by Jason Denzel
“Yes, Master, of course I do,” Shevia said. “You are right. I am beyond fortunate.” Her heart thundered, knowing he’d likely see through her insincerity.
“You were the Oracle of Thornwood,” Bhairatonix said. “Now you are the apprentice to the High Mystic of Qin. Someday, you may perhaps inherit Shenheyna.” His tone almost sounded amused.
“You are beyond generous with your words, Master,” Shevia said.
Bhairatonix went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “Does the life I’ve offered you leave you unsatisfied?”
“No, Master,” Shevia said quickly, studying their feet.
“Shevia.” Bhairatonix pulled her gaze up with his voice. His eyes were softer now, but she knew it was a false safety. “Tell me truthfully. Is there anything I’ve not given you that you desire?”
A rush of answers hurtled wildly through Shevia’s mind like a flock of bats exploding from a cave for their evening hunt. Kindness. Affection. Praise. Useful teachings. Privacy. These and more had been denied to her her whole life. The rice farmer may not have the legal freedoms she enjoyed, but he was never denied those other aspects of life. She needed to answer Bhairatonix, so she settled on the only truthful answer she could voice relatively safely.
“When you feel I am ready, I would like very much to receive my Mystic name.”
More silence radiated from her master. Shevia began to wonder if she’d gone too far.
“Why that?” he said at last.
“It has been over six years since you took me as your apprentice. Under your tutelage, I have learned much of the Myst and humbly believe I can satisfy your demands with it.” Even in her emotionless shell, she had to repress a scowl. Bhairatonix had taught her nothing. She could Unveil the Myst, and do so more powerfully than her master could likely imagine, whenever she wanted. But it had not been Bhairatonix who empowered her. It was Sitting Mother, whose presence lurked within her all the time, a sleeping serpent, coiled and resting until she was needed.
“Then why do you desire another name?”
Shevia swallowed. “It is my understanding that all true Mystics are given a name by their masters.”
“Are you not a true Mystic?”
“Only if you say I am, Master.”
“I do. As you said, you are quite adept at using the Myst. Your talents far exceed those of most so-called Mystics living in shanties and dirt hovels throughout the mountains. You are not some hedge hex surviving off bugs. You are my apprentice and that raises you above the rest. You have no need of anything beyond that.”
“Of course, Master. Thank you.”
Bhairatonix nodded, indicating the topic was closed to further discussion. “Is there anything else lacking within your life and education? Is your staff unacceptable?”
The last question dripped with sarcasm, and Shevia had to prevent herself from responding. Yes, her anemic staff was rarely anything but a slight focusing mechanism for her. It suited her needs, she supposed, but she couldn’t help but think what it would be like to hold a real Mystic staff.
They rode in silence through the capital, and this time Shevia was relieved that she was no longer tired. Bhairatonix pulled the bead curtains back from the window. His faraway, introspective expression was one Shevia was unaccustomed to seeing.
“You may not realize it,” he said after some time, “but you and I have much in common. I, too, came from humble origins. I was adopted by a noble family in Qin, and raised in their household. My father and brothers were cruel and hurt me often.”
Shevia dared not breathe for fear of interrupting her master’s rare moment of vulnerability. Bhairatonix’s eyes crinkled as he narrowed them. They were blue, a trait that Shevia had scarcely seen in anybody besides foreign nobles who had visited her at the Thornwood Shrine.
“But I learned much from them,” Bhairatonix continued. “They instilled a sense of discipline, and quiet focus. By the time my predecessor, High Mystic Mahnitha, came to take me as an apprentice, I was ready to embrace her harsh lessons and inherit the Myst.”
Shevia’s pulse raced, but she kept her outward demeanor neutral and attentive. Bhairatonix had never spoken of his master before. She only knew of High Mystic Mahnitha from the few history books she’d been allowed.
Bhairatonix spoke no further, so Shevia returned her attention outside. The tiled roofs, raised wooden walkways outlining the buildings, and seemingly endless line of genuflecting commoners hardly kept her attention. Instead, her mind retreated to that place inside herself where she was safe, where the fear of her master was lessened. It was the place where Sitting Mother dwelt.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and holly filled her nostrils. Her heart slowed. The Myst rose around her. Long ago, it had been the vent within the Thornwood that triggered her visions. But ever since that terrible handful of days when Bhairatonix had gone on his long trip—the last time he’d ever left her alone for more than a few hours—she’d begun to feel Sitting Mother’s presence within her at all times. It was as though she carried a piece of her in a secret pocket that Bhairatonix could not see.
The tattoo wrapped around her shoulder and upper arm tingled. The sensation built, like molten iron spreading down through her skin and into the thicker sinews of her arm. Shevia’s hand tightened on her thin Mystic staff. When Sitting Mother awoke within her like this, it was a wonder that Bhairatonix did not take notice.
Just as the rising Myst and the pressure in her arm built to a point where she could no longer bear it, the carriage came to an unexpected stop. Shevia glanced at Bhairatonix and saw that his eyes were closed. He opened them a moment later, leaving Shevia to wonder if he’d been asleep or using the opportunity to meditate.
She could hear the carriage driver—an old merchant-scholar Bhairatonix frequently hired to drive him around—shouting at somebody in the road, telling them to move out of the way. The shouting was followed by the sounds of shuffling feet and a cry of agony. Shevia’s heart raced. She hoped it wasn’t Tibron who’d been hurt.
The High Mystic grunted and irritably rapped his staff on the roof. A moment later, the carriage door opened, revealing Tibron, who bowed. Shevia breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Your Eminence,” her brother said. “Forgive us for stopping, but there is a commoner in the road who refuses to move.”
“So move him!” Bhairatonix snapped.
“We tried, Master, but he’s armed. He injured Tevon.”
Bhairatonix’s eyes narrowed. “Are there not three of you? And what of the street full of people who would assist the High Mystic of Qin?”
A flutter of emotion rose within Shevia upon hearing that her brother was hurt, but she dared not express it outwardly. She kept her face smooth and looked to Bhairatonix for direction. The Mystic’s eyebrows narrowed before he grunted and stepped out of the carriage.
Tibron immediately leaped to the side and bowed his head as Bhairatonix emerged from the carriage. The High Mystic hadn’t indicated to Shevia whether she should follow, but he also hadn’t expressly forbidden her from doing so. Taking up her small staff, she slipped out of the carriage. Tibron looked at her with concern, but she ignored him. They were in one of the district’s circular intersections. In the center of the plaza stood a cluster of canvas tents housing vegetable merchants. All commerce had apparently come to a halt with the arrival of the High Mystic’s carriage. Indeed, all movement of any kind had come to a stop. A sea of people prostrated themselves down every alley and every sidewalk. Shevia estimated that there were several hundred commoners and merchant-scholars gathered.
Bhairatonix ignored everyone, turning his gaze to the lone man standing defiantly in front of the carriage. The only other people standing were Shevia’s brothers. Typhos had a sword drawn and was pointing it at the strange man. Tevon stood just behind Typhos clutching his wrist with a snarl.
Shevia studied the man who had caused the ruckus. He was rather tall, if not nearly the height of her master. Long scraggly ha
ir tumbled down his back past his shoulders. A thick beard of reddish-blond hair covered his face. He was wearing animal skins, and in each hand he held a thin blade that jutted from a wooden shaft.
Onkai blades.
Despite their rarity, they were well known in the highlands. Their wielder stood in a defensive stance with his gaze locked on Typhos.
Bhairatonix took two steps forward and raised a finger. Her brother lowered his blade and bowed to the High Mystic. The scraggly man turned to Bhairatonix but kept his guard.
“I would not expect to see a man as disheveled as you carrying onkai,” said Bhairatonix.
“I ranger,” said the man in broken Qina with a hoarse voice.
Despite his rough accent and tone, Shevia noted that he was a young man, probably less than five years older than she.
“Ranger or not, you are impeding my carriage,” said the High Mystic.
The man relaxed his guard and sheathed his onkai with smooth motions. He was familiar with the weapons.
“Forgive,” the man said. Shevia wasn’t sure if he was asking for forgiveness or demanding it. “I try to hail your driver and ask permission, but I shoved aside. Defended myself.”
Tevon’s face darkened. Shevia silently warned her brother to keep his noise to himself.
“There are ways to summon me, boy,” said Bhairatonix, “and there are other Mystics in this land. Leave off now and I will forget this incident.”
The man shook his head. “I come a long way to find you. You are the only one who can help. It is urgent.” The man looked at the crowd of prostrating people. “Especially now.”
Bhairatonix studied him with a cold expression. “What do you mean?”
The man lifted one of his arms high and slid back his sleeve. Shevia’s jaw tightened. Angry red sores covered his forearm. Even from a distance she could see that they festered above purple bruises. It churned her stomach.
The crowd surrounding them muttered, despite the fact that most of them were facedown in the dirt.
“How dare you bring your sickened carcass to this city?” snarled Bhairatonix. He lifted his staff, but at the exact same moment the man withdrew an onkai blade and lifted it over his head.
“I will not be sent away,” he said. “The silver path led me here. I carry sickness that will kill everyone here. I know you can cure me. Help me, and in return, I enter your service.”
Tibron tensed beside her. Her other two brothers looked from Bhairatonix to the man.
The High Mystic laughed. “Arrogant boy. I will cut you down and burn your corpse. That will just as surely eradicate your plague.”
“Is that how High Mystic of Qin tends those in need?” asked the man. “In front of whole city you turn me away? Slaughter me rather than cure? Why not accept the services of a ranger? Show me that you are different. Show Yin-Aab you are different.”
“Waste my time no further,” Bhairatonix said. He tapped his staff and the ranger rose into the air. He clutched his throat, gasping for air.
A tempest storm of Myst built within Shevia. The scent of sandalwood and holly overwhelmed her. Sitting Mother rose within her and the snake tattoo on her shoulder. Pushing her fear away, Shevia stepped closer to Bhairatonix. “Are you certain it is wise to do this, Master? Perhaps you should help him?”
Bhairatonix, who had been about to step back into the carriage, stopped. His eyes tore through her. “That is not your concern, apprentice. Get in.”
Shevia glanced again at the man kicking his feet in the air, clutching at his throat. Typhos and Tevon circled closer to him.
“With respect, Master,” Shevia said, “there are other ways to dispose of this man and his problem without executing him.”
Bhairatonix straightened and loomed to his full height. He bore down on Shevia like a mountain over a foothill. A distant corner of her mind screamed at the impending danger. He was going to punish her. He was going to hurt her. Again. He was going to break her.
But with the Myst surging within, and Sitting Mother shielding her, Shevia met his gaze.
“Why not heal him?” she said. “Let these people see the might of the High Mystic of Qin.”
Bhairatonix’s eyes narrowed dangerously and that distant part of Shevia knew she had pushed too far.
He lifted his hand and the man fell to the ground, sucked in air through his lungs. Shevia’s brothers stepped toward him.
“Stay back!” Bhairatonix snapped, without taking his gaze from Shevia. A cruel smile curved the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want them to get ill. If this plague rat is of concern to you, then I will let you dispose of him.”
He waited expectantly. A chill ran up Shevia’s spine. She turned and walked toward the man, using every fiber of control she possessed to keep her stride even and her head held high. The Myst churned around her, spreading across the entire plaza like an invisible wind.
She approached the man and knelt. Startlingly blue eyes were set into a handsome, if somewhat emaciated, face that was covered in those terrible sores.
The man stared at her with no fear. Without moving, Shevia touched the man with the Myst. He sucked in a small breath. As the Myst settled into him, his mind opened before her. It was like putting her nose to a flower and breathing deep. There were no words spoken or exchanged, but somehow Shevia understood this man, sensing his pain and loneliness.
Bhairatonix wanted her to kill him. She reached out and placed a hand around his neck, pressing her thumb into the spot beneath the ball of his throat. Her other hand followed.
The man remained calm as they locked eyes.
Here was a man as broken as she was. What was his story? How did a light-skinned foreigner, who claimed to be a ranger, come to possess onkai? By appearances, it would seem that a diseased man would approach a High Mystic and beg for a cure with desperation. But there was a stillness in his demeanor. Something drove this man, and Shevia suddenly had an overwhelming desire to learn what that was.
Shevia could sense the sickness within him. It had spread throughout his body, yet it had been dulled, like a rusted blade that had lain dormant for too long. Delving deeper, she found a place in his body, near the base of his spine, where the disease was heaviest. It was like an anthill, swarming with the plague. Around it she found something unusual. A broken shell of the Myst surrounded the illness, like a protective sphere that had once safely trapped the disease away. That shell had been fractured somehow, and from that crack, the plague had spread out again.
She inhaled deeply, pulling the Myst from every corner of the plaza, and pushed it into the man.
The plaza melted away as the familiar trance took hold of her. Shevia saw only glimpses of other places, other times racing by in furious succession. A boy with scraggly blond hair, crying beside a creek. The same boy, with a hooded Mystic placing his hand over the child’s heart. The same boy, now a handsome young man, taking a vicious sword wound to the chest before being healed by a virga ranger.
Suddenly the man lurched, moving with surprising speed and strength, grabbing her. Despite her height, he was larger than her. But Sitting Mother filled her with strength, turning her bones to iron, and her muscles to granite. She shoved the man back to the ground and straddled him. She pressed harder into him. He clawed at her hands.
The man’s neck pulse beat against her fingers. How fragile the human body was, she mused. She could snuff this man’s life out in a moment. And perhaps she should, as her master wanted.
Shevia could see Bhairatonix in the corner of her vision. Extending her senses, she could somehow feel his heartbeat, too. A powerful realization swept over her.
She was more powerful than her master. He held her back, but the tide of her power, born of Sitting Mother, could snuff him as easily as the man whose throat she now gripped.
Shevia snarled, feeling the need to express the powerful emotions raging within her. Mystic fire surged through her hands into the man. She sent it forth, commanding it to burn where she s
ent it. It torched him, making him writhe. Shevia pinned him with her body and hands, as easily as one held a flailing child.
The burning ceased. Only the man’s purified body, cleansed in a manner only fire could bring, remained. Shevia released her grip, and the Myst flashed away.
The man bolted upright, shoving her away. Shevia tumbled to the ground beside him. Like her, the man was trying to find his breath.
Her brothers rushed to her, but Shevia thrust a trembling hand up to stop them. She watched the man, who was now on his hands and knees, sucking air. His whole body trembled.
Without taking her gaze from him, Shevia snapped her fingers and pointed to her Mystic staff, which lay nearby. One of her brothers—she didn’t notice which—obediently placed it in her hand. Shevia used it to pull herself to her feet. Another brother assisted her.
Most of the gathered crowd no longer had their faces pressed to the ground. They stared with confused or scared expressions. Shevia glanced over her shoulder. Bhairatonix approached. She expected a cloud of rage around him, but instead there was another emotion.
Fear.
It lingered only a moment before he masked it, but Shevia was certain of what she’d seen. Her master looked from her to the man and his eyes widened.
A murmur arose from the crowd. “Look at his skin,” somebody said.
The man was trying to rise from his hands and knees. As he moved, the furs around his arms shifted, giving Shevia a glimpse of skin. His clean, unblemished skin.
The man must’ve heard, because he stared at his hands. If they had been trembling before, they shook even harder now. He rose completely, and yanked back his sleeves revealing perfect, pale-pink skin. He tore layers of fur and cloth off, until he was bare chested. Not a single blemish covered his thin but well-muscled body.
The crowd erupted with talk. Commoners and merchant-scholars stood and pointed. They pushed past one another to see what had happened. Tevon and Typhos looked around, uncertain of whether to secure the crowd or protect their sister.