The Makers of Light

by Lynna Merrill

  Merley did not fear, now. Perhaps she would fear later, like after that time with Giles. Perhaps a cold hand would creep inside her very being, gripping, twisting, smothering until all flame had died—until all she could feel was terror and coldness, and all she could do was run.

  But she did not fear now.

  Henna clutched her rod and swung, and were this another time, Merley would have ducked. Or, were it yet another, earlier time, she would have endured. Now, she just narrowed her eyes and thought.

  About the Sun she thought—about the blazing wildfire that shot through the sky every day, fire that even Bers could not stop and even Bers yearned for. About fire that burned so strong that it tore the night to rags and scrapped it far beyond the Sunset Lands where no human foot had ever encroached. About fire fiercer than anger and more merciless than hate; fire that would burn for her if she but asked it, if she but thought the thoughts it would hear well, if she but dared sing a song for it.

  Merley had no time for a song, so she screamed instead, and the voice was both her own and alien, echoing with a sharp, devastating beauty along the cobbles and up the tower walls. Henna's hand shook, the rod clanging as it met the cobbles.

  "Witch!"

  Merley laughed. The sounds of doors, other voices and running feet were but a mindless blur around her, as she focused on the only voice that mattered—Henna's voice, usually hard as steel, now trembling like steel suddenly shattered.

  "Witch? I have been called that before. So have many of you here, I am sure. What are you going to do to me, Henna? Burn me? You are late by a year!"

  Henna stood silent, trembling, hands pressed to her temples. With her shoulders hunched she looked thinner somehow, and smaller, her yellow robe hanging from her like a shapeless bag. There was fear in her eyes, and there was hatred, and suddenly Merley did not want to laugh any more.

  Such persevering things, fear and hatred; somehow, they always found a way, even as love and life were so easily broken. She had feared and hated Henna before, and now Henna returned the favor, the result being that in the grand scheme of things—there where the world was but an anthill and both Merley and Henna ants scurrying along their little paths—fear and hatred still existed, had remained. It did not matter who feared and hated whom, after all.

  But that was in the grand scheme of things, an aberrant concept in itself that Merley never shared with others. In the small scheme, here and now, what mattered was that somewhere far a wolf howled, still alive, and Merley found the strength to smile, even though somehow Brighid had appeared beside her.

  "You are free to go, Henna." Brighid's calm, silk-like voice. Slowly, Henna turned away, but behind her another yellow robe lingered; a man, his hands twisted as if to conceal something in his palms. Once again, Merley lashed out without even thinking. He cried out, flames dancing on the sensitive skin between his fingers, a dart rattling on the cobbles before him, another one becoming stuck in his boot. Then, his piercing eyes became mellow, complacent. He nodded to her, but it was as if he were not seeing her at all.

  Potion of Dispassion. His boot's leather must have been thin. A night's diluted dose only kept you constantly docile, but the doze concentrated in a dart ruined your mind for several hours.

  Like, twenty-six days ago, they had ruined hers.

  Adept Brighid raised a hand to stop the other yellow-robed figures, just as Merley would have lashed again, and again, taking out as many of them as she could before they got her, fighting, fighting this time until the end ...

  "My child."

  Merley froze, her current concept of fighting suddenly challenged. It was, in a way, easy to shoot fire at people who would wound her with darts. It was simple, at least. It required nothing more than strong Magic, a skilled aim, and anger, and it fed on anger, even if the anger was as wild and uncontrolled as hers. Wild, uncontrolled anger actually helped.

  Not so against Head Adept Humanist Brighid. Merley stared at her dark, heavy-lidded eyes, which was not an easy feat, for Merley was also trying to keep the dart-wielders in her peripheral vision. She had seen Brighid in action twenty-six days ago. With Brighid, anger might only work if it burned even hotter than Merley's but quieter still, less wild and more pointed, concentrated.

  Brighid met Merley's stare and smiled at her.

  "Adept Brighid."

  No generalist burned this time, but for a fraction of a second the woman seemed to wince at Merley's voice, for somehow Merley had put what would have otherwise been angry fire in the words. Like a song, almost.

  "Adept Brighid, the last person I heard you call 'my child' was the High Lord of Qynnsent. I am obviously not him, and he is not my brother, either. Nor you my mother. Or his."

  The second time Brighid did not wince. She smiled, brightly, and the shadow of a wince melted away. Merley was not even sure there had been one. Careful. Be careful. But Merley was angry and she did not feel like being careful at all.

  "An impeccable straightening of family relations, as can certainly be expected from a noble lady." Brighid was still smiling. "Old habits die hard, don't they, even when they are no longer applicable. I am your mother, my dear, what other mother do you have? Before Him who watches and blesses us with fire and light, I am both your mother and the Lord of Qynnsent's. But"—she lowered her eyes, as if in emotion—"your brother he is not. I know who he is, Merley. But for a mere chance in petty political Noble House interplay, but for a fickle game of alliances and matches, he could have been the man you killed. Or, the man you loved."

  "Oh, wouldn't that have been nice!" Merley almost shouted at Brighid, almost sent a wave of fire at her. "You wish someone had killed him for you so that you would not have had to face him last quarter? And what do you know about love!"

  Brighid stepped towards her at that, caught her wrist with one hand, the other waving the generalists away. Only one remained, far behind Brighid, where Merley could see him clearly without straining her eyes in multiple directions. Why was Brighid giving her this?

  "My child. I know about love. A Humanist knows everything that is human, and love is perhaps the most human thing of all. Together with hate, anger, and treachery, of course."

  Her voice was but a whisper, smooth, with a hint of a song, but a song different from Merley's. No one but Merley could hear Brighid's words. At least, this was what Merley was probably intended to think. Brighid had whispered to the Lord of Qynnsent, too, twenty-six days ago, but Merley had heard her well enough. Brighid had been calm, smooth, careful, cruel, deceiving. And most nobles—most of Merley's former peers—had believed her. The Lord of Qynnsent had not, and suddenly Merley wondered why she was thinking so much of him and not of Donald. Donald, her loving brother, the man she had hurt so much that night because of Brighid, the only man who did not deserve to be hurt.

  But it was not Donald who had taken the situation under control with his witless sheep of peers that night; it was Rianor of Qynnsent. The handsome enemy lord with the cold eyes full of contempt. Would anyone else have? Would that dirty little wretch Giles of Laurent have done anything like this, had he lived? Of course not. Would she, had she still been on the other side? She did not know. But Rianor of Qynnsent had, and for that she admired him. For a moment, she wondered. What would life have been like if it had been Qynnsent the ally and Laurent the enemy a year ago?

  Merley jumped as Brighid's finger stroked her wrist. For a moment, for just a moment, she had imagined that it was him.

  "Well, well," Brighid smiled yet again. "My suspicions are proved correct. You are not taking your Potion of Dispassion."

  "What are you doing to me!" Merley snapped her hand away. "What are you doing to my mind? You have no right!"

  "To your mind? Literally, I am doing nothing. You are doing it all yourself. You are human enough for that, my little fire wielder."

  Human enough? What was that supposed to be—an insult? A Ber was smart, gifted, special, superior. More than just a human.

  "As for hav
ing no right"—Brighid suddenly stared at her, eyes deep, dark, and hot like a firewell, eyes full of emotion that was not, and could not be, faked. "Did you have the right to free this animal, without asking first, without understanding the consequences? What does it mean to you, me having no right? That I cannot do to you things that you do not like? While you can do things I do not like to me? Is that right, Merlevine? Well, let me tell you something. Right does not exist. Every single wretched creature in this world has its own right and wrong, and there are so many creatures, so many rights and wrongs, that in the end no right and wrong matters at all."

  "No right and wrong matters? Is this your excuse to use and abuse everyone and everything that comes in your way? Well, I say that all rights and wrongs matter, how about that?"

  "How about that, Merley? How about that lordling's right to rape you, against your right to burn him alive so that you would not let him? Ah, I see you have no answer to that. Then how about my right to execute a wolf publicly so that people would know that their villages are protected? That we, Bers, are here for them no matter what? They are just humans, Merley. They fear us, they fear Bessove, the forest, their neighbors, their own shadows. They fear Magic, and yet they fear that Magic is going away. Leave them to their own devices and much more than a wolf—or a window-breaking High Lord's pride—will suffer from it. We need to give them security. We need to give them right and wrong, even if that means crushing their own little rights and wrongs to dust."

  "In the case of the Laurent lordling, and with my wolf today, it was my right that won."

  Merley felt sick, she felt dirty. She hated Brighid for it; she wanted to grip Brighid's neck and crush her with her bare hands. Sweet Master, what had happened a year ago was self-defense, an accident! She was not a cold-hearted, deliberate murderer! She had been protecting herself then, and saving Dreadful today. And she did not truly want to kill Brighid now, did she? What was Brighid doing to her mind again? What was Merley doing to herself? If she had the very same choices again, together with time to think them through, would she do the same?

  Yes.

  "I hate you," Merley whispered.

  Brighid smiled. "I know. I hate you, too. And I love you. Some day you will understand."

  "Perhaps I will not."

  "Oh, you will. You are not human enough to not understand. And don't you think of running away again. Or, rather, think long and think hard. Here, in all of Mierenthia, is the place where right and wrong are forged. Here is the place where you, too, can participate in that and—since you are obviously young and do not know enough—here is the place you can learn."

  "Learn from whom? From Henna? Tell me, is there a single person in these towers who has more fire than I do?"

  "More fire than you? Perhaps not. But having fire is not the same as knowing how to use fire. Raw fire is a gift, but can you control it? Or does it control you? And what else is controlling you, my little girl with too much power? I did hear you sing. Ronald!"

  Merley winced at the woman's sudden shrill voice, but not on time. She was affected by Brighid's words, distracted. Careless. She should have bewared of Generalist Ronald, the man with the darts behind Brighid, who had once imprisoned her for two days in the Novice tower's detention room because she had dared question his teachings. Two days of utmost darkness and coldness on the edge of tolerance; two of days of stale, long-dead air and someone's or something's dirge of a song on the edge of her hearing. Two days of torture, at a time when she had still been too afflicted by potions or who-knew-what-else to be able to conjure light and warmth and dry her tears.

  The dart stuck just beneath her elbow, a centimeter away from a spot that would have bled too much if penetrated. Had he missed, or was it on purpose? Still, it hurt. Merley blinked, uncomprehending. Last time it had not hurt at all, but her mind had become blurred, thoughts and feelings sloshing together until there were no thoughts and feelings at all, only emptiness and a few ingrained teachings.

  This time, the thoughts were clear and sharp. They were suddenly so clear that she saw every distinct moment of her life—of the world—all at once, and they were so sharp that, had thoughts been needles, her mind would have gained more holes than a shower head. As for feelings ... Merley screamed, this time without a trace of singing. At that moment, perhaps for the first and last time in her life, she would have been grateful for some Potion of Dispassion.

  She got none.

  "A steel dart." Brighid's calm, almost loving voice. "Just plain metal, with no potions. Bessove fear it, while humans keep it in a special place in their hearts. It does not go well with songs, my child. Or edges. Get up."

  She tried. Her hands and feet scraped along the path's dirt, but even if her body had the strength to rise, the screams in her mind would not let it. "Defiled stone," she felt her lips shape and barely recognized her voice. "Desecrated mountain. How dare you, you upstart, you petty conjurer of a worthless race! How dare you!"

  Brighid flinched, almost imperceptibly, and suddenly Merley jumped, the screams in her head no longer heeded. In a single motion, she wrenched the dart away from her flesh and held it tightly, even though it burned her fingers with fire different from anything she had ever made or felt.

  "A special place in humans' hearts, you say? Let me do you a favor, then, human! Let me insert it in your heart. Let me insert it right here. Right—" The word died at her tongue just as her hand would have swung. Right? Or wrong. Suddenly, the dart was just a piece of metal, no longer burning, no longer screaming, no longer causing other things to scream in her. Trembling and panting, she let her hand drop. The sharpness and clarity were gone. The thoughts she thought and the world she saw were normal again—and yet, after the sharpness, they seemed naught but a confused blur.

  "Ronald." This time the man did not shoot a dart but came closer, and upon a nod from Brighid gripped Merley's shoulder before she would have crumpled to the ground again. "Ronald, our young Sister here is at the end of her first year, isn't she? Good. Let it be known then that the former Novice Merlevine is now Acolyte Merlevine. As one of her teachers, you can take care of the robe and formalities. She won't need a room in the Acolyte tower while she is studying with her first adept master, though. I am sure that he will find space amongst his metalworks for her. Right, Merlevine?"

  Brighid looked at her, then, and perhaps because of her mind's blur, Merley was not sure if Brighid's look held threat, hate, or some strange interest and deference.

  When Merley blinked and looked again, Brighid was no longer there, and amidst everything else in Merley's confused heart, there was a tiny, almost unnoticed sense of a discrepancy—of something missing.

  Adept Brighid opposed metal to songs. What she failed to consider was that perhaps, just perhaps, Adept Darius's metalworks had songs of their own.

  Chapter 3: Life is What Moves

  Ber Adept Humanist Lucius, addressing the Council of the Master, Day 1 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 328:

  Regarding the matter of delegating metalmaking and the forging of tools to Master Crafters, I maintain that it poses too great a risk. Only fire can work with metal, and ordinary humans should not be tempted with power over it. Fire is too perilous, and the fickle human heart is not fit to handle it. Even the sterile, restricted, almost tame fire that we would aim to provide to those Master Crafters would be too much for most.

  And even if fire itself were not an issue, molding metal and making tools would be. Humans should not be tempted to make tools of their own choosing. Humans know not what tools would be safe in their hands and in the hands of others, or what tools might destroy the world.

  ...

  I maintain the same stance, for reasons similar to the above, regarding the instantiation of the Craft of Master Cook and allowing humans to work directly with fire to prepare food. I understand that the fire needed for cooking is weaker than the fire needed for metalmaking and toolmaking. However, it is still strong fire. I maintain that all cooking
be done by Bers.

  Excerpt from the Council of the Master's gathering minutes, Day 1 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 328:

  Instantiation of new Craft(s) for metalworking and toolmaking: 40 votes for, 80 votes against. Rejected.

  Instantiation of the Craft of Master Cook: 70 votes for, 50 votes against. Accepted.

  Linden

  Day 23 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706

  It snowed today, too, the clouds low and heavy in the sky, grayish whiteness falling so thickly that Linden could not see the garden from her windows. When it was over, the garden was no more. Even the trees looked like naught but shapeless lumps, no longer brown but gray-white amidst the endless gray whiteness that took the world away.

  It was better like this. In this way, she could imagine that the world did not exist, that all she had ever known in her life was this suite on the third floor by a garden with white trees, that there had never been anything else and never would be. That there was no need for tears.

  She would not cry, anyway. The tears just would not come. They never did these days, even though today she had written a letter to her family and letters to Kat and Cal, which was three new letters that would go in the box by her pillow, never to be sent.

  Mom and Dad and Eileen were gone, together with Grandma and Grandpa. Linden did not know where. Ten days after she had arrived in Qynnsent, before she was even healed from the weakness and fever that had come to her right after the Council, new information had arrived for the High Lord. Mentor Maxim had survived the stabbing, for Linden's own dad had healed him, with a Trial. Maxim had awakened and claimed that the stabbing was an accident, that he had stabbed himself while showing a younger Mentor a knife trick.