Narre, however, wasn’t ready to return to class. She shouted into the hallway, “If you were depending on a fourteen-year-old to get you elected, you probably didn’t deserve the position in the first place!”
The sound of the door slamming reverberated through the classroom, but a moment later it opened again. Narre’s voice was even louder this time. “Maybe next time you’re running for office, you can tell the story of how the great Tavina healed your paper cut!”
This time, when her classmates broke into laughter, Tavi joined them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Many people assume sun-blessed students have fewer troubles than ordinary adolescents. This is, of course, preposterous. These are still young men and women, navigating the waters of pre-adulthood. They struggle to understand life and its utter lack of fairness. Magic provides no protection against disappointment.
-From Training Sun-Blessed Students by Ellea Kariana
Spring continued to offer Oren the gift of delightfully mild weather, as if she wanted to erase the memory of Old Man Winter’s aggression. Tavi marveled at the town’s general atmosphere of cheer and optimism. Even Mayor Nolin’s scowls and her father’s disregard didn’t bother her too much.
Tullen had returned home after the new year celebration at the beginning of spring, and he was again visiting a few days at a time. He still trained Tavi often and sometimes took her on short hunts. When Narre and Sall came over, the four of them spent beautiful afternoons together, exploring the forest and their magic.
At the end of spring, Narre celebrated her fourteenth birthday. The next day, she pulled Tavi to a quiet corner of the schoolyard and confided that Sall’s gift to her had been a kiss—their first.
“Finally!” Tavi exclaimed. Anticipation of The First Kiss had consumed Narre for weeks. Unsure if Sall’s delay had been due to an overabundance of shyness or self-control, Narre had been unwilling to initiate a kiss. That meant Tavi had been subject to innumerable conversations on the topic.
“What was it like?” Tavi asked.
Narre took a moment to think about that. “Nice . . . and kind of clumsy,” she concluded.
Tavi laughed. “I’m sure it’ll get better.” That was all the advice she had; she had no kissing experience of her own—except kissing her mother goodnight, and surely that didn’t count.
Spring exited gracefully when summer arrived. Sunny weather was interspersed with occasional showers. Tullen celebrated his eighteenth birthday in the Meadow. A few days later when he visited Oren, Tavi and Misty surprised him with a celebratory dinner they had prepared, complete with roasted antlerfruit. Sall and Narre were in attendance, along with Tavi’s family, except her father. Tullen couldn’t stop smiling.
Tavi’s fifteenth birthday was several weeks later, during the summer break from school. Tullen planned his weekly trip accordingly, and the four of them spent the day roaming the forest, playing games, and drinking great quantities of fresh lemonade. It was perfect.
As summer dragged on, both school and training felt like drudgery. The classrooms were hot despite open windows, and each day Tavi counted the hours until she could go home. She hoped each day to find Tullen waiting, but an entire week went by without him coming. Tavi felt concern, but she knew he occasionally needed to delay a trip.
When the next week of school passed without Tullen’s arrival, Tavi was truly worried. But as she and Misty began their weekend with a late breakfast, Tullen appeared in the open kitchen doorway.
“Tullen!” Tavi cried, standing up and greeting him with a hug. “Where have you been?”
His smile was wobbly. “I couldn’t make it until today.”
“There are plenty of biscuits,” Misty said. “Have a seat.”
Tullen complied, and as they ate, Tavi and Misty updated him on various minor happenings he’d missed. After a few minutes, Tavi observed, “You’re quiet today.”
Again, that uneasy grin. “I have a lot on my mind.” He looked toward the door. “Can we go into the forest, Tavi?”
Tavi looked at the unfinished biscuit on his plate, and her eyebrows furrowed. “Sure,” she agreed. Tullen stood and hurried outside, leaving his plate on the table instead of taking it to the sink. And right then, Tavi knew.
They walked silently to the place they called “our clearing,” and Tullen gestured for Tavi to sit. She remained standing.
“You’re leaving,” Tavi stated.
Tullen’s eyes met hers. “Yes,” he replied.
Weary in the thick summer air, Tavi sat where she was. Tullen sat across from her. “Why?” she asked.
Tullen let out a long sigh. “I’m an adult, and more is expected of me,” he said. “The elders want me closer to home. They want me to hunt more, and ‘participate in Meadow society.’ That’s how they worded it. And . . .” He stopped, shaking his head and looking down.
“And what?” Her voice was quiet, tight.
“It’s not important.”
“But it is.”
He met her gaze again. “They have . . . other concerns.”
Tavi let the silence linger before prompting, “Tullen.”
“It’s not important,” he repeated.
“They’re concerned about us, aren’t they?” she asked. “All your friends who have the audacity not to be Meadow Dwellers.”
Tullen closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “The elders believe I’ve been too influenced by—the outside world.”
Tavi wanted to laugh or cry at the stupidity of that, but she didn’t have the energy. Instead she watched Tullen. His shoulders were broad, and his feet were big, but he was still gangly. Sitting with his legs folded, he looked like a boy trying to fill up a man’s body, trying to fit into a man’s life. His normal confidence was depleted, and in his hunched shoulders, Tavi thought she saw the struggle he must have had during the previous days.
“Do you agree with the elders?” Tavi asked.
Eyes cast down again, Tullen took a deep breath, but it had a hitch in it. He tried again, with the same result. Finally, he spoke one word, in a shaky voice. “No.” Two more of those labored breaths, and five more words. “But my family is there.”
Tavi nodded, though it required unexpected effort to do so. “It’s your home,” she said.
Tullen looked at her with shining eyes. “It’s my home,” he agreed.
Then he was crying, with hoarse sobs she hadn’t ever heard from him, and shaking shoulders. And as he had done for her, on a day so long ago they had surely been mere children, Tavi sat next to Tullen, put her arm around him, and let him cry into her shoulder.
There were more words, but nothing new was said. Tullen gave Tavi a hand-drawn map showing two routes to the Meadow. “For emergencies,” he said. Tavi placed it in her pocket and kept her hand over it.
At last, they stood. Tullen’s eyes were puffy, and Tavi wished she had given him the same gift of tears he had given her. But she had known this would come—she had known, and she was allowing the reality of it to settle into the grooves of expectation she had carved into her heart.
“I must go back,” Tullen said. “They didn’t want me to come, but—I had to. Now I must go.”
Tavi nodded. “I know you have to go.” She referenced more than his immediate exit, and she hoped he understood.
She opened her arms, and he walked into them. He rested his chin on top of her head, and she pressed her ear against his heart. They stood there a long time, and when Tavi pulled back, it hadn’t been long enough.
But Tullen gave a little wave, and with a smile that nearly reached his eyes, he breathed, “Goodbye, Tavi of the Town.”
And he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Cormina Council is necessary. But I find myself asking, is it a necessary good or a necessary evil?
-From Small-Town Cormina: A Midwife’s Reflections by Ellea Kariana
“He won’t be happy to see me,” Konner said.
Camalyn’s eyes sli
d his way. “You’ve said that at least three times since we got in this carriage.”
“I simply want you to be prepared,” Konner insisted. “He and I are not on good terms.”
“It’s not as if he’d send me home after he invited me here,” Camalyn replied.
Konner dropped the subject. “Put on your scarf. We’re almost there.”
A groan exited Camalyn’s mouth as she wrapped the heavy scarf around her head and the lower half of her face. Moments later, the carriage came to a stop in front of a grand house. A waiting servant opened the carriage door and helped Camalyn out. When he saw her companion, he raised his eyebrows in polite disdain. Konner stepped out and gave Camalyn a pointed look. Even the servant knows I’m not welcome here.
Konner had been glad to hear Camalyn had been invited to a councillor’s house—the second such recent invitation she’d received—and that she had finagled an additional invitation for her “good friend.” But when she had told Konner that the hospitable councillor was Mola Ronson, the banker’s enthusiasm had cooled.
For years, Konner had kept a close eye on the council, gathering useful information about its members. He knew, of course, who was in debt, but also which members were cheating on their spouses or lying to their business partners. And he knew who relied on illicit substances to cope—such as Mola Ronson, who battled an addiction to lijani powder. Perhaps “battled” wasn’t the correct word. Lijani had won this fight, and Mola was just trying to ensure his secret did not escape. He kept his hair long to conceal his telltale red ears.
A year earlier, Konner had seen Ronson on the street. Because of the positions each held, they knew each other by sight and had stopped to shake hands. Konner had taken the opportunity to lean in close and murmur, “Really, Ronson, lijani? That stuff will kill you.”
And then Konner had discovered that Mola was at that moment under the influence of “that stuff.” The esteemed councillor was not a pleasant addict. His whole face had turned purple, and he had spent the next five minutes screaming against the injustice of Konner’s lies. Since then, the politician had not only avoided the banker; he had actively spoken against him in private.
Konner had good reason to believe this meeting would not go well. But the servant was waiting at the open door, so Konner smiled and followed Camalyn inside.
Ronson spied Konner and turned to Camalyn with a frown. “This is the friend you mentioned?”
“Yes, this is my good friend, Konner Burrell. Have the two of you met?”
Dinner was delicious and awkward, full of conversations started by Camalyn and continued by no one. She had unwrapped her scarf from the bottom half of her face—Karites were allowed this luxury while eating in private residences. Throughout the meal, Ronson alternated between glaring at Konner and ogling Camalyn. Konner wanted to laugh out loud at the man’s continual shifts in mood. It seems he wants to take a bite of both of us.
After eating, Ronson crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on Konner. The banker smiled and said, “I hear you have the finest collection of tobacco in Savala.” He reached into his suit jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a pipe. Your move.
Ronson flushed and stood more quickly than was necessary, his chair legs squeaking as they slid backward. He was angry, but he was still a gentleman, and he would not turn away a guest. “Shall we retire to my study for drinks?” he asked, directing the question to Camalyn. She beamed at him before standing and wrapping her scarf, leaving only her eyes visible.
In the study, Ronson poured brandy for himself and Konner, Camalyn having declined his offer. They sat in comfortable chairs, and Ronson handed Konner a bag of tobacco, not bringing out his own pipe. Konner smelled the product. It was unimpressive, and he sat it on the table next to him, leaving his pipe in his pocket.
“Camalyn has something to show you,” Konner said. Both men turned to Camalyn, whose tense eyes betrayed the pain associated with her gray magic. Konner gave her a nod, and she unwrapped her scarf.
Ronson gaped at Camalyn. Pointing at her mouth, which was surrounded by a storm of gray light, he asked, “What is that?”
Camalyn pointed at the tobacco next to Konner and asked, “Is it good quality?”
“Average at best.”
Camalyn instructed Ronson, “Bring your guest your best bag of tobacco so he can fill his pipe.”
Ronson walked to his tobacco cabinet, opened it, and stood on a stool. He reached to the back of the top shelf, retrieved a small bag, and brought it to Konner, before sitting.
The room was quiet. Konner packed his pipe, lit it, and took several puffs. He nodded his approval.
As soon as Camalyn released her magic with a sigh, Ronson sat up straight, taut as a bowstring. He looked at the bag of tobacco, then back at Camalyn, who had not replaced her scarf. “Why was your magic gray?”
Konner answered, “Because gray is now the color of power.”
“I don’t know what that means.” All the man’s pride and spite were gone.
So Konner told him. He was careful; this presentation must differ from those he had given to the other Grays. He did not address the council’s inefficacies; that might put the man on the defensive. Instead, he wove together tales of ancient epics and bold ideas for the future, at every turn hinting at how Mola Ronson might be part of that vision.
Ronson was mind-blessed. With his gift active, he could see the weaknesses of others’ arguments. However, he often encountered resistance, which was taken as Sava’s cue that Ronson was attempting to argue on the wrong side—however right it appeared to be. He had gained the trust of the other councillors; they knew his magic was a flawless indicator of which way they should lean in a legislative dilemma. With Ronson’s resistance gone, he would be empowered to argue effectively for any side. Konner painted this picture for the man.
Ronson’s curiosity was escalating to desire. Konner could see it. But the man had questions; they were burning in his eyes. So Konner silenced himself and puffed on his pipe while he waited.
“I wasn’t surprised to see that you are speech-blessed,” Ronson told Camalyn. “I’m certainly not the only one of our colleagues who has guessed it.” Konner glanced at Camalyn; her expression was neutral. They had known her persuasive powers were likely to be questioned by her fellow councillors. Ronson’s attention shifted to Konner. “And what you say is certainly intriguing. I am not sure, however, if I believe it. I would not have expected Camalyn to encounter resistance when she compelled me to give you good tobacco. It was the hospitable thing to do. All I’ve seen at this point is that her magic looks different, not that it operates differently.”
Konner smiled. “I’m sure we can come up with a better demonstration if you will give us leave to discuss this briefly?”
Ronson nodded, and Konner stood, beckoning Camalyn to follow him. They walked behind Ronson’s desk and engaged in a brief, whispered conversation. At the end of it, Camalyn pursed her lips and activated her magic.
Camalyn approached Ronson. In her hand was a long, pointed letter opener, retrieved from the man’s desk. “Mola,” Camalyn said, “take this.” When he had done so, she instructed, “Hold the point of the letter opener against the large blood vessel in your neck. Use your fingers to find your pulse first if you need to.” Camalyn’s calm tone belied her words. When Ronson had obeyed, she said, “Push it into your neck. Gradually push harder, and don’t stop unless I tell you to.”
As calmly as if he were pouring tea or reading the newspaper, Mola Ronson pressed the pointed metal into his skin, increasing the pressure a bit at a time. It was not sharp enough to easily cut him, and Konner resisted the urge to wince as he watched the man’s skin stretching inward, further and further. At last, the metal broke the skin, and Ronson’s eyes widened at the pain, but he continued pushing.
“Stop.” Camalyn’s voice was not loud, but the effect was immediate. Ronson held the tool where it was. A bead of blood made its way down his neck. “Remove the letter opener.”
When he did so, his neck bled freely, and Konner handed his own handkerchief to the man. Camalyn instructed him to press the cloth against his neck.
A moment later, Camalyn’s mouth lost its gray light, and Ronson shook his head to break his stupor. Based on his previous interactions with the man, Konner expected him to explode in rage. But Ronson merely looked at both of them and said, “I’m convinced. And I’m interested.”
So Konner told him more. He explained the violent catalyst necessary for a gray awakening. Mola Ronson was a power-hungry lijani addict, and Konner guessed the man had lost most respect for conventional morality years before. So when he concluded with, “Will you join us?” he was surprised with the councillor’s response.
“Absolutely not.”
Camalyn’s jaw dropped. “But, Mola, you could use gray magic to convince the council to go whatever direction you believe is best. You could forget about the resistance that holds you back. Imagine if you and I were a team. You would see the weaknesses in arguments, and I would—”
Ronson cut her off. “It’s not that. I agree, gray magic is . . . it’s incredible. I want it. But throughout my career, I have made many decisions of which I am not proud. I must draw the line somewhere. I will not murder.”
Konner spoke. “We can find someone who is already dying. It will be a mercy to bring them to Senniet sooner.”
“No.”
“I felt the same way, Mola,” Camalyn said. “But I knew I was ending a life that had already lost all joy. It was hard, but it was worth it.”
“No.”
“Ronson,” Konner said, “Think of what we could do together.”
“I will help you if I can,” Ronson said. “You’re right—our nation is weak, and we need to do something differently. Whatever I can do to be your advocate, let me know. But I cannot kill. Call me naïve, but I still believe in Kovus, and I don’t want to go there when I die.”
Facing the Sun Page 20
