Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  Besides Papa, I know of no braver man than you. Please, my Beloved, fulfill this task and put this nonsense of a commoner Mystic behind us. Once that is settled, all will be right in our world and I will be yours.

  Be careful of the man who calls himself Ohzem. I do not like him and fear his intentions differ from ours. Do not cross him. Keep this promise for me?

  If you can, please ensure my brother is not harmed. Saijar fancies himself to be iron, but even with his training, I doubt his blood is as cold as he believes it to be. My parents put such pressure upon him to succeed. Indeed they do for all of us. “A house without Mystics is not noble” is the saying.

  With the Wind

  Across the Sky

  Beyond the Moon

  Until I die,

  Charliss

  “Did you find something, boy?” came a cold voice from behind Sim.

  He jumped and spun. Ohzem stood there, watching him without emotion, seemingly undisturbed by even the faintest breeze.

  “Mystic Ohzem,” Sim managed, bowing low. “I-I was trying to unpack the tent. I didn’t know what it was until—”

  Ohzem silenced him by holding out his gnarled hand. Sim placed the paper in it, carefully avoiding contact.

  Sim shifted his feet as Ohzem read the letter. Despite the Mystic’s presence, Sim’s gut twisted over worry for Pomella. The letter proved … what? That Zicon and the Black Claws were here to hurt her? Or that they were here to ensure she didn’t become the apprentice? How could they have known at all about her coming? Pomella herself received the invitation just a few days past. This letter had to have been written weeks ago.

  Ohzem rolled the paper around in his fingers. “Zicon is just another animal,” he said. “Driven by base desires. Tell me, boy, do you love that commoner girl?” He tapped the paper with a pointed fingernail.

  Sim swallowed. “I-I don’t know.”

  Ohzem made a strange choking noise. It took a moment for Sim to realize that the Mystic was laughing.

  “You’re a young fool. Of course you love her.” He stepped closer, and Sim found he couldn’t pull his gaze from the man’s ruined face. The bars of iron ripped through his skin, their edges bleeding and infected. “Is she pretty? Does her scent still linger? Do you see her at night, while you lone in darkness, with her hair loose and back arched as she—”

  “No,” Sim fired back. “I don’t. Not like that.”

  Ohzem’s eyes grew distant, as if he were looking back in memory. “You’ll need to learn to stop lying to yourself, boy. And after you do, you’ll need to let her go.” He returned to the present and glared at Sim. “Otherwise, you’re as doomed as Zicon.”

  He held up the note, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A thin line of orange heat spread from his fingers and burned a charred circle into the parchment before fading.

  Ohzem handed Sim the letter. “Put this back and tell nobody what you found. If you do anything to sabotage our work here, I will kill your friend slowly.”

  Sim took the letter back. Where Ohzem’s name had been written, there was now only a small burned hole. He looked at the Mystic, who turned and walked away.

  Sim slipped the letter back into the wooden case and placed it back in the wagon. He forced himself to steady his hands before unpacking the tent. There had been a moment as Ohzem spoke when Sim had realized that the Mystic wasn’t speaking about his or Zicon’s romantic interests. Ohzem had been speaking of his own. The thought of the iron Mystic being driven by those emotions made him seem even more dangerous.

  He needed to help Pomella, but how? Time was running out. He needed to act.

  Tonight.

  ELEVEN

  THE HIGH MYSTIC

  Pomella hummed to herself as she left her cottage, carrying a folded bundle. Patchy sunshine greeted her with light slanting through storm clouds that had abated somewhat from the past few days.

  Her Common Cord circled her wrist. After the events of yesterday afternoon by the pond, it felt good to wear the little bracelet woven by the women back home.

  She’d taken no more than five or six steps when her hummingbirds flew overhead and spun around her, trailing silvery mist. She shooed them away. “Go on; you can buzz about me later. I don’t think she’ll appreciate you being around.”

  The smaller of the two, whom Pomella had named Ena, zipped toward her face, wings stuttering in irritation, then zoomed off toward the moat of flowers surrounding the central tower. Her brother, Hector, followed.

  Pomella shook her head. She still didn’t understand how she was able to feel their emotions and communicate with them. It was strange how she hadn’t really done anything to tame the silver birds. Nothing about her had changed, and she certainly didn’t feel like a Mystic. And yet the little birds followed her everywhere, and she could somehow sense their emotions. It was as if each were a little fire—sometimes hot, sometimes blazing—whose emotional temperature she could discern by putting her hands up and measuring what they radiated.

  She skipped up the steps to Vivianna’s cottage and knocked. Still humming, she rocked back and forth from her heels to her toes.

  The door opened and Vivianna glared out. Her tangled hair fell across her makeup-less face. She rubbed her eyes. “What do you want? You aren’t coming to sing another song, are you?”

  Pomella pinched her lips shut and stopped humming. Without thinking, she dropped a hurried curtsy. Vivianna’s face hardened, and Pomella realized the other woman probably thought she was mocking her.

  “I’m returning your dress,” Pomella said, holding the folded garment out to her. She expected Vivianna to snatch the dress away and slam the door.

  But the noblewoman didn’t do that. She pursed her lips and studied Pomella. Vivianna’s eyes flicked in the direction of the hummingbirds, and for a moment Pomella thought she saw a touch of jealous interest.

  “I’m sorry it became muddy,” Pomella added, trying to break the awkward silence. “I washed it for you and let it dry overnight.”

  Finally, Vivianna reached out and took the dress. “Let me tell you something. I may have been able to get past you being a commoner. But you lied to me. Being noble isn’t just about your family heritage; it’s also about acting the part. You may have impressed the High Mystic, and who knows, maybe she’ll choose you. But nothing you’ve done so far has been noble. You can learn to use the Myst all you want, but the people will always see you for what you are. A fraud.”

  Pomella stared at her, eyes wide. Her hands began to shake, but she forced them steady.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow for the next Trial,” Vivianna said, and closed the door.

  Pomella stood there, picking her fingernail, her confidence draining like a bucket full of holes, leaving her empty and cold.

  She left the cottage, forcing herself to relax. Why did Vivianna bother her so much? She should just ignore the noblewoman and her jealous, spiteful words. But as much as Pomella might try to convince herself otherwise, she knew a part of what Vivianna said was true. She hadn’t been honest.

  Just as Pomella began to eye the nearby cottages in the hope of finding Quentin, she heard his voice coming from within the nearest one. “… Don’t be absurd.”

  “I can’t believe you’re helping her!” said another voice.

  Pomella’s eyes narrowed. Saijar.

  Glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, Pomella hurried toward the cabin and tiptoed through its garden. She crouched beneath the window, and listened.

  “Yarina invited her,” Quentin said in his nonchalant voice. “I know it’s unusual, but—”

  “It’s not unusual; it’s disgusting!” Saijar snapped. “Commoners exist to support the nobility. It’s for their own good.”

  “Perhaps,” Quentin mused. “But she is talented.”

  “Yeah. And what happens when that talent wins her the apprenticeship?”

  “Then I guess the rest of us go home,” said Quentin. Pomella could practically hear the
shrug in his voice.

  “Maybe you can,” Saijar said, “but I cannot. If I’m not selected as the apprentice—” His voice cracked. There was a pause, followed by a heavy thump, like a table being kicked. “Not all of us can coast through these Trials like you. Some of us actually want to win. If that commoner had any decency, she’d remove herself from the competition. The Myst is only for those of noble blood.”

  A chair inside the cabin scraped against the floor as it was pushed back. “I have no doubt you’ll do anything to win,” Quentin said.

  Pomella slipped away from the window and hurried toward her own. She hoped the noblemen hadn’t noticed her snooping. She could tell Quentin later that she overheard him, but she didn’t want him to—

  The ground rumbled. Pomella jumped back as patches of dirt tore out of the ground and formed into the Green Man.

  “Sweet Brigid, Ox! I’ll never get used to that!”

  The Green Man smiled, the grass and dirt bending to show his amusement. “I’m sorry. I am told I take time to get used to, like all things. Here. An apology.”

  He opened his massive palm to reveal a golden lotus flower, just like the ones that had bloomed the night before. “Its root became severed and I thought you might like to wear it while it lasts.”

  Pomella reached for it. “Thank you.”

  “Allow me.” He tucked it into her hair with surprising gentleness. Bits of dirt trickled from his fingertips.

  Pomella touched the flower and brushed the soil away. “It’s lovely.”

  Oxillian straightened, still smiling. “Mistress Yarina summons you to the tower.”

  Pomella gaped. “Now? What for? I’m only wearing work clothes.” Not that she had anything else to wear after returning the dress to Vivianna.

  “Your attire is not important,” the Green Man said. “The High Mystic understands this is short notice. Please come with me. We should not keep her waiting.”

  He turned and strode toward the stone tower. Pomella steadied her nerves by smoothing the long skirt of her work dress. She followed Oxillian but glanced toward Quentin’s cottage. She smiled a little remembering her clumsy attempts to hide her nervousness after last night’s Trial. She’d been hoping to go see him after returning Vivianna’s dress, but that would apparently have to wait.

  The Green Man led her down a thin dirt path. Two goats grazed, chewing without care. When she crossed the little wooden bridge, she heard a bark. The brown dog she’d seen yesterday ran up to her, his tongue hanging out of his grinning face. Remembering how poorly Saijar treated the dog, she reached to pat his head, but he hopped up to lick her face.

  “Down!” She laughed.

  “Broon!” called a voice.

  The dog raced away. Pomella looked up to see the gardener standing near the base of the tower. His elderly face stood out beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. He clutched several weeds in his gloved hands, and stretched his back. When he saw Pomella looking his way, his wrinkled brown face broke into a smile revealing several missing teeth. Pomella turned away, shivering. Vivianna had probably been right about him being Unclaimed. She prayed to the Saints she’d never become one of them.

  Oxillian stood beside the wooden door to the stone tower. “Mistress Yarina will meet you in the foyer. Please go inside to await her.”

  Pomella curtsied as he merged into the ground, hardly disturbing a single flower. She took a deep breath and opened the tower door.

  It swung easily on stone hinges. Warm air gusted around her as if the tower had sighed. She crossed the threshold, and her skin pebbled. An overwhelming sense of familiarity arose within her, giving her that distinct feeling that she’d been here before, crossed this same threshold, worn this same dress, and appeared just as nervous.

  She stepped in all the way, and the door shut behind her.

  The foyer was little more than a rounded room with a great spiral staircase ascending the far wall. Small, rectangular windows lined the stairwell at uneven intervals. It surprised Pomella how small the tower seemed from within. She’d never seen a structure this big before, but once she was inside, it was more … humble.

  “H-hello?” Pomella ventured, pinching her fingers. “Mistress Yarina?”

  No answer came, so she took another echoing step. Looking up, she caught her breath as a rainfall of glowing lights circled above her. They drifted like lantern bugs, casting a soft light around the foyer. She gaped at them. This was real, tangible evidence of the Myst. Why were these not present in every home across Moth? Why didn’t every Goodness and her husband have lights like this so that they didn’t need to buy lantern oil? Could she learn to conjure such a thing?

  “Ah, Pomella,” said a warm voice. Again, that sense of repeated action surged through her. So powerful was the feeling that Pomella wondered if her next words were preordained.

  “Um, t-that’s me. Yes?”

  The High Mystic glided down the staircase, flanked by Vlenar, the laghart ranger. Pomella cringed. If she was repeating this experience, she hoped that wasn’t how she’d always responded! She curtsied deeply. “I mean, yes, Mistress, I am here. How may I serve?”

  High Mystic Yarina stepped off the stairs and nodded a dismissal to the ranger. “Keep looking, Vlenar. You’ll find her.”

  Vlenar barely spared Pomella a glance before slipping out the door. Yarina stepped up to Pomella and took her hands. Maybe it was her nerves, but Pomella had to force herself to not pull away. Yarina’s smooth hands were chilly and colored several shades darker than Pomella’s own. Her hair hung long and loose, unlike yesterday when it had been woven up. She wore a simple light-blue robe belted with a gold sash. Pomella noted that even when dressed casually, the High Mystic was radiant. Up close, she really did seem young. Young for an old person, anyway. Pomella estimated she was about forty.

  “You have the look of your grandmhathir,” Yarina said. “She shines through you.”

  A sudden lump welled up in Pomella’s throat. “You knew her?”

  “Lorraina Savarti was a true friend. Come,” Yarina said, releasing Pomella’s hands. “Let’s speak in the library.” She led her up the staircase.

  Stifling a thrill of excitement, Pomella followed, paying careful mind not to slip on the steep steps. They passed two landings, neither of which Pomella had time to examine. She looked at them as she and Yarina ascended the stairs, longing to explore their secrets. Finally, they came to a third landing. Yarina said, “Here,” and exited the staircase.

  The pungent scent of incense drifted around Pomella as she stepped into a dazzling library. Rough wooden shelves, loaded with more books than she’d ever seen, reached from floor to ceiling and circled the room, breaking only where a small window or a framed painting hung. Like in the foyer, drifting lights lit the room, but these cast a warmer glow that reminded Pomella of candles. Flat, rounded cushions lay scattered across the carpeted floor. A vase of marigolds sat atop a wooden table beside some cups and a pitcher.

  Pomella studied the nearest framed portrait, a painting depicting a handsome woman with long, blond hair. She leaned in close, admiring the fine strokes of paint that created the wreath of wildflowers encircling the woman’s head, and the pink touches that formed her faint smile.

  “Saint Serrabeth,” Yarina said, opening a small tea box. “She was the High Mystic of Moth three masters before mine.”

  “She was beautiful,” Pomella said.

  “She’s even more so now,” said Yarina. “Like most of our predecessors, she’s awakened to the realization that she is inseparable from the Myst. She’s everywhere now. Is everything.”

  Pomella didn’t understand, but nodded anyway. She walked through the room, shifting her gaze to the other portraits. “Do all the High Mystics do that? ‘Realize’ themselves, I mean?” Too late, she wondered if what she’d said was inappropriate.

  Yarina either didn’t mind the comment or decided to let it pass. She poured steaming water into two teacups and joined Pomella in front of a p
ainting with a sharp, clean frame. “It’s hard to say,” the High Mystic said. “I like to believe they do. I certainly feel their active presence. People and their deeds are bound to certain places and times, and here in Kelt Apar, within the Mystwood, I especially feel the light of the past masters guiding me in all my actions.”

  She handed Pomella one of the cups.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Pomella said. She tested the unfamiliar brew and gazed at the portrait in front of her. This one showed a man with a long, braided gray beard. His hair was tied into a long tail. Like so many other things in the tower, Pomella found him to be familiar somehow. “Who is this one?”

  “That is Grandmaster Faywong,” said Yarina. “My teacher.” She lifted her teacup in a gentle salute to the painting. Not sure of the etiquette, Pomella mimicked the gesture.

  “He retired, as you know, just recently.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Pomella said. A sudden question rose in her mind. She bit her lip but rushed ahead before she could stop herself. “Was it difficult for you, Mistress? To inherit his duties? Were you ready?”

  Yarina shifted toward another painting that rested on a bookshelf, propped up from behind by some old tomes. The painting was rendered in a strange style, with long lines of various thicknesses used to represent trees. But the lower portions of the trees faded out, as if the brush had run out of paint. The effect, it seemed to Pomella, was that the collective forest was shrouded in a misty fog that lapped at the bases of the trees. A parade of figures emerged from that mix of fog and wood, silvery and bright, and at its head walked an old man with a tall staff in one hand and a flower in the other.

  Yarina stared at the painting for a long time before speaking. “Grandmaster Faywong painted this, during the time of his Anointment. He told me he did it because the effort kept him grounded. The experience that he had to go through—that indeed I went through during my own Anointment—takes a great toll. No matter how much you prepare for it, you are never ready.”