by Jason Denzel
The High Mystic kept her eyes forward, never looking directly at Pomella or the other candidates. The ground rose as she approached, reacting to her presence, forming a gentle hill. She faced the candidates at last, and an ornate throne of grass, soil, and flowers blossomed beneath her. Without looking at it, she sat and crossed one leg over the other, her arms easing onto the soft armrests.
Excitement rippled through Pomella. Mistress Yarina was radiant beyond words. A subtle pattern of lotus flowers decorated her blue-and-cream-colored robes, which moved as smoothly as a flower in the the wind. Wide, voluminous sleeves cascaded down her arms. Her blue eyes scanned the candidates, and Pomella felt the power in them as they drifted across her. She noticed the High Mystic’s skin, which was a creamy brown, and not more than a few shades darker than her own.
Quentin fell to a knee, followed by Saijar. Vivianna curtsied, and Pomella copied her, keeping her eyes low.
Oxillian lumbered over to stand between Yarina and the candidates, but did not block her view of them. “Candidates!” he boomed. “Rise. You stand in the presence of the High Mystic of Moth.”
They stood, and Pomella felt a lump rise in her throat. Here was a truly powerful and beautiful woman, beyond any of the nobles Pomella had ever seen.
“Welcome to Kelt Apar,” the High Mystic said, and her voice filled the clearing like chimes on a crisp day. “I thank you for coming, and commend you for taking the long journey. After carefully considering applications from noble families as far away as the East Continent, I have selected you four to attend these Trials. This is an old tradition, dating back to the earliest High Mystics of Moth. I hope you understand the honor it is to be here. You stand on hallowed ground in the heart of the Mystwood, where the Myst flows free and deep.”
“Step forth, one by one, and declare your intent!” Oxillian called.
Pomella’s heart skipped. She didn’t know the formalities. Were there certain words she was expected to say?
Quentin leaped forward and knelt, his right knee pressing into the ground. “Mistress Yarina, thank you for receiving me. I am Quentin Bartone, of your homeland of Keffra. I seek to become your apprentice.”
Pomella’s eyes widened. The High Mystic was also from Keffra! That was certainly a clip in Quentin’s favor.
Yarina nodded to him. “The Bartone family has produced some of history’s finest Mystics. I am delighted to see you here.”
Quentin returned to his place in line. Vivianna stepped forth next, and curtsied. Pomella noticed the blue and cream shades of her dress perfectly matched Yarina’s. Had Vivianna known what Yarina would wear? If so, how? Pomella suddenly felt even more disadvantaged than before.
“Mistress Yarina, your grace and power inspire me. I am Vivianna Vinnay, and I seek to become your apprentice.”
“Welcome, Lady Vinnay,” Yarina said. “Your family spoke very highly of your affinity for the Myst when they wrote me. I look forward to seeing you demonstrate it.”
Sweat formed along Pomella’s hairline. Vivianna slipped back to her place in line. Saijar strode forward with his instrument and bowed. “High Mystic Yarina,” he said, puffing his chest out. “I am Saijar Hanjalus of the Baronies of Rardaria. I have come to your dwelling per the old agreement made by my ancestors to learn the ways of the Myst. I wish to become your apprentice, the sun and Myst willing.”
He readied his instrument by removing the blanket and lifting it to his collarbone, then pulled a long wooden bow across the strings. A violin, Pomella recognized. She’d never seen one before, but was familiar with how they were supposedly played.
Saijar closed his eyes and deftly slid the rod across the strings, slowly at first and then with increased energy. The music added a pleasant warmth to the chill morning. Pomella found herself enjoying the tune. Just as her mind drifted and she began to wonder what lyrics she could sing to such a song, a thin weave of silver light formed above the violin, shaping itself into a vague bird shape. Saijar peeked his eye open and increased the pace of the song. He nudged the bird forward as he played, prompting it to flutter toward the High Mystic. Pomella’s eyes popped. He’d just created something with the Myst! She felt her inadequacy double.
The bird drifted toward Yarina, but Oxillian reached out a hand and gently snuffed it out. Saijar ended his song and bowed again, violin and bow spread wide.
“I acknowledge your fulfillment of the old agreements and welcome you,” Yarina said, nodding him back into line.
The absence of Saijar’s music emphasized the silence across the lawn. Pomella squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to the Saints for bravery.
She stepped forward, stumbling into a curtsy. “I-I am Pomella AnDone,” she said, her voice quavering. “And I—I am overwhelmed.” She bit her lip, silently chastising herself for saying something so stupid. She rushed on, hoping to just finish it. “I would like to become your apprentice, should you find me worthy.” She peeked up, and saw Yarina’s blue eyes pound through her.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation on such short notice,” Yarina said. “I am pleased to host a common candidate for the first time in our recorded history. The garden outside your home is spoken fondly of in several villages here on Moth.”
The blood drained from Pomella’s face. She couldn’t help but look back at Quentin, whose eyes widened with surprise. Vivianna’s jaw dropped. One of Saijar’s fists clenched. Pomella swallowed her fear and stepped back into line. The urge to lower her head swept over her. She imagined each of them, especially Quentin, glaring at her. She’d lied to them. She knew it, no matter how much she rationalized to herself that she just had let them convince themselves of something they assumed. Here on this early morning, Mistress Yarina had revealed the truth Pomella had feared to say aloud. Perhaps that was a lesson in itself. She glanced up to meet Yarina’s gaze. The High Mystic watched her carefully. Pomella hardened her expression. She would never deceive anyone again, especially in this woman’s domain. Flexing her fingers, Pomella held her chin high. Let them look at her. She was here on fair terms.
Still, it was hard not to feel inadequate when all she had to compare to Quentin’s legendary family legacy was an overgrown garden back home.
The Green Man squared his bulk to the candidates. “You have each declared your intent to become Mistress Yarina’s apprentice. Your applications are accepted. By tradition, because there is more than one candidate, the High Mystic offers you an opportunity to prove your worth by competing in three Trials. Based on the outcome of those tasks, she will select one of you to become her apprentice, and give you your Mystic name. Her decision shall be final and exempt from appeal.”
Pomella risked a quick glance at the other candidates. They all faced Yarina, backs straight. She noticed a tightening around Quentin’s jaw. She hoped to Brigid he would listen to her explain the situation. She began to think of what she would say.
“Beginning immediately,” the Green Man continued, “during the days in which you are involved with the Trials, you are to remain within the boundaries of Kelt Apar unless given permission to leave. You will live within the dwellings provided, and keep no outside assistants, advisors, or guardians. You are to complete these Trials alone, with the exception that you may help one another if you choose. You are cautioned to remember, however, that the High Mystic will only select one of you. Failure to abide by these terms will result in your dismissal. Do you all understand and agree to this?”
Pomella managed to reply “yes” along with the others. Oxillian looked to Yarina for confirmation, and she nodded, still quietly scanning each candidate. The Green Man turned back to them. “It is agreed. Your first Trial begins now.”
He stepped back and Yarina raised her voice. “Since our arrival at Moth, in a time forgotten by most people, we Mystics have tended the Mystwood and its inhabitants. The threats challenging us over the centuries have been great and varied. Now we are faced with a new one.”
Pomella shifted uncomfortably.
“There is poison in the Mystwood,” Yarina continued, “and it clouds our perception of activity. Three days ago, one of the rangers found a black bear near the northern border. The poor creature had succumbed to severe iron poisoning. Yesterday, an entire family of deer were found. I examined the bodies and determined that they died the same way. Trees and other plant life, too, have drunk tainted water and rotted. But most disturbing of all is that this poison is somehow affecting the fay as well. It corrupts them, drawing them into this world, and drives them mad.”
Pomella wondered what the fay were. She glanced at the other candidates to see if they looked as confused as she felt.
“I possess the means to treat all of these animals with a salve,” Yarina said. “But my supplies have dwindled, and the key component is only found by those who possess the skills of Mystics.”
A patch of ground near Pomella’s feet churned. Startled, she took half a step back. A pillar of soil rose from the grass, twisting around itself, clutching a shimmering object at its peak. Similar pillars appeared in front of the other candidates.
“Fay blood,” said the High Mystic. “Go into the Mystwood, no more than an hour’s walk from the tower, and find one of the fay. Do not harm it, but demonstrate your affinity for the Myst to convince it to offer a few drops of its blood into these glass vials.”
Praying her hand wouldn’t shake, Pomella reached out and accepted the vial. As she took it, the pillar of soil rolled back into the ground, leaving no evidence of its existence.
Yarina went on. “Here on this island, more so than anywhere else in the world, the veil between worlds is thin. Legend has it that first humans noticed this phenomenon when they saw a silvery moth fluttering in on the shores near where they had arrived. The moth led them to the heart of the Mystwood, where it alighted upon a stone that eventually became the foundation of our tower.”
Realization of what the fay were swept over Pomella. The translucent animals she sometimes saw in the forest. The strange wolves she and Sim had encountered. So they had a name, besides just “silver animals.” Pomella gazed once more at the central tower, and found herself wondering what it would’ve been like to be the first person to arrive here, from a distant land, following a misty moth.
“Go now,” said Yarina. “Know that the Myst is unveiled by each one of us through our natural talents. Let it shine forth, and it will lead you. Return before sunset to complete this first Trial.”
Yarina stood and glided down the hill back toward the stone tower. Pomella and the others bowed or curtsied as she passed. The hill rumbled and sank back into the ground. They watched her re-enter the tower, and the green door closed behind her.
Oxillian spoke one last time. “Be careful in the forest. The Myst stirs of late.” With that, the ground rumbled and he slid back into it, leaving Pomella alone with the other candidates.
Off in the distance, the brown dog barked.
Vivianna rounded on Pomella. “You’re a commoner?”
“I should have known the moment I saw you,” Saijar sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “How dare you?”
“Mistress Yarina invited me,” Pomella said, sounding more confident than she felt.
“So you just accepted knowing it spit in the face of a thousand years of tradition?” Vivianna said, crossing her arms.
“Disgusting,” said Saijar. “Not to mention that Yarina will make everything easier for you. It’s an unfair advantage and I shall inform my father regardless of who is chosen.”
“You think I have an advantage?” Pomella blurted.
“Let’s just go find the blood,” Saijar said, and pulled Vivianna’s arm away.
Vivianna paused beside Pomella. “You lied to me. I thought—” She caught herself and adjusted a loose strand of hair, then followed Saijar.
Pomella watched them go, fuming. She looked at Quentin, daring him with a hard expression to say something negative about her caste. But for all her outward determination, she prayed to the Saints he wouldn’t reject her. Without him, she would be utterly alone. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how terrifying the idea was. Even when she’d set out from Oakspring, a part of her had been worried about taking the path by herself. It’s why in her heart she’d wanted Sim there, and why Vlenar had been such a welcome companion, despite his silence. Now, faced with the first Trial, she needed someone. Not because she couldn’t succeed by herself, but because the thought of being in this alone made her sick.
The cool morning breeze swept her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear. Quentin met her gaze, then sighed. “I don’t see anything common about you.”
Relief washed over her like rain. “Thank you.” It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him.
He stepped toward her. “But you didn’t have to lie to me.”
“I know, and I’m truly sorry. It’s just that you’re—”
“I understand,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re in a difficult position. Just promise me you won’t do it again.”
“I promise.”
“Besides,” he added with a smile, “I sort of suspected.”
Pomella’s stomach turned over. “You did? How? Was it because I was so nervous?”
He shrugged. “No, it wasn’t that. All of us are nervous. I saw Vivianna dry heaving this morning before she came out.”
Pomella had felt like vomiting herself this morning. She couldn’t imagine Vivianna being that scared.
“It wasn’t even your clothes. It was how you wore them, and how you cast your eyes downward whenever one of us spoke to you for the first time. I’m surprised the others didn’t suspect, although now I’m sure they’ll say they did.”
“I don’t feel like I should be here,” Pomella said. She forced herself to not look away or lower her eyes. “Not just because of my caste, but because you’re all so talented. That bird Saijar created … what was that? How did he do it? Can you do things like that?”
“People like Saijar have been trained in apprentice-level Mysticism since they were young. Some noble families even employ Mystics to train them in hopes that a High Mystic will one day seek an apprentice.”
“Were you trained?” Pomella asked.
Quentin shrugged. “A little, but it’s been a while since I had an actual Mystic for a teacher. But don’t worry; I don’t think Mistress Yarina expects any of us to actually be able to use the Myst.”
“I hope not. If she does, then I definitely have no chance.”
“Well, right now we just need to find a special, mystical animal or whatever and convince it to give us some blood. That might be a bit awkward,” he said with a wry smile.
“We?”
Quentin smiled. “Of course. Oxillian said we could work together. Do you not want to?”
“No, no!” Pomella said. “I’d love to work with you. I just thought … I mean, we’re sort of competing against each other now.”
Despite his words, Pomella still feared that Quentin wouldn’t want to be near her. Standing in Vivianna’s dress made her feel like an impostor.
“Yes, we’re competing, but there will be plenty of time to distinguish ourselves. For now, I’d like to enjoy your company.”
She smiled at him. “So where do we find a silvery, uh, fay creature?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Pick a direction.” He swept his arm wide, indicating the towering trees lining the grounds.
She laughed and covered her eyes, spinning and pointing at random.
“Northeast it is!” Quentin said, and strode in that direction.
Stilling her nerves, Pomella followed.
EIGHT
THE GARDEN
Pomella shivered as she stepped out of the early-morning sunlight into the shaded cover of the Mystwood. Tendrils of mist drifted around her, their movements disturbed only by her breath.
“Where do you think we should go now?” she asked.
Quentin scratched his jaw. Pomella couldn’t help but a
dmire his strong features. Back home, there were some attractive boys her age, Sim included, and a few older than her who were spoken for. In Oakspring, no one made it far into adulthood before marrying. She’d seen ruggedly handsome men pass through with the spring merchants, and even a dashing young nobleman in a carriage once. But all of them paled in comparison to Quentin’s broad shoulders and smile.
“You’re from this island,” Quentin said. Pomella realized she was staring and snapped her attention away from him. “Do you know where we can find some of the fay?”
Pomella shook her head. She thought of the wolves she and Sim had encountered, and hoped she wouldn’t run into another pack like that. “I’ve never been this far into the Mystwood. The few times I’ve seen them, they didn’t exactly come when I called.”
“Then along the river is as good a direction as any other.”
They pressed into the forest, drifting toward the sound of the river. Birdsong and leaf fall filled the otherwise silent woods. Squirrels and other critters scampered about in the branches above.
“How exactly did Saijar make that bird appear in the air?” Pomella asked.
“He Unveiled the Myst,” Quentin said.
“Unveiled?”
“It’s a term Mystics use to mean creating phenomena with the Myst. Mistress Yarina used the term this morning. Like I said, Saijar’s been trained, so he probably worked on that little illusion for a long time in preparation for today. I doubt he knows much else.”
“But how did he make it?” Pomella asked, thinking of the wind flower Lady Elona had conjured at the Springrise festival.
Quentin shrugged. “Everyone is different. It has something to do with expressing yourself through an action. I was never good at it in my lessons. Some people play music, like Saijar did. Some people paint. Some people chant. You start off doing what feels natural to you and over time that becomes your way of Unveiling. From there, Mystics learn to internalize it until they can Unveil without needing to do those things externally.”