by Jo Grix
Brigid returned to the keep as the last of the morning drills ended before breakfast. Riding past the outer bailey, she squinted slightly as her mare carried her from sun to shadow and back again in rapid succession. She waved at a few of the fighters as she passed the inner training ground, collecting greetings with a casual grin. Then it was through the inner portcullis and into the courtyard. As she drew Star to a stop, a figure detached itself from the shadows around the doors to the keep and Brigit sighed. Her stepmother, a gorgeous woman with a waterfall of blond curls, glided down the stairs to look up at her as a groom took Star’s bridle.
“And so you return,” Aileen declared as she watched Brigid dismount.
“Just like every morning,” Brigid replied as she stepped away from Star. “Are we to have this fight again, Stepmother?”
“I was unaware that we were fighting,” Aileen replied calmly.
“We always fight,” Brigid replied, “you comment on my riding, I deflect, you remind me about breakfast, I agree and then you throw out some vaguely offensive statement about my lack of womanly habits to which I reply, as my mother replied, I am a woman. Whatever I feel like doing is womanly. Whatever I chose to wear is feminine. Whatever I chose not to do or wear is neither. It happens every morning, despite the fact that I have no need of being reminded of breakfast and I certainly do not need a keeper.”
“You fault me for expressing concern,” Aileen said, resting a hand lightly on her breast.
“I fault you for being overbearing and repetitive,” Brigid said and began walking up the stairs. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to dress for breakfast, Stepmother.” She moved around the woman and into the keep.
The sudden transition from morning sun to the shadows behind the stone walls was stark and occasionally disorienting, but Brigid had spent a lifetime moving through the huge, stone fortress and did not slow down as her eyes adjusted. She lifted the skirt of her riding dress and took the staircase to the upper levels at a near run, anything to escape the woman who followed her.
In her room, her lady’s maid, Murna, was laying out her morning clothes. “Good morning,” Brigid said as she shut the door to her room.
“Good morning, Miss,” Murna replied, “how was your ride?”
“Better than usual,” Brigid replied as she reached behind her to being unlacing her dress. Murna hurried over to help. “I think I managed to push Stepmother off balance enough to leave me alone today.”
“That’s good,” Murna said as she finished with Brigid’s dress. “Arms up, please.”
Brigid lifted her arms and let her maid help her out of the riding dress. Then she slid into the slightly more formal dress laid out for breakfast. “I hope she doesn’t go to Father,” Brigid commented as Murna laced the dress closed. “He will frown at me and lecture me on how his ‘ladies’ should live in harmony.” She pulled her hair free from its braid as she walked across the room to her dressing table and sat down, “I do try to get along with Stepmother, Murna, I really do. It is just when she goes all disappointed on me, and says I am not ladylike, I always get so angry. My mother was a great lady and she was an archer and a swordswoman and went hunting with the men, all of which I do. And Mother grew up at court, and was one of the Princess’s Ladies in Waiting, and they say Queen Shavonne is still a better swordswoman than her husband.” Brigid paused in the act of picking up her brush. “I’m sorry, Murna, I didn’t mean to start that again.”
“It’s quite all right,” Murna said with a gentle smile, “I understand. Your mother was a beautiful and remarkable woman all right. It was a privilege to be her lady’s maid and doubly so to be yours.”
Brigid smiled, “I’m glad you stayed until I was old enough. It’s nice to hear stories about Mother that don’t paint her as the epitome of perfection.”
Murna nodded and patted her shoulder before claiming her brush, “Your father loved Caitria deeply and losing her affected him deeply.”
“The Lady was kind to send him someone to love,” Brigid agreed, “He deserves to not be lonely. I just wish.” She sighed and lifted her chin slightly as Murna brushed her hair.
Murna had just finished binding the thick, black mass when the bell sounded for breakfast. “I’ll have your clothes waiting for you,” Murna said as Brigid slipped on her leather slippers.
“I’ll be back by midmorning,” Brigid pledged as she hurried out the door.
Aileen and her father, Tiernan, were already at the table when she walked into the room, but Brigid did not think she had kept them waiting. “Good morning, Brigid,” Tiernan offered as Brigid approached the small, family table.
“Good morning, Father,” Brigid said, “Stepmother.”
“Good morning, Brigid,” Aileen replied with a slight smile.
Brigid took her seat and Tiernan signaled the servants to begin breakfast. “How are you Father?” Brigid asked after the first course had been served. “There was some alarm over the smoke from the workshop yesterday.”
Tiernan smiled, “I’m well, Brigid. We had a slight miscalculation, which caused the smoke. I think we’ll have the problem fixed today.”
“That’s good,” Brigid replied, wondering if all families felt this stilted and formal.
“What are your plans for today?” Aileen asked, looking at Brigid.
“I have lessons in the stillroom this morning,” Brigid said, “That will keep me out of the way of everyone working on the ball, and I’ll spend the afternoon preparing for tonight.”
“Is everything all right with your dress?” Aileen asked.
“Yes,” Brigid replied, “but Una is convinced that my hems are uneven even though she has checked the length every day this week. The dress is beautiful, though. I can never thank you enough for helping me with making all those decisions.”
“Your first ball is always remarkable,” Aileen said, “and the dress should be special as well.”
“I’m sure it will be,” Brigid said as the second course of breakfast appeared before her. She fell to it determinedly, trying not to think of how stilted things seemed. It was always like this. Her father insisted on eating breakfast and dinner with his ‘ladies’, occasionally joined by Brigid’s half-brother Donaugh. Thinking of him prompted Brigid to ask, “Where is Donaugh?”
“He left this morning,” Aileen replied, “at dawn. No doubt he’s down at the Ranger Station, bothering them for stories or training.”
“No doubt,” Brigid agreed, clearly being a Ranger was ‘lordly’ for Donaugh where as Brigid, who had also considered trying for a coveted apprenticeship, had been bluntly discouraged by her father and stepmother.
After the awkward meal finally ended, Brigid fled to the stillroom, and a set of lessons that would have brought down the wrath of her father if he had ever known the truth. Brigid was not learning herbs and healing from a wise woman, no, she was learning magic from a home practitioner.
Brigid’s mother Caitria had been a practitioner of magic, specializing in defensive spells and wardings. As Lady of the Keep, Caitria had used her skills to ensure that the three villages bound to the Keep were well protected. When Brigid was five, the villages had been attacked by brigands under the command of a magic practitioner strong enough to snap her wards and defenses, and evil enough to do so in a manner that had created a cascading backlash that had killed Caitria instantly.
After that day, Tiernan had decreed that magic was banned within the keep. His ban included teaching any children born with the practitioner’s arts. For most of the children, that was not a problem. The few born to the Art were weak, able to teach what the wise woman, Ide, could teach them but little more. They did their training in the villages and lived away from the keep’s shadow, content. For Brigid, born with her mother’s legacy, this was more problematic. She had not evidenced any skill as a practitioner of magic until she was twelve, but when she did, it arrived with a vengeance. Only Ide and Murna’s quick intervention had k
ept her from revealing the forbidden magic to her father.
Four years later, Brigid had nearly reached the limits of what Ide could teach her, and her skills as a practitioner were still growing stronger. “Ide?” She called as she opened the door to the stillroom.
The door to the stillroom was old and they couldn’t lock it, but by pushing the door shut firmly, it would stick if anyone tried to open it giving them enough warning to change to a lesson in herbs. “Brigid,” Ide said, stepping out from beyond the shelves of dried herbs. “How are you?”
“I am well,” Brigid said with a slight bow.
“I have been looking over some of the older stores,” Ide announced. “I believe that we shall spend time going through the baskets and discarding the oldest herbs that have lost all of their potency.”
Brigid thought of the deep storeroom attached to the stillroom and nodded obediently. “Where do we begin?” She asked.
“In the farthest rows,” Ide replied and pointed at the lantern on the table. “Bring the light.”
Brigid picked up the lamp and cast a final look over the actual stillroom, with its long counters for mixing medicines and the shelves for completed batches. Then she followed Ide past those shelves to the stairs that led to the underground storeroom where the herbs were kept until they were needed. The room was large and smelled of herbs so strongly that Brigid coughed for a moment. It did not take long for the scent to fade, as Brigid had been in and out of the room for years and had gotten used to the smell. In fact, she rather liked it, if only because Aileen never went down to the stillroom at all if she could help it. The few times she had come, it had been clear that she found the smells overwhelming.
Ide led Brigid to the farthest part of the storage room, where a barrel and a stack of empty baskets were waiting for them beside the long worktable that bisected the entire room. “Take a full basket and an empty one to the table. Put the herbs that are still good in the empty basket and toss the bad ones.” Ide gestured to the barrel at the end of the table.
Brigid nodded, “I remember,” she said and let a few sparks of magic drift from her hand as she put the lamp on the table. The spell to determine if the herbs were still good was basic magic, stuff that actually did not look like magic to the untrained eye, and easy to do.
Brigid took a basket from the top shelf and settled at the table to begin working. Ide brought a basket and sat down across from her. They worked in silence, only the occasional green flash of light or pop as Brigid’s control slipped punctuated the stillness.
“Being a practitioner of magic,” Ide said suddenly, “is to hold a great responsibility. Some people forget that, others fail to understand it from the beginning. These people often become lazy or cruel, using their abilities to force others into serving them. The worst of them will often claim untrained or half-trained children as ‘apprentices’. While they will appear to be teaching magic, the practitioner will often drain the children of their magic. Done right, a child can be drained of his magic for weeks with no appreciable signs. With proper care, it is possible that the child will keep their magic if the drain has ended before a year has passed. It is the duty of a true practitioner to destroy such people before they can cause irreparable harm. It is never easy, and if left too long, the cruel one will turn to full Darkness and use magic tainted by blood, fear and pain. Such a Dark Practitioner can only be dealt with by a full covenant of experienced practitioners and even then, there will be casualties.”
“But why would anyone want to do that?” Brigid asked, sick at just the thought.
“Some people are born with a craving for blood, fear and pain,” Ide said, “no one I know has ever explained why. Others are twisted to that wanting. They might start out as good people, but the road to Darkness is a slippery slope and it is never easy to climb out once one has begun to fall. That is why you must not use the word never in a vow. You may think or say now that you will never fall to Darkness, but it is all too possible that such a thing will happen to you. If you are captured by a Dark Practitioner, it would be a game to them, to see if they can twist your hopes for rescue or redemption into a dark reflection that bears little resemblance to the concepts as they began.”
Brigid shook her head, unable to imagine ever wanting to hurt others for power or money. She reached into her basket and realized it was empty. She dropped the basket with a few other baskets, all of them filled with the remnants of the herbs they had once protected. Then she got up and fetched a new basket. As she sat back down, Ide began again, “Practitioners of magic often spend their lives in service to a group of villages, but just as often they become advisors to the nobility.”
Brigid let Ide’s words wash over her, it was not the first time she had heard this lecture and she doubted it would be the last. The role of the Practitioner was one that even the Priests to the Lord and Priestesses to the Lady would not envy. Often poor, they were either regarded with fear and suspicion because of their magic or taken for granted by the people they protected. Even among the nobility, Practitioners were regarded as entertainers more often than not, called upon to perform at balls and parties.
Very few Practitioners were able to use their magic in exactly the way they wanted and most of those who did were teachers. Although the usual way was for a Practitioner to teach the children in their village who could learn, there were a few, very few, schools. Brigid knew that Ide wanted her to go to one of those schools, but for Brigid to go; her father would have to learn about her magic.
It was not usual for Brigid to admit to fear of any kind, but the idea of Tiernan’s reaction to her magic terrified her.
After her lessons, Brigid hurried upstairs to prepare for her coming of age ball. It had been in the works for months, and had become one of the few persistent topics around the keep. Brigid secretly planned to consider the ball the last day of her old life, soon enough she would tell her father about the magic and ask for additional training at one of the schools. It terrified her, but Brigid knew she had to ask.
Murna was waiting for Brigid with five other women, prepared to bathe, dress and prepare her for the ball.
Brigid had thought she was prepared for the preparation for the ball, but she had not really understood how much would have to be done. There was the bath, then her hair was pulled, tugged, and pinned, and finally she was ensconced in the blue and silver gown that had been made especially for the dance.
As Murna led Brigid to the mirror, she gasped, “Oh Murna,” she breathed.
“You look like your mother,” Murna replied.
Brigid reached out and gripped her maid’s hand, fighting tears, “I cannot express how this makes me feel.”
“I can see it in your eyes,” Murna said. “Now, it is time for your feast.”
The feast, despite the cooks’ wailing and panic, had been wonderful, with no major mishaps and the guests had all be pleasant. Now it was time for the ball. Brigid followed her father and stepfather, escorted by her half-brother Donaugh. “Nervous,” Donaugh whispered as they entered the ballroom.
“Do I look nervous?” Brigid replied before smiling at some old man they walked past.
“Not really,” Donaugh replied.
Lord Tiernan led Aileen to her chair on the dais and then turned to Brigid, “Are you ready?” He asked quietly as he extended his arm and Donaugh stepped away.
“No,” Brigid replied, taking his arm.
Tiernan laughed and led her out into the middle of the floor as everyone lined the edges to watch the opening dance. Brigid stepped into her place across from her father and he smiled down at her, “You look so much like your mother.”
Brigid blushed and smoothed her skirt while Tiernan signaled the musicians. They stepped towards each other and began the dance. As she followed her father’s lead, Brigid could imagine seeing all the ghosts of her ancestors joining them. Then she focused on the here and now because sometimes her illusions wer
e not always under her control. “You’re an excellent dancer,” she told her father.
“I’ve practiced this dance from the day you were born,” Tiernan replied.
Brigid blushed again, but smiled at her father, “I’ve been practicing since the first day you hired a dance master.”
“You learned your steps well,” Tiernan said, “I’d say you have my talent at dancing.”
“Really?” Brigid asked.
“Really,” Tiernan replied, “your mother couldn’t dance at all.”
Brigid grinned, “I have those days.” They stepped apart, swirled, and turned back to each other. “Is this a good time to thank you for letting me have my lessons?”
“You have excelled at every lesson your mother and stepmother wanted you to have,” Tiernan said, “allowing you some freedom to learn what you would is the least I could do.”
Brigid nodded as the dance ended and they bowed to each other. Tiernan turned to the crowd around them, “Lords and Ladies,” he said in a ringing voice, “my daughter, the Lady Brigid.”
The sight of nearly a hundred people bowing to her was a heady feeling. Brigid drew her skirt out and curtsied in response. Then Tiernan drew away from her, and an older man stepped forward. Brigid recognized her father’s friend, Lord Ailin as he offered his hand, “May I have this dance, my lady.”
“I would be honored my lord,” Brigid replied, taking his hand.
This second dance was as ritualized as the first, and they were joined by dancers in a slow build up to the third dance, which Ailin bowed out of and a young man took his place. “Lady Brigid,” he said with a bow.
“You have the advantage,” Brigid said, “I do not know who you are.”
“Mihangel,” the man replied, “my name is Mihangel and a beauty such as you has every advantage.”
“Lord Mihangel,” Brigid said, blushing under his gaze. She took his hand and they joined the younger or more athletic guests in the spins, dips and tosses required.
After the dance, Brigid found herself almost leaning on Mihangel as she struggled to catch her breath. “Thank you,” Mihangel said, “another dance, my lady?”
The music started up, and Brigid started to nod when a loud cracking sound made her look up. It seemed to take forever for her to look at the great chandelier above the floor, lit by candles. A second crack and Brigid looked up at the beam above it. The beam was breaking. “No,” she whispered, realizing that everyone was staring as she was. “Move,” she shouted, shoving Mihangel, “get out of the way.”
It was too little, too late, the chandelier gave way before people had begun to move. Brigid took a deep breath, and made her choice. Her power surged at her mental summons and she flung her hand up, freezing the chandelier above her. The magic swirled around her, no doubt flaring visible as it did when she used raw power over a spell. She had been told it was silver and rose, her favorite colors anyway, but that was not her focus. She had to hold the chandelier until everyone was clear.
“Brigid.”
She stiffened at her father voice, but focused on the spell.
“Brigid, it’s ok. You can set the chandelier down in front of you.”
Brigid blinked and realized that people had pulled back and she carefully, very carefully, drifted it forward and down. Once it was settled, she let the power go, grounding it easily. Her hand was shaking, she realized as she stood there. “Father,” she said quietly, turning to look at him.
Tiernan stared at her with a pained look in his eyes, “How long,” he asked.
“Since I was twelve,” Brigid replied.
“Ide?” Tiernan guessed.
“Yes,” Brigid said.
Tiernan nodded, “She’s a good basic teacher.” He sighed, “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He glanced up, “I think we’ll have to end the evening.”
Brigid bowed her head, “Yes, Father.”
“Brigid,” Tiernan said, “you did well.” He slid an arm over her shoulder and signaled someone. Brigid half listened as Tiernan ordered rooms prepared for the guests and then began to express apologies to everyone about the abrupt end to the evening.
While everyone left the ballroom, Brigid sat, uneasily, on the step onto the dais, wrapping her arms around her stomach and trying her hardest not to shiver noticeably.
Jo Grix
Return to beginning
