by Rebecca Ross
“Follow me,” Toula instructed, leading him to the marble staircase.
Evadne slowed her scrubbing, keeping track of the time by the slant of sunlight on the floor. The scholar’s appointment lasted only half an hour. Damon escorted him to the front doors and thanked the scholar for coming. It did not sound promising, and Damon returned to his chambers.
Evadne did not think much of it until another visitor arrived. A girl with hair the color of fire, her garments luxuriously tailored, her voice like that of a songbird.
“I am here to see Lord Damon,” she said to Toula.
Toula guided the girl up to Damon’s rooms, and Evadne slowed her scrubbing yet again, timing the appointment. Another half hour, and the girl was walked to the door with a gratitude for her time.
A third visitor soon rang the villa’s bell. Toula muttered to herself as she hurried to answer it. A young man, broad and strongly built. An athlete, Evadne thought, watching him disappear up the stairs to meet with Damon.
He only lasted a quarter of an hour before Damon walked him to the door, the same thank you sounding on the mage’s lips.
The doors closed behind the athlete. This time, Damon did not stride back to his chambers. He stood in the courtyard and looked at Evadne.
“That section of floor must be overwhelmingly filthy, Evadne.”
She quickened her scrubbing, keeping her gaze on the tiles. “What makes you say such, Lord Damon?”
“You have not moved in over an hour.”
“I might have found vast amusement in your appointments.”
“Oh? How so?”
Evadne ceased her work, daring to lift her eyes to his. “All of them must lack something you seek. It is not brains, or you would have chosen the scholar. And it is not beauty, or you would have chosen the singer. And it is not strength, or you would have selected the athlete.”
He looked amused. “Or perhaps I need a little bit of all three in one person.”
“And good luck discovering such a person, Lord.” She returned to her task, but her body was tense beneath Damon’s steady gaze. “I fear you will only be able to find them in a myth.”
“Then I am doomed. For what myth still lives and breathes?” He fell quiet, waiting for her to counter him. When she ignored him, he began to walk away, but he made it to the edge of the reflection pool before he returned to her. “Perhaps you would like to be interviewed, Evadne?”
His words sent a shock through her. She dropped her brush and gaped at him.
“Interviewed? For what?”
“I am looking for a scribe. You are right-handed. Perhaps you are the myth I seek.”
Her eyes narrowed. Flattery. That was all he was doing. To soften her dislike for his family, for this place. To earn her trust.
All the same, she sat back on her heels, her ankle smarting with pain. She had no idea why it mattered which hand she favored. Confused, she said, “How do you know I am right-handed?”
“You pour with that hand.”
“Are you watching me because you do not trust me?”
“No. I promised your sister I would look after you.” He strode away, his answer astounding her.
Not once had Evadne imagined Halcyon asking it of Damon. But had he not visited Halcyon in her cell in the agora? Why? Evadne still wondered.
And here she was on bruised knees and burning hands, scrubbing floors when he had just offered her a chance to rise and come into his knowledge.
She stood and gathered her bucket, her brush. She was careful not to cross paths with Toula, rushing up the stairs, sloshing her lye and water all the way to Damon’s door. It was cracked; a thread of sunlight escaped, flowing over her as she lifted her hand to knock. . . .
And she found she could not do it. Surely, he did not believe she could be his scribe. Evadne was backing away, her mitted hand still poised in the air, when the door unexpectedly swung open.
Damon, for once, seemed shocked to find her there. “Yes?”
“I came to scrub your floor,” Evadne blurted, awkwardly lowering her hand. “And then maybe, afterward, I could still have that interview. Although I understand if the offer has been revoked.”
He was quiet. She thought he was about to deny her, and she continued to edge away, into the shadows.
“I do not need my floor scrubbed. Leave the bucket in the corridor and come inside.”
Evadne set down her bucket, her brush. She struggled to pull off her leather mitts, but Damon waited patiently. She eased past him, stepping into his chambers for the first time.
“Forgive me. I reek of lye.”
He snorted, shutting the door behind them. “I could think of many other worse things. Come, sit at the desk.”
His receiving room was spacious. One wall was full of windows, welcoming rivers of sunlight. The other wall was built of shelves, each laden with scrolls, so many that Evadne’s mind momentarily spun at the thought of all the stories that might be hiding within them. There was a desk with ivory legs, its oaken face covered by a stack of papyrus squares, a jar of quills, and several pots of ink.
She followed him across the floor and sat in the chair at his desk, her eyes continuing to flicker around the room, taking in the details. The lion-skin rug. The sword sheathed in one corner. The door in the far wall that must lead to his bedchamber. The fresco that spanned across the ceiling, begging to be admired. Arcalos sprawled in a patch of sunlight, tail wagging as he watched Evadne. She still felt a sliver of fear at the sight of the dog, but it was not as sharp as before, and she let out a breath, relaxing.
“Have you ever scribed before, Evadne?”
“No.”
“I take it you are literate in Common Speech, but what of God Tongue?”
“Yes, I am fluent in both. I . . .” She stopped herself. She had almost told him of her hopes of becoming a mage, how she had tackled her literacy with fervency, believing any day her letters would magically slip off parchment. How fragile that memory was, and she swallowed the emotion it roused.
“Yes?” he prompted, waiting.
“Never mind, Lord.”
“I am no lord to you, Evadne. I am simply Damon.”
“Very well . . . Damon.”
“Now, then. I am looking to hire a scribe, someone who can record my enchantments and even my daily correspondence. As you may know, I cannot write with my favored hand. The magic makes it impossible; my writing will not remain on papyrus. And as much as I would like to memorize all of my spells, some of them are long and complicated, and I would benefit from having them recorded. As such, my scribe will be privy to my secrets. I need someone I can trust, who I can rely on, who will not betray my spells to another mage who may want them.” He paused, glancing down at the blank papyrus stacked on his desk. “If that is something you can agree to, Evadne, then I would like for you to take up a quill and write your favorite myth.”
Evadne was perplexed, until she realized this was the interview. She thought for a moment before selecting a quill and opened a pot of ink, setting a square of papyrus before her.
She almost wrote the myth of Kirkos. How many times had she heard that legend, over and over, sitting on her father’s knee?
But she did not want to draw attention to Kirkos, in case mysteries of his relic surfaced.
She traced through her collection of myths, and maybe it was because she was homesick, longing for the grove more than she thought possible, but she decided to write about the creation of Acantha’s olive branch crown.
When she finished, Evadne set down her quill and walked the legend to Damon, going around the long way to avoid the proximity to slumbering Arcalos.
Damon’s face was guarded at first, but then she noticed his brow grew heavy as he read her words. She couldn’t explain why her heart began to beat fast and desperate. But it seemed that she had written the wrong thing, somehow, without even knowing it.
Damon lowered the papyrus and looked up at her. “Thank you, Evadne. You may g
o.”
She should not be disappointed, or stunned, for that matter. For a wild moment, she had believed she could become his scribe, that he had not been flattering her for his cruel amusement. That he had not dangled hope before her only to snatch it away in spite.
Evadne left without a word. She found her bucket and brush just as she had left them and returned to the courtyard, an angry hitch in her step.
“Where have you been, Girl?” Toula caught her on the way down with a scowl.
“I was assisting Damon.”
“Lord Damon,” Toula corrected her. “And do not bother him again, do you hear? He is very busy.”
Evadne did not respond. She returned to her scrubbing, letting the floor take the brunt of her ire, since she couldn’t bestow it on Damon’s face. But soon she grew tired, her frustration easing as her arms began to ache, and she leaned against one of the pillars, mortified.
Her interview had not been half an hour. Or even a quarter of one.
She had lasted all of ten minutes.
That night at dinner, Damon drank his wine.
It only fueled Evadne’s annoyance with him, for now she had to watch his chalice, refilling it as needed. He did not speak of his appointments; it seemed that Straton and Cosima and Lyra had no idea Damon had been conducting interviews. The talk centered on taxes and illness and the legion, to which Straton would soon be returning.
When dinner was over, everyone left the table. Save for Damon. He remained, nursing his chalice of wine, reading a scroll he spread out before him by the light of the braziers. And Evadne could not leave, because his cup was still there, and he continued to sip it from time to time.
She leaned against one of the pillars, exhausted, watching his chalice. A cool night breeze drifted into the room, stirring the white drapes. The villa was quiet, peaceful as a dreamscape; moonlight began to steal across the floor, and Evadne closed her eyes until Damon gently spoke her name.
“Evadne.”
She straightened, reaching for the wine jug.
“Bring another cup to the table and join me,” he invited.
She did as he beckoned, sitting on the cushion directly across the table from him. He took the jar and reached for the empty chalice, filling it with wine. And then he slid the cup over to her, and she could only blink at it, amazed he had served her.
“This is what you have kept me up late for, Lord Damon?” she drawled, letting her irritation ring. “So you could pour me a cup?”
“Yes and no. I wish to speak to you, alone.”
“You spoke to me alone earlier.”
He stared at her a moment. The blue flush in his left eye was bright, distracting. Evadne broke their gaze, looking down into her wine.
“Are you not going to drink, Evadne?”
“You hardly drink what I pour you, Lord Damon.”
“It is Damon. Only Damon. And I drank it tonight.”
“What do you want from me?” Evadne asked. She was so weary, so homesick that she lost her reservations.
“The myth you wrote today,” he said, withdrawing a papyrus square from his scroll. Evadne recognized her script as Damon set the papyrus faceup on the table, between them. “Euthymius’s creation of Acantha’s All-Seeing Crown. Out of all the myths you could have chosen, why that one?”
Evadne rubbed her brow. “I do not know. It is just a myth, and I chose it on a whim.”
He doubted her. His face was intense as he waited for her to explain.
“I know I displeased you today,” she began, her anger rousing.
“You did not displease me.”
“Although I hardly know why. Perhaps it was the slant of my handwriting—”
“No, your handwriting is more than fine.”
“Or perhaps I did not write fast enough for you, or—”
“If I asked you to become my scribe, would you agree to it, Evadne?”
She froze. For a moment she could only breathe and stare at him, wondering if she had imagined his offer.
Damon continued to regard her, the firelight flickering across his face. “Before you give me your answer, I want you to know that it will be difficult. I need someone I can trust, yes, but I also need a partner who trusts me, who is not easily intimidated by challenges or opposition. Who would rise up to meet them alongside me.”
Evadne did not think recording spells would be all that difficult, but she heard the earnestness in his voice. She could only wonder what these challenges could be.
“You teased me about the three appointments I met with today,” he said when her silence continued to expand between them. “But I did not arrange for them. My aunt Selene did. She would like to keep me beneath her thumb. Any scribe selected by her would be a spy, reporting all my enchantments and movements to her.” He paused, traced the rim of his chalice with his fingertip. “My aunt was one of my instructors at the Destry. She has been good to me, but she also expects me to follow her orders. She is powerful. And she will be very displeased that I have chosen you to scribe for me, because she has no hold on you.”
Evadne was surprised he was revealing so much to her.
She drew in a deep breath. “All my life, I have wanted to be more than what I am. I wanted to be fast and strong, like my sister. I wanted magic, to have the ability to speak and sing charms to life. I wanted to be someone who made a mark on the world, even if it was a small one.” She swallowed, hardly believing she had just said such things to him. But when she lifted her gaze to look at him, she saw Damon transfixed on her words, and a tentative current of friendship began to flow between them.
“You are making your mark, Evadne,” he whispered.
And she thought about how he had broken laws for her and Halcyon, how he had cloaked her unseen and guided her into the agora’s prison. How he had noticed she had been missing from camp and had told his father to look for her, to find her before the phantom dogs did. Why? she wondered.
“I do know God Tongue, but it has been a while since I used it,” she said.
“I can refresh your memory.”
“Lord Straton might not like this arrangement. I am supposed to be his cupbearer.”
“He will have no trouble finding a new cupbearer.”
“It does not bother you that my sister . . .” Evadne’s words died. She could not even voice it, this pain that lived between her and Damon.
He was silent, encouraging her to finish her thought aloud.
“I imagine that when you look at me, you see Halcyon,” she said. “That I am a constant reminder to you of what has happened.”
“Is that what you feel when you look at me?” he countered. “Do you see my brother? What my father has done to your sister?”
Evadne held his stare, her pride too great to look away. She had to reckon with the truth: day by day, she saw Damon more for who he was, and him alone. “No. I see only a mage who irritates me from time to time.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good to know.” But he would not say what he saw when he looked at her, and Evadne was too anxious to ask him.
She could not think of another excuse. She wanted to know the secrets of this family. Well, this was her chance. It would not come again, and Evadne wondered if the gods were blessing her, opening a door for her, just as her mother had believed they would.
“Yes,” she said. “I will scribe for you.”
“Thank you,” he replied, and Evadne heard a warble of nervousness in his voice. Had he truly believed she would deny him?
He produced another sheet of papyrus and set it in front of Evadne, along with a quill and a pot of ink. She arched her brow, incredulous.
“You want to begin now?”
Damon looked like he might laugh. “No. But we need to draft a contract for our agreement. We must move quickly, before my aunt has a chance to interfere.”
Evadne sighed but took up the quill. She dipped the nib into the ink and waited for Damon to tell her what to write.
> He drummed his fingers against the table, lost in thought. She realized he was just as uncertain as her, remembering his conversation with Selene from a few nights ago. He had never had a scribe before.
“On this day,” Damon began, “the fifth day of the Fire Moon, I hereby draw up a contract between Damon of Mithra, mage, and Evadne of Isaura, scribe . . .”
Evadne began to write, capturing his spoken words in ink.
“How long shall this contract’s term last?” Damon interrupted himself to ask her.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Five years.”
He nodded and continued to dictate the contract. Everything sounded fine to Evadne until they reached the mind-sweeping clause:
Damon will have the power and authority to mind-sweep Evadne in only two cases: she chooses it or Damon has evidence that Evadne has betrayed him by sharing or selling his enchantments to another.
Evadne knew that all mages held the power to look into another’s mind and memory, and because of such power, there were strict limitations to it. She had never had her mind swept, nor did she ever want to experience it.
She stopped writing in the middle of the phrase. Damon noticed.
“Is there a problem, Evadne?”
“The mind-sweeping . . . I do not like the thought of it.”
“This is included in every contract between mages and scribes,” Damon replied gently. “I will not do it, not unless you betray me.”
Evadne was silent, staring at her writing. She would not sign her name to something like this.
She heard Damon slide another square of papyrus to her. “Let us begin anew, then.”
Surprised, Evadne watched as he set the half-written contract in the brazier. As it burned, Damon spoke and Evadne began to scribe again, his words identical to what they had been before until he reached the mind-sweeping clause.
He omitted it, relinquishing his right to mind-sweep her.
When they reached the end, Evadne was ready to sign it. She inked her name at the footer before handing the quill and papyrus to Damon. He signed next with his right hand, the hand he could not cast magic with. His handwriting was weak and crooked, but his name remained on the paper beside hers, magicless.