“You think she’ll leave if she knows?”
Val sighs. “I don’t know. She has a strong sense of honor.”
A silence.
“You seem quite certain that I’ll take her,” Stormwind says.
Val laughs, a humorless sound. “You are not the only mage living between Godan and this little valley.”
“Then—”
“I brought her to you, Mage Stormwind, because Blackflame orphaned her and threw her to a fang and still has her mother.”
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to feel something—shock? Anger? Confusion? But all I feel is a deep and unvarying grayness, as if the fire has taken a part of my emotions as well. I know what Val speaks of, but it is a knowing that resides in my mind while my heart beats steady and untouched.
Stormwind’s voice is almost tentative. “And why would that matter?”
“Why would that matter to you?” Val replies, turning it into a rhetorical question. There is some secret here, I realize, some story of Stormwind’s past that Val knows. A reason why he chose her of all mages to train me.
“You know a great deal about mages for a breather,” Stormwind says.
“No,” Val replies. “Breathers are always aware of mages and their politicking, if for no other reason than because we want nothing to do with you. It is you mages who know nothing of us.”
“Indeed.”
I hesitate a moment longer on the doorstep, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m discovered. I shift my weight and put my foot down heavily, then push the door open. I stop abruptly, just inside, as if surprised to see them there. I can hardly bear to look at Val, remembering his words from earlier, realizing now how much more he knows about me than I do, how much he has held back from me. You didn’t have any right, I want to snap at him. It is my life, my history, that you’re keeping from me. But I can’t say the words here, and then it doesn’t matter anymore, because Val walks past me without a glance, leaving me alone in the cottage with Stormwind.
The next morning, having finished his work on the roof, Val goes out to the forest with one of the horses to haul in dead wood. Once he has brought in enough, he begins to chop it on the old stump behind the cottage, building up our wood pile to last the rest of the winter. Mistress Stormwind lets me off my chores in the afternoon, and I find myself watching him from around the corner of the cottage.
All the previous evening, as the three of us sat before the fire, I had turned over Val’s words, thought about him, considered what he told me and what he kept back. While I don’t agree with what he did, I can understand why he did it.
He will leave soon, and I don’t want us to part on bad terms. Last night he had barely acknowledged me at all, his attention focused on his carvings. I had felt awkward, too acutely observed to find a way to break the silence between us in Stormwind’s presence. Now I watch him from the corner of the cottage, wondering how to begin speaking to him again.
He has taken off his cloak, his work having warmed him enough against the chill winter air. He moves methodically, the chips occasionally flying from the wood in little showers. I watch him split a short length of trunk in half and then quarter it. Then he sets his ax down and looks up, catching me peeping around the corner at him. I flush with embarrassment, stepping back.
“If you’re going to watch me,” Val calls, “you may as well make yourself useful.”
So, while he chops, I stack the wood by the cottage wall and help him haul larger pieces over to be cut. The work is good, and while my muscles ache and my steps slow over the course of the afternoon, I am glad to be doing something.
“Would you just sit down?” Val finally snaps, pointing at a log he has yet to chop. “I don’t want you falling over from exhaustion. Mistress Stormwind would have my hide.”
I laugh. He smothers a smile and turns back to his chopping.
“You never told me your name,” I say as he finishes the log he’s on. He shrugs. “I started calling you Val because that’s what Kol called you. Is it really your name?”
“It’s close enough,” he says, hefting another piece of wood.
“You know my name,” I point out. “And both of my parents’ names.”
He doesn’t answer until he has split and chopped the next log. As he tosses the pieces onto the pile beside the stump he says, “Valerius.”
I hug my knees, grinning up at him. He pretends not to notice. “And you’re about twenty-five years old.”
He slides me a long look.
“Well, aren’t you?”
“I’m a breather,” he says with great patience. He seems to say that quite a lot.
“So?”
“Breathers age more slowly than humans. It has been a long time since I was twenty-five.”
I chew my lip, recalling vaguely how he had called me “little one” at first. It’s hard to reconcile those first images of him with the breather before me now.
He chops another log. “Did Mistress Stormwind say anything about your hair?” he asks.
I grin, unaccountably amused. “What hair?”
“That is, in fact, my concern.”
“You haven’t considered the benefits of being bald,” I tell him. I list the advantages, ticking them off on my fingers, “No lice, no worries about how to tie it up, no need to dry it in winter, nothing for anyone to grab you by, and,” I pause, trying to come up with one more reason.
“Nothing to keep your brain warm,” Val supplies.
I laugh.
He returns to his chopping and doesn’t speak again. I watch him, breathing in the scent of just-cut wood and letting myself rest in this moment, this new memory that I will be able to look back to once he’s gone.
That night, while Val sits with his bits of wood, carving, Mistress Stormwind introduces me to the art of spinning, which she can do wonderfully and which I cannot do at all. She uses the wool she has collected from her goats, and I realize unhappily that she has three large bags set aside for her winter spinning, work that I must now learn to do as well. By the end of the night I am able to produce spans of yarn as long as my hand and as lumpy as bad porridge. Val watches with great amusement.
“What are you grinning about?” I snap at him.
“Nothing at all,” he says solemnly.
“I suppose you know exactly how to spin,” I prod. “Why don’t you show us how good you are?” I hold my spindle out to him.
Mistress Stormwind watches me with an expression of faint disapproval.
“All right,” Val says and plucks the spindle from my hand. In the space of three breaths he has spun an arm’s length of thread that even I can tell is as fine as any Mistress Stormwind has made that night.
“Good enough?” he asks with a wicked smile.
“Terrible,” I tell him, snatching the spindle back.
“It just takes practice,” he consoles me. “You should have plenty of time for that here.”
“Thanks a lot,” I grumble. He smiles pleasantly and returns to his carving.
Later on, as I lie in my little patched-together bed of blankets and straw in the loft, I wonder how a breather learned to mend roofs and chop wood and carve little creatures and, strangest of all, spin wool. Most men I have met could not spin any more than I could before tonight, even if they could do the rest. Perhaps in all his traveling, he came across a land where the men did the spinning rather than the women. I fall asleep still musing over the possibilities.
In the morning, Val is gone.
I know it the moment I wake, an almost physical awareness, as if the air I breathe has lost its moisture, or a color had disappeared overnight so that, on waking, I find a world without amber or topaz, or amethyst.
I check for the horses behind the goat pen where we had corralled them every night. They are gone, as is the gear we had stored beneath the roof’s overhang. I follow the path up to the woods, and then farther, watching for where the horses’ hooves had bit into the dirt or sunk into wet
patches.
At the top of the ridge I stop. The trail continues, descending and winding through the trees. He must have left before the dawn, careful of seeing even a moment of the sun’s light on what would have been the fourth day of his stay. I turn back to the cottage, wishing I had said good-bye last night.
Mistress Stormwind stands at the table when I enter, her hands dusted with flour, a round of dough before her.
“He didn’t say good-bye,” I blurt from the doorway.
“You’d better have your breakfast. There are plenty of chores to be done before we can get to your studies.”
I let myself glare at her back for a moment before serving myself a bowl of oats from the pot by the fireplace. When I bring it to the table, I notice an object waiting where I normally sit.
“What’s this?” I set my bowl down and pick up the piece of wood, turning it around in my hand. It’s one of Val’s carvings, small and compact as they all are.
“I suspect it’s his farewell,” Mistress Stormwind says. “He left it there this morning before you came down. I assumed he wished for you to see it at breakfast.”
I set the carving next to my bowl and study it as I eat, running my fingers over the sleek head and rippling feathers, the wood smooth to my touch. It is a little crow with its head bent down against its breast, its beak holding a key. I can’t keep from smiling.
I slip my crow into my skirt pocket when I am done, holding it tight in my hand. “What will you teach me first?” I ask Mistress Stormwind.
“Discipline.” She eyes me severely. “Everything you have told me about your castings indicate sloppy use of energy. You will learn to be exact and careful in all that you do.”
I find myself wishing I’d followed Val. Although, considering I nearly toasted myself with my last spell, I suppose she has a point. I push myself to my feet, “Yes, Mistress Stormwind.”
“You have not fed the chickens yet, or milked the goats.”
I almost laugh. Somehow, though her words are hardly gentle or loving, they have a comfortable ring to them that I can’t quite place. It’s like a memory that’s more dream than real: beneath the scent of ash I catch a trace of a familiar place, a home I may have never had.
I cross to her and hug her quickly, before I lose my nerve. She stands stiffly, her brow creased in surprise.
“Thank you, Mistress Stormwind,” I say, and go to see about the chickens and the goats.
I hope you enjoyed Sunbolt. If you did, please consider leaving a review. It makes a huge difference to me–both because I love to know what people think of my stories (and it encourages me to keep going!), and because, as an indie author, I rely on my readers to help share the word about my books. Unlike traditionally published authors, I don’t have a marketing department to help me promote my book. That’s where my awesome readers make all the difference–even a short review shared with friends on GoodReads or posted to the e-retailer where you picked up your copy makes my world go round!
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Additional Titles Currently Available:
Thorn
For Princess Alyrra, choice is a luxury she’s never had … until she’s betrayed.
Princess Alyrra has never enjoyed the security or power of her rank. Between her family’s cruelty and the court’s contempt, she has spent her life in the shadows. Forced to marry a powerful foreign prince, Alyrra embarks on a journey to meet her betrothed with little hope for a better future
But powerful men have powerful enemies—and now, so does Alyrra. Betrayed during a magical attacked, her identity is switched with another woman’s, giving Alyrra the first choice she’s ever had: to start a new life for herself or fight for a prince she’s never met. But Alyrra soon finds that Prince Kestrin is not at all what she expected. While walking away will cost Kestrin his life, returning to the court may cost Alyrra her own. As Alyrra is coming to realize, sometimes the hardest choice means learning to trust herself.
The Bone Knife
(This short story is permanently free, and available at most e-retailers.)
Rae knows how to look out for family. Born with a deformed foot, she feigns indifference to the pity and insults that come her way. Wary of all things beautiful, Rae instantly distrusts their latest visitor: an appallingly attractive faerie. Further, his presence imperils the secret her sister guards. But when the local townspeople show up demanding his blood, Rae must find a way to protect both her sister’s secret and their guest. Even if that means risking herself.
Coming Soon:
Book 2 of The Sunbolt Chronicles
(Click to add it to your To-Read Shelf on GoodReads)
Early 2014
A Darkness at the Door (working title)
Book 1: The Theft of Sunlight Trilogy
Coming 2014
It’s a rare thing that a book comes into the world without the help of at least a handful of people. In this case, Sunbolt had the support and encouragement of a wagonload of folks.
As always, a huge thank you to my husband, who has supported me from day one, read nearly every draft, and only occasionally reminds me that sleep can be as important as writing. Thanks as well to my parents, for stapling my first books together when I was three and supporting my writing ever after, and to my brother and sister-in-law, who are always willing to read a draft and voice encouragement.
I am also deeply indebted to the writers who have reached out to me since I first published, including the talented and kind Elisabeth Wheatley, and the awesome Runaway Pen gang: Theresa Shreffler, Melissa Sasina and MalAnn Bronson.
Sunbolt has had the help of many, many beta readers, to whom I am very, very grateful. Thanks to my initial readers, writing circle cronies Janelle White and Hannah Kutcher, for those first suggested revisions. Many thanks for the thoughtful constructive feedback and Facebook discussions of my Round One Beta Readers: Emily Colvin, Shy Eager, Ahmed Khanani, Tia Michaud, Alina Shosky, Bekah Trollinger, Kat Wise, Elisabeth Wheatley, and Janelle White.
Extra special thanks to my Round One teen beta readers: Hohokam Middle School students Hailey McCann, Vauxn McQuillen, and Sophia Lewis; as well as British International School of Jeddah student Mus’ifah Amran. You guys rock!
Where there’s a Round One, there’s bound to be a Round Two. Huge thanks are due to Ann Forstie, Claire Hermann, Anne Hillman and Theresa Shreffler for everything from suggested scene changes to brilliant line edits to making sure my selection of fruits and fish in Karolene made sense. I can’t thank you all enough!
Sincere and deep thanks are due to the bloggers and readers who have encouraged me by reading and reviewing my work. More than a few times, it was that new review or blog post that helped me to sit back down and keep writing.
As a person of faith, I am ultimately grateful to God—for granting me the love of writing, a way to share my stories, and the support I need to keep going.
Intisar Khanani grew up a nomad and world traveler. Born in Wisconsin, she has lived in five different states as well as in Jeddah on the coast of the Red Sea. She first remembers seeing snow on a wintry street in Zurich, Switzerland, and vaguely recollects having breakfast with the orangutans at the Singapore Zoo when she was five.
Intisar currently resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband and two young daughters. Until recently, she wrote grants and developed projects to address community health and infant mortality with the Cincinnati Health Department—which was as close as she could get to saving the world. Now she focuses her time on her two pa
ssions: raising her family and writing fantasy.
Intisar’s latest projects include a companion trilogy to her debut novel Thorn, featuring a new heroine introduced in her free short story The Bone Knife … and of course, she’s hard at work on the remaining installments of The Sunbolt Chronicles.
Sunbolt (The Sunbolt Chronicles) Page 14