by Beth Alvarez
The herbs were not the only supplies she'd gathered. A number of odd, long seed pods she'd found at the back of the garden proved to yield strong fibers with little work. Sheets of coarse paper made from those fibers now dried on scraps of fabric Minna had let her borrow. A jar of indigo leaves she'd set aside on her first day in the gardens would provide ink, sooner or later, and she understood Daemon's wisdom in saving every feather from the chicken he'd brought her after she cut the largest quills into pens.
But after the first few days of rain, Firal grew bored. Daemon was out traveling, according to Minna's husband. Firal spent several evenings by their hearth while Davan was on leave, using charcoal from the fire to draw letters for Tobias to study. She enjoyed their visits, though she hated the war stories Davan told his son before bed. The captain was a warm and fatherly man and didn't strike Firal as the type that belonged in the army, but the men of Core weren't given a choice. If they were sound of body and mind, they were conscripted.
“Was Daemon conscripted, then?” Firal asked as she helped Minna slice vegetables.
“Oh, no. I suppose you wouldn't know, but he wasn't born of us. He joined us later, so our rules didn't apply.” Minna chuckled and took another sweet potato. She was nimble with her knife, and her comfort with it made Firal envious. “He volunteered. His service has been a blessing to our soldiers. He has a good mind for military work, they say, and a fair hand with a sword. I suppose he learned it all somewhere, but I couldn't tell you where.”
Old suspicions drifted to the forefront of her mind and Firal's brow furrowed with thought. “When did he join you?”
“I was just a child when he came to us. Then again, he wasn't much more than a boy, himself. So it's been a good portion of my life. We ruin-folk don't age like the lot of you. Your magic keeps you young.” Minna grinned, but offered nothing else.
Firal grew quiet. During their travels to Ilmenhith, Daemon had confided only a small piece of his history. She had initially dismissed the claim that he'd been born in the temple and that he came and went from Kirban freely as he grew. Perhaps that dismissal had been unwise. She had assumed coming and going meant spying or sneaking about; his home within the ruins would have made it easy enough. But if he hadn't joined with the Underlings until he was half grown, that made less sense.
Between that, Daemon's Gift, and his hatred for the temple mages, Firal's thoughts grew heavy. The burden stayed with her for days.
More than once, while she awaited Daemon's return so they could resume their lessons, she ventured through the marketplace beside the river. She still hugged the wall of the tower's walkway when she had to traverse the path, but after her numerous visits to the garden alone, her fears had diminished from raw terror to jangling nerves. Reaching the market was less nerve-wracking, and the cheerful babble of the river was always quick to soothe her.
She had nothing to trade or barter with, but observation of the market proved just as fruitful. Coin had little value among a people so desperate for material goods. Daemon had told her as much, but it was different to see it with her own eyes. In one stall, a blacksmith traded a newly-forged chisel for a live chicken. In another, a woman swapped large spools of fine yarn for a small bale of carded wool. The simplicity appeared pleasant, but it added another layer to Firal's distress. With no trade but her magic, what did she have to offer those who could not learn?
At last, an evening came where the rain tapered off and the stars became visible above the chasm in the inverted tower.
When morning broke, Firal was among the first outside, her new papers, quill pens, and ink in tow. After hours of careful cultivation, the plants thrived with little further care. She walked each row and cataloged the garden. There were so many different plants that she couldn't imagine sending someone to retrieve something fresh without offering a guide. Once the name of every plant was listed on its own page, she gathered a number of leaves and flowers for later reference.
The midday sun soon made the heat oppressive, and Firal took shelter under the trees at the back of the garden to continue her work. Resting her papers against her knees, she drew a careful representation of each plant she'd gathered. She had a neat hand, and she couldn't help but imagine her notes about the size and color of each specimen would do Master Nondar proud. The thought came with an unexpected pang of grief, and she stopped writing.
What was she meant to do without her teacher? Without the temple? She still hadn't found a purpose. She enjoyed teaching Daemon, and she enjoyed the garden, but that was what he wished her to do. The notion of continuing north to Ilmenhith still crossed her mind now and then, though she did not know what she would do once she got there. The longer she waited, the less likely it seemed that Ilmenhith's chapter house would aid her, and it wasn't as if she had friends in the capital.
The loss of her friends, too, cut deep. Had she crossed their minds after they'd learned she was expelled? Or had they simply accepted the Archmage's decision and carried on? The memory of all the late nights she'd spent in Kytenia's room with her friends made the ache in her chest sharpen, and Firal squeezed her eyes closed, her pen poised above a half-finished drawing.
“Is that for my benefit?”
The question made her jump and her head jerked upward. Daemon stood above her, his eyes trained on her illustrations.
Firal swept moisture from her eyes before he could see it. “They're for everyone,” she replied, masking her sniff with an air of loftiness she hoped was convincing. “You, however, will be learning healing. Should you ever come for lessons, that is.”
He made a small sound of uncertainty. “That does seem to be the one thing I just can't do.”
“Attend your lessons like you ought?” She raised a brow.
“Healing.” The look he gave her was so stern and reprimanding, even with his mask, that she couldn't help but laugh. After the burdensome thoughts that had only just been spinning through her head, the levity was welcome. Those worries could be dealt with another time. Preferably when she was alone.
She gave her eyes one more covert swipe, grateful for the distraction his presence offered. “I was only joking. But really, Daemon, you can't expect to make progress when you aren't here. Where have you been?”
“Went to check on my men at the northern edge of the ruins and got waylaid by the rain. I'm trying to avoid using Gates, since you said I shouldn't open them alone.” He eased himself to the ground beside her and glanced up when the breeze sent a cascade of white trumpet flowers from the trees to the ground.
Firal pointed at them with the tip of her quill. “Do you know what those are? I've never seen flowers like those on a tree before. They grow the oddest fruits—something like a bean. They're not edible from what I can tell, but they make nice enough paper.”
Daemon plucked a flower from the grass and turned it between his claws. “Serpent's-tongue. Not good for a whole lot, like you said, but pretty to look at, I suppose.” He leaned forward and tucked the blossom into her hair. She blinked in surprise. He didn't seem to notice. “I know we haven't discussed it any more since I first mentioned it, but I wondered if you'd given any thought to what I said about becoming Core's medic.”
“It has crossed my mind.” She brushed her fingertips against the ruffled edges of the flower and blushed. The heat in her cheeks was difficult to ignore. “I am... open to the idea. For now. I think I'd need more supplies, though.”
“What sort of supplies?” He propped his hands in the grass behind him and leaned back. “I can try to find some, as long as it's nothing outrageous.”
“Nothing outrageous at all, just the necessities for an infirmary. A table big enough to lay patients on, a few more chairs, shelves for my medicines, that sort of thing.”
“I don't think you realize what a commodity furniture is.” Daemon eyed her in a disapproving way, the sort of look that always gave her the impression of a frown. “But I'll see what I can find.”
“Thank you. I’ll need t
ools and linens, as well.” Firal smiled apologetically when his shoulders twitched. She shifted her skirts around her legs and held out her drawings and notes. “Do you have time for a lesson?”
He shook his head as he got up. “Not if I'm to find all the things you need.”
“Do you want me to write you a list?”
“You could always just come to the market with me,” he suggested. “Maybe you could squeeze in that lesson on the way.”
“It'd probably be best for me to sort things at home, first,” she said thoughtfully. “I'll have to make room for everything. I suppose the furniture doesn't need to be precisely what I'm used to. I'll make do with what I can.”
“How very generous of you.” He rolled his eyes and offered her a hand. When she took it, he pulled her to her feet and gestured for her to lead the way.
Firal sorted her papers and tucked her quill behind her other ear, opposite the flower. “The linens and tools, however, cannot be compromised on. I'll definitely make a list for those. After all, if you want me to be a proper medic, I must work under proper conditions.”
His eyes narrowed with a grimace behind his mask and for a moment, she couldn't help but wonder at how skilled she'd become at discerning his expressions without ever seeing his face.
“I'll see what I can find,” he repeated, noncommittally.
“And when you bring me whatever you find, we should squeeze in a lesson,” Firal added as she put her papers into her bag and gave a helpless shrug. “You're good with fire and wind and not a lick else. How do you think you'll improve without practice?”
Daemon mimicked her shrug. “I'll wake up one day and be blessed.”
They descended the first few rings of the spiral path. The sound of the rushing river filled the air, and Firal breathed deeper. The underground was pleasantly cool today, though she sometimes found it on the chilly side. Mists floated from the waterfall, scenting the gentle breeze. The smell of the water was as refreshing as the seemingly perpetual updraft that floated through the inverted tower.
“I think we'll both agree that's highly unlikely.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She resisted.
It was easy to smile around Daemon. He was a different person in Core. She had noticed the change in his demeanor shortly after her arrival, but hadn't been able to determine why it was different, other than that he was simply at ease. He was calmer, slower to frustrate. His increased patience had made their lessons more enjoyable, and she had to admit she found his sarcastic humor enjoyable, too.
Then there was kindness. That one had been a surprise. Firal mulled it over as he moved ahead and bounded up the shallow stairs beside the river. Children played in the water above the small, misty fall. One boy sat on the rocks, cradling a scraped knee. Daemon crouched beside him at the river's edge.
“Found a good lesson, have you?” Firal pushed up her sleeves as she joined them.
Daemon eyed the injury. “I thought you could—”
“Don't be silly.” She knelt beside the two of them and slid her satchel to the ground before she reached for Daemon's hand. His scales still felt odd beneath her fingertips, but she'd grown used to them. Or at least, they didn't frighten her anymore. She moved his hand to the child's knee and stroked the length of Daemon's fingers before she let go. Their texture reminded her of leather, softer than the coarse, sharp-edged and unpleasant quality she'd first expected.
The boy stared at Firal with wide eyes. She couldn't help a small sense of amusement. Between the two of them, she still thought Daemon was the odd one. But he was part of these people, whereas she was a newcomer. Perhaps she was the stranger sight.
“Do you remember?” she asked, forcing her thoughts back to the opportunity at hand. “Healing is connected to life. Breathe deep. Feel the ebb and flow of energy within his body. Then see if you can sense the injury.”
Daemon's breath caught, but he bit back whatever protest he'd had ready. He closed his eyes and Firal opened her senses in hopes she would feel him at work.
The child's life, like all the others in the underground, glowed in her mind's eye. She felt them on a deeper level, too—something she had never been able to capture in words. They glowed in her senses with a suffuse warmth that touched her very spirit. It was subtle, but still there, like the heat of a flickering candle as she held a hand over the flame.
Injuries, too, hovered within her awareness. The boy's knee, minor as the scrape was, cast the tiniest shadow over the light of his essence. To draw the rest of his energy together and overwhelm it would have taken nothing, but this was not her task. Instead, she searched for Daemon.
He glowed in her senses too, though in a different way. His Gift hummed on the edge of her awareness, like a muted voice from another room. That had always struck her as odd. In the temple, the countless mages around her had borne a clear, bright presence. All she could suppose was that the muddied sensations that surrounded his Gift had something to do with the murky taint in his power. That was something she didn't need to feel clearly to identify.
When they'd first met, she'd thought the strangeness she sensed in his power had something to do with his being a wild mage. It was not until they had resumed lessons in Core—where she'd been able to devote her full attention to them—that she realized that hint of wrongness was what had anchored itself to his physical being, twisted him into something that never should have been. She pitied him every time she felt it. But if it was that taint he wanted to overcome, she suspected learning to connect himself to the life force of others was a necessity.
Daemon's low growl of frustration broke into her thoughts. She blinked and willed her eyes to refocus.
“How do you do this?” he asked, exasperated. “It's like trying to hold on to soap with wet fingers.” The hum of his magic slid closer, enveloped the boy's presence, and then slipped away without a change.
“Slow down.” Firal touched his hand again.
His eyes snapped to her face. Their light flickered behind his mask.
“You shouldn't be holding anything,” she said. “It's more of a pulling, or a gentle push. No holding of anything. You're powerful, but there are some things you can't force.”
A small grunt escaped him, but he closed his eyes and tried again. His power, still tingling on the edge of her awareness, increased until it burned like an itch in the front of her mind. It tugged at the small shadow that blotted a fragment of the boy's existence, coaxed the edges of wellness to envelop it. The delicate flows of life—the power that ruled over healing—started to move. Then, without warning, they snapped back and escaped his control.
Daemon gritted his teeth and tossed up his hands in defeat.
Having learned how far to push, Firal ended it there. She swept a hand over the boy's knee and a small swell of her power flowed into the injury. The skin wove itself back together, mended without so much as a mark left behind. The boy's mouth fell open as wide as his eyes had been through the whole encounter.
“I can't,” Daemon said with heat in his voice.
She shrugged. “Then we move on to something you can do. But don't give up, Daemon, please. Healing is my affinity. I would be a laughable teacher if I couldn't even teach you effective methods for healing.”
A wistful shadow dulled his eyes. He turned his head and watched as the boy leaped up and ran to rejoin his friends. “Maybe.”
For a moment, she pitied him. There was something charming in his disappointment, though, and the way his shoulders sagged as he watched the child leave betrayed a deeper desire she hadn't realized she understood. It wasn't just control over his power he wanted. The desire to use that power to aid his people burned bright inside him, and she sensed that he saw every misstep as a failure that tried to snuff that flame.
Drawing her fingertips over the wet stones beneath her, she gathered her thoughts. Slowly, she seized control of the water under her hand. It answered her call and she shaped it into a long ribbon. He couldn't be
allowed to wallow in self-pity.
Her hand snapped up and the strand of water whipped against his mask.
A shout of pure indignation burst from his throat and he scrambled to his feet.
Firal laughed and stood, too. “You should have sensed that coming. Didn't you feel it?”
The violet glow in the eye slits of his mask brightened and shifted toward red. His right hand moved over the water, his fingers spread.
She mirrored his movements, seizing the water again. It coiled around her ankles like a snake before it lashed at him again. The rope of water struck an invisible barrier and shattered into a thousand droplets. Her mouth fell open. She thought he'd reached for the water. He'd reached for the air.
Before she could compose herself, he retreated into the water. The river swirled around his legs, no more than ankle deep, but it would have to be enough. He spread his hands again. She braced for wind and reached for the water at the same time. It surged up around his legs to hold him fast as she scooped spheres from its rippling surface.
No wind came. Instead, thick snakes of water rose from the river beside her, twisting around her waist and dragging her from the river's edge. She squealed with laughter as she stumbled over the stones, her wet skirts clinging to her legs.
The children stopped playing and clustered at the river's edge. Adults soon followed. Firal scooped up more spheres of water, but instead of throwing them at Daemon, she tossed them into the air. They caught on a net of air she wove beneath them, bobbing as the wind rippled and flowed along the river's bed. She'd never noticed the similarity between the two elements before. All energy flowed in channels, but air and water flowed the same way, adhering to known paths. They weren't like the erratic nature of fire or the static nature of earth.
And life, too, ebbed and flowed like a tide.
That's it. She suppressed a grin as she gathered more spheres and tossed them aloft. If he could catch the flow of wind and water, he could grasp healing the same way.
