by Jason Denzel
A round of cheers sounded as she set the drink aside. The large gathering made room for her, and quieted.
“Earlier today,” Pomella began, “I visited the Fortress of Sea and Sky, just outside of town and up Sand Hill. The baroness’s wee tyke required assistance, so she called upon the High Mystic for aid. Well, as her reputation rightly portrays, the High Mystic, Mistress Yarina, was eager to help. Normally she would send her apprentice, Vivianna Vinnay, but she was caring for a mhathir up in the north who’d just borne three warrums at once. So I went to help the baroness instead, and had the privilege to hold little Norana ManHinley, may she one day reign in sunshine. That night, I soothed a wound from her body, and sang her a song.”
As Pomella spoke, the tension melted from her body, and she sensed the Myst rise through her. She strummed the Myst gently, breathing a silent whisper across the room. One by one the candle flames puffed away, and the oil lanterns dimmed. Even the fire in the fireplace seemed to settle as if it were ready to listen to her sing. None of the people appeared to notice the changing light.
Unbidden, soft music emanated from Berrit’s strange flute, perfectly setting the tone for Pomella’s story. It drifted along with her words like a quiet companion at her side.
Since becoming a Mystic apprentice, she’d finally had the freedom to practice and develop her singing without fear of her fathir shouting at her. Even without somebody to run harmonies with her, like her grandmhathir had done, Pomella’s singing had grown stronger, along with her mastery of the Myst. Grandmaster Faywong said it was the Myst that taught her to sing, that it was forever reminding her that she and all people were already expressions of the Myst, that they were all perfect songs, and all she had to do was remember how to express her music.
Across the room, faint wisps of silvery light drifted. Out of the corner of her eye, vines coalesced and twisted around the exposed beams of the roof. A huge oak tree wrapped itself around the inn’s fireplace.
The crowd murmured their approval. Several people pointed at the phenomenon materializing around them, and one man let out a tiny yelp and nearly fell out of his chair as a silver beanstalk crept up the wall beside him. Because Pomella had explicitly Unveiled these phenomena, and wanted them seen, everyone present could.
She noted how easily Fayün became Unveiled. It was as if it wanted to drift into the human world, and that felt unusual to her. Pomella would have to be careful not to Unveil too much, lest it rush in.
“It occurred to me,” she went on, “that our island knows of another tyke that encountered the fay. You cannot have lived on Moth and not know the story of his mhathir, whose sad tale has been passed down for centuries, whispered or sung beside every hearth, and in every inn on our island. It tells how she lost her son, then searched the farthest corners of our land, before traveling into the silver realm to find him. This”—Pomella waited to build tension—“is our story. Our blood, our heritage. This is the story of our beautiful, our terrible, our mighty Saint Brigid.”
Without missing a beat, Berrit launched into the familiar opening notes to the Toweren. Eager applause sounded, but was quickly shushed by other patrons as Pomella began.
“Come follow me
On memory free
Of Brigid old
And tales long told
Of abandoned hearth
And tiresome trails
In soaring Tower
Her child pales
Caught by death’s dark power”
As she sang, she stirred the Myst, Unveiling silvery apparitions that danced in the air above the crowd and depicted the story she told. She sang and showed Brigid desperately looking for her stolen child, how she went to the lagharts and convinced them to help her. The silvery illusions shifted to form the likeness of Lor Gez, the Hundred-Eyed, All-Seeing tyrant, who challenged Brigid to a duel and fell to her despite his dishonesty but still awarded her Dauntless. The nature of the prize changed from barony to barony, with some versions of the tale claiming it was a sword, others a bow, and a handful claiming it was her Mystic staff. Pomella had grown up hearing the mighty artifact was a sword, so her swirling play above the common room had Brigid spinning and cutting down jealous kings and the all-powerful Corenach until at last she came to the dwelling of the Nameless Saint, and into the final stanzas of the tale.
Not a sound could be heard anywhere in the Rolling Forge as everyone from the merchant-scholars to the Unclaimed—and even the mice—leaned forward to hear. Emotion welled in Pomella’s heart, but she keep her voice steady, trying not to let her own song overwhelm her.
“Come die with me
Upon the fire tree
Broken and beat
But far from defeat
Of master and scale
And wounds that will not bind
From a window leap
Desperate to sleep
His memory forever will she keep”
Pomella let the silence linger as she readied herself for the end. She extinguished the swirling lights and smoke to depict a lonely Brigid huddled alone in a prison, where some claim she died, and from which others claimed she escaped and spent her final days in hiding.
Berrit gave Pomella a soft look as he continued to play his pipe, leading her to the final stanza.
“Come fall with me
My Brigid free
Her heart now cold
And all foretold
Of accomplished quest
And purpose begotten
A scorned master crossed
Mother and child forgotten
In death’s dark Tower, lost”
Pomella lingered on the final word, and when she finished she finally let a tear drip down her cheek. The tragic song moved her, of course, but even more moving was how at this moment a gathering of people from nearly every caste sat in rapt attention, not thinking about how they compared to the person beside them, and not caring about anything except a song that spoke to them all. This was her purpose, as a Mystic. To unite, and bring people together.
Berrit sounded the song’s final flourish, and the crowd erupted into applause.
FOUR
THE THORNWOOD
Eleven Years Before Crow Tallin
A blazing summer sun baked the rocks that Shevia and her older brothers scrambled over. Shevia furrowed her brows in concentration as she reached up and climbed the steep bank. Sweat made her silk dress cling to her skin. It tickled her, but she ignored it. She was determined to prove to Tevon that she could make it by herself, and she was not going to let a sticky dress stop her. Her friend had told her that Tevon and her other brothers would like her more if she kept up with them.
Above her on the slope, her triplet brothers scrambled arm over arm toward the top, each trying to reach the summit first. The slope was the only accessible route to the top of the ledge, which would give them a wider view of their family’s estate. Tevon arrived first, as usual, but only half a hand ahead of Typhos. Tibron was three full hands behind them, but only because he kept stopping to check on her. Shevia was pretty sure that if he wanted to he could have beaten his brothers.
Seeing Tevon and Typhos at the top, Tibron glanced down at her. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. “Are you well, Shay-Shay?”
Shevia nodded and kept climbing. It wasn’t that difficult except for the ridiculous dress. Her gangly-long legs kept getting tangled in it. Two years ago, when she was seven, she had asked her mother how long it would be until she grew to be as tall as the estate guards. Mother’s cold glare had rained over her from the other side of her embroidery. “Our family is not known for our height, Shevia,” she said. Her fingers punched the embroidery needle through the lace. “You should not desire to grow tall. Long legs and brute muscle are commoner traits. They need that strength to complete their physical labors. The Minams are merchant-scholars. Our superior lineage and intellect set us apart.”
Shevia was not sure how the Minam family lineage would help her climb the s
lope in this dress. Besides, Shevia couldn’t help that she’d been cursed with long, skinny legs.
Tibron hesitated only a moment before joining his brothers. Shevia climbed after him, and finally accepted his hand to reach the top. She dusted herself off.
“Stay low,” Tevon said in his usual commanding tone.
Shevia dropped to her belly. She wanted to ask why they had come. Her brothers had not invited her. Just minutes ago she had been practicing her painting in the garden when she saw them storming out of the main house and running toward the estate entrance. Something exciting must have been happening and Shevia was not about to miss it. Tevon had protested after she caught up with them, but Tibron convinced him to let her come.
“There,” Typhos said, pointing. It was the first time Shevia had heard him speak all day. His eyes were focused on the road below on the far side of the ledge, down the opposite slope they had climbed. Typhos was the middle triplet, quiet, and the one who always focused most diligently on the task at hand.
The three brothers leaned lower to the ground, staring like hawks with their dark eyes.
The rattle of a carriage rolled toward them. Moments later, it came into view, emerging from a bamboo grove farther up the road. Its bright lacquer screamed with bold colors. Six armored riders trotted beside it.
“The Obais,” Tevon said. “You were right, Tibron.”
Shevia’s eyes widened. The Obais were the most powerful merchant family in Qin. Recently, she had overheard Unmuth, the captain of her father’s caravan guard, say that they even had more influence than some of the noble houses. They were even said to have a Mystic living in their household to tutor the children. But not in the ways of the Myst, of course.
“Five warriors, plus a laghart,” Tibron said.
“A laghart!” Shevia said, a smile bursting on her face. She craned her neck to try to glimpse the lizard-creature, or perhaps the Mystic or the mighty merchant-lord himself. “What are they doing here?”
The slap came fast and hard. Tevon hardly looked at her as he retracted his hand. “Hush, girl. Your noise bothers me and will carry down to them.”
Shevia covered her slap mark with her hand. Tevon would one day inherit the Minam business and therefore must always be treated with the greatest respect. Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes, but she held them. Tears were weakness, as Mother said. She refused to look at Tibron, but she knew he looked at her with concern. Tibron was weak, too.
“They are guests of Father and Mother,” Tevon said, watching the procession. Shevia noted his voice was louder than hers had been. But as he was the eldest of the triplets, his wisdom was greater than any of theirs.
“Father is expecting us,” Tibron said. Nothing else had to be said. As a single mind, the brothers slid down the slope. Shevia followed, running to the orchard as fast as her legs could manage. It was the long way back to the house, but the only way to get there without being seen by the Obais from the road cutting through the estate.
As they approached the rear of the house, Tibron looked back over his shoulder and slowed for Shevia to catch up. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” Shevia said. “Stop asking.”
“I need to find Father. Go to your room and put on a clean dress in case Mother summons you.”
Shevia nodded and brushed past him. He caught her by the shoulder, then lifted her chin and turned it so he could see where Tevon had slapped her.
“Tell Cilla to put ointment on it.”
Shevia shrugged him off and strode toward the house. Why couldn’t Tibron see that he had insulted her further by reminding her of her failure? She yanked the door open to the back foyer and ran into her mother.
“In Mountain’s eye, where have you been?” Mother said, looming over her. She was as thin as bamboo, with high cheekbones that Shevia had been told she would be fortunate to one day inherit.
Shevia lowered her eyes. “I climbed the slope with—”
“Your dress is torn. The Obai family is here for the evening meal. I do not want you seen. Go to your room and do not come out. I shall punish you later. Two strikes.”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you for correcting me.” Shevia thought of a horrible curse word she had once heard Cilla use, and was tempted to use it to berate herself.
Mother lifted Shevia’s chin, just like Tibron had done earlier. But unlike his touch, her hand was cold and hard. Shevia felt as though she were being examined like a gemstone under the scrutiny of one of her father’s collectors.
“Make that three strikes. You blemished your face.”
“Thank you, Mother. I am sorry.”
“Go. Do not further ruin your face with tears.”
“Yes, Mother.”
* * *
Shevia ruined her face with tears.
She lay on her bed, sobbing into her pillow, hoping her noise would not invade anybody’s ears. With each shuddering breath, she further marred her face, causing herself to feel worse and cry more. What a weak and stupid child she was. She itched to claw at her arms and let her stupidity flow out.
Across her room on the dresser, beside her hairbrush and half-finished painting of a horse, sat her glass statue of Sitting Mother. The holy woman stared at her with compassionate eyes. Shevia pulled a pillow over her head to hide from them.
A knock sounded at the door. Shevia froze. The knock came again.
“Shay-Shay?” said a soft voice.
Cilla.
“May I come in?” the House Maintainer asked.
Shevia peeked at her white-painted door. She wiped her puffy eyes, slipped off her bed, and moved toward it.
But her hand faltered at the door handle. She was not a baby anymore. Cilla had always cared for her, and comforted her during hard times. The House Maintainer would want to hug Shevia and help her pick out a fresh dress. She didn’t need that. She needed somebody who understood her and would tell her how to do better.
She needed her friend.
“Shay-Shay? I heard you moving. May I come in?”
“No!” Shevia yelled, surprised at her noise. “Go away! I forbid you from entering.”
“I just want to help.”
“You can’t! Go away!”
“Shay-Shay, I—”
“Do not call me that!” Shevia screamed. “I forbid you from calling me that ever again! Leave or I will have Unmuth beat you!” She doubted she could convince the captain to flail the House Maintainer, but she was probably within her right to at least try.
Only silence came from the other side of the door. Moments later, Cilla’s clothing rustled as she walked away. A sudden urge to rush out and grab Cilla before she left came over Shevia. But she forced herself to be strong, and pulled her hand back from the painted-white door. She turned her back to it. Sitting Mother still gazed at her with an infinitely patient expression on her face.
“Stop,” she grumbled at the statue.
On the opposite wall, a large window looked out to the western side of the estate. Shevia approached and looked out. The sun lowered toward the horizon, dimming her mother’s garden—a bewildering maze of hedges, carefully pruned trees, and rosebushes—which lay just outside the window. An ivy-covered stone wall encircled the garden.
Beyond the garden wall was where her friend lived.
Brushing the last of her tears away, Shevia threw open the door to her wardrobe and pulled out a clean dress. This time, she chose a sturdier one. The window latch flipped open with the smooth ease of much use. Her feet found familiar holds as she climbed down the vine trellis, which was positioned just outside. She hardly had to think about this climb anymore.
Shevia drifted through the garden, using the dimming light and tall shrubs to hide from anybody who might be looking. She ducked low, cursing her height again. A sweet rose fragrance filled the air, familiar and comforting. She was used to the aroma as it drifted through her window at night on warm evenings where she left her window open.
When Shevia reached th
e stone wall at the far end of the garden, she slipped behind a large potted fig tree and found the little divot, sized just right for her foot. She lumbered up the side of the wall, following the familiar grips and footholds, and rolled across the top on her belly. She fell to her feet on the other side, lithe as a kitten.
Shevia dusted herself off. The wall hadn’t always been her method of getting out of the garden. Two seasons past, she and Cilla had discovered rabbits eating the leafy vegetables they had planted. Shevia had tracked the rabbits to a little hole tunneling under the wall, with mounds of fresh soil piled up on either side. She recalled the fresh scent of the season’s rose blossoms mixing with the damp dirt.
It smelled to Shevia like freedom.
She convinced herself she had just gone to look for the rabbits. What she had found was something entirely different.
Shaking off the memory, Shevia hurried down the hill that sloped away from the garden and her parents’ walled estate. She ran on her tiptoes, deftly finding the flat rocks that jutted out of the hillside’s wild grass like islands in a wavy sea. She counted her leaps and noted each familiar landmark.
The hills rolled beneath her feet, taking her down to a narrow valley filled with thornbushes and huge boulders. She was well past the home of whatever critter had been eating her vegetables, but she did not care. There was no wind, and no watchful eyes other than the setting sun.
The thornbushes grew denser as Shevia descended toward the bottom of the valley. At last she found the gap in the dense wall of thorns. She slipped in, carefully avoiding the sharp branches. The world darkened as the thorny shadows consumed her. Even with her height, the bushes towered over her, so it was like walking in an eerie forest. A few times, Shevia had pretended she was Saint Brigid, bravely marching through the Mystwood on the faraway island of Moth. Perhaps next time she came, she would bring a fallen branch and have it be her staff, Dauntless.