by Jason Denzel
“My husband will not receive a vision,” Sutir said. “Our son and daughter will.”
Shevia stifled a shrug. It mattered not to her. Every noble who came before this had demanded a vision related to their personal future. This was the first request for somebody other than themselves.
“I apologize for bearing unfortunate news, High-Pellar,” Shevia said. “The Thornwood only grants visions for a single person.”
“Then you shall read the vision for Quentin now,” said the High Pellan, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. “Then tomorrow, or however long it takes this thorny forest to rest, we will have it for Ellisen. Don’t worry, Chovin,” he said, turning to Shevia’s father. “I will pay your fee again. Half again more, if you have to reschedule another caller.”
Shevia waited for her mother’s nod from behind the nobles before continuing. “As you wish,” she said. Her father would probably have to make alternative arrangements for the family coming tomorrow. Even among nobles, few stood higher than the Bartones from Keffra.
It was all the same to Shevia. Tomorrow morning, an hour before sunrise, Cilla would wake her and assist her in donning the bulky ceremonial robes her parents had designed and purchased. Most of their former lessons together had come to a halt following the Obai incident. Certainly, all of her free time had vanished.
After she had been shamefully dressed by somebody else, her brothers would escort her down the newly paved path that led to the center of Thornwood Valley. The sharp bushes that had once caught on her dress and hidden the entrance to the underground cave where her friend lived were either long gone or trimmed back to make room for the Shrine. Other, larger trees with thorny vines had been brought in and planted at great expense to enhance the Shrine’s atmosphere. Day after day Shevia sat atop her chair and breathed the fumes from the vent. And day after day she saw visions that changed people’s lives, while hers remained eternally empty.
The handsome boy Quentin stepped forward. Shevia suppressed a shiver in her chest. He wasn’t really a boy, she supposed, although he wasn’t an adult, either. She wondered if he just saw her as a little girl. He smiled at her, and waited.
“Come,” she said.
Shevia led him forward a few steps until she was at the base of her seat. Typhos and Tibron bent to lift the heavy chair. A deep grinding sound shivered through the air as they slid back the marble base on which the chair rested. As soon as the seal was removed, silvery smoke from the vent wafted into the cold air. A faint hissing sound, like water turning to steam, sounded around them. The familiar scent of sandalwood and holly filled her nostrils, immediately triggering the start of her trance.
Shevia extended her arms for Miqo to slip off her outer robe. Her skin pebbled in the cool air, but she ignored it as she stepped down the marble steps, and stood directly above the wide crack in the ground. She turned to Quentin, the only person she could now see. The smoke billowed around her, and she let the familiar dream take hold. Her eyes rolled back, and it began.
A presence rose around her. As always, there was nothing to see or touch, but Shevia felt her friend rise as surely as if she were standing beside her.
Her friend looked at Quentin with formless eyes, weighing him. The falling snow around her shifted to rain. The Shrine and its remaining thornbushes stretched upward, reaching toward the sky until they became tall trees. The hard ground softened into muddy grass. She stood somewhere else now, in a forest.
About fifty steps ahead, the trees opened into a wide clearing, with a stone tower in the middle. Men and women walked and talked, prayed and died, endlessly coming and going in and out of the unchanging tower. Years and single heartbeats passed. One of the passing figures turned, and it was Quentin, but his skin flowed like molten stone. Beside him was another person, a girl, who wore only a cloak made of silver wind. Maybe four years older than Shevia, the girl had light-brown skin and hair cut short like a commoner.
She turned and stared at Shevia, her eyes burning with hatred.
Angry storm clouds gathered overhead. A searing-hot gust carrying glowing red embers howled from the direction of the stone tower. The wind stung Shevia’s eyes, but she could not turn away. Quentin and the unknown girl screamed soundlessly and turned to ash.
The top of the tower exploded and in the vacant space sat a woman sitting cross-legged in the air. Her long, shimmering hair stormed all around her.
Shevia shielded her eyes, but after a moment the roaring-hot wind soothed her. She lowered her arms and looked again at the woman. She could not make out the woman’s face or other details, but recognition dawned on her. She thought of the little painted-glass statue in her room.
Sitting Mother. Her friend.
A smile tugged at Shevia’s lips. At last, she knew. She tilted her head back and let the gusts consume her. Tiny motes of ash flashed against her skin. She breathed deep. She wanted to ask a thousand questions.
Sitting Mother spoke, not with words exactly, but with understanding that simply arrived in Shevia’s mind. Ask that which burns within you, she seemed to say.
Shevia opened her eyes and leveled her gaze. The tower, the grassy clearing, and the forest were all gone, replaced by an entrance to a deep cave. The wind rushed out from the dark hole, searing hot but alive with power.
Ask that which burns within you. Shevia thought of her life, and the Thornwood. She saw the long years ahead as nobles came to her over and over, demanding visions. She wondered if she could ever have more than that. Could somebody like that boy, Quentin, ever see her as a woman and not a hideously tall and skinny girl? Would her parents ever see her as more than a puppet? And above all, why could only she, and nobody else, receive the visions?
For the first time in many years, complicated emotions stirred within her. It was as if they had been frozen by time and circumstance, but now melted away by the heat of her friend’s whispers.
Anger was the first to emerge from the thaw.
“How can I be free?” Shevia said.
The wind shifted, honed and focused like a knife, biting into her right shoulder. Shevia cried out and looked at the place where she had been struck. Her shirt burned away, revealing raw, pinkish skin. A series of red and black marks lashed her shoulder. It appeared to be one continuous line, twisting over and around itself in a swirling pattern resembling a snake.
The world exploded in silvery light. Shevia screamed and opened her eyes. Snow drifted around her. Mother and Father stood nearby, staring at her with fear. Behind them, Quentin and his family looked uncomfortable.
Ahg-Mein gazed at her from behind his Mystic staff, his head cocked to one side. Shevia remembered seeing the exact same expression on his face three years ago as he watched her fight poison.
Tibron knelt beside her, holding her head up. Her other two brothers waited nearby. “Shay-Shay,” Tibron said. “Are you well?”
Her hands trembling, Shevia gently pushed Tibron away. She rose and directed her stare at her parents. Her mother’s eyes were wide, and her father gaped at her. Anger, as cold and fresh as the falling snow, still coursed through her.
“A new High Mystic of Moth has been anointed,” she declared, turning to the High-Pellan and High-Pellar. “She will seek an apprentice.” As with all visions given to her by her friend, Shevia knew with an absolute certainty that her words were true. The events she witnessed in the trance weren’t literal, but she always awoke understanding their meaning with perfect clarity.
The High-Pellan’s face broke into a smile. “At last! A worthy master for our son. Tell me, how can Quentin succeed at the Trials?”
“He will be blocked by another candidate. A commoner.”
Stunned silence answered her. For a moment, it was almost as if Shevia could hear the drifting snowflakes land upon the ground.
“Are you joking with us, child?” the High-Pellar asked.
The High-Pellan’s face darkened with anger. “If you are lying to us, girl…”
Shevia’s anger
broke. “I do not lie! I am not a child! Within two swollen moons the High Mystic will invite a commoner girl to attend the Trials. Beware the doors she could open. The secret eyes of the world watch.”
Shevia’s father cleared his throat. “Please forgive her agitated state. It is often like this when she awakes from the trance.”
“Do not speak for me, Father,” Shevia said. “You will never again do so.”
“Shevia!” her mother snapped. “How—”
She cut off as Shevia turned her searing gaze at her. Her mother must have seen something terrible in her expression, because she took a step back.
“Begone,” Shevia said in a quiet voice that she knew all of them could hear. It had been so long since she’d felt anything. Now, thawed by the unusual trance, her anger turned molten.
Nobody around her moved. “Go! All of you! This is my Shrine. I am the Oracle of Thornwood! Leave or I will burn you to ash!” She screamed the last.
A cold hand clutched her shoulder. Without thinking, Shevia snatched it away, twisting it with her clawed hands. Ahg-Mein screamed and fell to a knee under her grip. Her mother gasped. Somewhere, buried in the back of her awareness, Shevia knew that by harming a Mystic she forfeited her hand, if not her life.
“I do not fear you, Mystic. You are a charlatan like the rest of them. Test me and you will feel my friend’s wrath.”
The Bartones’ guards drew their swords, but only moments ahead of Shevia’s brothers. A wave of heat rose up Shevia’s spine, starting at her tailbone, slithering up toward her head. As the warmth spread, so did an intense pressure, lighting her skin aflame. A silvery fog rose around them. Nobody else seemed to notice it except Ahg-Mein, who stared with wide eyes.
“Go!” Shevia screamed, throwing the Mystic away from her.
The Bartones fled, trailed by Ahg-Mein and Shevia’s family. She screamed and screamed until she was alone with her tears. Her skin burned with heat. She clawed at her heavy robes and pulled them away. She stood, half-naked in the heart of the Thornwood. The strange fog swirled and mixed with the fumes rising from the nearby vent. Shevia heaved through her breaths and looked at her shoulder.
Rising from the skin, like a tattoo, was the woven image of a red and black snake.
* * *
Hours passed. Shevia’s anger steamed around her well after sunset.
It was Miqo who finally returned from the house, carrying a bundle of fresh clothes for Shevia. When the girl approached Shevia, she bowed, and informed her of a guest’s arrival.
“I do not care. Tell whatever disgusting noble it is to go back home. They will get nothing from me.”
“Your pardon, Lady Mistress,” Miqo said, using a term she had previously only used for Shevia’s mother, “normally, Unmuth and the rest of the guards would turn him away, but under the circumstances, they had no choice but to let him pass.”
“Out with it, girl!” Shevia snapped. “Who is he?”
Even in the dim light, Shevia could see Miqo blush. “The High Mystic of Qin.”
Cold fear gripped Shevia. The High Mystic. Was this because she’d touched and hurt another Mystic?
“What does he want?”
“He did not say. But he insists on speaking to you immediately. He awaits you in your father’s library.”
The fear with her swirled in her stomach, but she suppressed it. Sitting Mother was with her. She could feel her through the twisted shape on her shoulder. The tattoo didn’t move, but she could feel it writhe beneath her skin.
She would face this High Mystic.
“Lead me to him.”
“Please, Lady Mistress, your robes. They are…” Miqo hesitated, likely too afraid to say anything Shevia might consider as criticism.
Shevia realized she still wore her torn Oracle robes. “I will change,” she said.
Miqo handed over the clothes with trembling hands and turned her back to give Shevia privacy. After she changed, Miqo led her to the library. The house seemed unusually quiet. Dusk approached, but no evening lanterns had yet been lit.
The heavy doors to her father’s library creaked open, revealing the familiar desk and shelves where he kept his business records. Both of Shevia’s parents, as well as Ahg-Mein and her three brothers, stood within. All stood with their heads down and backs to the wall, waiting in silence.
In the center of the library stood a towering man, easily the tallest person Shevia had ever seen. He held a staff that was as gnarled as his back was straight. He faced away from Shevia but turned as she entered. His hair and beard were white like snow, as was his skin. He kept his other hand hidden in the depths of his bloodred robes.
Shevia’s father cleared his throat. “Shevia, this is High Mystic Bhairatonix. He traveled all the way from Shenheyna to see you. His presence is a blessing upon our house.” He said the last with a not-so-subtle hint that she should speak with civility around him.
“So you are the girl,” Bhairatonix said in a deep, resounding voice. He glanced at Miqo. “Leave us. See that we are not disturbed.”
Miqo squeaked a fearful reply and shut the doors behind Shevia. For a long moment, nothing but silence danced around the room.
“I am the Oracle of Thornwood,” Shevia said, mustering her courage.
The High Mystic laughed. “Indeed. But you are still just a girl.” Before Shevia could react, he shifted his staff to lean against his shoulder and shot out his hand to clutch her chin. He studied her, turning her cheeks back and forth, and finished by holding her gaze. There was intense interest in his eyes, and perhaps something else, too, although Shevia wasn’t sure if she recognized it properly. She willed herself not to shudder.
“Your visions have caused quite a stir,” Bhairatonix said. “It remains to be seen if you’re a clever liar or something more. Tell me, can you summon the Myst?”
“I—I am not sure, High Mystic. I am not—”
Bhairatonix silenced her with a glance. Shevia’s mouth snapped shut. She could not tell if he did something to silence her, or if she simply obeyed out of habit. He looked sideways toward Ahg-Mein. “Can she use the Myst?”
“I do not know, Master,” Ahg-Mein said. Shevia noted the fear in his voice. A Mystic, feeling fear.
Bhairatonix nodded at the air, and a circle of spinning light formed in front of him. “This is a wind flower,” he told Shevia. “Use whatever power is at your disposal to extinguish it.”
“Apologies, Master,” Shevia said. “I am not a noble or—”
“I will not ask again,” Bhairatonix said.
Shevia caught a glance from her mother, who nodded slightly. She stared at the wind flower and tried to put herself back into the trance-like state she felt when she was with her friend. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember.
Nothing happened.
Shevia concentrated on her tattoo and silently begged Sitting Mother to come forth and give her power.
Again, nothing happened. Bhairatonix watched her carefully. The wind flower continued to spin.
Bhairatonix dismissed it with a casual wave. “Today, girl, you made a bold declaration about the High Mystic of Moth. I had not foreseen this. You will tell me what you saw, and I will know if you’re lying.”
Was that why he was here? Was a commoner becoming a Mystic such a large concern that it warranted the attention of Qin’s most powerful Mystic?
Shevia clenched her hands to prevent them from shaking. She steadied herself and told the High Mystic about the vision she’d had earlier in the day. She told him everything, except about her attraction to the Bartone boy, and Sitting Mother appearing to her. When she finished, she waited, not knowing what to expect. Spoken aloud like that, it sounded foolish.
Bhairatonix considered her for a moment, then frowned and brushed past her toward the door. “You are a foolish girl with no power,” he said. He turned to her parents. “You will tear that Shrine down tomorrow. Bury whatever you found in the ground.”
Shevia’s fathe
r sighed and nodded.
Ahg-Mein stepped forward. “I do not believe that is wise, Master. The girl’s visions have always been true. I’ve studied many of the subtle evidences in its favor and—”
“You are a greedy fool, Ahg-Mein,” Bhairatonix said. “You spend too much time surrounded by luxury. Perhaps a few decades as a wanderer will teach you humility granted by the Myst.”
“With respect, Master, I will do as I please. I have seen what this girl will do. In fact, I claim her—”
Without warning, Ahg-Mein’s Mystic staff snapped out of his hand and flew toward the High Mystic. Bhairatonix caught it in the same long-fingered grip that held his own staff. The stolen staff shone with a cold, silvery light, the twists of wood shining bright.
“You will claim nothing, boy.”
Ahg-Mein’s eyes bugled. “No! Master, I—”
The stolen staff flashed with light and exploded into gray ash. Ahg-Mein screamed.
“I declare you Unclaimed,” Bhairatonix said. “From this day forth the Myst shall be denied to you.”
Ahg-Mein fell to his knees and ran his hands through the ash drifting onto the floor of her father’s library.
With a final glance at Shevia, Bhairatonix pushed the library doors open and walked away.
Shevia looked from her mother and brothers to the sobbing Unclaimed man on the floor. Her mother took a small step away from him. Ahg-Mein looked up at Shevia. The memory of her poisoning came to her mind. Shevia cocked her head sideways, just as Ahg-Mein had. The anger she had felt earlier in the evening rose again.
Shevia smiled. A cold, cruel thing that she hoped was like a knife twisting in the former Mystic’s heart.
The Unclaimed man saw her smile, and Shevia saw the rage build within him. He snarled and looked toward the departing High Mystic. He reached into his robes and pulled out a short dagger. With a snarl he shoved past Shevia and threw himself at Bhairatonix.