by Karen Miller
“No.” Remmie half-turned away from her, one hand dragging down his face. The face that looked so much like hers, its beauty masculine, its planes and angles so well-known and beloved. His pale golden hair was pulled back into a braid and tied with a neat twist of red ribbon. “Barl, if I begrudge you I promise, that’s not the reason.”
“Then what is?”
“You want so much,” he said, sad again. As though all his temper had burned out. “I’m afraid for you. ’Til the day he died, Pa filled you full of fire. And whenever Mama tried to tell you be careful, fire burns, he hushed her.”
“So I’m Pa and you’re Mama, is that it?”
“Perhaps.” He laughed, the sound despairing, not amused. “She always was the practical one.”
The one who’d died of a broken heart, scant weeks after their father succumbed to a Feenish fever. How she’d surprised them. How she’d left them bereft.
“Nonsense,” she said. “I’m very practical. And wanting more for myself isn’t impractical. It’s not foolish or greedy or selfish, either. I’m not asking you to live my life, Remmie. All I’m asking is that you let me live mine.”
A cool breeze sprang up, scented with late-blooming innis. The evening was so quiet they could hear a distant owl, hooting. Winking through the weeping grobe trees, glimlamps in their closest neighbour’s window.
“I know,” Remmie said, still sad. “But it’s not in me to watch you run pell-mell for a cliff and not try to stop you from tumbling over the edge.”
She felt another sting of tears. “I thought you had more faith in me than that.”
“It’s not faith in you I’m lacking. You are as great a mage as you dream. That’s why I’m afraid, Barl. The mages you look to for recognition won’t welcome your brilliance. Do you think those haughty First Families will be pleased to find themselves cast in the shade by some unranked nobody from the Eleventh district?”
“I’m well used to jealousy,” she said slowly. “It’s everywhere, Remmie. Even in the artisanry. But the College of Mages is dedicated to learning and great achievements in magework. You’re a teacher. Do you resent a gifted student?”
“You know full well I don’t,” he said. “But then I’m a nobody too, aren’t I? The College of Mages is revered throughout Dorana. Name me one First Family that would welcome a son or daughter being shown up by the likes of us.”
“Remmie—” She slapped her palms to his chest, exasperated. “I’m not talking about First Families, I’m talking about the College tutors!”
“Who are First Family members,” he retorted. “You can’t be so clod-headed as to think it’s not the same thing!”
Uncertain, she stared at him. “You want me to believe the honour and integrity of both College and Council are so paltry they’d risk Dorana’s future out of spite?”
“I thought you already believed it!”
“I believe they’re selfish and short-sighted. I believe they’ve been allowed to have their own way for too long. But that’s not the same as thinking they’d rather see ignorance trump knowledge than reconsider my request!”
The glimlight she’d conjured showed Remmie’s surprise and resignation and a rueful affection.
“You really do believe that, don’t you?”
Sometimes the urge to slap him made her hand itch. “Yes. Why do you sound so surprised? When do I ever say things I don’t believe?”
“Never.” He shook his head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be surprised at all. You’re being exactly yourself.”
“Well, then?”
“Well, then—” Remmie let out a gusty sigh. “I suppose I’ve been wearing out my tongue for no good purpose. I can’t imagine why I thought you’d ever listen to me.”
“Remmie.” She threw her arms around him and held on tight. “I was afraid you might never forgive me.”
His hand rubbed her shoulder. “Who says I’ve forgiven you?”
“Ha.” She swallowed relieved, tearful laughter. “You have.”
“I’ve stopped fighting. I’m not sure that’s the same thing.”
“Remmie.” Letting go of him, she stepped back. “Can we only be friends if I agree to do as you say?”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can we only be friends if I never question your choices?”
Their parents were dead. They had no other family. And if they turned their backs on each other…
“Say we’re friends, Rem,” she whispered. “Say we’re friends even if I think you’re wrong and you think I’m wrong and we could stamp and shout our disagreements ’til sunrise. Please. Just say it.”
After a long silence, Remmie nodded. “We’re friends.”
She hugged him again, then tugged his loose linen sleeve. “It’s getting late. Come inside.”
“Not yet,” he said, glancing at the star-bright sky. “I’ve got to finish preparing tomorrow’s class.”
“Your glimfire constellations? I can help. Let me help.”
“I thought you wanted to finish your new crystal? Isn’t it nearly ready to show Arndel?”
“It is.” Surging beneath her unhappiness, a warm glow of pride. “But it can wait one more night, Remmie. I’d rather—”
“I wouldn’t,” he said, and flicked her nose. “It’ll only confuse the children if they sense your incant signature and mine. Go and finish your crystal, Barl.”
So, reluctant, she left him to his constellation and shut herself in her room. Eventually the quiet joy of magic soothed her bruised feelings, eased the belly-tightness of nerves. She forgot her resentment of the College, her frustration with Remmie, and instead laughed as the shimmering crystal she’d imagined sprang to life at her command… and at last, at long last, held its delicate, deceptively fragile form.
I’ll show it to Arndel in the morning, before I finish Lady Grie’s natal clock. He’ll be so impressed. And he’ll have no choice but to sponsor the crystal’s submission to the Artisans’ Guild.
And surely the Guild would have no choice but to approve. It would make her the second-youngest artisan mage ever to be honoured with artisanwork named after them.
“You see, Remmie?” she whispered, the tip of one finger gently stroking her beautiful creation. “Dreams do come true. If I can do this… I can do anything. You’ll see.”
So precious was the crystal she’d created that she didn’t dare risk it by walking to the artisanry. Instead she swallowed a handful of runip berries and used a hated travel incant to make the journey safely.
She found Artisan Master Arndel in his privy workroom, squeezed behind his crowded bench and reading a letter. At her confident rap-rap-rap on the open door he looked up.
Just to be safe, she offered him a shallow bow. “Good morning, Artisan Master.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed with familiar ill-temper. “Mage Lindin.” The letter dropped from his hand. “A curious coincidence. I was about to send for you.”
Taking that as an invitation, she entered the room. Her cloth-wrapped crystal was cradled against her chest. She thought she could feel it thrumming in time with her heart.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Artisan Master, but—”
“Disturb?” He snorted. “Yes, indeed, Mage Lindin. You disturb me to no end. Sit.”
Gently she lowered herself to the chamber’s sole uncluttered chair. It was wooden, splintered and uncomfortable. He couldn’t receive new patrons in this room, they’d run from it screaming with their hands clutched to their purses.
“Artisan Master—”
“Mage Lindin.” Arndel flicked the sheet of paper he’d been reading. “I have before me a most unwelcome letter.”
Clearly she wasn’t to be permitted to speak. At least not until he’d unburdened himself of whatever had curdled his mood this time.
“Oh,” she said. “Yes, Artisan Master?”
He frowned at the letter in question. “It seems that in a fit of madness, Mage Lindin, you wrote to the College
of Mages demanding they admit you as a student.” His gaze lifted. “Is this true? Or has the College somehow mixed you up with some other presumptuous, deluded young mage?”
Shocked, for a moment she could only stare. And then she found her voice. “I’m sorry, Artisan Master? How do you—why would they—are you saying they wrote to you? About me? About my request?”
“Deluded, but not deaf,” said Arndel, scathing. “Mage Lindin, I—”
“This is wrong,” Barl said, and pushed to her feet. Now her sheet of crystal was clutched to her chest like a shield. “They had no business writing to you, Artisan Master. It’s none of your affair if I—”
Both his fists crashed onto the desk, leaping letter and quills, splashing ink, scattering random crystal droplets and shards.
“None of my affair?” he shouted. “When you are my artisan? When your services are promised to Lady Ancilla Grie? When I am bluntly told by an advisor to the Council of Mages—the Council—that as your Artisan Master it is my duty to keep your mind on your work so it might not lead you into giving grave offence? None of my affair? Mage Lindin, what were you thinking?”
Her knees were trembling. If she didn’t sit again they’d give way, and she’d be humiliated. So she folded back to the chair and tried to gather her disordered wits. When she could trust herself, she looked up and met Arndel’s glare.
“I was thinking, Artisan Master, that no mage in Dorana should be denied an education.”
“No mage is!”
“That’s not true, Artisan Master. Every day the College of Mages—”
“Enough about the College! There are scores of mage schools in Dorana, Mage Lindin.”
With difficulty, she kept a precarious hold of her temper. “Yes, Artisan Master. But only one College.”
Arndel’s nostrils pinched, then flared. “Which is free to admit or deny whatever students it likes! And it should come as no surprise, Mage Lindin, that it does not like you!”
She blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“Then you must be far more stupid than even this nonsense suggests.”
“Master Arndel, are you saying I’m turned down?”
“Of course you’re turned down! Don’t tell me you thought the College would accept you?”
Nausea churned through her, burning her throat with bile. “And the proctor wrote to you of the decision? Not me?”
“No, Mage Lindin.” Arndel’s eyes gleamed with a nasty satisfaction, seeing her distress. “Are you even listening? The letter writer was one Lord Hahren, who advises both the proctor and the Council on College matters. He felt I had the right to know what one of my artisans has been up to behind my back.”
Pushing nausea aside, Barl took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I came here a Guild-lettered mage, Artisan Master Arndel. I am not ’prenticed to this artisanry. You don’t own me.”
She had him there, and he knew it. His lips thinned. “By the strict letter of Guild law, Mage Lindin, that is true. But do not pretend to be more than you are, or brush aside inconvenient facts. Despite your unsteady past I made a place for you here. I gave you the benefit of my knowledge, my experience. I taught you the art of clock-maging, I—”
“And I have more than earned my keep, Artisan Master!” she said, abandoning prudence. That he’d dare to censure her. That he would dare. “I have repaid you thrice over for your investment. I call it churlish that you would complain of a little time spent in schooling me when the rewards I’ve earned you come in thick and fast.”
Arndel lurched to his feet. “And I call it churlish that you would abandon this artisanry, abandon me, to pursue such folly, to pound your fists against a door locked for good reason! And why? Because your talent is o’ermatched only by your profligate pride!”
Heart thudding, the cramped chamber’s air raw in her throat, Barl stood to face him. “Was there no letter from this Lord Hahren included for me?”
“No,” he said, curt. “I was requested to inform you of the College’s decision, and I have done so. But just in case you remain in any doubt, Mage Lindin, let me spell it out for you most plainly. You are not the kind of student candidate the College desires. Furthermore, I will give you a timely warning. With this display of arrogance, you have brought yourself to the Council of Mages’ attention. That was not wise. The Council has a long memory and tends to hold a grudge.”
So he was pretending to care for her now? “And you, Artisan Master? Do you hold a grudge?”
He sniffed. “I suppose that is your disrespectful way of asking if I intend to dismiss you? The answer is no, you are not dismissed. At least not permanently. But neither are you required here today. Go home, Mage Lindin. Reflect upon your poor choices… and the very dim prospects you may expect to enjoy should you so trespass upon the Council’s goodwill ever again. Or mine.”
She tried, but she couldn’t mask her surprise. “You still want me?”
“Mage Lindin, you are young,” Arndel said, condescending now. “And in this matter you have shown a deplorable lack of judgement. Let its outcome be a lesson to you. Learn from your mistake.” His lips pinched. “Yes, I still want you. But understand that even my patience has limits.”
The expectant gleam in his eye told her he now waited for a humbled gushing of gratitude. She felt her spine stiffen. I’d rather drop dead. The wrapped crystal in her arms weighed heavy as lead. He’d not even glanced at it, let alone asked what it was or why she’d brought it to him. And there’d be no point trying to tell him. Her small triumph would have to wait.
She bowed her head, just far enough that he couldn’t again accuse her of insufficient courtesy. “Artisan Master.”
“But you’ll return to the workroom tomorrow,” he said sharply. “Lady Grie expects her clock completed upon the agreed date.”
Another careful nod. “Of course, Artisan Master. I’ll not disappoint her.”
Escaped from his privy chamber, she took a moment to catch her breath. As she stood in a pool of shadow within the artisanry’s central courtyard, its chivvying clock chimed the hour. Time to start work. Scurrying footsteps had her turning. It was one of the ’prentice mages late to her place. Lucky for her, Arndel remained in his chamber, still fuming, else she’d have to endure a lecture on tardiness. The trade artisanry’s workroom door slammed shut, then all was silence.
Too angry yet for tears, her belly still roiling, Barl hefted the marvellous crystal she’d created. It was too heavy for carrying home, and she desperately needed to walk. So she translocated it to the cottage ahead of her, briefly pressed cold palms to her still-flushed cheeks, willing her face not to betray her… then marched out of the artisanry with her head defiantly high.
That anger carried her more than half the way home. Arms swinging, heels thudding against the beaten earth track, she felt it burn through her, setting her blood alight. Write to Arndel? Turn him against her? What gave them the right? And what right had he, that prosing, selfish old mole, to read her a lecture, presume to admonish her, when it was none of his business! All she owed him was the time and effort that he paid for. Not so generously, either. He wasn’t making her rich.
Temper goading her, she walked faster and faster as the litany of injustices chased themselves dizzy inside her head.
“I do all he asks, and better than he could ever hope for!” she shouted at a startled crow, when she couldn’t keep silent any more. “He has no cause for complaint, no grounds to criticise. If I turned around right now and gave him notice he’d have no power to stop me! And he knows it!”
Perched on a fence post, raucously derisive, the crow ruffled its glossy black feathers. Then it flapped away, leisurely, and she was left to shout at thin air.
“I’ve a good mind to do just that,” she muttered, slowing. Abruptly weary. Beads of sweat rolled in thin lines down her ribs and back. “Wouldn’t that make him look a fool to Lady Grie? Wouldn’t she be slighted?”
Yes, indeed. And slighted, she’d make sure
to inform every mage of her acquaintance, so many of them ranked First Family, that Arndel’s artisanry was—was—unreliable.
“That’s the word, unreliable!” she told a sleepy spotted milch cow, chewing its cud beneath a bulbin tree on the other side of the fence. “And wouldn’t that serve him right?”
Yes. Only… damage to his reputation would hurt the artisanry, which meant hurting the mages who toiled there beneath Arndel’s interfering, unforgiving rule.
Halting, she frowned at the cow. “And while I’m not fussed for most of them, I can’t knowingly do them such a bad turn. It’s the College at fault here, and this Lord Hahren, not Ibbitha and the rest.”
The cow blinked at her, its mild brown eyes incurious.
“Besides.” She rested her forearms along the fence’s highest wooden rail and let her forehead drop. “There’s Remmie, isn’t there?”
She dreaded to think what he’d say if she told him she’d abandoned the artisanry, not to attend the College, which of course he’d understand, but because she’d flown into a temper at Arndel.
“So I’m trapped here,” she said to the cow. “Aren’t I? Fenced in just like you.”
A sting of tears extinguished the embers of her rage. All the strength drained out of her and the misery held at bay by fury rose to swamp her. Knees buckling, she sank to the cool, damp grass.
Over her aching head, the cloudless sky vaulted sunlit and blue. She heard a whisper of wings and a chattering cry as a flock of pink-and-white dibbydabs rushed through the warm air. Tickling her nose, the scent of newly bloomed frasfras threading through the earthier pungency of fresh cow pats. Somewhere out of sight a creek chuckled between its banks. It was a beautiful day. This was a beautiful part of Dorana. Who couldn’t be happy here?
Me. I’m not, and I doubt I ever will be. I want more. I can’t help it.
“Remmie, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just can’t.”
But he’d never understand that. So easily content himself, he found her restlessness and hungry ambition baffling.
If only I’d never gone to Elvado. I knew it would hurt me, seeing it. Oh, I’m a fool.
