by Cat Bruno
When she released Sheva, Bronwen noticed tears flickering on her lower lashes, and her heart thudded with heaviness and a sense of dread. Tormented by guilt, she hastily dropped her gaze, unable to bear Sheva’s scrutiny a moment longer. Moments later, Bronwen nearly cried aloud in relief when Sheva excused herself, stating that she had much work to get done for the morning meal, and then departed, shutting the door gently behind her.
As the door closed, Bronwen sank into the chair behind her desk, cradling her head into her hands, hating herself, hating Conri, hating the man who had truly given her the small scar beneath her eye.
Then she noticed the book. Bronwen tapped the mage-light and a clean glow filled her room, illuminating the mess that was before her and scattered about her desk. Taking a deep breath before exhaling in a loud sigh, Bronwen opened the cover, centering it in front of her, and slowly began to turn the pages, delicately, as the paper was thick and nearly crumbling.
And then she stopped, her fingers hovering above the parchment. The image of a man radiated out of the page, his long face caught between amusement and irritation, his eyes as black as night, with a purple haze across the sky, his smile almost a smirk, and his fingers clenched around the hilt of a sword. The blade of the weapon gleamed, shimmering as bright as any star, despite its blackness, and Bronwen knew it instantly to be atraglacia. The man’s clothing was hidden in the shadows that twirled around him. A cape caught in the wind frolicked at his back, but little else could be seen through the shadows. No sun shone, only the ebbing crescent of the moon looked upon the man, its whiteness battling with the darkness that surrounded him.
Bronwen knew it was no true battle, not like this, not in the darkness represented on the page. The image lied. Here, the moon, as beautiful and sparkling as it was, sought no fight against the man, her son, once and always, and silently watched as he danced with the only weapon capable of killing him. In honor, in awe, but never in fear. For him, her son and the sons of her son, and the daughters too, the moon promised no threat. They embraced her light, no matter how dark the sky, no matter how dark their souls. They always welcomed her, and she always beckoned them to return home. In her light, they found forgiveness.
34
As the morning brightened outside of his small window, Master Rova closed the book that he had been reading and reached for the cup of goat’s milk that he had poured hours before the sun had risen. Like several nights over the past moon, he had not been sleeping well, bothered by answers that seemed just out of his reach and questions that he still could not fully understand. He had read nearly every book that Master Tywinne had suggested, even some that bordered on what the council would find acceptable, yet Rova could not explain why the Tribe had visited the Academy nor could he figure out who exactly it was. Although, he now assumed it to be a high-ranking member, one who could not be injured by the low levels of atraglacia that bordered the school.
In the end, though, it mattered little to Rova who it was, as his only concern was for the safety of the healers and students. And while there had been no incident since his discovery, still Rova worried, fearing what could happen, causing him enough concern that he had considered sending word to Rexterra requesting a small army of mages for protection. But, he had decided to wait another moon or so, investigating what he could and sending out letters to those more knowledgeable than he regarding the Dark Arts and the Tribe. Now, he waited to hear word.
After he had finished the milk, Rova left his room and walked about campus, strolling in the early morning dew and ambling along the shelled path, stepping softly and without any real direction. Before long, he found himself in front of the dining hall, with the sun fully above the horizon, which suggested that the morning meal would be served soon. And even though he was not hungry, Rova was quickly tiring of his own company and longed for some conversation. He opened the heavy doors and entered the hall, surprised at how quiet it was without any of the students. As he walked about, Rova noticed that only one table had an occupant.
Surprised at his luck of finding Sheva alone, Rova called out, “Good morning, Sheva! It seems we are the only two who woke with the sun this morning. Might I join you?”
Sheva looked up and hurriedly finished the bite of food that she had been chewing, swallowing a gulp of tea before answering, “Good morning to you too, sir. Please take a seat. I will bring you some eggs and fruit.”
“I have already eaten, so no need to rush off. Won’t you sit and chat with me for a moment?”
Very few of the Masters addressed Sheva in such a way, and her relationship with Rova was not typical of how the Masters interacted with the workers at the Academy, but the two had long been friends, and their positions did not change that.
“Of course, I always have time for you! And I have had this morning’s meal prepared for an hour now, so I have little left to do. It is rare to have a moment to sit and talk like old friends, Rova.”
“Yes, rare indeed, although it seems to me that you are working too hard and sleeping too little, Sheva,” he replied, allowing some concern to be heard in his steady voice.
Sheva smiled, and her almond eyes glittered for a moment, softening her face and recalling a beauty that had faded some after the death of her beloved husband.
“I could accuse you of the same crime, sir,” she laughed, without denying that what he had said was true.
The two talked for several minutes before students started to arrive and Sheva had to hurry back to the kitchen. Rova watched her go, allowing himself to wonder what could have happened between the two of them if her grief had not swallowed so much of her life. But, as ever, he was grateful to have given her the one gift that she had always longed for, what even her husband had not given her, and, much to Rova’s surprise, that gift was walking through the doors, looking as tired as he himself was.
He watched as Bronwen, hair tied at the base of her neck, blazing down her back and dressed in a healer’s robe, stumbled into the hall, eyes cast downward and shuffling her feet toward the serving area. He continued to watch as she grabbed a tray and filled it with two large mugs of steaming tea and some chopped fruit before silently walking to a corner table and taking a seat. As she sipped her tea, Rova thought about joining her, but she seemed distracted, lost in her own thoughts, and he doubted that she had even noticed him when she had entered, which told him much, more than anything that she could have said. While Bronwen had never been a very outgoing student, she had always been courteous and respectful to her teachers, engaging and conversational.
Yet, few could deny that she had grown distant over the last few moons, and Rova knew not what to make of it, nor how to change it. He could no longer ignore his instincts and decided that it was foolish to sit and watch her from across the room. He was a Master after all, and she was still his student, apprenticeship or not.
As hurriedly as he could manage, Rova rose from his chair and made his way over to where she sat, alone at a small table at the edge of the great hall. As he walked, a few arriving students greeted him, calling out to him cheerfully, yet Rova noticed that even their voices did not stir Bronwen. In fact, she never once looked up from her plate until he called out to her.
“Hello, Bronwen.”
When she heard the deep voice addressing her, Bronwen’s heart dropped. She had spent most of the night reading, brightening the mage-light whenever her eyes started to drift closed, and had wanted nothing more than to sleep, except she had morning classes and midday work at the clinic. She was nearly finished with her second cup of tea when Master Rova joined her, but she still felt more asleep than awake, although her pounding heart was helping her become more alert.
Before letting much more time pass, Bronwen answered, “Hello, sir, excuse my fogginess. I slept very little last night, but please sit down. I have some time before I need to be with Master Mollero.”
“Ah, Master Mollero, a good man, Bronwen, and a great teacher. What is he having you practice at the moment
?” Rova asked as he lowered himself onto a small bench on the opposite side of the round table.
Neutral and casual conversation, thought Bronwen, is harmless enough, and she gladly answered, “We have been learning about severe burns, which is fascinating, although a difficult task and an even more difficult recovery. The way the skin can heal itself is amazing, yet the new shape it takes on reminds us that healing can never be perfect. After burns, we will end the class with amputations, which shall be both interesting and intense.”
“Did you know that Master Mollero has much experience in battle wounds and injuries, Bronwen? That is why his classes are so excellent. He teaches what he himself has seen and used. Very practical and necessary, I’m afraid. I am glad to hear that you are enjoying your classes. I should admit that I had grown concerned with your absences recently, but I am certain that you had reasons enough for not being there. I had heard that you were ill.”
Bronwen hated lying to the man who had done so much for her and who had offered her such a rare opportunity, but she had little choice now. He would have no doubt supported her and cared for her if she told him what had happened on the beach, yet she could not tell him then, and even now, Bronwen denied the truth, for no other reasons than her own pride and shame. She was a healer, one who tended to victims of such brutality, and never did she believe that she would suffer so. When it had happened, she had felt so weak and so broken that admitting to anyone what had occurred would have felt like a failure.
However, what hurt even more was the knowledge that her first thought after she had regained consciousness was of killing the man, hurting him as much as he had done to her. She longed for her healer’s tools, the sharp blade that parted skin in easy smoothness, the long, thin pick that carved out rot and decay, the poisons and potions that could heal a man or kill him. When she had woken, empty-handed and broken, Bronwen promised herself to never feel so powerless again, vowing to kill the man if she ever found him, despite her healer’s oath.
If Master Rova knew about the night at the beach with the stranger, it would not be long before he knew what was in Bronwen’s heart, and while her lying could be forgiven, breaking a healer’s oath would never be. Her heart was still dark where the man’s hands had lain across it, and Bronwen still struggled with the memory of him on top of her. As far as she could remember, she had never harmed a living creature, animal nor human, yet she wanted nothing more than to see him suffer, which terrified her, but sustained her too.
Shaking herself free from the constraints of memory, Bronwen smiled weakly in the direction of Master Rova, knowing that he was too wise for her to ever hope to deceive.
“Has it been so long then that I last saw you, Master? My apologies, sir, but you had heard true that I had been ill. However, I am feeling well recovered now, perhaps only a little exhausted from all the work that I must now finish. And I greatly look forward to my apprenticeship when I have completed this final year.”
Her voice was raspy and her words trembled, but Bronwen held Rova’s gaze, forcing herself into an outer calmness that served to guard her inner rumblings.
Rova hesitated, glancing down to where his wrinkled hands clasped each other, and wondered, for the first time since he had named her apprentice, if he had erred in his decision. Not that Bronwen had not been the most promising student that the Academy had seen in many moon years, but that there were so many unanswered questions that surrounded her, including her history which none knew, not even Bronwen herself. Some had even argued that his fondness for her foster mother had factored too heavily into his choice, and others argued that her heritage should have prevented her from rising so high in rank, given that Northerners had unusual talents in healing that often came from magical means, unexplainable ones.
But, Rova had never suspected that Bronwen used anything but her own natural ability in her healing, and he had witnessed many instances when she had struggled too, which had only caused her to try harder. Only time would tell if he had chosen truly or not, he concluded.
Before she could leave, and Rova sensed that she was aching to do so, he asked, “Bronwen, have you been to the main garden recently?”
Bronwen shrugged, rising as she did so, “I like to pick my own herbs usually, sir, so I am there several times a moon.”
“Have you noticed anything amiss while you have been there?”
“Nothing really, sir. The first-years seem to be doing a fine job, and I have no complaints,” she answered with no hint of falsity.
Rova rose from his chair also, placing one hand on the table and the other on Bronwen’s forearm and looked directly into her eyes.
Then he whispered, quiet enough that none of the other students who now rushed about could hear, “Bronwen, I trust that you will come to me at once if you hear or see anything out of the ordinary, even if it seems minor. Bronwen, tread carefully. There are many who question my choice for Master Apprentice. Give them no reason to doubt you.”
Bronwen’s cheeks burned red, and she dropped her head when she felt them tingling, adding a quick bow in Master Rova’s direction before hurrying off, even though she had time before class began. As she walked, without knowing where she would go, Bronwen worried that Master Rova had somehow become aware of her secrets, no matter how hidden she had thought them to be. While his words unnerved her, Bronwen was still determined to find Conri, if for no other reason than to finally be able to focus on her studies and put the lying behind her. Once Conri did what she asked of him, Bronwen figured that she would have solved two problems at once, and she would be free from both men.
When she looked up from her thoughts, Bronwen was only steps away from Master Mollero’s classroom, and she was too tired to walk any longer, so she entered the building and headed toward the back classroom, figuring that she could rest for a bit until the others arrived. Bronwen took a seat in the front of the class and laid her head into the cradle of her arms, closing her eyes and praying that the man’s face didn’t appear, and sunk into her exhaustion. The stranger’s face never developed, but another image did, a small, plain dagger, nondescript except for the way the blade shimmered when a ray of light kissed it. Then, the shining light shattered the blade into tiny, black shards of glass that sprayed across Bronwen’s face, blood dripping from a thousand cuts across her face. When she reached up dazedly to feel her cheeks, Bronwen expected to find blood on her fingers, yet they were dry and clean.
Before she could blink, another image appeared. A garden, full of blossoming herbs, delicate yellow flowers, and tall lavender stalks. Lying amidst the blooms was the same dagger, whole and undisturbed, and Bronwen knew it to be an atraglacian weapon instinctively, and knew, also, where to find it.
Her head was spinning and her eyes were watering as Bronwen rushed from the room and out into the morning glow, convinced of what she would find tucked into the small garden behind the building. She raced to the back of the square, stone building, then delicately walked to the patch of garden where the wild, yellow chamomile nuzzled near the tall, sturdy lavender shoots, bending down and kneeling among the flowering herbs.
Without any further thought, Bronwen started digging with her hands, ripping out the healthy plants that had been so lovingly tended and tossing them aside. She continued to break apart the clumps beneath her fingers until her hands were blackened with dirt. Pausing for a moment to wipe at the sweat on her forehead, Bronwen looked about her, then once again tore at the dirt, the hole growing wide and deep, but empty still.
Sweating and dizzy, the sun bright and low, Bronwen continued until her nails were cracked and broken and her sleeves were heavy with mud. Still the hole was empty, and she was forced to realize that her vision had been wrong, even as real as it had seemed.
She quickly recovered, glancing about with guilt at the destruction around her, and replanting the fallen herbs as best as she could, silently apologizing to the first-year students all the while. When she had finished, Bronwen looked down at the pa
nts that she wore beneath her robe and decided that they could not be cleaned in time for class, so she stripped them off and then made her way out of the garden, dazed and saddened.
Soon, she heard voices around her, looked down at her hands, and knew how she would look to the others. When she noticed a large wooden bucket that seemed to be filled with water, Bronwen rushed toward it, then plunged her hands into the water, scrubbing them against one another until the water grew dark and her hands clean. She stepped back and surveyed herself, spotting a few smudges along the bottom of her robe, but the light-colored robes were often dirtied, so she paid the stains little attention and continued back to the building, walking slowly.
The classroom was occupied by a few other healers when she returned, and Bronwen took a seat near the back, smiling at the Planusian boy Davvette before looking away, all the while trying to figure out what had just happened. Never before had Bronwen been gifted with mage-sight, or any such visions, and she wondered what had happened, or if it had been mage-sight at all. Yet, the vision had been wrong.
When Master Mollero arrived, Bronwen hardly noticed and remembered little of that day’s class. But she could not forget the blade. And the way it had shattered and struck her.
35
If Louissia wasn’t washing dishes or serving patrons, she was with Kennet, and she had realized that she enjoyed being with him. She hadn’t seen Bronwen since their original meeting and hadn’t learned anything new either, much to Pietro’s disappointment, as he reminded her each time he saw her. He had even promised to pay her twice as many coins for any information that he deemed useful, and, despite her feelings for Kennet, Louissia had assured Pietro that she would work harder. She could only imagine what she would do with so much silver, although she had been eying a royal blue dress with lace around the neck and beaded flowers over the bosom, even wondering what Kennet would think of it.