by Jason Denzel
“As you command, Master, so I obey.”
The beams of light and the voices continued to materialize. A merchant guard spoke of a creature on the road. A baker from Sentry claimed his cat had gone missing and now he saw strange rats everywhere. On and on the stories came, each telling of a problem, and each implying that the fay were at the heart of it.
“Blessed Saints,” Pomella whispered to Vivianna. “You ever seen anything like that?”
Vivianna shook her head. “No, and certainly not from an apprentice.”
Pomella frowned. Lal and Yarina had always taught her that despite their reputation to the contrary, most Mystics rarely displayed grand Unveilings such as this. Using the Myst was not about spectacle or might. There was a good chance that the majority of Mystics gathered in Kelt Apar tonight were better known for their use of ritual, meditation, and subtle Unveilings of the Myst. By most standards, the display Pomella had put on at the Rolling Forge Inn was extravagant.
But nothing Pomella had ever done could match the sheer spectacle that Shevia displayed.
A hundred voices called to the young Mystic, each pleading for assistance. More appeared every second, adding their plight to the list of woes faced by the people of Moth.
Upon the low hill, Bhairatonix turned to his peers. “As you can see, my apprentice is more than capable of assisting us. The voices you hear are real. But unlike the petitions you receive, which require a person to find enough courage or desperation to reach out to us, these pleas are shared only to their loved ones, or to the quiet shadows in their home. My apprentice sees where no others can.”
“She is impressive, Bhairatonix,” said Master Willwhite. “We will make use of the girl.”
“Indeed,” said Yarina. “We will speak with her now, in private, before we attend to our … other duties.”
Pomella caught the slight pause in Yarina’s voice. It was subtle, and she wondered if anybody else had noticed.
Bhairatonix nodded to Shevia, who slowly waved her staff in front of her, as if wiping a dirty window. The multitude of images and pleas vanished, leaving the clearing in a heavy silence.
Yarina continued. After the assault of sound, the High Mystic’s melodious voice carried like a dove flying over a ruined battlefield. “Tomorrow beginning at dawn, we shall receive each of you in the tower. Oxillian will provide you with specific instructions.”
“Rest deeply tonight,” Mistress Michaela added. “For the days and nights of Crow Tallin are long.”
As one, the High Mystics turned away from the crowd, and followed Yarina into the tower. Oxillian gestured for Shevia to follow. The younger woman began to do so, but not before she peered over her shoulder, searching through the crowd. Her eyes fell on Pomella, and suddenly Pomella felt a warm shudder coursing through her. Shevia locked gazes with her, and again an overwhelming sense of connection gripped her. Where had she seen this girl before?
Pomella’s heart hammered. Shevia’s expression betrayed nothing, but she stared at Pomella far longer than would normally be comfortable. She turned away, and took a calming breath. So much was happening that she didn’t understand. Crow Tallin. Shevia. Lal.
Thinking of Grandmaster made Pomella wonder where he was. The crowd of Mystics had begun to disperse. She searched for Lal but couldn’t find him.
“What’s wrong?” Vivianna asked.
Before Pomella could answer, Hector and Ena flew in front of her, buzzing with excitement.
“I— What now?”
The birds circled her once, then zoomed over the clearing. A handful of Mystics glanced up at the birds as they passed overhead. They flew to the far side of the clearing, on the outer edge of the firelight opposite Pomella. They hovered beside a man standing with his back to the thinning crowd.
In an instant, she knew. She didn’t need to sense her hummingbirds’ excitement, or see his face as he turned his attention from the birds to look across the clearing at her. Her heart clenched.
“By the Saints,” Pomella whispered. “Sim.”
* * *
She fled the gathering outside the central tower. With everything else happening tonight at the ceremony, she couldn’t bring herself to face Sim.
There had been a moment, right as she recognized him, when he’d turned his attention to her. But before they could lock gazes, she spun and left the clearing.
Seven years ago, Pomella had convinced herself that parting ways with Sim was emotionally manageable. And at first, it had been. There’d been much to learn and adapt to in the early days of her apprenticeship. Lal and Yarina kept her busy with an abundance of chores on top of lessons focused on meditation, and how to consistently sense the presence of the Myst. Yarina allowed her to plant a vegetable garden and had given her materials to make work dresses for both herself and Vivianna. All of these tasks helped distract from the pain of losing Sim.
For a scoopful of weeks, anyway.
As she hurried from Sim’s gaze, the familiar grip of anxiety threatened to creep into Pomella’s stomach. She thought she had already dealt with this. But after he’d been gone a year, Pomella had come across the Common Cord given to her by the Oakspring Goodnesses. It was a series of colored cords, all twisted with various Mothic knots representing each family in the village. The memory triggered an avalanche of pain of losing her home and Sim. That night, alone in her cabin, she’d let the emotions overwhelm her. She’d sobbed, purging herself of the last remnants of Sim. But doing so had left her awash with guilt for letting him go. She didn’t tell anybody, and especially hid it from Vivianna, who, back then, still had occasionally treated her with disdain on account of their upbringings and the tumultuous beginning to their friendship.
That had been the one and only night she’d cried for Sim. It had been a release before she grounded herself and refocused on her studies.
So why now, she wondered as she hustled away from the clearing, six years after finally letting him go, could she not face him? Perhaps you couldn’t ever truly let go of the people closest to you in your life. Or perhaps it was just Sim she’d never be able to expunge from her heart. Or even want to.
And what did it say about her that she didn’t miss her fathir like she missed Sim?
The answer to that last one was simple. For years Sim had been the one who’d been there for her in a way her fathir never had. Sim had been one of the few people from Oakspring who seemed to understand her, and who sought to spend time with her in the edge of the Mystwood. He’d been the only one who hadn’t called her a nutter for claiming to occasionally catch glimpses of the fay lingering between trees or across the Creekwaters.
Now, tonight, amid all the chaos and intrigue, Sim’s presence had proven to be too much for her. Pomella needed to be alone.
She pushed open the gate leading to her cabin and garden but stopped as her hummingbirds looped around her, radiating confusion.
“I’m not going to talk to him tonight,” Pomella told them. “I need to think.”
It was only then that she noticed two servants in simple red robes standing outside her cabin. One of them shook out a blanket near the door, while another eyed her curiously. Pomella remembered now that her cabin was being reserved for one of the High Mystics.
Suppressing a grumble, Pomella turned around and headed for Lal’s dwelling. Bright stars shone bright above her, dimmed only by a waxing half moon. A warm feeling washed over her, and she paused atop the bridge spanning the river. She could feel something stirring the Myst. She glanced all around but saw nothing except darkness and the shimmering water.
Her hummingbirds were nowhere to be found. “Hector? Ena?”
Suddenly something massive erupted from the river, lurching into the sky directly over her. A silvery fish, or some other huge sea creature, leaped above her, arcing from one side of the bridge to the other. Pomella stared and smiled. The fay creature had at least seven large fins, and a long tail that forked at the end to form twin flippers. A huge mouth yawned open
as it leaped over her. Two eyes on either side of its body gazed down at her as it twisted and plunged to the far side of the bridge.
As the fay vanished into the river, Pomella’s gaze drifted upward again, toward the starry sky. She’d seen something that caught her attention as the fay passed over her. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.
Treorel, the so-called Mystic Star that was not a star, blazed in the sky above her. It shone red like the color of blood, casting a pinkish aura around it. Other, lesser stars faded away in that pink haze as if being consumed by its fire.
“So you’re what’s causing all this fuss,” Pomella said to the star. “Try not to stir the night pot too much, OK?”
Pomella knocked on her master’s door and pushed it open when nobody answered. Broon popped up from his corner and came over to greet her.
“Yes, hello,” Pomella said. “Go lay down.” She quickly tidied up some of the clutter, then prepared for bed. A jumble of thoughts clanged in her head; at this point, she just needed sleep.
A knock sounded at the door. Her heart raced as she opened it. She knew who it would be. Lal wouldn’t knock on his own door.
Moonlight spilled into the cabin revealing Sim.
He looked older than the seven years they’d been apart would seem to account for. Gone was the softness in his face, the lingering innocence that he’d managed to hold on to before he’d followed her into the Mystwood all those years ago. His face was harder, but his eyes hadn’t changed. Those stunning blue eyes.
He was clean-shaven except for a trim tuft of hair on his chin. His scraggly straw-colored hair spilled over the tops of his ears. A sense of loneliness and solitude radiated from him. He’d changed greatly, no doubt, in his time apart from her, just as she had.
Without a word she let him slip into the cabin, closed the door, and wrapped her arms around him. She buried her head into his chest, noticing how lean he’d become. Sim had always been a tall, strong boy, but whatever softness he’d had before had been streamlined into a hard exterior.
Slowly, as if trying not to scare her away, she felt his arms wrap around her, too. They stood there, holding each other, steady as a boulder in a river of emotions, for what felt to Pomella like the life of the stars.
Pomella breathed in his scent. Beneath the smell of pine and dirt, of roads and mountains, there was a trace of what was uniquely him. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said at last.
“I never thought I’d return.”
She pulled away to look at him, trying to take in everything that was new about him. “Where did you go? How did you get here?” she asked.
His face hardened, but it was subtle enough that Pomella wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been beside him and watching. He looked away from her and his eyes grew distant.
Another long silence stretched. Gently, as if coaxing a rabbit from its burrow, Pomella touched his cheek and pulled his attention back.
“I’m here,” she said. “Tell me.”
“The places I went,” he said in a quiet, rough voice, “I will not take you, even in memory.”
“Sim…”
He muttered something apologetic, and pulled away. Before she could protest, he was out the door, walking with withdrawn, almost feral movements.
Pomella released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She looked at Broon, who’d returned to his corner. Upon his seeing her attention, his tail thumped happily against the floor.
Pomella bit her lip. “Buggering shite, Sim,” she mumbled, and ran out the door.
He was halfway across the field, heading toward the cabins. She ran a handful of steps, then called out, “I saw your mhathir and fathir!”
He stopped but turned only his head slightly back in her direction.
“Bethy, too,” Pomella continued. “She married Danny AnStipe and they have three warrums and a babe coming in the fall. They all miss you. I gave my last memory of you to your mhathir.”
Treorel glowed behind him, above Kelt Apar’s central tower.
“You were there for me once,” she said. “Your story is your own, but you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”
Sim considered her with an expression that was as familiar to her as rain. For a heartbeat she thought he would return with her to the cabin, but then he shook his head once, and continued away across the field, leaving Pomella alone to wonder where he’d been for seven years.
TEN
THE EYESTROM
Seven Years Before Crow Tallin
Sim vomited over the side of the ship.
He waited until his stomach calmed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His forearms itched. He scratched them without thought.
Despite having been at sea for three weeks, he was still learning just how different life aboard a ship was. The rolling, dizzying motion of the Eyestrom made him retch anytime he was on deck, although it seemed to occur less often of late. Rochella didn’t offer him any sympathy, but neither did she look entirely at ease, either. Sim thanked the Saints that the ship, at least, hadn’t sunk immediately as he’d half-expected it to. He longed for the familiar comfort of Moth’s soil. So much water, with no land in sight, jumbled his stomach.
Come on, Sim, he imagined his brother, Dane, saying to him. This is the price of a little adventure!
As a child, Sim had talked with his older brother, Dane, about all the places they hoped to visit across the world. In Qin, the mountains reach past the clouds, Dane had said, getting that faraway look in his eye. They make MagBreckan look like a little hill by comparison!
Even then, Sim hadn’t entirely believed his brother. How could Dane possibly know about those other places if he’d never been there? Dane never got a chance to leave Moth, as the Coughing Plague had taken him, along with more than half of their village. Dark dreams of Dane’s final days haunted Sim during those first nights at sea.
“You sure love feeding those fish, Thudfoot,” Rochella said from behind him. Sim turned to look at his mentor. He hated the nickname she’d given him. In the bright, midday sunlight, her thick black stripes contrasted more strongly than usual against her brown skin. Thin white lines outlined the black markings.
“What I wouldn’t give for a real bed,” he told the virga ranger.
“We had one at the inn back in Port Morrush, right after we left Kelt Apar,” she said.
“I slept on the floor that night. You got the bed,” Sim reminded her.
Rochella brushed a lock of her short-cropped hair away from her eye. Despite its dark color, it shimmered in the daylight. As a ranger, she stood above commoners but made the deliberate choice to keep her hair short, not caring about the confusion or frowns it brought to others when they learned her profession.
“Right,” she said. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it, ’cause you won’t see another for a long time.”
Sim shook his head. Rochella’s demeanor had hardened after leaving Kelt Apar. She’d made him carry the saddlebags, tend their horses, cook their meals, and set their camp. It wasn’t very different than when he was a prisoner with the Black Claws, except that he wasn’t chained up at night. But despite this, he’d learned a lot from her. She had an uncanny ability to read his mind, especially when it came to his feelings for Pomella.
Pomella.
He’d been gone from her a handful of weeks, and already he missed her. During all the troubles surrounding the apprentice Trials, Sim had gradually come to accept that she couldn’t be part of his life. But during the sparse couple of days they’d had together afterward, strolling through the grass in Kelt Apar, stealing kisses in her cabin, he’d opened his heart and let her get close again.
“Let her go,” Rochella said. “You have enough to carry. Don’t bring her memory with you.”
“I wasn’t—”
Rochella held up a finger. “You asked me if I’d take you along with me to the Continent and tea
ch you to become a ranger. That’s fine, so here’s your first lesson. Don’t talk. Listen. Always listen. Shut your mouth, and don’t scare the forest animals.”
She waited for him to say something, but Sim knew better than to reply. This was her fifth “first lesson” for him since they’d left Kelt Apar.
“Good,” Rochella said. “You can be taught.”
“Sssim!” called a hissing voice.
Both he and Rochella turned to see Mizzka, the laghart first mate of the Eyestrom, walking toward the front of the ship where they stood.
The bow, Sim reminded himself. The front of a ship was called a bow.
Despite having weeks to acquaint himself with her, Sim still marveled at Mizzka’s scale markings and how they differed from those of Vlenar—the only other laghart he’d ever met. While both lagharts shared the swirling vortex pattern supposedly common to all of their kind, Mizzka’s color patterns were lighter and more streamlined. Light-blue scales contrasted with darker, almost purple ones. Mizzka’s eyes were different, too, narrower, more almond shaped. It had initially taken Sim a moment to realize upon boarding the Eyestrom for the first time that Mizzka was female. She didn’t have breasts or curves, like a human would, but her size, frame, and tone of voice suggested a certain feminine quality.
“Yah?” Sim replied, wiping his mouth once more to ensure it wasn’t dripping.
“The captttain wantsss to sssee you,” the laghart said, her tongue flicking out to lick the air.
Sim scratched his forearms again. They’d sprung a rash recently. He’d rarely seen the captain, who generally kept to his cabin. The only time he’d interacted with Sim directly was when he eyed him up and asked Rochella if she’d allow Sim to help crew the ship. Rochella had gladly given permission for the captain to work Sim raw, which he did, all under Mizzka’s vigilant eye. He’d been paired up with a boy named Hormin, who, Sim recognized, had been one of the Black Claws. Apparently the High Mystic had ordered him to return home on the Eyestrom, along with Saijar, one of the other apprentice candidates that had given Pomella a bundle of trouble. At first Sim had wanted to throw Hormin overboard as they worked together in silence, but the kid’s quiet demeanor softened his anger. Hormin was a handful of years younger, making Sim wonder how the boy had gotten tied up with the Black Claws. Hormin wore a patch over one eye, which he hadn’t before. Sim decided to let it go.