The Mage's Daughter: Book One: Discovery

by LeRoy Clary

  The smile touched the edge of her lips as she remembered the first time she knew. After being assigned to the fire starting duties more than five years ago, there came a cold, wet storm last winter. The dampness had penetrated everywhere and everything. Even the cold kitchen at night absorbed the clammy air. The tinder had become wet, and no amount of sparks would light it, no matter how many times she struck the iron to flint. Not having a morning fire ready for the cooks would have cost her a severe beating and more.

  She had scrounged the kitchen for anything that might burn, found little, and tried the tinder again. But the sparks wouldn’t set the fire. She struck the flint harder, creating more and more intense sparks. Nothing worked. She wished she had a few leftover red coals or even a flame from a candle. Her tiny room was across the open courtyard and up stone stairs, but there were no candles there, not even discarded stubs, but her mind pictured a candle flame.

  There were some in the main eating hall, but she was not allowed to go there or use them, let alone try to light one with sparks. Candles light others, or they light from existing fires in stoves or fireplaces. They are for people of higher rank, and those with money.

  Scared and alone, she had heard the clop, clop of the wooden heels approaching, and she wished intensely for fire. She struck a new barrage of sparks from her flint. She needed fire desperately, and she needed it before the footsteps arrived. She looked around in near panic, searching for anything that might help. The footsteps moved closer as they echoed down the long hallway.

  A dim glow in the morning gloom drew her attention. She looked down, thinking a spark had finally ignited the tinder. Instead, a tiny flame existed at the end of her index finger. It was smaller than a candle flame but burned steadily. Her finger was burning! She shook the finger to put the fire out before it hurt her, but she realized when it didn’t go out with the violent shaking that it was not hurting. Hannah quickly moved the damp tinder she held in her other hand above the flame. It caught, and she fanned it into a larger fire as the little finger-fire extinguished itself.

  As the first cook arrived, Hannah had already placed the tinder under the kindling and was watching the fire grow around the cedar. She removed a few sticks of the burning kindling and placed them in the next stove, ignoring the cook as Hannah blew the next fire to life and repeated the process on the third oven. The cook used a brand from Hannah’s fire to light a candle stub she carried. But she was the Head Cook of the morning kitchen and awarded such privileges. She glared at the meager fires, not mentioning how late they were.

  Hannah tried to look innocent and busy while ignoring the cook, as the cook ignored her as was her norm. But inside, Hannah could hardly breathe, and she kept looking at her cold, trembling finger where the fire had been. Not a blister or red mark on it. Only a Mage can create fire. She knew that. Everyone knew that.

  They also knew that only men could be a Mage. Women, a very few special women called sorceresses, performed healings, or predictions, or other magical processes that dealt directly with people, spells, and incantations, but no woman had ever made fire from nothing. Women dealt with the living. Mages transformed elements, changing the physical properties of the world.

  Hannah’s confused mind would not release the subject. She inserted another split of wood into each oven and stood aside, thinking. Women do not deal with the basic elements or transform an object from a solid to heat, like wood burning and becoming hot air. Transformations from one form to another are the sole property of top-level mages. Some mages cannot even make fire with their finger; not even the Mage-in-training, she had heard.

  When all was said and done, Hannah, a girl, had made fire by using her finger and mind. At least, she believed she had. A simple kitchen girl, not even a woman or sorceress, had made fire. She tried making the flame on her finger the following morning and failed. Each day after that she tried again and again until she believed it had been a dream--and then one cold morning the flame reappeared by its own accord while she started to light the tinder. She snuffed it out and tried again. The tip of her finger sprang to light. On. Off. She repeated it over and over. The finger did not feel the heat, but afterward, it felt cold.

  Since then she had done it a hundred times on a hundred different mornings. The act became second nature. Hannah didn’t have to pause and concentrate as she had in the beginning. Instead, the opposite was true; hiding the fire that sometimes appeared on her finger unexpectantly.

  However, The Old Mage, who might be her father, had arrived at the palace after several years absence. That changed all things and spurred Hannah to develop a vague plan. She would manage to work her way near him tonight. She didn’t know the method or the outcome of her audacious act, but she would be there at his side, her index finger ready to display fire.

  CHAPTER TWO

  True to her word, Hannah followed the skinny Cook, drawing more than one angry look from her along the way. Hannah just smiled her responses as if she had no idea of why the cook might be irritated. With the banquet in mind, the kitchen stirred with the overflow of people. Meat rotated on spits, soups bubbled in cauldrons, and dough baked in hot ovens to become rolls and loaves. Cakes, pies, and candies filled two full tables against a wall. Wine, imported from beyond the far corners of the kingdom, overflowed shelves; some already unstopped so the wines could breathe, whatever that meant.

  The cooking fires in ten ovens burned hot, and at least three fire tenders, all older than Hannah, carried wood and placed it beside the ovens, stoves, and open pits. But Hannah looked for the tall man called Bracken. He managed the servers and table settings. Tonight she wanted to serve, move among the guests and somehow get close to the Old Mage. That was her plan. Simple, straight forward, and dangerous.

  After spotting Bracken in the center of a myriad of activity, she strode up and stood directly in front of the busy little tyrant. He snapped orders at the servants like a general to troops before a battle. As he paused to take a breath, Hannah, lifting her chin, said, “Sir, I would like to learn how to serve. I am old enough to do more than tend fires.”

  Bracken didn’t lower his head, but he allowed his eyes to drift down until they stopped at her face. “Can you smile?”

  She showed her teeth.

  “Are you clumsy, girl? Fearful of powerful people? Shy?”

  “I am not clumsy, but only a fool would not respect the power of a king or his royal court.”

  He raised his eyes again and looked around the room from his small height, far too short to duck under the low, blackened beams of the kitchen as so many other men did. Then he looked down at her again, “That is a very insightful answer for one so young. But accurate. There is a woman named Ella, do you know her?”

  “I know of her, and what she looks like.”

  “Good. Find Ella and tell her I said you are to attempt to learn serving sweets. She’ll know what to teach you, and in the future, I will remember you volunteering to help me and reward you in some small way. Not many do offer, and I appreciate it. If you have problems with the other servants over . . . well, over your family situation, come see me.”

  Hurrying off, Hannah realized she had somehow made an adult friend and protector. That was a total of one. No, that was not true, there was the old woman who couldn’t always remember her name, and the washerwoman with the burn scars on her face. There were a few more who were not exactly friends, but didn’t pick on her or gossip about her; at least not to her face. She spotted the woman called Ella and headed in her direction.

  Hannah found that standing directly in front of the tall woman called Ella to draw her attention did no good. Ella looked over Hannah’s head and spoke to any others who came within earshot, ignoring Hannah as if she were a ghost. Hannah examined the older woman as she waited. Up close there were tiny lines and wrinkles in her face, making her older than Hannah believed her to be. Her waistline and hips were equal in size and a few touches of gray streaked the brown hair. But overall, she spoke to ea
ch person in equally pleasant tones and seemed well-liked by all. All but Hannah.

  Clearing her throat, Hannah tried drawing attention and steadied her inner confidence. When that didn’t work, she said, “Excuse me, Ella. Bracken told me to see you about learning to carry a tray of sweets at the banquet.”

  Ella glanced at her and smiled weakly, but not unfriendly, and seemed to welcome the offer. “You have never served, or I’d know it. Two hands on the tray at all times, the guests are welcome to all they wish, and you do not speak to them even if they speak first. Can you remember all that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Servers wear the Earl’s blue and white colors. See the Head Seamstress on the third level, tell them to hem something for you and then be here at sundown. Find me, or wait here for me. Can you do all that?”

  I’m not stupid. “Right away. I’ll go find the seamstress now.” Hannah rushed outside and ran across the inner courtyard and back inside a wide doorway where a set of servant’s stairs carried her up to the third floor. The seamstresses had always complained about the lack of light to do their best work. Last spring the Earl had cleared out two full sets of apartments with large windows, and he had given them to the seamstresses at the demand of his fashion-conscious wife so they could do their work—and make prettier clothing for the Countess.

  The stone stairs were clean, unlike those in the servant’s quarter. They were devoid of people, unlike the lower tower where Hannah and the lower class servants lived; those that rushed to serve their masters. Upon reaching third floor, even though she had never been there, she had heard the rumors of the place and went directly to the first door at the end of the hallway. As she pulled the heavy door open, the sunlight streamed in through a series of tall windows greeted her. In front of the windows stood at least six sewing tables, with one or more women, sitting at each of them. All worked intensely, and none looked up at her entrance.

  “Can I help you, honey?” The nearby voice was old, but nonjudgmental, even friendly, perhaps.

  She must know who I am. Everybody does. “Ella sent me to see the Head Seamstress.”

  “That is her over there.” The old woman pointed to another woman surrounded by others who fawned over her. She was issuing orders about fancy, colorful dresses to be worn this evening, criticizing each woman’s work in turn. “Very busy right now, perhaps I can be of assistance?”

  “Ella said I’m to get a server’s uniform in the Earl’s blue and white.”

  “Oh, serving are you? Sweets, I suppose?”

  Hannah nodded, then followed the old woman to a cabinet. The woman opened the lid to reveal stacks of blue and white shirts, pants, hats, and soft boots. “Let me look at you to judge your size. My, you are a small one. Here, try this on.”

  Hannah accepted the shirt, soft blue with white trim. She pulled her old tan shirt off and the new one on for a fit. It was only a little too large. A tuck would fix it. Next came pants that needed hemming in the length of the legs, and finally a blue hat. The woman reached for a white feather from a dozen held together by a red ribbon and showed Hannah how to slip the shaft into small slits in the crown, so it stood upright.

  “Call me Lucy,” the old woman said. “You, if I remember correctly, are Hannah the fire tenderer. Now you need to try on slippers.”

  The first pair, the only ones to ever be on her feet, fit perfectly. Hannah looked down at them in wonder as she wriggled her toes. The slippers didn’t confine her feet as she had feared, and they felt comfortable. “Lucy, will you tell me something?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Why are you so nice to me?”

  Lucy stood to her full height and sighed. “Has it been that hard for you, child? The things people say?”

  “At times. But you're very good to me, and I wonder why. Not many are.”

  “Listen, I see and hear what’s going on in the palace, even those places reserved for the Royals. Sometimes I believe I’ve seen it all, in my long life, but then a thing happens and stirs a new pot. For me, I enjoy people and forgive them for things they are not responsible for, such as who their parents are, or what the parents may have done. I prefer to look at the person, and what they are, or have done.”

  “Thank you, Lucy. I like that.”

  The woman smiled and shrugged. “This uniform is not yours to keep, of course. After tonight you will return it here until the next party, ball, banquet, or whatever. Each time you serve we’ll get you one that fits and make any repairs needed.”

  “When will it be ready?”

  “Oh, you can stop by before the noon meal, the hemming won’t take much time.”

  Hannah left the seamstress with a skip in her walk. Because she rose each day before the sun, she normally had part of the mid-day to herself, usually to catch up on her sleep. The cleaning of the kitchen after the evening meal had become her bedtime, both because of the early morning work, and because she used it as her excuse to get out of the work. The trick, she’d learned early, was never to look relaxed or be at rest when others could see her. Always appear busy, even while having nothing to do. She walked fast across the courtyard, head down as if on an important errand.

  A pair of female nags who were snooty chambermaids for the Royals and both a few years older than Hannah, approached. One whispered loudly, “I hear that her father’s here, the one she favors. I wonder if they’ll have a nice visit together.”

  Both girls giggled at the comment, glancing at Hannah as if hoping she heard it and would respond. It was not the first time they’d baited her. Hannah turned the corner of the horse barn out of their sight and held her index finger up long enough to glance at the tiny flame that appeared at the tip. A tiny fire of that size might one day light the fancy skirt of one who spoke so rudely to her if she kept on tormenting Hannah.

  She extinguished the flame and smiled at the idea of the girl’s dress catching on fire. Then she answered their rude questions in her mind, but not allowing anything to cross her lips. Yes, she planned to have a nice visit with the Mage, her father.

  Entering the horse barn, she found Cleanup inside, leaning on his shovel, as usual. Right beside his toe were fresh horse apples providing his excuse for being there, but instead of gathering them up, he watched a beautiful chestnut mare prancing in the corral as if she wished to find a way to escape and run free. The horse's long legs were thin, and her hooves polished. Her mane and tail were better tended than the hair of the two girls she had left behind.

  “Is that a new horse?” Hannah asked.

  “No, the Old Mage came today, with this one and others almost as nice. A King’s Knight protecting the Mage rode that horse instead of riding in the carriage.”

  “I would too,” she said in awed tones. “That horse dances instead of walks.”

  “I heard she was bred in far off Lanta and shipped here when a colt. Ferriday, the King’s horse trainer, spent three whole years working with her.” Cleanup managed to scrape one small pile of horse manure closer to the others as he made a full turn, making sure they were alone and that no prying eyes watched him. He leaned closer. “Want to see his carriage?”

  “You know I do.”

  He carried his shovel and bucket in such a way that anyone looking would think he was racing after another mess left by a horse, donkey, cow, or sheep. Instead, he went down to the end of the stable and into the garage. It contained more than twenty wagons and carriages sitting inside where they were cleaned and maintained by the stablemen. Near the end of the row stood a carriage suspended from the ornate iron frame by leather straps, so the passengers rode easier on the bumpy roads as the carriage swayed as if in a sling. It belonged to the Earl, and he used it on special occasions.

  Beside it stood a white carriage, not as ornate or beautiful at first glance, but newer in appearance, and it gleamed, almost as if the sun entered the barn and shown only on it. The carriage had two facing seats for passengers, with a higher seat for the driver, and a step
on the back for a footman. In front of the footman was a flat section for carrying trunks and luggage. The carriage had a thin roof of silk with green tassels hanging at each corner. The roof shielded passengers from sun, rain, or snow.

  “Isn’t that something to lay your eyes on?” Hannah asked.

  “That’s not all,” Cleanup said, moving closer to the carriage after a quick glance up and down the garage. “See the shiny paint and how clean it is?”

  “Yes.”

  Cleanup leaned closer to her. “We have not yet washed it. It came to us like that.”

  She said, “The road is dusty, and it rained two nights ago. There are puddles it must have splashed through.”

  The boy made scraping motions with the blade of his shovel for show. He bent over and scooped a handful of soil from the floor. He turned, allowing his hand to trail out over the rear wheel spokes as he released the dirt. Without looking, he moved away a few steps and used the shovel to scoop up more imaginary horse apples. “Look at the wheel where I sprinkled the dirt.”

  Hannah did. The gleaming white paint had bright brass tacks, all sparkling in the dim light. The white spokes of the wheel held no dirt, despite her watching Cleanup drop a full handful where her eyes looked. “It does not get dirty?”

  “Nope. Dirt, sand, dust, mud, animal droppings, and nothing else sticks to it.”

  “How?” Hannah asked.

  “He’s your father. Ask him.”

  Hannah spat on her finger and wiped it on the wheel. It didn’t stick or smear, and an odd sensation made the wheel feel slick as if she hadn’t touched it, but only near it. She gently moved her fingers to touch where her eyes told her the wood was rough. It too felt smooth, almost as if coated with the olive oil the cooks use.

  “What are you two doing in here?” A gruff voice demanded.