Was it possible? The money would be useful, and the gowns – I never wore gowns if I could help it, but then I’d never had pretty ones. “Do you know this? Can you guarantee it?”
“Kyra, you’re not listening. I told you that I heard it said, that’s all. But three of them, all from the same village, and none elsewhere. It can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
“Almost anything can be a coincidence,” I said sharply, and saw Father’s eyes twinkling in appreciation. I’d learned my letters in Mother’s teaching room, but Father’s patient explanations had taught me about numbers and the possibilities of events. “But this is just gossip. I can hardly depend on it.”
Mother’s face settled into its usual dour expression mingled with disappointment. She was often disappointed in me.
~~~~~
The Steward came again the next morning, and asked if I’d reconsidered. In the politest way possible I told him no, as Mother struggled to hide her dissatisfaction.
“Ah, well, never mind,” the Steward said kindly. “Maybe next year, eh?”
Mother’s face lifted at once, and I almost groaned. A whole year of her not-quite-nagging was a dispiriting thought. She probably thought it would be a struggle to save up enough money, so I would have to give up my dream of becoming a scribe. Despite the temptation of silks and silver, though, I wouldn’t change my mind. I had convinced myself of a different destiny and was prepared to do whatever it took to follow it. I was fourteen, and I knew everything and nothing.
The Steward was out of the door and halfway down the path before he turned. “Ha! Almost forgot. The list arrived for the mage healings at the gathering. Here – you will notify everyone, I take it?”
“Of course,” Mother said, a hint of disdain in her voice, taking the folded paper from his hand. She knew her duty as the village teacher, one of the few who could read and write well. All official messages passed through her.
She saw the Steward away with the proper politenesses, waiting until his horse was out of sight down the lane before closing the door. Only then did she unfold the paper with trembling fingers.
Her face lit up. She looked so different when she smiled, almost pretty.
“Truly?” Father asked.
“Truly. The little one has been chosen at last!”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said, brightly.
At once the sour face was back. “It almost makes up for your stubbornness, Kyra. Run down the lane to tell your sister. And don’t come back until evening board. You’ve made my head ache, I swear.”
2: The Gathering
The harvest was late that year because of the incessant rain, so it was more than a moon before the gathering celebration. The market field was jammed with stalls and wagons and penned sheep, the walkways further crowded by jugglers and wandering musicians. Locals and visitors alike paraded in their finery. Mother insisted I wear skirts for the occasion and wrap my hair in the traditional intertwined scarves.
The highway was lined three or four deep in honour of the Kellon’s arrival, despite a misty rain. I was there with my whole family – Mother, Father, three sisters, two brothers, and my eldest sister’s husband and children. The procession arrived an hour or two later than expected. A long train of horsemen in the local colours preceded several fine carriages, wagons of luggage and finally the open carts for the servants. The Kellon and most of his retainers would stay at the village guest house, with the overflow squeezed into the inn.
The Kellon himself rode near the front, his armour loose enough to accommodate his belly. Guards surrounded him, and behind came several men in leather riding trousers and long coats, the full skirts trailing over their horses’ rumps. I spotted the bulk of the Kellon’s Steward, and one man was recognisable as a mage by the tattoo on his forehead. The others were indistinguishable older men with serious faces looking straight ahead, either uninterested in the village peasantry or with their thoughts fixed on weightier matters. Or perhaps focused on their stomachs, since they were late for the noon board.
One man was different. He was younger than the others, only a few years older than me, and since he wore no riding scarf, his dark hair jumped out of the array of blond heads around him. Odder still, as he passed by, he turned towards me and stared directly into my eyes, as if, somehow, he knew me and had picked me out from the sea of identical women. Yet I had never seen him before.
“Well, that was peculiar,” said Alita, my next oldest sister. “I’ve not seen him here before. Why did he look at you in that way?”
I could only shrug. I shivered, suddenly chilled from standing so long in the drizzle.
~~~~~
Later in the afternoon, after a leisurely meal at the guest hall, the Kellon left his Steward and advisors to continue their tax gathering, and made his customary circuit of the market field. Two armed retainers walked in front and two behind, with a couple more on either side, so that the crowds parted and the great man strode at his ease in a bubble of clear air, unjostled by the masses. He had left off the pretend armour, and wore rich velvets and a woollen cloak lined with fur. On his arm was a young woman in a magnificent silk coat and skirts, her hair elaborately arrayed and decorated, jewels glimmering at her throat. She simpered at the gaping crowds as she passed by, a pretty little thing, soft and plump. She was thirteen years old, his drusse for the gatherings.
I watched her go by, thankful beyond measure to be spared such an ordeal, but glad she was so obviously enjoying herself. I envied her the coat and gown, but not much else. My family studiously avoided my eye, too polite to point out that it could have been me on the Kellon’s arm. All my mother said rather pointedly was, “What a splendid gown!” but my father’s face was disapproving. “So young!” he murmured. No one answered him, for it was an old argument. Thirteen was the legal age of adulthood in all respects, but many thought it a bad idea.
The gathering festivities swirled about us, but none of us felt much like celebrating, not yet. We drifted around the field, unconsciously forming a protective circle around my oldest sister, Ginzia, and her family. By the middle of the afternoon, it was time. Ginzia picked up Cerila, her eldest child, and kissed her.
“Off you go, petal.”
“You come too.”
“No, your father’s going to take you to see the mage. I have to stay here with the baby. You can tell me all about it later.”
She set her daughter down and watched her limp off towards the guest house.
“She’ll be fine,” Mother said bracingly. “Cerila’s a sensible child, and it doesn’t hurt, so they say.”
“It doesn’t always work.” Ginzia chewed her lower lip. “It may be too late. She should have been seen when she was a baby. The bones will be too set by now.”
Even Mother had no answer to that. The spellpage for correcting a club foot was well beyond our means. We’d tried a couple of times with a spellpage for general good health, which was only a single silver. We’d scraped together enough pieces to pay the travelling scribe to write it, burning it with full ritual, but to no effect. The only other chance was the annual gathering, when the Kellon graciously allowed his mage to heal three villagers of their ailments without paying the usual silver. Cerila’s name had been put forward every year, but the list was long, and she was six years old now.
Gradually, without thinking about it, we drifted towards the guest house, acquiring a small cloud of neighbours, friends and kin, like a snowball, and then stopped, waiting. Some chattered determinedly about the festivities, the preparations for the evening feast, the weather – anything but the magic going on inside. Most were silent.
At last, Rolland was sighted, being ushered out of the door by the Kellon’s guards. He was carrying Cerila – was that a bad sign or a good one? As he approached, I thought I saw the tiniest shake of his head. Bad sign, then.
Cerila caught sight of her mother and Rolland set her down, dispelling the final shreds of hope. There was the awkward limp, no bet
ter than before. Ginzia gave a little sob, then forced a smile and held out a hand to her daughter.
“How was it, petal?”
“It was all warm and tingly, it felt nice, but it didn’t work. Look!” And she lifted one trouser to show us, beaming widely. “There! Zackly the same. So I’m still me.”
It was a bitter blow. Everyone had hoped for a cure, but I suppose even mages had their limitations. Powerful as they were, and able to create spells purely through their minds without a written spellpage, there was only so much that magic could do. Perhaps when I was trained—? But that was silly. What could even the best scribe do that a mage couldn’t?
~~~~~
As the sun set, I made my way to the inn for my first evening’s employment there. I had arranged with Tillon, the manager, that I would work in the kitchens, but he took one look at my formal skirts and smiled.
“Out front tonight, I think, missy. Bonnor will show you how things work. You stay with him, and you’ll be all right.”
Bonnor was an old friend, a solid man four years older than me, with a head full of golden curls, a pretty face and a certain charm, the perfect combination for his present career as an inn companion. He helped to serve in the taproom, but also kept a room upstairs for when his other services were required. There were three women currently wearing the painted leather choker of companions, but Bonnor was the only man.
As the stallholders packed their goods away for the evening, the taproom became full to capacity and drinkers spilled into the pavilion put up to cope with the gathering overflow. I was kept busy running backwards and forwards with Bonnor. I carried as many jugs of ale as I could lift and, as thirsty patrons waved me down, Bonnor collected their pieces and gave change. Then the evening board started and we raced about with bowls and platters and trays of food, the rich aroma from the stew and roast meat making my stomach grumble.
As jug after jug of Tillon’s good ale vanished into the patrons, the noise rose to deafening levels, with shrieks of laughter and bursts of clapping. As always at festivals, there were more blue lights surrounding people’s heads, flaring up around this one or that, then gone just as quickly. Drunkenness encouraged them, it seemed, whatever they were. I’d never understood their purpose, but no one else ever mentioned them and looked at me as if I was insane when I asked about them. Something unmentionable, I guessed. I’d learned long ago to say nothing. Tonight I was too busy to wonder about such mysteries.
Halfway through the evening, Tillon called me over. “Mistress Tallyan is asking for Bonnor, so you can have a rest for a while. Why don’t you get yourself a platter? Take whatever you want. You can eat in the back room, no one will bother you there.”
He was wrong about that, however. The back room was kept as a private sitting room for wealthy guests, but tonight it was full of the Kellon’s men – a few guards, and several in the fashionable town clothes of Ardamurkan.
And the boy with dark hair.
As soon as I walked in I saw him. He was sitting on the far side of the room at a table littered with discarded plates and bowls, the debris of an extensive meal. Why did he eat with these people and not at the Kellon’s feast? What was his position in the household? Then I wondered crossly why I was interested anyway.
He didn’t notice me at first, but after I sat down and began eating, I looked across and he was staring at me again, his dark eyes unblinking. I was used to men looking at me in a certain way, but this was nothing like that. His expression was odd – as if he was surprised, or shocked to see me. Yet how could that be? It was unsettling. I bent my head to my food, determined to pay no attention to him.
When I had finished, I picked up my tray and stood. And there he was, standing in front of me, blocking my exit. I was not one to panic, but my heart thumped uncomfortably. What could he want of me? But he said nothing, almost as if he expected me to speak first.
“Excuse me, may I pass?” I said politely, although if I had not been holding a heavy tray, my hands would have been shaking.
A long pause. He continued to stare at me. At last, he spoke.
“Who are you?” His voice was low, melodious, but the question was so odd that I wasn’t reassured.
“I’m Kyra, if that means anything to you. And if you don’t mind, sir, I have work to do.”
“You work here?” Another peculiar question, since I wore the same long apron as all the other inn workers.
“I do, and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get back to the kitchen. If you wouldn’t mind standing aside...?”
“Oh!” He looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised... But do you ever get to Ardamurkan?”
What was the matter with him, asking all these silly questions?
“I’ll be going there when I’m sixteen, to the scribery.”
“Ah, excellent! You will do well there.” He smiled, and then remembered that he was holding me up. “Um... Goodbye, Kyra.”
And finally he stood aside, with the tiniest bow, still smiling. I supposed he was not sound in his mind, and pitied him. Harmless, perhaps, but still I was very glad to escape from him.
~~~~~
Tillon set me to work in the kitchen until Bonnor returned, and then we delivered more food until evening board was over and I could leave. It was only a short distance to walk, but Bonnor was allowed to escort me home. I was exhausted and silent, but he kept up a patter of inconsequential nothings to entertain me.
On the doorstep, he turned to me with his usual light smile.
“So, sweet child, when are you going to let me teach you the delights of the bedroom?”
I laughed. It was an old conversation, begun on my thirteenth naming sun and repeated many times since. “Not yet, my friend, not yet.”
“Your sister wasn’t so shy.”
“And look how that turned out. You broke her heart, Bonnor.”
“Ah, poor Alita! But no one can know the joy of true happiness without the risk of misery. At least her heart was open to love, and not furled tight like yours, my sweet.”
“I have my life planned out, and love isn’t part of it.”
“Very good! So enjoy my friendship, little one, and skip the heartbreak. I can show you bliss you can’t even imagine.”
I smiled, but I wasn’t tempted. One sun I would be a law scribe, perhaps, and mingle with the rulers of Bennamore, and I wasn’t about to leave my heart in Durmaston village with this charming but feckless rogue. I put him out of my mind as soon as the door closed behind me.
As I prepared for bed, and lay in the warm moonlight flooding through the window, it was not Bonnor’s blond curls which filled my mind. Instead I found myself remembering the odd young man with dark hair and darker eyes, who stared at me as if he knew me.
I didn’t even know his name.
3: The Scribery
It took me a year longer than I expected to get to the scribery. I worked and saved and worked even more, spending nothing, but it still wasn’t enough. In the end, my father insisted on making up the difference. I heard Mother arguing with him about it. Well, it was not really arguing, Mother never stooped to such a level. Merely, she laid out a whole series of reasons why I should stay until I had earned the money myself: it was indulging me, I would never learn to be independent, there were the other children to consider, the whole idea was nonsensical anyway.
Father’s replies sounded amused rather than angry. “She has wanted nothing else for years. You don’t need her in the teaching room now you’ve got Deckas to help you, and there’s nothing else for her here.”
I could imagine the sour expression on Mother’s face. “You spoil her, you know. You shouldn’t encourage her in these fantasies. Law scribe, indeed! She should stay here where she belongs. But no, she has to aim for the moon. And if she fails, all that money will be wasted.”
“Maybe so, but she won’t know what she can do until she tries. So let’s see how she gets on, eh?” Mother was silent, not convinced, I was sure, but she had
run out of arguments. “Besides,” Father added in a cheerful tone, “if she can manage the first two years of the five, she’ll be a transaction scribe and make silvers by the handful and keep us in comfort in our old age.”
So, at the advanced age of seventeen, I went to Ardamurkan town to learn to be a scribe. Father made the journey with me. He wanted to buy some tools, he told me, even though he usually got what he needed from the tinker who came through the village several times a year. So I left Durmaston on a turnip wagon, too happy to feel the ignominy of it as we lurched through the forest. The sun sang to me, the birds hopped about the branches solely to entertain me, the leaves rustled above my head in sympathetic pleasure, the trees energised me and even the rain, when it came, was gentle and encouraging. Nothing dismayed me, for I was going to the scribery, as I had longed for ever since I was a child.
The Fire Mages Page 2