“Very funny,” said Cleary, pulling the paper from his hands and setting it back on the pile. “That’s not a bad impression of how people describe the Shem language, but there’s no way that you could speak it.”
Donovan sat there silently for a moment before responding with a laugh. “You got me. So what are all of these?” he asked, pointing at the piles of paper.
“I study prophecies and omen,” said Cleary, his face becoming alight with energy. “Despite what other people say, it’s an interesting field of study. You see, there are many Seers in the world, whose second sight is quite limited, but only a handful of true Prophets exist in each generation. The tricky part is separating the pretenders. The key,” he said leaning across the desk, “is to eliminate anything that actually makes sense. Real prophecies are always so obscure that it’s nearly impossible to interpret there meaning ahead of time. Like this one.” He rifled through one of the piles of paper which he’d moved onto the floor beside his desk, and handed Donovan a single sheet.
Donovan began to read. “The return of the wind will signal the Father’s emergence back into the land of the living, and he shall remake it in his image lest his blood makes the essential sacrifice.”
“You see what I mean,” said Cleary, letting out a squeaky laugh. “Utter nonsense. That’s why it very well could be true.” After a pause, he continued. “Back to the task at hand. At least we know that you can read the common tongue.”
The questions continued for several more minutes before Cleary finally concluded. “You’re proficient in arithmetic as well as reading and writing. You’ll have the option of enrolling in these classes or you can skip them. I’ll write this up for the Headmaster, but you’re free to go if you don’t have any more questions.”
“Thank you for doing this on such short notice,” said Donovan, shaking Professor Cleary’s hand and leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
“Have fun?” asked Osmont, lounging against the wall down the hallway.
“Loads,” said Donovan.
“Good. We’re going for a ride.”
Chapter 2
“Get a move on,” said Finlay Byron, “that dung isn’t going to move itself.”
“Give me a break,” said Kort Byron, “it’s my last day.”
“And last chance to put in a day’s work,” said Kean Byron.
The three brothers stood in the middle of the pen, Kort and Kean were collecting the dung which had been deposited over the last week, while Finlay piled it in the rusty wheelbarrow. They all bore a resemblance, most people struggled to pinpoint its source, but it was something in the shape of the nose or chin.
Kort carried another pile over to his brother, and dumped it on the ground. He leaned his shovel against the fence and stretched, his back popped audibly in several places. He was tall and thin, having recently experienced a growth spurt. His features were striking, but not overly handsome. His thick forearms ended in calloused hands that spoke of the daily work on his family’s farm.
“If I keep this up, I’ll be crawling on my hands and knees all the way to Haven tomorrow,” said Kort.
“We’re trying to help you out,” said Finlay, giving him a playful shove, before going back to filling the wheelbarrow. “After today, you’ll no longer be competing with Kean and me for girls. We’re just trying to get you into shape.”
“Who’s going to want to be seen with you with those twigs that you call arms?” said Kean. “I’ll tell you who ... no one. Now hurry up. We have plans for you today.”
“You’d better watch your backs when I return, or I’ll turn you both into rodents,” said Kort, picking up his shovel and going back to work.
“No respect,” said Finlay. “After everything we’ve done for you, this is how you treat us.”
“Like what?”
“Remember Lysa,” said Kean, with a sly smile. “Eyes of a doe and a rump to match.”
“If I remember correctly, you were pawing that rump before the dance was even over.”
“It’s not my fault that you’re boring,” said Kean, helping Finlay finish filling the wheelbarrow. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, we’re just like animals, the alpha dog gets the bitch while the loyal ones gets stuck with a wife.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a wife,” said Kort.
“If you’re an old man,” said Finlay. “Come on, let’s spread this on the garden.”
Finlay opened the gate for them, while Kort pushed the wheelbarrow through. Kean, shovels resting on his shoulder, followed behind. They headed past the farmhouse, large and homely, but badly in need of new shutters on the windows and a fresh coat of paint, to the large garden behind. This was their mother’s domain.
Parking the wheelbarrow alongside, they began to spread the manure over a patch of freshly tilled soil, where they would be planting carrots the next day.
Ripe with sweat, Finlay paused what he was doing and looked at Kort. “The next time you talk to a girl, remember how you look and feel right now. You stink at everything, so don’t bother trying to show off.”
“But never tell her that she stinks,” said Kean, leaning on his shovel while Kort continued to work. “That would be the last thing that you ever get to say. Girls never stink, they perfume the air.”
“And they don’t sweat, they shimmer like a star.”
“Both of you are idiots,” said Kort, laughing.
“We’re still better than you,” said Kean, sticking out his tongue.
“Just keep telling yourselves that,” said Kort. “This time next year, you’ll be looking at the most successful bachelor in Blaine and the surrounding countryside.”
“Someone’s got a high opinion of themselves,” said Kean.
“You know what Dad always says,” said Finlay, “the tallest nail gets hammered first. Lucky for you, we’re going to check on the fence line next, so I’ll grab the sledge while you finish up here.”
“He’s joking, right?” asked Kort.
“When was the last time one of us laid our hands on you?” asked Kean in mock innocence.
Kort was saved from finding out the answer to that question. They had put away the wheelbarrow and shovels by the shed when their father, Aengus Byron, came strolling around the side of the shed, two fishing poles in his hand.
“I thought that we could catch some supper,” he said. Their father was a quiet, industrious man. He’d earned every scar on his hands and arms.
“You never take an afternoon off,” said Kort. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’ve got things to do if you don’t want to fish,” said Aengus.
“I’ll go,” said Kort quickly.
Hurrying over, he took the fishing poles from his father and they set off over the field. His Father began to hum a tune that his grandfather used to whistle when shearing sheep. With a bounce in his step, Kort followed him over the first hill.
“Looks like we should move the herd to the east field,” said Aengus matter-of-factly.
Kort remained quiet as they continued to their favorite spot, a deep, shady pool in the stream a couple of hills over. Kort and his brothers had used every trick in the book to escape from their work around the farm and fish this spot, but their father rarely had time anymore to join them. Back when they were young and their grandfather was still around, their father took them fishing at least once a month, teaching them the art and love of fishing, appreciating the splendid silence while savoring the sound of water lapping over the smooth rocks in the stream.
Despite the time that had passed since they’d last went fishing together, they fell into their routine, no words were necessary. Kort rooted around in the dirt for bait, while his father prepared the lines. Easing themselves down onto a pile of sun warmed rocks, they settled in for the afternoon. The breeze came slow and easy over the water, the pool calm as if just waking up from a nap.
His father brought in the first fish not ten minutes later, a beautif
ul speckled trout, two feet in length. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, taking it off his hook.
Fifteen minutes later, he casually pulled another from the pool, shimmering in the sun.
A deer poked it head out of the brush downstream. It sniffed the air, before heading to the stream to drink. Kort watched it drink, the fishing forgotten for the moment.
His father stood and walked over to stand next to him, placing a calloused hand on his son’s shoulder and quietly said, “I’m proud of you, son, both me and your Mom. This is your opportunity to build a better life for yourself.”
Kort looked up into his father’s honest eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back next year. It’ll be like nothing happened.”
His father stood there and silently watched the deer, his hand still resting on Kort’s shoulder, when something pulled on the line. With a well-practiced flip of the wrists, Kort sunk in the hook and pulled the fish from the water. It was half the size of the first one his father had caught, but a smile spread across his face nonetheless.
“Opportunities like this rarely come along, and you need to take advantage of it,” said Aengus.
“But I want to come back. Besides I couldn’t afford to go back for a second year anyways.” He kept his gaze fixed on the fish, not wanting to see the look on his father’s face.
“Son, remember to always love life. No matter what happens, you always have a home here.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon basking in the sun, enjoying the comfortable silence while they fished. They brought in a total of ten fish, both of them claimed to have lost count of how many fish each of them had caught. They finally left the pool, his father carried the fishing poles in one hand and his other was wrapped around Kort’s shoulders as they made their way back home.
Aengus headed to his workshop to put away the poles while Kort headed for a table on the edge of the porch. His sister Eireen waited for him on one of the chairs.
“Nice haul,” said Eireen, picking up a dangerous looking fillet knife from the table.
Setting the fish on the table, Kort gave his little sister a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Hey, watch the knife,” she said.
“You would never hurt me,” he said, messing up her hair.
“I will if you touch my hair again,” she said with a beaming smile, brushing the errant strands away from her eyes.
Picking up the second knife from the table, Kort began gutting the fish. “I can do this myself if Mom needs your help inside,” he said.
“And miss the chance to spend time with you before you go. Not likely.”
“I’m going to miss you too, Sis,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“Promise me that you’ll write. I want to hear everything.”
“You can’t even read, and I can’t even write.”
“You’ll learn though, right?” she said rapidly. “You told me that they’d teach you how to read and write. You’ll teach me when you’re back next summer, right? Until then, I’ll take your letters to Ashley in town and she can read them to me. Will you write me letters? Please. You’ll do it for me, I know you will.”
“As soon as I learn to write, I promise I’ll write you a letter.”
She flung her arms around him, smearing fish guts on his back and narrowly avoided stabbing him with the knife.
“And you’ll teach me how to read and write when you come home next summer, and teach me about numbers, and show me your magic, and—”
“I’ll share everything with you, as I always do.”
“I love you,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek before running into the house.
“Love you too, Sis,” he said as the door banged shut.
Mealtime was one of the few times during the day when the entire family got together. Kort’s mother, Bidelia, and sister made many trips back and forth between setting up the table and checking on the food. Kort and his brothers lounged around the table, filling the air with their raucous laughter, until their father came in from washing up at the well. His brothers would straighten up, but continued to talk in quieter tones, while Kort helped his sister carry the food over to the table. Their mother would be making last minute adjustments to the seasonings on the food, and was always the last person to sit down.
Tonight was no exception to this tradition. The only difference was the size of the meal. Normally Kort and his brothers fought over second helpings of food, but tonight the table was so laden with food that everybody could eat their fill.
Aengus looked around the table, making eye contact with each and every member of the family before speaking. “I’m glad that everybody could join us.” He said that like it was a special occurrence, when it was rare for any one of them to be absent from a family meal. “The table will feel empty tomorrow and for many days afterwards.”
“Please, Aengus,” said their mother, Bidelia, from his side, “we don’t want anyone going to bed sad, or else they will have an upset stomach tomorrow, so save the goodbyes for morning.”
Aengus gave a small nod, before digging into his food. That was the sign for the rest of them to start, and they fell into a normal family meal. Their mother checked that all the chores had been completed and gave instruction for what had to get done the next day. Finlay, Kean and Eireen talked about taking a trip into town on the weekend to see what everyone’s harvest had been like. Meanwhile, Aengus and Kort sat there, silently eating their meal, absorbing the atmosphere around them.
After washing the dishes with his sister, Kort retired to his room to finish his packing. It would take him four long days on foot to reach Kendra, the capital city, and another few hours to climb his way up to where Haven was nestled in a spur of mountains. He’d never made the trip before, and was apprehensive about doing it alone, but his family couldn’t afford to be away from the farm to come with him. His father’s instructions had been clear enough. Head into the town of Blaine and follow the East Road, which ran along the banks of the Skyrah River, towards Kendra. He’d hit a fork in the road a few miles this side of Kendra, and he should take the one on his right, which led through the Kenelm Forest, up to the gates of Haven.
When his packing was finished, he crawled into bed, knowing that he had many lonely miles to travel over the next few days, and he wouldn’t be sleeping in a bed again until he reached Haven.
Chapter 3
“No. Again,” said her Mother.
Ravyn Thaliard sat on a hard wooden stool in front of a small desk. A small fire burned in the fireplace against the wall. The room was empty except for her; the desk; the sweltering heat, and her Mother, standing there with her arms crossed, a puckering scowl on her face. Straight-backed, she looked down at the book of poetry, Summer Abyss by Bayrd Teague, which she had been copying from.
“I don’t see—”
“Right there,” said her Mother, pointing where she had written the word birch on the page with a wooden ruler. “Your writing becomes sloppy when you rush. Write as fast as you can without making mistakes.”
“But anybody can clearly read that—”
Her Mother brought the wooden ruler down onto the desk with an echoing bang. “You are better than that. Never settle for anything less than your best.”
Shoving the stool backwards, Ravyn stormed over to the window. She had a soft, round face, framed by thick black hair. Pale skin as if perpetually bathed in moonlight. Truth be told, she had spent more time in the moonlight than in the sun. She walked straight backed with her chin tilted to the sky. Her fingers were like spider silk, thin and delicate, yet unnaturally strong.
“Ravyn Thaliard, you will return to your desk,” said her Mother, not moving from her spot beside the desk.
“Yes, Mother,” said Ravyn meekly. With a deep breath, she returned to the desk, straight backed with a pen in her hand, and looked up at her Mother.
“Good. Now start again from the top of the page.”
Ravyn obediently began to transcribe
the passage from the book a second time, careful to form each letter perfectly. “I already know how to write. Why do I need to take the class when most of the people in it are illiterate?”
“You will take the same classes as everybody else and you will do better than all of them. You will make me proud, correct?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ravyn, a single tear fell onto the page in front of her.
“Now look at what you’ve done!” yelled her Mother, seizing the stack of paper which Ravyn had spent the morning writing, she flew across the room. Crumpling up the pages, she tossed them, one at a time, into the fire. “Are you trying to make your father and I look bad? Who would want to hire us as scribes when they see how useless our daughter is?”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I will make you proud. I promise.” A steady stream of tears were now running down her face.
“You had better make me proud. I’ll be checking with your teachers, so you had better finish your homework every night. I will know if you do poorly on an assignment or turn one in late, so you had better not be wasting time with the other students.”
“I will.”
Leaving the fireside, her Mother advanced towards her and loomed over top of the desk. “Then prove it. If you are incapable of copying a simple paragraph in the comfort of your own home, then why should I believe that you can do better once you start class at Haven?”
Ravyn took several minutes to calm herself. Drying her tears on the sleeve of her dress, she picked up a fresh piece of paper and started transcribing the poem. Her Mother stood motionless by her shoulder, staring down at her writing. Finishing the poem, Ravyn handed the page to her Mother who caressed it with her eyes before setting it down on the desk.
“There may be hope for you yet,” said her Mother. “Now, I expect you to talk to the Headmaster when you get there. Find out about every field of study and have him help setup meetings with the heads of each department. You must write to me, telling everything that you learned so I can help you select a program. It’ll take some time, but I’ll have a study schedule ready for when you come home next summer.”
Mercury Mind (The Downfall Saga Book 1) Page 3