gardener said he was planting tomatoes. Who did it?”
Without hesitation, Ember answered, “I suspect the chef is lying, but that doesn’t mean he’s the murderer.”
“Interesting answer. Why do you say this?”
“His alibi is that he was making breakfast, but you said the victim was killed in the afternoon.”
Wallace nodded. “So, then the chef is the murderer.”
“Is he though? I wouldn’t be so quick to pass judgment without further details.”
“You do realize it’s just a riddle, don’t you Ember?” Wallace raised an eyebrow.
“So you say, but how can I trust the words of a confessed cannibal and murderer such as yourself?”
Ember detected the hint of mirth in his voice, though his face remained stoic, professional. “Quite right, Ember. Quite right.”
“It’s a purple giraffe wearing a flowered hat.”
“Hmm, what now?”
“This card. Purple giraffe wearing a flowered hat.” Ember handed the card to Wallace.
He scribbled some more notes down. Everything was interesting to this man, it seemed. Ember supposed every response, every reaction—even the timing of her reactions probably held some sort of significance in this test.
After another dozen or so cards were reviewed, Wallace proceeded to show Ember a series of photos of people. They were average-looking humans of various ages, both male and female, different skin tones and ethnic backgrounds.
“Tell me what you see.”
Ember started to describe the people in the photos, but then stopped and looked up. “They are all smiling.”
Wallace gave an imperceptible nod and wrote something down. He reached for the photos, but Ember didn’t hand them back.
“But they aren’t all smiling.”
Wallace leaned back in his chair. “What do you mean? You said they’re all smiling.”
“Yes, but…the smiles on some are real. The smiles on others are faked.”
“Show me.”
Ember went through each photo and declared some “real” and others “fake” as she did.
Wallace made a note for each response she gave, his brows tight together as he wrote.
“Time for something different,” Wallace announced as he collected the photographs back from Ember. He produced a silver thermos—the kind one would use to transport hot tea. He unscrewed the lid and tipped it upside down on the table, lifting the cup from the lid. A single ice cube sat atop the lid.
“Please melt this ice.”
Ember wasn’t expecting this but surmised that it was to test her Elemental powers. Elementalists were the rarest of mages. One with the power of pyrokinesis would have no trouble melting the ice.
Ember placed her fingers onto her temples, recalling the lesson in Primer of the Arcane which instructed on channeling one’s thoughts into projected power. She closed her eyes and imagined heat, fire…anything that could further melt the small piece of ice in front of her. Her fingertips felt slippery on her right hand, and her focus dissipated. When she pulled her fingers away and looked at them, they were smeared with bright yellow paint. She had been wearing paint splatter on her forehead the entire time.
Ember gritted her teeth in frustration, reached out to the block of ice and held it in both hands. Soon, it was dripping between her fingers.
Wallace scribbled something in his notes, checked another box, wrote something else down. Ember felt embarrassed.
He handed a small towel for her to dry her hands. When he did, his fingers contacted Ember’s wrist. Instantly, she felt a tingling sensation. She saw a sheen of energy pass from Wallace over the top of her hand, traveling up her arm. She snapped back her hand and stood up, knocking her chair over. “What did you just do?”
“What do you mean? Did you feel something, Ember?”
“Yes, a tingling, as though a hundred little needle points were laid against my wrist like a bracelet.”
“Needles, really?” Wallace scribbled notes. This was interesting to him, it seemed.
Almost as an afterthought, Ember added, “and the…the blanket of…of energy.”
The writing stopped. Wallace peered at Ember above the rim of his spectacles. The look he gave Ember gave her goosebumps. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
As she gave her description, Wallace muttered something, remaining outwardly stoic but she could see he was becoming animated. His breathing was rapid, his eyelids were opening wider as she talked, and his lips parted ever so slightly. “That’s mana you’re describing, Ember. It’s not unusual for mages to feel magic energy, but you shouldn’t be able to see it. Nobody can see mana.”
“But I can see it. This means something to you, doesn’t it?” Ember already knew the answer before she asked the question.
5
Don’t Show Your True Strength
“Very good, Ember. We’re done here.” Wallace sat back. He avoided her question, as though she had not said anything. “Congratulations, you made it through testing.”
“Really?” She felt relief. “We’re done?”
He shuffled the paperwork and tucked them back into the large briefcase. “We are, yes. How are you feeling about the testing?”
He snapped the clasps closed, his gaze monitoring Ember. She had the impression that he was still taking measure of her, despite his pronouncement.
“I’ll need to return to the office to tabulate the results of the various tests and to provide a scorecard for each of the five mage traits. In each, you’ll be rated from Weak, Capable, Moderate, or Strong.”
“Pft.” She waved her hand and played along. If the Investigator wasn’t going to answer her question, she decided she wouldn’t let that bother her. Much. “Much to Mum’s dismay, I’m fairly certain I’m ranking Weak in Healing. She has been trying to teach me since I was little.” An image of the dead bird she couldn’t save invaded her thoughts momentarily.
“Well, you’re quite right. Healing was Weak, though you don’t lack in empathy.” Wallace nodded. “Did I miss any talents you’ve hidden away?”
Ember crossed her arms. “No hidden talents here. None that I’ve discovered, anyway.” She gave him a wry smile, “You really should see all my failures in the Arts before you go. They’re more a comedy of errors, but they’ll make you laugh. Or cry. Depending on your love of the Arts.” She rubbed the yellow paint now crusted on her forehead. “And music. God save us all if I am ever again handed another musical instrument.”
Wallace only smiled.
“Poor Father tried to get me interested in Analytics. But, numbers and statistics bore me to tears. So, Wallace, is there any good news?” She felt butterflies dance in her stomach.
“You’re right. You rank Weak to Capable in each of the five Mage Tracks – except one.”
“Really?” She squeaked in delight. “What is it?”
“The Investigation Track. You rate Strong. Indeed, very Strong, Ember.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the house where her parents watched from the window, “They’ll be disappointed.”
Wallace’s brow furrowed. “How so?”
“Investigators don’t rise to high society.” She remembered to whom she was speaking: one of the top-ranking Investigators of Druw society. �
�Sorry, no offense.”
“Ah. Well, as I’ve no ambitions of high society, none taken.” She could sense that he truly wasn’t offended.
“I realize the Investigator Track has only three levels—as opposed to all the others having six—but the work we do, carrying out the Council’s Justice, is essential to Druw society,” Wallace spoke with conviction.
Something settled in Ember as his words resonated in her mind. She held the assessment, ‘very strong.’ She was eager to tell her parents that she excelled in something—she was not a complete disappointment, even if she could never meet their highest hopes for her.
“Ember, there is something you need to know. I’ll be officially reporting that you are only of Moderate skill in Investigation.” His face cast a grim expression.
“But, why?” Her momentary excitement was suddenly slapped away, replaced with confusion. She felt like something very important was being taken away from her.
“I have reasons for keeping your impressive potential a secret. I promise you, I’ll tell you about it someday when I figure out how to keep you safe. But, for now, you need to downplay your abilities.”
“But—”
“You will need to practice. Read everything you can get your hands on. I will check in on you from time to time until I figure out how to best cultivate your abilities without attracting attention. Develop your instincts. Train hard, but keep it secret—certainly, don’t let on that you can see mana. Don’t show your true strength. Not even to your parents or your sister.”
“When can I tell them?” Ember’s eyes were stinging. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She scrubbed it away, angrily.
The man known among his peers as The Legend spoke with earnest. “I don’t know. Possibly never. Ember, I do not say this lightly: keep your true talents secret. This is for your own safety.”