Tavi couldn’t help but giggle. When she stopped, she had nothing to say, and she took the lace from Reba, holding it up to the dress without really looking at it.
Reba broke the silence. “You know, it will happen to you soon! Well, maybe not soon, but . . . eventually.”
“I know it will,” Tavi said. “I’m really happy for you, Reba. I like the white lace. I’d better get home.”
As Tavi walked, she couldn’t shake the feeling she had just left the house of a stranger, rather than a friend.
Six weeks later, Tavi was pulled aside by an excited Narre, who confided that she, too, had started her cycle, two days before her twelfth birthday. Tavi tried to sound genuine when she told her cousin how happy she was for her.
Lunchtime at school became an irritating affair. The three girls and Sall sat under a tree each day as usual, to eat and talk. Now, however, Reba frequently leaned over to Narre to hold whispered conversations which ended in Narre blushing and both girls giggling.
After two weeks of this, Sall found another tree to sit under with his lunch, giving an excuse about a book he wanted to read. With Sall gone, the two girls (for Tavi could not think of them as women yet) no longer whispered. Instead, Reba initiated conversations about topics Tavi did not want to hear about—boys, dress patterns, gossip about other girls, and the impending awakenings of herself and Narre.
Tavi felt as useless as a hen who has stopped laying eggs. After two days, she joined Sall at his new lunch spot.
“Too much whispering for you, too?” Sall asked.
“They stopped that. Now they talk as if I’m not even there,” Tavi said. “The topics are all either embarrassing or ridiculous.”
“What is going on with them?” Sall asked. “They both seem so different.”
Tavi shook her head. Sall had only brothers, and he seemed unaware of the girls changing before his eyes. “They’re just determined to grow up,” Tavi said.
The four of them still walked home together, but Reba and Narre’s silly lunchtime conversations invariably intruded into their afternoon walks. At those times, Tavi and Sall slowed their steps, allowing the chatty girls to walk ahead.
Tavi supposed it was nice to walk with Sall, but it wasn’t the same. She wanted things back to the way they’d always been. But every time she saw Narre laughing with Reba, jealousy inserted itself into Tavi’s chest, a heavy ache she couldn’t seem to banish.
One afternoon when Tavi and Sall had fallen several feet behind the other girls, Reba abruptly stopped. “Look!” she said. “That mama bird is feeding her babies!”
They all looked in the direction she was pointing. Sall squinted. “Where?” he asked.
“In that big oak tree! See?”
No one spoke, and then everyone did. “The oak tree across that field?” “How in the world can you see that?” And, finally, from Narre, “Your eyes are glowing! You’re awakening!”
Then Narre and Reba were running up and down the road, Narre asking Reba to identify faraway objects, while Tavi and Sall stood several feet away, watching.
Tavi felt very small and very young. She turned to Sall. “They sure aren’t acting like women now, are they?” He didn’t seem to know how to respond.
During the following days, Reba talked of little other than her awakening, and Tavi avoided her. Narre didn’t seem to know which of her friends to spend time with, and she made circuits between them.
Two weeks later, the four friends sat at school, writing essays. One of their classmates walked through the room, searching for someone who would loan her a pencil. Narre told the girl, “I’ll break mine for you, but you’ll have to sharpen it.”
Tavi watched as Narre snapped the pencil in two, her hands glowing briefly. All sun-blessed children were used to experiencing a warm glow at times of contentment or relaxation. Narre seemed to take little notice of it as she handed one pencil half to her classmate.
“How did you do that?” Sall asked from behind Narre, tapping her shoulder.
“Do what?”
Sall pointed to Narre’s desk. “Look at the pencil you broke.”
Narre picked it up. It was broken so smoothly that the end looked as if it had been cut by a sharp saw. Her face took on a look of awe. She closed her eyes and took two slow, deep breaths, and when her hands glowed again, she opened her eyes and picked up her half-pencil. This time, she put almost no force into the motion of her hands.
Snap. She now had two small pencils in her hands, perfect halves.
Narre’s touch-blessed hands could break things, easily and precisely.
Tavi sat two rows back and wiped a tear from her cheek.
Now that Reba and Narre were attending full training every afternoon at the midwife house, Tavi and Sall’s weekly classes were held with a younger cohort of students. Tavi found it humiliating.
Several weeks passed. During training one day in late spring, Ellea brought her Dreamers upstairs to observe the awakened trainees practicing their gifts. Tavi was envious of them, but she was also enthralled.
One boy’s bare feet glowed as he jumped all the way across the large room in a single bound, flipping in the air as he went. A mind-blessed girl asked a Dreamer to give her a word, and then the girl used that word in a perfect, complex poem, composed on the spot. And Tavi’s mouth dropped open when she watched Narre’s glowing hands break pieces off a rock, first large chunks and then smaller bits, until she held a smooth, heavy orb.
Tavi turned toward Sall to share her amazement with him, but the words didn’t come out, because she was so surprised at what she saw. She wasn’t looking at Sall’s face; she was looking at his shoulder. She had to lift her chin to see his thin face and shaggy hair.
“Are you taller?” Tavi whispered. It was a silly question; he was clearly several inches taller, and she didn’t know why she hadn’t noticed it before.
“I keep having to buy new pants,” Sall replied with an embarrassed grin.
On their way home, when Sall left Tavi to walk down the path to his house, she watched him. His shoulders were getting broader too.
How had she failed to notice? And how was it that Sall, who had always been the smallest boy in their class, was growing before she was? Tavi had always heard that girls matured faster than boys; her body seemed determined to disprove that idea. For months she had seen small changes in herself, but her body certainly wasn’t in any hurry to develop.
Summer arrived, and Tavi celebrated her thirteenth birthday. It fell during their midsummer break from school, and her mother allowed her to invite Reba, Narre, and Sall to spend the day with her.
Reba’s father’s carriage arrived at Tavi’s house half an hour before the appointed time, but Reba only got out of the carriage for long enough to tell Tavi that she couldn’t stay due to a dress fitting. Tavi mumbled a senseless reply then turned and ran back into the house.
She barely made it to her room before she burst into tears. She indulged her grief, stoking it into anger and resolving to stop referring to Reba as her “best friend.” Somehow, that decision made things worse instead of better.
Misty must have heard her, because she rushed in, asking, “Why are you crying on your birthday?” Tavi calmed herself long enough to tell her sister what had happened.
“I’ll run to town, find Reba, and stab her stupid, gifted eyes with the dressmakers’ pins!” Misty declared. But instead, she took a deep breath and held her sister close, letting her cry as long as she needed.
Tavi had barely dried her tears when Sall arrived. He gave Tavi an awkward hug and said “Happy birthday!” in a voice that could not possibly belong to him. It was deeper and a little scratchy. Sall didn’t quite seem comfortable with it, as if he were trying on his father’s voice and it didn’t fit.
Tavi tried to ignore the seedling of panic growing in her chest. Her friendship with Reba was obviously over. And since Narre had awakened, Tavi’s friendship with her cousin often felt awkward. Tavi was depending on Sa
ll to keep her from feeling alone. What would she do if he awakened soon?
For a couple of weeks, things seemed fine. Tavi got used to Sall’s lower voice. She convinced herself that perhaps his awakening would be delayed. It was always difficult to predict when a boy would awaken, anyway.
Then there was a subtle shift. Sall began sitting in the back of the room at school, instead of near Tavi. Most days he stayed at school late, and Tavi walked home alone. The route felt too long and too quiet.
Sall was also getting irritable. This wasn’t a new thing; Tavi was used to her friend occasionally coming to school bleary-eyed and cross, unwilling to explain why. Now, however, it was more frequent. He stood and walked away in the middle of a story Tavi was telling, and he snapped at other students and even at the teacher. Tavi grew more and more annoyed.
At lunch one day, Sall was nowhere to be found. Tavi had to search for him for ten minutes before she found him sitting against a tree at the edge of the forest. He had his long, skinny legs pulled up to his chest, his arms around his knees. His face was down, and he was crying.
Tavi sat across from him and reached out to touch his knee. “What’s wrong?”
Sall cried harder. Tavi sat helplessly, and after several minutes, Sall took a few slow breaths. He wiped his face then released his knees and folded his legs in front of him, resting his elbows on them. He began to speak.
“Jahn is terribly worried, all the time. I’m not sure why. Elison is convinced nobody likes her because she talks too much. Lian hates coming to school, hates it in a way I didn’t know anyone hated school. Miss Abana’s heart has recently been broken. Abren is so very lonely underneath her smiles. Korin—”
Tavi interrupted. “How do you know all this?”
Sall’s eyes dropped to the dry soil between him and Tavi. “I see someone or hear them or feel them nearby, and I know.”
Tavi swallowed hard. For the first time, it occurred to her that Sall was wearing a knit cap, had been wearing one every day, even inside. She told herself not to ask, but her rebellious voice spoke. “Did your gift awaken?”
Sall nodded.
“How long ago?”
“Nine days.”
Tavi gasped. “Nine days? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Sall’s broadening shoulders began to shake again, as his tears returned. “I’ve been so overwhelmed,” he gasped between sobs. “I hoped that my mind gift would be a simple increase of intelligence.”
“As if you needed that!”
Sall managed a small laugh, and his crying slowed. “I don’t even think this is a gift.”
Tavi didn’t know how to respond. She wondered if any magic was truly a gift; it seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. “I’m sorry,” she managed.
“I’m sorry,” Sall said. “I’m sorry that you are lonely, and jealous, and that you feel so much pressure.”
Tavi froze.
“I know you hate the unfairness of it all,” Sall continued. “You are so anxious for your awakening, but you’re also deeply frightened—”
“Stop,” Tavi croaked, louder than she intended. Sall looked up at her. She stood, desperately trying not to cry, because tears would prove the truth of all he had just said.
Tavi clenched her fists, turned around, and forced herself to walk rather than run as she returned to the school. She felt the sun lending heat to her dark hair, and she wished the winter had never ended.
Chapter Five
War turns men into heroes,
Women into widows,
And children into orphans.
-From Proverbs of Savala
“Our first nominee is Konner Burrell. Please come forward.”
Konner stepped onto a small platform. He faced a large, horseshoe-shaped table, inside of which was an oversized marble statue of Savala, the first Savani shepherd and the capital city’s namesake. This was the Chamber, the meeting space for the Cormina Council, the center of national government.
Around the table were twenty-seven wood and leather chairs, twenty-six of which were occupied. The empty chair had, until recently, been occupied by a councillor from the city of Savala. She had resigned due to illness. Because annual elections were several months away, the rest of the council would choose her replacement. Konner had been nominated after discreetly letting his interest in the empty seat be known.
Konner’s sonorous voice filled the room as he told the council of his rise from poverty to affluence. “I have found a measure of success as a bank president,” he said. “Now I wish to attain true success through service.”
When he was done speaking, he answered questions from the council, including the inquiry he was dreading. “Are you sun-blessed?”
Konner met the councillor’s gaze. “I am not.” A murmur filled the room, mostly coming from visitors in the balcony gallery.
After a few more questions, Konner was sent back to his seat. The process was repeated with the two other nominees, a touch-blessed man and a hearing-blessed woman, both moderately successful business owners.
Next the public was given the opportunity to speak. The first citizen spoke positively of all three nominees but concluded by saying, “Mr. Burrell seems nice, and I know he’s smart. But I’ve been voting for two decades, and I’ve never voted for someone who doesn’t have magic. Mr. Burrell sounds like a very good banker. He should stick with that.”
All the speakers echoed her sentiment. In the citizens’ minds, all of Konner’s success could not overpower his great failure: his lack of magic. He listened to the ignorant words, and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth.
After an hour of public comments, the matter was put to a vote. The touch-blessed man received eleven votes, and the remaining fifteen went to the woman with the hearing gift. Konner received none—not even from the councillor who had nominated him.
Konner forced himself to sit through the rest of the council meeting, despite his humiliation. They were discussing a bill regarding the expansion of rural plumbing lines. A middle-aged councillor’s mouth glowed golden as she spoke, forming perfect sentences, full of intelligence and passion. The next speaker’s hair shone with the light that emanated from his scalp as he crafted a well-formed argument that somehow managed to agree with everything his colleague had said.
Konner was disgusted. These councillors, each of them gifted, were profoundly weak. He had been determined to bring the council to a position of dominance and supremacy, just as he had done with himself. But the stupid, simple people of Cormina trusted only the Blessed to be their councillors, trusted only them to make good, fair decisions.
At last, the session wrapped up. Konner stood, and something in the gallery caught his eye. Most of the visitors were making their way toward the stairs. But a man and woman in practical, faded clothing stood at the gallery railing, watching the proceedings on the floor.
Konner could not look away from the stout woman and gray-headed man. His parents. He had not seen them in years—his decision, not theirs. Konner’s father lifted his hand in a hesitant wave, and that movement jolted Konner out of his frozen state. He jerked his chin down, breaking eye contact, and rushed to an exit.
Konner entered the bathroom in the hallway and locked the door. He paced in the small space. His parents must have heard of his nomination. How did his father feel, seeing Konner rejected due to his lack of magic? Was the old man ashamed?
The story of his birth filled Konner’s mind. His mother had told him the tale countless times throughout his childhood. She had gone into labor and sent her husband to fetch a midwife. Along the way, he had stopped in a tavern, where one too many refills had landed him on the floor, unconscious. Konner’s mother had given birth by herself, and when her baby had emerged facing the sun, she had walked to the midwife house, bleeding and desperate, carrying her child. Yet it had been too late for a blessing breath. Konner was not gifted, and nothing could change that.
The day after Konner’s birth, his father had retur
ned home and learned the truth. Full of remorse, he had never taken another drink and had desperately tried to make up for his error. But Konner had responded to his father’s every apologetic overture with disdain. No amount of parental solicitude could correct the damage done on that one night.
Konner hated them. He hated his father for leaving his mother on that night forty years earlier, and he hated his mother for not leaving his father every day since.
Splashing water on his face, Konner tried to think of anything but his parents. After a quarter hour in the bathroom, he was calm enough to exit. He walked halfway down the hallway, then stopped to take in the bas-relief carving of Relin the Fierce on the wall. Konner nearly laughed aloud at the irony of that artwork in this location.
As a youth, Konner had devoured every ancient epic he could find. Some of his favorite stories had been of Relin the Fierce, who had led the Corminian army, fighting for the fledgling nation’s very existence. Relin had been one of the world’s last true heroes.
In Relin’s day, magic had been an erratic, though benevolent, force, entering the world whenever it wished. Then Kari and Savala had come along, and magic had been tamed, gifted to certain people at birth. Soon, political power was concentrated in the hands of the gifted. The Blessed.
The Blessed could not wage war using magic; they would encounter resistance. So they had used their gifts to create peace instead. Konner’s world had not known war for centuries. Communities, too, were quite safe. With stride-blessed officers chasing down thieves, sight-blessed investigators who could easily see pertinent evidence, and mind-blessed detectives analyzing that evidence, most people thought twice before breaking the law.
Corminian society was a well-oiled door, swinging open and shut on hinges that never squeaked, always moving but going nowhere. They were missing the vicious vitality that only came with trials, conflict, and unimpeded competition. Humans, Konner believed, were meant to claw their way to power—and if those claws left gashes along the way, so be it. How could the citizens of Cormina look at this carving of Relin and not see what they’d lost?
Facing the Sun Page 4
