by Jason Denzel
As Yarina crested the newly formed hill, Vivianna touched her palms together and tapped her forehead and heart. All around her, the other Mystics were doing the same, or something similar. Some bowed; others curtsied. Pomella mimicked Vivianna, sending Mistress Yarina a genuine surge of gratitude for being a mentor and guardian for the past seven years.
Yarina lifted her free palm to indicate everyone should rise. She swept her eyes across everyone gathered, then turned her attention to the distant tree line straight ahead.
The Green Man spoke again: “In the name of the Saints and past masters, Mistress Yarina Sineese calls upon and welcomes the delegation of High Mystics of our world. Come forth, great masters, and grace us with your presence.”
A massive wave of energy rippled through the crowd. Pomella couldn’t help but smile, and felt a lump form in her throat. A path opened among the gathered Mystics leading from the edge of the crowd to the hill Yarina stood on. The burning torches scattered throughout the crowd brightened. The Myst sang to Pomella. She could hear its music, as clearly as one hears a bell. Her heart yearned to sing that perfect song.
From the shadows, a figure emerged and walked toward Yarina. He was a short man, round and bald and dark-skinned, carrying a staff no taller than he was. He walked on sandaled feet, and wore a dark-red robe, thrown over one shoulder, exposing his arms. He smiled at those he passed, and again, every other person genuflected in some fashion.
“Be welcome, Master Ollfur of Keffra!” intoned Yarina. “Your presence illuminates us.”
Pomella beamed. Her grandmhathir had been born into a noble house in Keffra but had given it up for a simple life of a commoner on Moth many years ago.
Master Ollfur joined Yarina on the top of the hill. Yarina bowed, but the other High Mystic chuckled a jolly laugh and hugged her instead. The gathering of Mystics laughed with him.
Serene as ever, Yarina smiled and hugged him back. She slipped from his embrace and looked back down the path he’d just walked before Oxillian called out, “By the grace of the Myst, welcome Master Angelos and Mistress Michaela of Rardaria, who each bless us with their presence!”
A pair of High Mystics, a man and woman, equal in height and stature, with matching Mystic staves, strolled down the path. Their faces were reflections of each other. Both had long platinum-colored hair that did nothing to diminish their majestic beauty.
“They are twins,” Vivianna murmured to Pomella. “My parents were on a diplomatic visit to the Baronies shortly before I was born, and had the opportunity to meet them. Mistress Michaela touched my mother’s swollen belly and blessed it. My mother believes it stirred the Myst within me.”
The twin High Mystics came to the summit of the hill and exchanged greetings with Yarina. Ollfur hugged each one.
The next High Mystic the Green Man announced was Master Willwhite from Djain, a thin wisp of a man with pale skin, white hair trimmed short, and a piercing gaze. He carried a short Mystic staff like a baton, tucked in the crook of his elbow. Pomella had to peer carefully at him to see his features because they seemed to shift as he walked. It was as though one moment he had a rounded nose and the next it was more pointed. His lips and eyebrows changed slightly, too, but always remained delicate, almost effeminate.
Following Master Willwhite came Ehzeeth, an ancient-looking laghart with many missing scales. He leaned markedly on a heavily curved staff, and was escorted by Hizrith, who seemed ready to catch his master if he stumbled. Hizrith stopped short of the low hill, allowing Ehzeeth to ascend alone. Yarina greeted him, “Welcome, Zurnta.”
Ehzeeth did not speak, but his tongue zipped out and licked the air many times as he studied each of his High Mystic peers. He, too, received a hug from Master Ollfur.
“And finally,” Oxillian intoned, “with great respect and admiration, the High Mystic of Moth sends her greetings to Master Bhairatonix of Qin. Be welcome, great master; your brilliance lights our paths!”
A towering man, taller than anybody Pomella had ever seen before in her life, strode toward the other High Mystics. He was pale skinned and reed thin, and carried an enormous staff even taller than his head in his right hand. His left hand was lost in the folds of his robes. He kept his dusty gray hair trimmed short, but his beard spilled down to his stomach. He walked with his back straight and his head high.
Yarina and the other High Mystics bowed to him as he ascended the hill. Master Ollfur reached to hug him, but something in Bhairatonix’s expression brought him up short, causing him to settle for a bow.
Seven High Mystics now stood before the central tower of Kelt Apar. The air rumbled with energy.
With the arrival of the final High Mystic, the crowd filled in the path they’d walked in on. An assortment of rangers and apprentices, all of whom had arrived with their masters, joined the gathering to watch the ceremony unfold.
The familiar presences of Hector and Ena swooped around Pomella. She shooed them away with her hand, giving them a look that promised a nasty scolding later if they didn’t behave.
“By the grace of the Myst,” Yarina said, spreading her hand and staff to the gathered crowd, “we are gathered. We come together to attend to the ancient and urgent business of Crow Tallin. As the Mystic Star Treorel passes over us, we—”
She cut off as the crowd near Pomella stirred. Pomella looked around, trying to see what the disturbance was.
Suddenly she was aware of her hummingbirds circling around her skirt. “What the skivers is it?” she whispered to them.
But the murmuring in the crowd answered for them. Pomella looked over those gathered and saw a familiar figure walking humbly forward.
It was Lal.
His poorly fitted robes stood out in an awkward fashion. His expression and the lines on his face told Pomella he was unexpectedly nervous, an emotion Pomella hadn’t seen on him before. Her heart swelled with emotion for him. He’d come. By the Saints, he’d actually shown up. As he noticed attention on him, he straightened. Pomella smiled. Here was a Grandmaster. The seven High Mystics upon the hill should fall to their knees before him! He was practically a living Saint!
Yarina cast a cool stare at her old master, her expression flat but clearly still considering what to do next. The other High Mystics had similarly blank expressions except for Master Ollfur, who, of course, grinned from ear to ear. Most Mystics in the crowd looked at Lal with a confused expression, and Pomella understood why. Despite his robes, he appeared Unclaimed. He kept his head and face shaved, and he generally walked with a slightly stooped posture.
Most striking of all, however, was that he carried no Mystic staff. Pomella had never seen him hold one, and while she’d wondered about it before over the years, she had just become so used to the idea that he didn’t carry one. Now, as he stood among a crowd of over a hundred other Mystics holding staves, she wondered for the first time whether he even had one.
Master Willwhite, the slight, straight-backed High Mystic from Djain, broke the silence.
“You’ve been harboring an unexpected guest, Yarina,” Willwhite said.
“An old friend,” Master Angelos added.
“Yes,” said Angelos’ twin sister, Michaela. “But one whose path diverged many years ago.”
Pomella narrowed her eyes. What did the High Mystic mean, diverged?
Master Ollfur smiled and clapped his hands once before speaking for the first time. “Just in time for the fun!” he said, and his voice had the tone and inflection of one who had just landed a joke. The crowd laughed.
“No,” said a cold, hard voice, and the laughter faded. “He has no place here,” said Bhairatonix.
Pomella clenched her fist. All Mystics deserved respect, especially the great High Mystics. But after that comment, she thought Master Bhairatonix was a culk. How could Lal not have a place at Kelt Apar?
She shot a glare at Yarina. Why was the High Mystic not standing up for him? She returned her attention to Lal, whose face had hardened. Her heart went out to him
. He looked scared. Alone.
“Your time is past,” Bhairatonix said. “Crow Tallin shall be handled by those of us gathered here already.”
A thick tension hung in the air. Yarina said nothing, although Pomella could almost see her willing herself to maintain control. Anger boiled within Pomella. Mistress Yarina had been Lal’s student, but now she refused to stand up for him.
But Lal had another student.
“He has a name!” Pomella called out.
Vivianna gasped beside her. Fear gripped Pomella as every face turned to look at her. By the Saints, what was she doing?
“This man is Ahlala Faywong,” Pomella said, plowing forward. “Former High Mystic of Moth, and a Grandmaster of the Myst. This is his home, and all of us are graced by his living presence.”
She touched her palms to her heart and forehead and bowed low, which proved to be wise, because she could feel her cheeks burning red.
Somebody needed to have said something. If Yarina wouldn’t, then Pomella had to. She didn’t care if it broke custom for her to speak up, but Lal deserved this.
All around her, and spreading outward like a pond ripple, the gathered Mystics bowed to Lal. There was no variety in the gestures this time. Every Mystic touched their palms together and bent at the waist, just as Pomella had. She felt the Myst surge within her, and at that moment she felt as though she could move a mountain.
Rising, she saw Lal’s face soften as he give her a sad but loving look. Upon the low hill, the seven High Mystics studied her with mostly neutral expressions. Master Ollfur smiled, of course, and Yarina remained unreadable.
But it was Master Bhairatonix who held Pomella’s attention. His cold stare was pure rage honed to a fine point.
You go too far, his look seemed to say.
Too far.
EIGHT
THE ORACLE
Eight Years Before Crow Tallin
Snow drifted around the Thornwood Shrine. From her oversized cushioned chair, Shevia watched it float lazily, as if time had stopped, seizing the flakes in the air, temporarily halting their descent. Her breath curled in front of her face, consuming a mote of snow.
A shiver of cold pebbled her arms, but she hardly felt it. Shevia only felt exhaustion these days. Before the tingling sensation faded, Miqo placed a heavy blanket over her shoulders. Once it was settled, the girl backed away a step and bowed, eyes lowered.
Shevia flicked a glance at her. Even in her bulky servant’s attire, Miqo’s curves were noticeably visible. The girl was fourteen years old now—two years older than Shevia—but she looked completely different from Shevia. Shevia wondered if she’d ever have hips or breasts like Miqo.
The sound of heavy footsteps crunching atop fresh snow drew her attention. Tevon, Typhos, and Tibron ascended the steps to the Shrine, their fur-lined cloaks catching snowflakes. Following them were her parents, dressed in flowing silks and lacking only the gold jewelry allowed by custom to the nobility. Solemn expressions covered their faces as they escorted the esteemed family from Keffra forward.
Ahg-Mein tapped Shevia’s chair with his Mystic staff, indicating she should stand. Shevia forced herself not to glare at the man. She could no longer muster the strength to have contempt for him. Even though he had been the one to pull the poison from her body on the night her parents were almost murdered, she had never felt even a thumb’s worth of gratitude for the former Obai House Mystic. She was beyond hating the thin-bearded man with his slicked hair, gold jewelry, fine fur cloaks, and smelly oils. Shevia suspected that as long as money flowed to his pockets the Mystic was content to stand in the corner and observe. Ahg-Mein sought profit above all else, even if murder was happening in front of him, or even if a little girl was drinking poison.
Gliding obediently from her chair, Shevia graced her finest curtsy to the Keffrans. “High-Pellan Uteen. High-Pellar Sutir. Welcome,” she said, carefully navigating her way as best she could in the awkward Continental language. “I am humbled by your attendance. How may I serve you?”
The High-Pellan and his wife were a magnificent couple, tall, with deep brown skin and impressive physiques. They inclined their heads to Ahg-Mein but otherwise ignored him. Uteen Bartone was said to have been a champion duelist before he inherited his family’s lands. The only duelist of more renown than him was Sutir, his wife. Dark, swirling tattoos—indications of their accomplishments—covered most of their exposed skin below the face, including their necks and the backs of their hands.
High-Pellar Sutir examined Shevia with a critical eye. “My gracious ancestors,” she said, “you truly are a child. I hardly believed the reports.”
“Do I displease you, High-Pellar?” Shevia said.
“No, of course not. It is a pleasure to be a guest at your Shrine.”
Like most nobles who visited her, the High-Pellar seemed uneasy at the idea of a girl from a merchant-scholar family commanding such an unusual power. Shevia was not a Mystic, nor was she a noble. The very idea that a person born into that caste was involved in such things seemed impossible to them. More questions would likely have been asked if not for the presence of Ahg-Mein. With a Mystic present, even nobles would hesitate to ask those questions in public.
“Your kindness is greater than its wondrous reputation,” Shevia said to the High-Pellar, keeping her voice meek. She spoke the words but hardly knew what she said. She didn’t care at all about these nobles or anybody else. Most of the time she didn’t care about anything. Her body felt like a shell, and the real Shevia—the little girl who used to scamper through the thorny hills outside her parents’ estate—had been hollowed out and replaced by the fumes of the vent, and the demands of her ambitious family. Her mother assured her it was for her own good, and that perhaps the Minams would even rise to the nobility someday.
But Shevia knew the truth. Even if her family did become noble, she would forever be required to breathe in the fumes and speak the visions she saw. The Bartones were just another petitioner, come from far away, to demand and receive a prophecy.
Every noble came in person because the visions were always personal to the requester, and always significant, the sort of knowledge that generally people didn’t want heard by others. Shevia’s prophecies had launched more feuds than she cared to remember. At least one all-out war had been sparked by a tiny secret she’d spoken to the King of Rardaria. Shevia had heard he ordered his wife executed because of the secret she had kept from him.
Mystics, too, came from afar, curious to understand her power, and to try unsuccessfully to replicate it for themselves. The harder they tried, the more spectacularly they failed. Shevia stifled a shiver at the most recent memory of an attempt. She was content to let Ahg-Mein handle the few Mystics who decided to investigate her.
The remainder of the Bartones’ entourage walked up the steps behind them. There were six guards, all wearing layered black and silver armor. Vicious swords hung at their sides, and each carried a shield on his forearm decorated with the crest of a crouching sand leopard. In between the six guards walked a boy and a girl, clearly the son and daughter of the nobles standing before her. The girl was about Shevia’s age, with the same smooth, dark skin as her mother, but with her father’s strong chin. The girl had the beginnings of curves to her body, too. Shevia barely cared anymore. Everyone would surpass her in everything.
It was the boy who snared her eye. He was tall and muscular, with long braided hair and hints of his own tattoos underneath his shirt. He was much older than her, maybe by as much as six or seven years, but his face was heavenly. Looking at him, Shevia felt an uncomfortable rush of emotion—the first she had felt of anything except spite in a long time. She forced herself to keep calm on the outside, and face the boy’s parents.
“This is our daughter, Ellisen,” said Uteen, “and our son, Quentin.”
Shevia bowed her head to each, grateful that she was not required to make eye contact with the boy.
“So how does this work?” Sutir asked. “I
t is frightfully cold out. I trust there is not much ceremony, considering the weather?”
“I apologize for the weather, High-Pellar,” Shevia said. “It is an unfortunate consequence of living this far north.” Uteen snorted a laugh at this. Shevia kept her face blank. Her parents encouraged her to make such disparaging comments about the weather, their small estates, Shevia’s young age, or even her unusual height. It made the nobles more comfortable, they said.
Ahg-Mein stepped forward. “The Oracle of Thornwood is honored to speak the truth of her vision to you. It is customary that a tithe is first given, in order to support her modest dwelling.”
Shevia waited, hands folded within her robes. There was nothing modest about her dwelling. Her family had become unprecedentedly wealthy over the last three years because of her visions. The nobility paid incredible amounts of gold to learn secrets that could change the course of their Houses forever. The Minam fortunes now exceeded those of many of the nobles they served.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Uteen said. He patted his cloak a few times as if trying to remember where he kept something, and finally pulled out a gilded scroll case, undoubtedly containing papers declaring that the Minam family was now entitled to a vast sum of money. He handed it to Shevia’s father without a second glance. “Now what?”
“I will commune with the Thornwood,” Shevia said, “and speak to you of its vision, High-Pellan.”
Ahg-Mein had told her family it would be unwise to explain the nature of her visions. Shevia had wanted to be honest about her friend, but the Mystic and her parents crushed that idea immediately. It was too childish, they said. Equally unacceptable was if they spoke of the Myst in any way. Nobody, especially not Shevia, understood who her friend actually was, or whether the Myst was involved. If Ahg-Mein had any theories, he kept them to himself. It surely might be related to the Myst, of course, but it would be indecent for somebody of their station to outright declare they could commune with it. Tibron had been the one to suggest they use the name Thornwood, and link her visions to that.
