Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  The ranger grabbed Zicon’s forearm and twisted the sword out of his hand. He punched up hard against Zicon’s elbow, cracking it loudly in a direction it wasn’t meant to go. Vlenar spun, sweeping Zicon’s legs out with his tail. He flipped Zicon’s sword into his hand with the tip of his boot and drove it through Zicon’s thigh, pinning him to the ground.

  Zicon screamed. Vlenar turned to Hormin, who was still trying to fend off the hummingbirds. The bowman, his face covered with thin, bloody cuts, saw Vlenar standing over Zicon. Scrambling away, Hormin tore off running toward the edge of the forest, pursued by Hector and Ena.

  From the northern tree line a herd of silver animals stalked into the clearing. A dozen fay wolves, lions, and elk all made their way toward the central tower, trailing misty smoke. Walking among them was Vivianna, looking like a true Mystic, striding with her staff in hand. Pomella gaped. The noblewoman really was good with fay animals.

  Not wanting to linger, Pomella leaped from the stallion, her staff still in hand. She ran to Vlenar and would have hugged him, except he gave her a hard look that reminded her they were still in danger.

  That, and Vlenar didn’t seem like the hugging type.

  Hurrying toward the central tower, Pomella saw Quentin still kneeling, clutching his chest beside Saijar, who was blindfolded and bound. Ohzem loomed above Lal, the gentle morning wind rippling his rust-colored robes. The moat of flowers spread around them, fresh and beautiful where they hadn’t been trampled.

  “Come no closer, ranger,” Ohzem said.

  Vlenar sprinted forward, his back bent low, sword ready.

  The moment Vlenar crossed the threshold of flowers, Ohzem slammed his iron staff against the ground. Vlenar stumbled, but managed to catch himself. He lifted his foot for the next step, but it moved as if a heavy weight held it down.

  The laghart attempted another step, but could not lift his foot at all. Twisting at the waist, Vlenar thrashed silently.

  “Struggling speeds the petrification,” Ohzem said without concern. He turned his gaze to the fay animals swarming toward him. He sneered and spit a word in the harsh language that matched the echoing chant crashing against the tower. He snapped a clawlike hand outward, and spikes of iron shot from his fingertips. Iron pellet after iron pellet struck the fay animals, dropping them. They misted away in a cloud of silver smoke as they crashed and slid across the ground.

  Vivianna dove to the ground to avoid the iron.

  Ohzem shook his head. “Pathetic.”

  He turned to Pomella. “I should thank you, for it is because of you that I was given this opportunity.”

  Pomella inched her way toward the moat of flowers, eyeing its edge.

  Quentin struggled to rise. A trickle of blood leaked from his nose. “Run away, Pomella! He doesn’t care about you. He just wants Yarina. Please!”

  Pomella’s eyes narrowed. She had to keep them engaged so they didn’t hurt Lal any further. The old man lay on the ground, shivering. “Don’t pretend to care about me,” she said to Quentin. “I trusted you, like a blathering fool.”

  To her surprise, he sighed and looked at the ground. “You’re wrong. I do care for you. I know that must sound hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”

  Ohzem gave a rasping laugh. “You’re both fools. Your lust and petty affection will ruin you. They make you weak.”

  “Like they did for you, Jollin?” said a voice behind them.

  Pomella gasped. The High Mystic stood in the doorway of the tower, majestic in the morning light with her staff in hand and dark hair spilling down her back. Not a hint of anger or worry radiated from Yarina.

  A smile slowly spread across Ohzem’s face. He turned to her.

  “That name is long dead, Mystic,” Ohzem said.

  Vlenar still struggled to move. His legs were locked solid in what appeared to be iron. The dull gray color rose up his leg, slowly transforming him into metal.

  Yarina walked slowly toward Ohzem. “Only in your mind, Jollin. The withered man that stands before me now is the same angry boy that once professed his love to me when we were young. I should not be surprised that you chose to exact your revenge upon me using apprentice candidates, just as we were all those years ago.”

  Ohzem clutched his iron staff harder. “That boy is dead. I care nothing for you! I will depose you and take this tower for my own. It was I who deserved to become Master Faywong’s apprentice, not you!”

  “Of course you still care for me, Jollin AnFollus,” Yarina said, drifting on slippered feet toward them.

  Pomella looked at the line of flowers in front of her. Her heart pounded as she debated crossing them. Blessed Saints give her strength! She prayed the strange petrification wouldn’t grip her like it had Vlenar. Taking a breath, she stepped across the threshold and waited. A heartbeat passed, but nothing changed. She exhaled and crept toward Ohzem.

  “By raging against me,” Yarina continued, “you reveal your hatred. That hate stems from the same fear and bitterness you had when we were young and you realized my life was dedicated only to the Myst. To one who looks closely enough, your emotions today are grown from that same seed. You obsessed for me to the point that it consumed you and carved a hole in your heart that you then filled with poisonous bitterness and iron.”

  Pomella was almost within arm’s reach of Ohzem. A plan formed in her mind, though she had no idea if it would work.

  Ohzem heaved angrily, now squeezing his staff with a white-knuckled grip. “Then I will purge you from my mind, just as I have everything else that holds me back.”

  Screaming, he lifted his staff and swung at her. Yarina closed her eyes and waited for the strike.

  Without thinking, Pomella swung her own staff and caught his mid-swing. The collision sent a shock through her, rattling her bones. She held on tight with all her strength.

  Ohzem turned his terrible face toward her. “Pathetic commoner!”

  Quentin surged to his feet and kicked the back of Yarina’s knee, knocking her to the ground. She cried out as he stood behind her and yanked her hair back. A dagger flashed into his hand and he held it against her throat.

  But Pomella could spare no attention for the High Mystic. Ohzem twisted and struck his heavy staff hard against hers. She adjusted her grip and pushed back.

  “Pomella!” Yarina cried, sounding concerned for the first time.

  Ohzem loomed over Pomella, somehow finding considerable leverage against her despite his frail frame. “Your dedication to your master is admirable. Perhaps I should raise you up as my own apprentice. The fools who hired me in Rardaria made me agree to take their precious son as my apprentice when I conquered the tower. But you have proven to be made of stronger stock.” He pushed his staff against hers even harder. “Perhaps you are iron to their oak.”

  Pomella struggled against his towering strength. Terror surged through her. She couldn’t overcome him. Not alone. She remembered the wound on her ribs, and the blood that could empower her. Perhaps, if she could manage to reopen it, or wipe the blood against the metal in Ohzem’s flesh …

  No.

  She couldn’t. Ox had said it was dangerous to use blood like that. She wouldn’t harm herself to empower the Myst. Ohzem bore down on her, and she saw the wretch he’d become. She would not become that, ever.

  Ohzem screamed and slammed her against the ground, driving the wind from her lungs.

  The Mystic straddled her belly and leaned over her, shoving their locked staffs into her chest. His staff glowed red and smoked against hers. The red flared to white, heat radiating against her skin.

  “You were doomed to fail because you are driven by emotion. Those feelings are weak.” The white-hot staff touched her neck and she screamed as searing heat burned through her flesh.

  “A true Mystic knows that life is temporary and filled with nothing but suffering.” His eyes danced wildly. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged. Pomella thrashed, all rational thought leaving her. “Life is a prelude to death
. The only honest emotion is pain!”

  The last word tore away the last of Pomella’s rational mind. Strangely, she no longer felt her skin burning. She no longer felt his weight upon her. She felt only the calm embrace of silence, as if she floated in a space beyond her body and emotions. It was like she sat beside a quiet stream, alone, in another time, in another life perhaps. A life where she’d been crying beside the Creekwaters for her lost family. Crying for Sim. For herself. Now here she was again, but this time she understood that the fear she felt was temporary. She sensed a power welling inside her that was stronger than any torture upon her body. It raged like a secret song, yearning to be sung.

  The fear drained from her. She focused her gaze upon the Mystic and managed to sneer. “I am beyond you.”

  She inhaled deeply and felt the power peak. She pulled it in from the air, from the ground beneath her back. In that place she’d come to, devoid of distractions and thought, she saw only the light of a power, the luminance of the Myst, and heard a song she’d never sung, but knew immediately. That song, like a chant, built inside her until she could no longer bear it.

  With a mighty exhale she sang out a word. A word she’d learned from an old gardener. A man who was Unclaimed yet stated she was worthy to sing it.

  “Huzz-oh!” she sang. “Huzz-oh!”

  A blinding light flared from her staff and burst across Ohzem, knocking him back. She scrambled to her feet. He snarled and swung his staff at her, but filled with confidence and the strength of the Myst, she blocked it and sang, “Huzz-oh!” at the moment their staves collided.

  Ohzem’s iron staff shattered like glass, its shards exploding outward. Several of them struck her and drew blood. She ignored it. Her body, hurt and scarred, was nothing. She was more than just dark skin and hair, bones and teeth. Labels and castes melted away. The real Pomella, she now knew, was a song, a Mystic song beyond words.

  Beyond limits.

  Ohzem reeled back, bloody gashes lashed across his face from the shards. One of his hands lacked all its fingers. He lunged toward her, ruined hands outstretched as if to strangle her.

  Pomella summoned the Myst from all around her. She could feel the power of this place, the island of Moth, the great forest, Kelt Apar, and the central tower. The Myst sang in her heart like a symphony of nature itself.

  With supreme calmness she sang another perfect note, “Huzz-oh!” and tapped her staff.

  She could not see, but rather felt, the Myst swirl around Ohzem, delving into the smallest pores on his body and feeding on the poison there. Mid-leap, his body disintegrated into a shower of blossoms, beginning from his chest and spreading outward. His final scream made no sound, or if it did, it was consumed by the all-encompassing might of the “huzz-oh.”

  His gnarled hand reached for her, but just as it touched her, his fingertips turned to flower petals and flew away, caught in the quiet wind.

  Metal clicked, and the other candidates’ manacles dropped to the ground. Pomella looked to Quentin, who stared wide-eyed, his dagger only halfheartedly held to Yarina’s neck. The High Mystic beamed at her, seemingly no longer aware of Quentin’s threat.

  “It’s over, Quentin,” Pomella said.

  Remembering himself, he resumed his tight grip on Yarina. “Don’t move or I’ll cut her throat!”

  “No, you won’t,” Pomella said. “You’re better than that. You’re more than what your family expects of you.”

  “Family is everything,” he said, his hand shaking.

  “I don’t think you believe that. You told me I was worthy of being here,” Pomella said. “If that’s true—and it is—then you are worthy of being more than what your family demands.”

  His face contorted as if to sob.

  “Put it down, Quentin. You’ll gain nothing from hurting anybody now. Please.”

  He dropped the dagger to the ground.

  Vivianna ran up to Saijar and unbound him. Saijar blinked to clear his vision and, seeing Quentin, ran over and kicked the dagger away. He pushed Quentin to the ground.

  Lal stirred, helped up by Vivianna.

  At that moment, the world seemed to rush back to Pomella. Searing pain raced through her body. Dropping her staff, she gasped and fell.

  Steady arms caught her before she hit the ground. “By all your Saints, I’m impressed,” Yarina whispered over her. “Sleep now, Pomella. All will be well.”

  “I used the Myst,” Pomella said through a haze of pain. “Why didn’t you call upon it to save yourself?”

  Yarina’s gentle smile was the last thing Pomella saw before sleep took her.

  “I did,” Yarina soothed, stroking Pomella’s hair. “I called to the Myst, and it sent us you.”

  EIGHTEEN

  THE APPRENTICE

  Pomella woke to the sound of swiftly buzzing wings. Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself lying in bed in her little cabin. A sharp pain burned across the base of her neck, making her groan.

  She sat up, realizing she was mostly naked, wearing only loose undergarments. Silk undergarments.

  She winced at the other things she wore. Bandages covered her body, covering cuts and bruises she could only imagine. By the Saints, what had happened? Her mind raced as she recalled the struggle with Ohzem and the other events outside the tower. How long ago had that been?

  The buzzing sound caught her attention again. She looked through her half-shuttered window to see Hector and Ena hovering outside her cabin. They swirled around in the air, seeming excited.

  “I’m OK.” She winced. “No need to buzz like a honeyhive. I’ll come out in a minute.”

  She stood, wobbling slightly, and looked for her clothes. There was no sign of her cloak or Springrise dress, or anything else she’d brought with her from Oakspring. A pot of tea steamed on her table beside a plain white dress and sash.

  Beside the dress was a wooden vase containing a bouquet of flowers. And resting beside that was her Book of Songs. Her heart leaped. She’d left the book with Ox in the cave. Had he returned?

  She quickly slipped the white dress over her shoulders, enjoying the feel of the material that matched her undergarments. She didn’t see any shoes, which was fine. The cool grass outside would feel good.

  Her oak walking staff leaned against the wall beside the door. Combing her hair with her fingers, she picked up the staff and book, and left the cabin.

  The sun hung high in the sky with only a scattering of clouds. Hector and Ena zoomed over and danced around her. She giggled as she felt their giddy joy. “Yes, hello, I’m glad to see you, too!”

  “Ah, you’re awake!” boomed a familiar voice. “You recovered quickly.”

  Pomella’s face lit with happiness as she turned to see the Green Man striding toward her from across the lawn.

  “Ox!” she yelled, and ran to him. He laughed as she crashed into his leg and hugged him. “You’re free! How did you get here? Are you all right?”

  He knelt down to bring his face closer to hers. “I am well. Ranger Rochella reached the cave a short time ago and managed to break the iron binding. She tended to Sim while I rushed back here through the ground immediately.”

  Fear and hope twisted in Pomella’s stomach. “Sim! Is—is he alive?”

  Ox’s smile faded. “When I left him, he sat at death’s edge. But your little hummingbirds returned with a steady stream of friends, who all carried herbs. Rochella indicated it should be enough to stave off an infection. I do not know if the wound itself can be healed in time. The ranger will do everything she can.”

  Pomella stilled her thundering heart and held out her hand for the hummingbirds. “Thank you,” she told them as they alighted on her palm. “You may have saved my friend, and you definitely saved me.” She bowed to the two tiny birds in her palm, not feeling silly whatsoever. They buzzed their wings and flew toward the central tower.

  “I heard what you did to save the High Mystic,” Oxillian said. “I am in debt to you, Goodmiss AnDone.”

>   “Oh, Ox,” she said, “Don’t be such a dunder. It’s I who should thank you.”

  He hugged her. “I should be careful not to soil your apprentice dress.”

  “My … apprentice dress? Am I her apprentice now?”

  Ox shook his head. “Not yet. It is tradition for all candidates to wear their apprentice whites on the afternoon of the selection. Lady Vinnay was the one who tended to you in your cabin. She has been worried about you. Apparently, she has skill with brewing herbs and making salves.”

  Pomella thought of the tea and the flowers waiting for her when she awoke. “I haven’t seen her, or anybody else. Where is everyone?”

  “Come, I will escort you to the point of past masters.”

  He led her down the dirt path to the grove of trees that jutted out from the western side of the clearing. She remembered this place from when she and Quentin had strolled into it on her first day. The towering rune-carved pillar rose from the center of a ring of stones.

  “Who were they?” Pomella asked, remembering the faded names written upon the obelisk’s surface. Quentin had not been able to tell her when she’d last visited.

  “They list the names of the past masters of Kelt Apar,” Ox said. “This monument has stood longer than I’ve existed. It is likely to be as old as the tower itself.”

  “So many are faded,” she said, gently touching one side of it.

  “Not all of them,” Ox said. He strode back toward the tree line. “I will summon the others and tell them you are here. They will join you soon.”

  The ground rumbled as he sank into it. Pomella strolled around the pillar, until she came to the side with the most recent names inscribed. These, she could read: Yarina Sineese. Above her, Ahlala Faywong.

  A sense of reverence floated through Pomella. “Thank you,” she said, bowing deeply, “for allowing me to be here.”

  Ox returned soon after with Saijar and Vivianna behind him. Each wore the apprentice whites—Vivianna in a dress and Saijar in loose pants and a shirt—and carried their own staff, presumably found somewhere on the slopes or summit of MagDoon. Quentin was nowhere to be seen.