by CJ Brightley
“M-mathematicians’ conference,” I stuttered. “C-couldn’t be helped.”
“But they only h-happen them every four or five years!” Hurik complained. “Why’d it have to be t-today?”
“Just our l-luck, I guess,” I shouted. Through the dust whirling ahead of us, I saw the tip of a lindor tree that marked our front gate. I also felt a splotch of rain on my face. I grabbed Hurik’s arm, and we both sprinted.
Grandmother was waiting just inside the door with her hands on her hips.
“Don’t you two know better than to go out into the rain?” she demanded, pulling Yaika’s skirt out of my arms and pushing us each into a chair by the kitchen hearth. I shivered as she pulled out a touchstick and nudged it at the kindling. The blaze roared up as soon as elhan wood touched illian leaves. The two were terribly volatile together.
“We had to fix Yaika’s skirt,” I tried to explain, holding my hands up to the warmth. Beside me, I heard Hurik sigh in relief. “We were going around begging magicians to fix the colors . . .”
“And if you’d caught ill?” Grandmother demanded, folding her arms.
Outside, I heard the howl of wind and then a spatter of rain. Apparently we’d made it back just in time.
“It wasn’t raining when we left,” Hurik said defensively.
“What’s wrong with the skirt?” Grandmother asked, lifting it up. “Aside from all the dirt and lef chaff.”
I winced. It looked worse than ever, thanks to the wind.
Hurik slouched down in his chair.
“Hm,” Grandmother said, turning it over, her brow furrowing. She ran her fingers along the bottom hem. “Looks like bleach.”
Hurik slouched down further.
“See, it’s unfixable, except through magic,” I explained. “So we were going around asking everyone to help us. We got one person who was willing, but the rest said . . .”
“Oh, for land’s sake,” Grandmother said impatiently. She reached into a drawer behind her and pulled out a pair of sharp scissors. Then, before I could stop her, she snipped a triangle of fabric right out of that spot.
I let out a strangled cry.
“Grandmother!” Hurik squeaked.
Grandmother spun the skirt around in her hands, found a smaller splotch on the other side, and firmly snipped the same triangle out of it.
“Yaika’s going to kill us!” I shouted.
“There’s more than one way to fix a laundry mistake,” Grandmother said. “Fetch me my thread and needle from that drawer, Raneh.”
Numbly, I got up and brought her pincushion and several spools of thread from her sewing drawer across the room.
Grandmother whipped several lengths of blue thread off of one spool, licked the end of it, and pushed it through the needle. Then she whipped the needle through the skirt, hemming the snipped edges, moving very rapidly as she talked. “Who you think taught Yaika to sew in the first place? Some of us don’t have the luxury of just discarding clothing when it develops minor imperfections. Fabric wears out, you know. Or dyes fade. You have to learn to fix things up when they break.”
“But it was brand new,” Hurik said morosely. “She’s only worn it twice. She said so.”
“I’ve been married to a mathematician most of my life,” Grandmother said. “You think I’ve never bleached the wrong thing? Ask your father about his favorite tunic when he was your age.”
Hurik looked up hopefully.
“But asking magicians to waste magic on such a trivial thing!” Grandmother went on, glaring at both of us. “What impudence!” She slipped her thread through a knot and snipped it. Then she spun the skirt and moved to the other side. “Why, even when I was a young girl, and they had far more to draw on —”
Hurik and I exchanged alarmed looks.
“Is that true?” I burst out. “Someone we met today said the same thing. That it takes more magic now to do the same things —”
“Hm?” Grandmother asked. “Oh, yes. It’s fairly obvious that magic’s dying.”
I felt like somebody had punched me in the throat.
“And no one even talks about it?!” Hurik said in a strangled voice.
“Of course people talk about it,” Grandmother said tartly. “What do you think your grandfather is doing? One of the purposes of the conference today is to calculate the rate of decline.”
“Which is?” Hurik asked urgently.
“How should I know?” Grandmother asked. “I’m not a mathematician.”
“Does Lala know?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Grandmother answered, slipping the thread through a second knot and tying it off again. “If she does, she’s never said. I can’t imagine she’s completely blind to it, however.” She lifted the skirt and stared at it critically. “This’ll need a good washing,” she said.
“I’ll do it,” Hurik said immediately, sliding off his chair.
I flinched. “I don’t think —”
“Good boy,” Grandmother said, handing it over to him. “Bring the washtub in here, and I’ll supervise. No bleach.”
“No bleach,” Hurik agreed. He ran off to get the washtub, most likely from its usual place under the stairs.
“Are you sure, Grandmother?” I asked hesitantly. “He’s the one who . . .”
“All the more reason to teach him how to launder things properly,” Grandmother said briskly, winding her leftover thread back onto the spool. “The boy might not be a landowner all his life, you know.”
I gulped. “You’re right.”
Hurik came back in, dragging the heavy washtub. He had already filled it with soapy water, and it sloshed out the sides as he pulled.
“Lesson one,” Grandmother said, stopping him at the doorway. “Fill the washtub after you bring it. But good job, otherwise.”
She handed me a towel and looked meaningfully at the floor behind him. I sighed and went to clean up my brother’s mess.
When Grandfather came home, it was late at night. Hurik and I waited up for him, hovering in the doorway with Grandmother.
Grandfather looked bedraggled and tired as he stepped out of the carriage. He stood at the bottom and helped both our field mathematicians get down, two younger men who looked almost as tired as he did. One of them helped a teenage girl out after him.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Hurik.
“Donan’s daughter,” Hurik whispered back. “She took the oath of mathematics last week. Must be his new apprentice.”
“Thank you,” Grandfather said to our field mathematicians. “Your input was appreciated.”
“You’re the one who figured out the coefficient,” one of them said, clasping his hand. “I only hope you were wrong. No offense.”
“None taken,” Grandfather said.
“What’s going on?” Hurik blurted out, as Grandfather walked slowly towards us. He looked so tired, I suddenly realized he was old. I’d never thought of him as old before. It scared me.
“Oh . . . nothing,” Grandfather said tiredly, waving his hand. “Just complicated calculations. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Grandmother said magic is dying,” Hurik pursued, walking right beside him. “Is that what you were calculating?”
“Oh . . .” Grandfather said. “Yes, among other things.”
“So?” Hurik demanded.
Grandfather looked over at him, his eyes drooping. “So?” he repeated. “So what?”
“So how long does magic have left?” Hurik shouted.
“Oh . . .” Grandfather rubbed his eyes. “The rate of absorption’s been increasing faster than before, so the previous guess was one-ten-and-eight years. But when we plugged in the latest data, it implied it might be closer to seven.”
Hurik stopped dead in his tracks. “Seven years?” he repeated. “Seven years?”
I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like it wasn’t that far away. I swallowed.
“Hurik,” Grandmother said sternly, putting her arm around Grandfat
her’s waist for support. He looked over at her and smiled gratefully. “Your grandfather’s tired. You can worry about problems in the future later, all right?”
I stared dumbly back over the fields, where the other mathematicians and apprentice were walking back over the paths between strips of crops to get back to their homes. I watched them head towards the fading twilight, wondering if they were as frightened as I was starting to be.
How will we live without magic? I wondered, clutching my arm as I looked up at the fading sky and breathed in the fresh, rain-cleansed air. And what’s killing it?
10
When she saw what Grandmother had done to her skirt, Yaika did the logical thing. She blew up.
“How could youuuuuu?!” I heard her voice echo all the way down the hallway on the morning of her oath ceremony. “This wasn’t the design I wanted! I hate youuuuu!”
“Which is why I waited to show you until it was too late,” Grandmother’s voice said firmly. “These cuts are well in line with current fashion trends, and if you pair it with this underskirt instead of that one, the cerulean highlights will look particularly —”
“But that’s not what I wanted! It’s my oath ceremony! It has to be perfect! You’re ruining everything!”
I buried my head under my blankets. Maybe, if I went back to sleep, I could avoid Yaika’s hysterics. I hoped that once this party was over, she’d be possible to live with again. She’d been more and more on edge ever since we started planning it.
“Good morning, Raneh,” Mother said, opening my door. “Time to get up. We have a lot of preparations to make.”
I pulled the blankets off my head. “Do I have to?” I moaned. “Yaika’s lost all vestige of sanity.”
“I did much the same thing at my oath ceremony,” Mother said, throwing my curtains open. I winced in the bright sunlight. “Just because you took yours calmly doesn’t mean we all do. And you should have seen my older sister at her wedding.”
I muttered under my breath and slid out of bed. Truthfully, I hadn’t taken mine that calmly. I’d just had a mild fever the previous few weeks, and had been rather fuzzy about the whole thing.
A frizz of magic zipped down my arm and zapped through my fingers. I jolted upright, awake. Had I forgotten to get rid of it yesterday? Or was it building up more quickly than usual? Either way, it was a bad sign.
I jerked my hand to my arm, hoping Mother hadn’t noticed. Fortunately, she had her back turned to me, picking out an outfit from my closet.
“Is this what Yaika set aside for you to wear?” Mother asked, turning around with a green-and-purple overskirt with matching silver bodice in her arms.
“Yes.” I made a face. “Her taste is abysmal.”
“Her taste is lovely,” Mother said. “It’s just not yours. And she did try to incorporate your preferences into it.”
I sighed, pulling on my favorite golden underskirt. I tugged my thin torron nightgown over my head and ballooned it to the ground in a heap. Torron didn’t wrinkle, but it wouldn’t matter if it did; no one wore torron in public, anyway.
Well, no one but vassals. And young children. Torron generally looked shabby, but it was comfortable. And it stretched every time it was washed, which made it ideal for babies.
I held my thick black hair as Mother laced up the silver bodice, which was tight and stiff and made me look entirely flat-chested. I objected to this. I really didn’t need help looking more skinny.
Unenthusiastically, I climbed into the three outer skirts, which were sewn together at the waistband. The top one was sheer, with splotches of pink, and the middle one was sheer with splotches of purple. The bottom one had swirls of variegated greens, which combined with the top two outer skirts to look like a flower garden swishing in the breeze. It looked amazing in my closet and horrendous on me.
Mother frowned as I twirled around, trying to pretend I thought I looked good.
“That bodice may not be quite flattering . . .” she said hesitantly.
“Oh, you think?” I said sarcastically.
Mother sighed. “Perhaps your sister would be willing to consider reselecting . . .”
“Raneh!” Yaika burst into my room, in tears. “Did you see what Grandmother did to my skirt?! Did you?! She ruined it!!”
Yaika flung her outer skirt across the room, where it landed in an elegant heap on top of my bed. I reached back and retrieved it, shaking it to make sure it hadn’t wrinkled.
“What would you have preferred?” I asked acidly. “Some big, floppy bows to disguise the stained places instead?”
Yaika shuddered. “Ugh! Those have been out of fashion for years!”
“Or perhaps she could have tried repainting it?”
“No one should repaint clothing! You can never get the pigments exactly the same!”
“Or perhaps she could have shortened it.”
“Shortened it? Raneh, are you insane?!”
“Or,” I said, walking over and plopping the skirt in her hands, “perhaps she could have fixed the damage by snipping out the bleached spots and re-hemming it so perfectly that it will look like it was deliberately designed that way.”
Yaika glared at me. She turned and stomped out of my bedroom without a word.
“Well done,” Mother said.
“I just hope she wears it,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Well, you’d better fix my hair perfectly, Grandmother!” Yaika shouted as she stormed down the hallway.
As soon as I could, I snuck down to the gardens. If ever there was a day to visit my groverweed, this was it.
My heart hammered as I squeaked open my metal gate. I shook my fingers, shivering slightly. It was chilly to the touch, but that would change by midday.
Carefully, I climbed into the large central expanse of my groverweed and filias patch. I chose a spot near the side and knelt carefully, spreading my skirts out so they didn’t get dirt on them. Then I reached out slowly and gingerly touched my fingertips to the tips of two plants’ groverweed roots.
Okay, I thought, breathing in and out. Get rid of all this magic. Slowly . . . slowly . . .
Power lanced up and down my arms. My whole hands shoved deep into the dirt, and groverweed exploded into bloom all around me. Runners laced through the air, stems thickened, and leaves smashed into filias as if to strangle them. I pushed harder, desperate to get it all out before somebody called for me. One plant roared up in front of me, and I yelped and jumped back, just as the rest sprayed pollen everywhere. I shook my hair, hoping the grey ashlike stuff hadn’t gotten all over my clothing.
I surveyed the damage to my garden, my heart plummeting. It would be almost impossible to hide all this groverweed. The filias were completely covered in grey pollen, and the air was chokingly thick with the smell of soot.
“Oh, come on!” I protested in a strangled voice, wrenching my hands out of the soil. A network of groverweed roots had already grown over them, so I had to rip through those to get them up. They came out coated in dirt and shreds of roots. And then a groverweed right in front of me exploded ashlike pollen all over my face.
“Ugh! Ugh!” I choked, spitting it out. “That does it! What’s wrong with you stupid flowers? You’re supposed to remain subtle! Small! Small!”
I whammed my fists in the middle of the patch, tears springing in my eyes in fury. Something exploded out of me. I reeled backwards, stunned.
The entire groverweed patch was bare.
For a moment, I just sat there, frozen. Then my fingers scrambled through the dirt, desperately, until I found seeds. Countless, countless, countless groverweed seeds. All the plants were still there. Just . . . just . . . just . . .
Small.
What did I do? I thought, wild-eyed. Did I just . . . use magic . . . on groverweed?
Nobody could do that. Groverweed was the most horrible weed ever. It just . . . absorbed whatever magic you threw at it, including anything in the soil from enhanced fertilizers.
My hands tre
mbled. My mind felt numb with shock. Something was really wrong with me. Something was seriously wrong with me, if I could use magic on groverweed.
I staggered back to the house, hoping nobody would see me coated with groverweed pollen ash.
No such luck.
“What in the world?” Yaika yelped, turning the corner of the stairs and nearly running into me. “What did you do to your clothing?”
“Garden,” I mumbled. “I just — I — uh —”
Yaika glowered and jabbed her finger in the direction of my room. “Go. Change.”
I scrambled down the hallway, relieved for the permission. She’d have been pretty mad if I had changed for her oath ceremony without asking her first. My dirty hands slipped on the doorknob until I finally got it open, and then I collapsed onto my bed, staring numbly at the fire-patterned ceiling.
Something is wrong with me.
I’d never asked for magic, and it had come to me anyway. While everybody else’s magic was dying, mine kept coming more quickly. And now it turned out I could even affect groverweed.
Wait a minute . . . could those be linked?
I lay there, breathing shallowly, my mind dizzy. I could think of three possibilities. Either what had happened to me was another symptom of magic falling apart . . . or I might be part of what was destroying it . . . or I might be a key to saving it.
My dirty fingers clenched and unclenched the orange bedsheets underneath me, my mind working furiously.
Okay. If mine was just another symptom, I was probably not the only person affected this way. So why hadn’t I heard of others? Surely there would be magicians out there who had symptoms like mine, and they wouldn’t be shy about admitting it.
Unless . . . my effect only happened to people who hadn’t renounced status. Or, worse, only people who had loads of status, which would usually mean landowners or landowner heirs. Any landowner with magic would be just as terrified as I was about being caught. And if they were caught? Well, they’d be dead. Either way, I wouldn’t hear about them.