by Jason Denzel
ELEVEN
THE UPPERMOST CHAMBER
“Mistress Pomella?” a booming voice said.
The voice, followed by a dog barking, startled Pomella out of her dream-filled sleep. She bolted upright, disoriented, still lingering in that place between slumber and wakefulness.
Her mind scrambled to hold on to the dream she’d been having, but it drained away like water through fingers. Pomella brushed her hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She’d been dreaming of Sim, and a ship of some kind. There’d been a laghart, and that boy, Hormin, from the Black Claws all those years ago.
Dreams could be as strange as snow in spring.
“Mistress Pomella?” Oxillian said again. He tapped at the shuttered window near Pomella’s head. “You are summoned by the High Mystics.”
Broon was up now, sniffing the door, his tail wagging as eagerly as ever.
“OK!” Pomella called, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. Seeing her awake, Broon ran between her and the door, eager for her to open it. “I’ll come in a moment.”
She peered toward the shuttered window, trying to gauge the hour. Bright light shone through the window frame, telling her it was at least past sunrise. She groaned.
“Also,” said Oxillian, “there’s a man here to see you. He is waiting for you outside.”
Memories of Sim flooded back to Pomella from last night. She bit her lip. “I’ll be out in a moment. Thank you, Ox.”
Pomella leaped from her bed and scrambled to sort herself out. She threw her Crow Tallin dress back on, and raked fingers through her hair to try to tame it. Steeling herself to face Sim again, she opened the door.
It wasn’t Sim. It took her a moment to recognize the short-bearded man who stood there. It was Berrit, the minstrel she’d met at the Rolling Forge. He smiled at her, rakish in his fine clothes.
“Good morning, Mistress,” he said, sweeping his hat off and bending a flawless bow.
Pomella looked around in surprise. “Berrit? Where’s … Ox?” She’d caught herself before asking about Sim. “And how did you get into Kelt Apar?”
And what, by the blathering skivers, was he doing here? She peered past the minstrel to see Oxillian now standing several dozen steps away from the cabin, presumably waiting for her to follow.
“A group of us managed to slip past the rangers last night before the wall went up,” Berrit said. He plunked his hat back on his head. “The Green Man found us, but I convinced him that I knew you and it was important to talk to you.”
Pomella bit her lip, trying to find a polite way to proceed. “Look, Berrit, it’s nice to see you again, but this is a really bad time. There’s a lot happening and you’re really not supposed to be—”
“I have information about the Shadefox,” Berrit said.
With some effort Pomella managed to keep her expression neutral as she considered him. With all the chaos of Crow Tallin happening, she realized she’d let her attention from the slaver bandit ringleader waver.
“What makes you think I have any interest in the Shadefox?”
Berrit fixed her with a knowing expression. “You asked me not to waste your time, Mistress. I’m a minstrel and hear many things. It’s no secret that you—the Hummingbird, the Commoner Mystic—have been hunting poachers who’ve been rounding up the Unclaimed. Also, I bought some drinks for one of Baroness ManHinley’s shieldguards a few nights back and he talked my ear off. Apparently, Captain Lucal was able to gain some information from the slavers you captured outside Port Morrush.”
“Go on,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“Uh, may I come in?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
Broon shuffled past Pomella’s legs to sniff Berrit’s feet.
Berrit awkwardly patted the dog’s head. “Does he bite?”
“Only culks,” Pomella muttered. “Now what did you learn about the Shadefox? Do you know where he is?”
“Not exactly,” Berrit said. “The rumor around the camp surrounding Kelt Apar is that the Shadefox is here in person.”
“Inside the wall?” Pomella said.
“I don’t know,” Berrit said. “It only went up last night. The information I have is from yesterday before the ceremony. Supposedly, he plans to feed off whatever chaos comes from Crow Tallin and use it as an opportunity.”
“An opportunity for what?”
Berrit shook his leg to try to push Broon away. “Likely to collect more slaves.”
“How can we find him?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Berrit said, “but my guess is that he won’t make a move until there’s more people. The roads into the Mystwood are packed with caravans, as people are seeking out Kelt Apar. Nobody knows what to expect from Crow Tallin, but they know from older generations that it gets bad. People are scared. They’re talking about Crow Tallin, wondering what it means for them.”
“Mistress Yarina will release information to the public about what they can expect,” Pomella said, although she wasn’t certain at all whether that would actually happen.
Berrit sighed. “I realize we only met recently. I had an … enjoyable … night with you. I understand it may be hard to trust me, but please know, I’m trying to help.”
Pomella tensed and readied a retort but then sighed. “You’re right; I’m sorry. Crow Tallin is a difficult time, and the truth is that I don’t know exactly what to expect. The fay will become visible, if they haven’t already done so. There’s some danger, but not if everyone remains calm and trusts us Mystics to do our jobs.”
“I trust you,” he said. “It’s the other Mystics I’m wary of. You remember how it was when you were still a commoner. Most of us feel like the Mystics ignore us and see us as an annoyance. They leave us to the nobility to be dealt with. They say they want to offer assistance, but most folk are terrified of approaching a Mystic. And when they finally dig up the courage to do so, they’re often ignored or told their problem isn’t important enough. I know you’re not like that, and maybe High Mystic Yarina isn’t, either, but in many people’s view most Mystics are … well, they’re the kind of people your dog would bite.”
Unfortunately, Pomella knew what he meant. Her fathir had distrusted Mystics. Sim had, as well. Even Bethy had shown she didn’t entirely have a comfortable view of them. It had been difficult for her to see that before, but now, the more time she spent as a Mystic, the more she tried to see somebody else’s point of view, and to understand their experience. She thought of Lal, who lived his life similar to an Unclaimed, partly, she thought, in order to better understand them.
“I’ll speak to Mistress Yarina and encourage her to communicate with the people beyond the wall,” she said. “You should speak to one of our rangers about the Shadefox. If there’s anything else you know, tell them.”
“The only other tidbit I’ve heard is that he’s young,” Berrit said. “He rose through the ranks fast. But everyone agrees that he’s ruthless. Cruel.”
“I need to go,” Pomella said. “Thank you for this information.”
“It was my pleasure, Mistress,” said Berrit, bowing again. When he straightened, he winked at her, and Pomella couldn’t help but smile.
“Come on, Broon,” Pomella said. “Leave him alone now.”
Berrit gave her an expression of thanks. After Pomella grabbed her cloak and Mystic staff, he licked his lips and addressed her once more.
“Maybe when this is all over we could see each other again,” he said.
Pomella looked from him to the central tower across the lawn. There was so much to do, her mind tumbled with new thoughts of Sim and what it all meant.
“Perhaps,” she said.
* * *
The musty scent of Kelt Apar’s central tower washed over Pomella as she stepped through the familiar doorway leading to its foyer. Vivianna looked up from where she sat behind a small wooden desk.
“Good morning,” Vivianna said. “They’re waiting for you upstairs in the upper ch
amber.”
Pomella quirked an eyebrow. “The upper chamber, huh?” She’d never visited there before. As far as she knew, it was the one place in the tower she’d never visited. She couldn’t be certain, however, because after all these years she was still learning the secrets of the tower, and of Kelt Apar in general.
“I only went in there recently for the first time as well,” said Vivianna. “Just mind your formalities and you’ll be fine.”
Pomella leaned in close to Vivianna. “I just heard the Shadefox is lurking outside Kelt Apar.”
“Really?” Vivianna said. “How did you hear that?”
“It doesn’t matter right now,” Pomella dodged. “I just wanted you to be aware of it, in case something comes up while I’m away.”
Vivianna rolled her forearm over and traced new letter-runes onto the list that illuminated on top of her skin. “I will alert the rangers and let you know if I hear any more.”
“It would be so much easier if Ox could just appear every place there’s a problem,” Pomella mused. “He does that easily enough.”
“He’s not a Mystic,” Vivianna said. “With all the strange occurrences happening with Crow Tallin, he could get trapped again like he did during our Trials. Besides, Mistress Yarina told me that every Crow Tallin his ability to sense trouble throughout the island becomes clouded. He becomes disoriented.”
Pomella sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s our job anyway, not the Green Man’s, to be seen by the people.” She ascended the spiral staircase with nervous excitement
Drifting, glowing lights lit the stairwell, each shining with steady radiance born of the Myst. The first time Pomella had seen these, as an apprentice candidate, she’d marveled at the idea that the world contained such wonders. She now understood that they were incredibly difficult to permanently Unveil and not just any Mystic could conjure such wonders. The lights used here in the central tower had been Unveiled as a gift from a master Mystic and artisan in Djain nearly a century ago. Lal had told Pomella how his master, Mistress Joycean, had been an apprentice when that occurred.
She passed one of the floating orbs in the staircase. It hovered in midair and shone with a steady white light. Pomella reached her hand out to feel its warmth, but no heat radiated from it.
Leaving the little wonder behind, she strode up the steps, passing the familiar doors and landings that she’d been to many times before. She glimpsed inside the open door to the library as she passed, noting its familiar shelves and cushions scattered throughout. Climbing these steps reminded her of her second apprentice Trial, which, at the time she’d taken it, she’d been unaware even was a Trial. She hoped this meeting with the High Mystics would go more smoothly than that meeting with Yarina had gone.
The stairs leveled off on the top floor, revealing a single door Pomella had never been through. The tower was at its narrowest at this height, with the top room not much wider than four or five spans of her arms across. The door before her was made of old wood, splintered in a few places. A faded rendering of what Pomella supposed was a moth, or perhaps a butterfly, was carved into the door.
She knocked, and when she heard Yarina say “Come,” she turned the wooden handle and entered the room.
A ring of glowing lights, identical to the ones she’d passed, illuminated a small room. Heavy oak beams curved upward above her head to form the rafters of the tower’s famed conical top. Framed artwork featuring portraits of long-dead past masters decorated the walls, spaced evenly around the perimeter. A single square window, currently open, provided the only ventilation in what was sure to become stifling heat later in the day. Pomella had often gazed at that window from the outside, wondering what lay within. Like most of the tower, the floor was made of stone. Where the stone had originated, and how exactly it had been laid, was beyond Pomella’s knowledge. But if anybody in the world knew, it would be one or more of the people sitting closely together before her.
The High Mystics sat on cushions arranged around the curve of the wall. Bhairatonix sat in the center of the group, with Yarina and the twins, Angelos and Michaela, to his right and Ehzeeth, Ollfur, and Willwhite to his left. Near Master Willwhite, almost casually forgotten, was Shevia, who sat by herself cross-legged with a straight spine, keeping her eyes downcast.
Pomella’s attention was drawn not to the seven High Mystics waiting in the room for her, but to the far end of the room beside Yarina, where there stood a waist-high podium with a glass sphere atop it. The sphere was as large as her head, perfectly round, and filled with silvery smoke that slowly churned within. She saw flickering movement inside the sphere but didn’t have time to look more closely.
“Hello, Pomella,” said Yarina.
Pomella bowed, suddenly remembering her formalities. “Blessings to you, Masters,” she said, touching her palms to her forehead and heart.
“Please, sit,” said Willwhite, gesturing to the empty center of the room. As before, his voice shifted as he spoke. Pomella forced herself not to stare as she knelt in the middle of the room. The High Mystic’s pale skin seemed to glow with the Myst, with silvery smoke gently streaming off it. His effeminate features seemed more pronounced in the daylight, to the point where Pomella glanced at him again. Had she not known him, she might have mistaken him for a woman.
The narrow curvature of the room made the High Mystics form a tight arc around her. For a moment, the only movement in the room was the flickering from the glass sphere. Pomella thought she could hear the faint tink of something tapping inside the glass.
“Master Bhairatonix,” said Yarina. “Would you be so kind as to ask your apprentice to Unveil a need on the island for Pomella to assist with?”
“Not yet,” Bhairatonix said, not looking at Yarina, but staring directly at Pomella. “So this is the commoner girl.”
Pomella stilled the surge of anger that spiked in her chest. She reminded herself that she was in the presence of Yarina, and six other High Mystics.
“She is no longer a commoner,” said Master Willwhite in his drifting voice. “In this life, our natures change. Only the Myst is constant.”
“Tell me, girl,” Bhairatonix said, ignoring Willwhite, “how are your studies?”
Pomella forced herself to remain calm. “They are well, Master. Thank you for your concern.”
“Do you find the gardener to be a worthy teacher?” Bhairatonix said.
Anger roared within Pomella, but Yarina spoke before she could snap a retort. “Pomella has exceptional potential that shines brightest when she channels her emotions in a positive way.”
Pomella snapped her mouth shut.
“Grandmaster Faywong,” Yarina continued, “who was my teacher as well, has taught her well. She was bathed in the waters of Kelt Apar two years ago and emerged a full Mystic. I oversaw the ceremony myself. We are proud to have her here at Kelt Apar.”
“It is very unusual for a grandmaster to take an apprentice so late in life,” Mistress Michaela said.
Master Ehzeeth, the laghart, hissed several times, and tapped his clawed hand on the floor to indicate he had something to say. Everyone waited patiently while he found the strength to speak.
“A Zzzurnta likkke Fffaywong ssshould nottt be quessstioned.”
“Let the girl be, Master,” Ollfur said to Bhairatonix. “She doesn’t deserve to be picked on. I’ve heard very good things about her. The people of Moth love her.” His Keffran accent reminded Pomella so strongly of her grandmhathir that it was as if she were reaching across time to remind Pomella of her presence.
“Of course they do,” Bhairatonix said in a cold voice.
“I hear you have a marvelous singing voice,” Master Angelos said to Pomella. He and his sister, Mistress Michaela, both had pale skin and a narrow facial structure. Pomella estimated that they were in their sixties, although their smooth skin and pure white hair made them seem far more youthful.
“Will you share it with us?” Michaela added.
Pomella inclined her h
ead. “Of course, Mistress. What would you like to hear?”
Michaela smiled, and it warmed Pomella’s heart. She was reminded of Vivianna’s admiration for the twins, and shared that affection with her.
“Do you know the song ‘Into Mystic Skies’?” Michaela asked.
“Yes, I do,” Pomella said. “My grandmhathir used to sing it to me when I was a tyke. I would be delighted to sing it for you.”
She took a deep breath and cleared her throat before beginning the song she’d learned from her old Book of Songs:
“The night has gone,
The sun lifts and flies.
Always I’ll follow you,
Into Mystic Skies.”
The Myst rose around Pomella. Here, in the tower, surrounded by seven High Mystics, it surged, filling her with strength. She rode that wave but coaxed it just enough to Unveil musical notes to accompany her singing.
It was like when she performed at the Rolling Forge, but rather than a crowd of half-drunken commoners, her audience consisted of the world’s High Mystics.
She played the Myst like a harp.
“Around every corner,
The road always bends.
Leading to you,
My journey never ends.
Now as we go
Out of the past
I’ll hold you once more
Forever, at—”
“Thhhheyyyy came like sssilver fffire!” hissed a voice, cutting into Pomella’s song like a knife to the throat. “Blood aaand blade, cuttting, ssslaying our own.”
All eyes turned to Shevia, who sat, upright, looking toward the roof. Her eyes were glazed over, as if seeing beyond the wood and stone roof. Her voice was her own, but she licked and hissed in the manner of a laghart.
Shevia’s head thrashed to one side as she continued. “Come to usss, High Myssstic. The fffay. The ffaay burn us!”
Still sitting, Shevia screamed and threw out her hands. Streams of silver wind rushed from behind her and raced toward Pomella. Pomella threw her hands up and ducked beneath her arms, but nothing hit her. Instead, when she opened her eyes she saw the ethereal image of two lagharts bent over the body of a third. They appeared to be licking the wounds of the corpse.