by Jason Denzel
“Oh,” Pomella said. “Of course.” She approached and gave the laghart a warm smile.
“Hhhow mannny generationsss back doesss ittt recccord?” the laghart asked, still considering the pillar.
Pomella walked to the monument and put her hand on it. Engraved on the pillar were the names of Kelt Apar’s past masters. Moss covered large portions of the lower half, having appeared in late spring. After Crow Tallin, Yarina would probably require her to scrub it clean, just as she did each year. Pomella plucked a piece of moss with her fingers and flicked it away.
“There are thirty-six names on the pillar, accounting for eight hundred years of our lineage,” Pomella said, “but we believe there are more names that have been worn away stretching back further.”
“Are thhhey all human?” the laghart asked.
Pomella gave him quizzical look. She’d never considered that. “I don’t know. I believe so, however. I’ve never heard of a laghart High Mystic on Moth.”
The laghart stepped closer to the pillar, his slitted eyes still studying it. “Befffore humansss, there were laghartsss on thisss island. Befffore High Mysticsss, there were Zurntas.”
“Zurntas?”
The laghart finally took his gaze away from the monument and looked at her. His elongated pupils reminded her of double-edged daggers. “Zurntas are what we laghartsss call our Myssstic masssters. It isss from thhhem thhhat humansss firssst learned of the Myssst.”
Pomella smiled, not wanting to contest the claim. “I clearly have much still to learn,” she said. “But forgive me, I don’t know your name. I’m Pomella.”
The Mystic’s long tongue flicked several times. “Pomella AnDone, the ffformer kanta. I’vvve heard much abouttt you.”
“Kanta?” Pomella said. She wasn’t terribly surprised that he’d heard of her. In the years since Lal had taken her as an apprentice, word had supposedly spread beyond Moth.
“In my land, Lavantath, acccross the wessstern ocean, all laghartsss are hatchhhed indentured. We mussst ssserve the Bronze Ones, who in turn ssservvve the Golden, and they the People of the Sky, who livvve in Indoltruna, the Endlesss Palace.”
“I was born a commoner,” Pomella said, “but we were not indentured.”
“You were born ttto a way of lifffe that you couldn’ttt essscape. You exisssted to elevate the vvvalue of your better’s holdingsss. That isss what it isss to be kanta.”
“I escaped just fine,” Pomella said, not without some bite in her words.
“As do mossst kanta from Lavantath. After thhhirty-thhhree years a kanta may choose ttto become one a Bronze One. Buttt here, it isss harder to rissse, and unheard of to assscend to becoming a Mystic.”
“Well, I suppose I never was good at following rules,” Pomella said.
The laghart’s long face shifted into a sort of smile. “Indeed. What you did wasss remarkkkable. We—the Myssstics of Lavantath—ressspect you. I am Hizrith.”
“Welcome to Kelt Apar, Hizrith.” Until now, Pomella had very little knowledge of what lay to the west, across the ocean. The Continent to the east represented the only other geography she was knowledgeable about. She’d heard vague stories about the western lands where the lagharts came from, but she’d never heard of Lavantath before. Nor had it occurred to her to ask anyone about it. The lagharts seemed to be a quiet people, mostly living alone on Moth. From what she understood, they weren’t a very populous race.
The silver bird flapped its wings once, and Hizrith placed a clawed hand on it. Pomella remarked at how the scales on his claw shone silver as they touched the bird. The bird adjusted itself, pushing against the claw as if eager for his scratches.
“You can touch the fay?” Pomella said.
Hizrith’s tongue flicked out, and his long snout curled into what Pomella recognized as a smile. “Yesss,” he said. “Hemosavana isss my fffamiliar.”
Pomella thought of Hector and Ena. They would often land on her palm or shoulder, but touching them felt like touching a cold puff of air.
“I have a pair of familiars,” she said, “but I don’t know if they can feel my touch.”
“The fffay are generally bound to Fffayün. Buttt under cccertain cccircumssstances, they can affecttt ttthis world. Thisss isss essspecially true if they havvve a bond with a massster, or hossst.”
“You seem to know a lot about the fay.”
“In daysss long passsttt, it was laghartsss that firssst dissscovered Fayün and bonded withhh the fffay. The Zurntass are peerlessss in thhhat regard.”
“Are there many Zurntas?” Pomella asked.
“More than the ssstars,” Hizrith said.
Pomella quirked an eyebrow at this. As she opened her mouth to politely reply, Hizrith swished his tail and shrugged.
“True masssters of the Myssst never die. The Zurntass. Seer Brigid. They livvve on in the Myssst, evvven afffter they die and their bodiesss decay.”
A rush of excitement surged over Pomella at the mention of Brigid. “I didn’t know Saint Brigid was well known beyond Moth,” she said.
“Seer Brigid isss more thhhan a Sssaint,” Hizrith said. “Ssshe isss the Myssst itself made flesssh. She wasss the firssst human Mystic. The Zurntass taughttt her, but in time ssshe sssurpasssed their power. To lagharts, she isss beyond everyone who hasss come sssince. She isss the Zurnta to all other Zurntas. Sssomeday, ssshe will return to fffree the kanta. We wait fffor her.”
His eyes closed as he spoke, and his voice took on a reverent tone. Pomella sensed the Myst stirring around him. A soft breeze swept through the clearing. It was strange to Pomella that the lagharts worshipped Saint Brigid, who had been human. While it was true that the Toweren was full of stories of her and the lagharts adventuring together, they always portrayed her as a human woman with red hair and fair skin.
“Do you believe she was a laghart?” Pomella asked.
“Perhapsss,” Hizrith mused in his hissing voice. “Sssome offf my pppeople do.”
Pomella circled the tall pillar, dragging her fingers across the mossy surface. The grass surrounding it was kept short by Lal’s goats and sheep, but right now it bunched up at the very base of the marble. “Her name doesn’t appear on this pillar that we know of,” Pomella told him, “but some believe she was the first High Mystic of Moth, before Kelt Apar was founded.”
Hizrith approached the monument and held up a clawed hand beside its marble surface. He glanced at Pomella as if to ask permission to touch it. Pomella nodded.
The laghart ran a clawed finger slowly across the marble. A warm aura radiated from the monument. Silvery tendrils of smoke coalesced and swirled around the the pillar, spiraling upward. The names on the pillar shown with a steady golden light.
“What are you doing?” Pomella asked. Whatever Hizrith was Unveiling, it didn’t appear to be harmful, but that didn’t put her at ease.
The laghart closed his eyes, and the silver swirls spun faster. The golden letter-runes forming the names of the past masters faded away, only to be replaced by different shapes, hard angled and shining green. The new names emerged from behind the one she knew.
“The passst Zurntass!” Hizrith hissed softly.
Pomella marveled at what she was seeing, but a heartbeat later the shining letters and Myst faded, leaving the pillar as she remembered. She saw no traces of what must’ve been the laghart’s language. She took an inward breath, finding calm.
“The island of Moth has a rich history and many mysteries indeed,” she said.
The large bird, Hemosavana, stretched itself to its full height, and spread its wings. It craned its long neck and opened its beak as if singing.
“My massster calls me,” Hizrith said. “I mussst go.”
Pomella swallowed the flood of questions she had for the laghart. A pang of guilt stabbed her as she remarked at what a good apprentice Hizrith must be to his master. She doubted he badgered his master like she’d done to Lal earlier.
“I hope we can speak again soon,” Pomell
a said, bowing slightly to him.
“Yesss,” Hizrith said, returning the gesture. “It isss fortunate that Crow Tallin bringsss usss togethhher. I hope that in yearsss to come, we can continue ttto havvve sssuch dissscussions.”
“Yes,” said Pomella. “I would like that. Perhaps we could be friends.”
“Indeed,” said the laghart.
* * *
That evening, as the sun set beneath the western Mystwood treetops, Pomella emerged again from her cabin and walked toward Kelt Apar’s central tower. She nervously smoothed her dress. The dressmakers Vivianna hired had outdone themselves. The long dress was entirely dark-red velvet, with cap sleeves that just barely spilled over the curve of her shoulders. A row of gold buttons ran up the front of the dress from her navel to just below the square collar. Although it was slightly more utilitarian than she’d hoped, she gave the design no second thought. It was a remarkably comfortable dress and she was honored to be wearing something that somebody had worked on for many hours just for her. That, and it fit her just right.
The first stars emerged above her in the warm night sky. Pomella felt strangely alone walking toward the tower. Kelt Apar had been transformed into a bustling camp of Mystics and strangers. Normally the tower stood in the middle of the wide, quiet clearing, which was filled with neatly trimmed grass and a few meandering paths. On most days, other than Vivianna and Pomella’s hummingbirds, Lal’s sheep and goats were the only company she had on the grounds.
Tonight, however, the grass and paths were nowhere to be found. A ring of tents encircled the entire clearing. Firelight flickered from within the circle, but Pomella couldn’t see its source. A scattering of servants and apprentices scurried about handling last-minute tasks.
The clearing was wide enough that there was still open space between the outermost tents and the tree line. Pomella caught movement at the edge of the Mystwood. Squinting against the rapidly dimming light, she saw the graceful stride of what could only be a ranger on patrol. Sure enough, moments later she recognized Vlenar moving in his odd way with his back bent nearly parallel to the ground. She remembered her conversation from earlier with him and Vivianna about how the rangers and soldiers might not be enough to keep the crowd of commoners off the grounds. She frowned at the tree line, not liking the entire situation. With that many terrified people in one place, things could easily get out of hand.
She made her way past the line of tents with her Mystic staff in hand. A familiar buzzing rippled over her as Hector and Ena arrived.
“Not tonight,” Pomella told them. “I need you to stay home.”
Ena hovered right in front of her face, clearly disappointed.
“I don’t think the High Mystics will—”
Hector flicked past her ear, clipping her hair.
“Hey!” she said. “Look, it’s an important event and—”
The two hummingbirds spun in a circle and hovered aggressively in front of her again.
“Oh, fine,” she said. “I suppose all the other Mystics will have their familiars.” She thought of Hizrith and Hemosavana, and wondered if the massive bird would be present. “Behave, though, and stay close, OK?”
Ena danced with joy in the air, while Hector seemed irritated that he’d been told to behave. Pomella shook her head and entered the clearing.
A crowd of Mystics, perhaps more than a hundred, stood on the lawn, chatting and mingling among each other. There were both men and women in roughly equal numbers, some dressed richly and others in rags caked in dust. All of them held a Mystic staff, as varied as their owners.
But as interesting as the Mystics themselves were, more amazing to Pomella was the raw, tingling sense of power that emanated from the collective crowd. The Myst hummed all around her. Chillybumps rippled up her arms. She couldn’t help but smile. A hundred Mystics gathered together. This might be the only time for nearly a century that so many came together.
A few faces turned toward her, studying her with interest or curiosity. Pomella kept her expression neutral. Despite seven years as a Mystic, she had to fight the urge to lower her eyes and slink away. She reminded herself that their opinions of her didn’t matter. She belonged here. This was her home.
Pomella searched the faces for Vivianna. She found her standing between two other Mystics, chatting easily. One of the Mystics was older and stooped, with a beard divided into three parts. Vivianna seemed completely at ease. Her dress was beautiful, more elegant than the one Pomella wore. Her dark hair spilled down her back like a waterfall, setting off her light skin. Vivianna was a natural in social situations. Most Mystics were, or at least pretended to be, because they’d all come from noble families who had raised them to be part of society at an early age.
Seeing Pomella, Vivianna excused herself from her companions. The bearded Mystic bowed his head to her and turned to find other company.
“There you are,” Vivianna said to Pomella. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show. How’s the dress?”
Pomella held her arms out to show it off.
“It’s beautiful,” Vivianna said, smiling. “Did you convince Grandmaster to wear his?”
“He’s not coming,” Pomella said.
Vivianna stared at her. “What? Why not?”
“Because he’s being Lal,” Pomella said.
“He’s a grandmaster,” Vivianna said. “He should be here.”
“I tried to convince him,” Pomella said. “But you know how he can be.” She looked around at the gathered Mystics. They mostly kept to small clusters, no more than three or four speaking together in low voices. A few loners stood on the outskirts, their faces expressionless, clearly uncomfortable being near so many people.
One particularly large group located on the far side of the clearing drew Pomella’s attention. It had as many as perhaps a dozen Mystics standing together, their attention on something, or someone, Pomella couldn’t see. She tilted her head and only had to wait a moment before one of the Mystics shifted aside, revealing a tall girl with dark hair and lightly tanned skin at the center of attention. While she was certainly pretty, it struck Pomella as unusual that so many Mystics would fawn over an attractive girl.
Maybe some of these Mystics had been too reclusive lately.
As if sensing her attention, the girl turned and looked right at Pomella, whose spine tingled. For a brief second they held each other’s gaze and Pomella felt a sense of pain and familiarity. She tore her gaze away as a wave of dizziness came over her.
When she recovered, she flicked her gaze back, but the girl had already turned her attention back to another dark-skinned Mystic with black stripes slashed across her face and other exposed skin. A virga. The unusual skin pattern reminded Pomella of Rochella, the ranger who had helped her during her apprentice Trials. Thinking of Rochella made Sim come to mind.
The familiar pang of missing him crept up again, but she gently let it pass. “When does the ceremony begin?” Pomella asked.
“Very soon, at full dark,” Vivianna said. Light from torches that were scattered around the lawn cast a warm glow across her face. “Oxillian will greet everyone and make introductions. Then the High Mystics will arrive.”
“Will there be wine?” Pomella said.
Vivianna quirked an eyebrow.
“I’m just teasing,” Pomella said, but Vivianna gave her a knowing smile. “How many Mystics are here?”
Vivianna consulted her forearm where a column of runes illuminated. “One hundred fifty-seven Mystics including you and me, sixty-four apprentices, and seven High Mystics.”
“And Lal,” Pomella added.
“And Lal,” Vivianna agreed.
“There’s so much power in the air,” Pomella mused. “Do you feel it?”
Vivianna nodded but kept her attention on her forearm. Pomella paid her no mind. She excelled at planning, organizing, and Unveiling the Myst in a traditional manner. For Pomella, the Myst was like a voice, whispering to her constantly, calling her, invit
ing her. She heard it in the wind. She felt it in the sunshine, and in the filtered moonbeams that slipped through the trees of the Mystwood. Grandmaster spoke of the Myst being alive and self-aware. It had no goals, no motive, other than to draw people toward it, calling them to connect and fulfill their potential.
Tonight, more than any other night in her life, Pomella could tangibly feel the Myst dancing around her. Surely Vivianna felt it, too?
The ground near the tower entrance rumbled, drawing over two hundred pairs of eyes. The soil bulged upward, forming a large mound, like a bubble rising from below the lawn until it towered above everyone’s head. As the small hill came to rest, another shape rose from its pinnacle. The Green Man’s familiar form and face rolled and twisted into existence. He wore a cloak of grass and summer flowers, and crowned atop his head was a laurel of twisted red leaves. Even Oxillian was dressed for the event, it seemed.
“Mystics and guests,” the Green Man boomed, “arise and lift your hearts, make way, for the High Mystic of Moth!”
The door of the stone tower opened and out stepped Yarina, as beautiful and elegant as ever. Even though Pomella saw her frequently, the moment resonated with her, and she couldn’t help but stare in awe. It was a familiar moment to her, much like the first time she saw Yarina, all those years ago.
The High Mystic crossed the lawn toward the hill. The ground rose as she walked, lifting her toward the summit. She wore a stunning gown of red and pink, with a sheer shawl of woven lace. In her right hand she carried her twisted Mystic staff that was nearly a full arm’s length taller than her. Yarina’s hair lay flat down her back, which surprised Pomella. Generally, the High Mystic liked to keep her hair up. Pomella turned to Vivianna to ask her if that was her idea. She stopped short when she saw her friend’s admiration for her master. Pomella had never seen two people more connected. Yarina and Vivianna thought alike. They had a way of communicating that required few, if any, words. Watching the way in which Vivianna learned from Yarina, a person might think that Unveiling the Myst was easy. Vivianna progressed steadily, and even when the lesson called for patience she excelled where Pomella typically found initial frustration. The High Mystic and her apprentice even dressed alike. There was no doubt in Pomella’s mind that Yarina had chosen the right person to become her successor.