by Karen Miller
Regrets were useless, though, weren’t they? The damage was done. She knew exactly what it was she was missing, now, living her quiet Batava life. Hedgerows instead of cobblestones, the schoolmaster’s cottage in place of the College and that grand Hall of Knowledge. A small life filled with clock magic. Filled with sand and glass.
It would never be enough… but she’d have to make do. Find a way to live with it. For Remmie’s sake, if not her own.
With a deep sigh, almost a groan, she took hold of the fence and pulled herself back to her feet. It would be easy, too easy, to sit here the rest of the day with the silent cow for company. But she had to face her brother. Watch him pretend he wasn’t pleased the College of Mages had rejected her. Pretend she didn’t care.
Heavy-hearted, she continued for home.
Chapter Eight
Hiding a smile, Remmie watched his small collection of pupils perform their final exercise of the day. With creased brows and poked tongue-tips and even some laboured breathing, they worked in groups of three to recreate with glimfire the glorious Waterfall constellation: a cascade of brilliant stars that centuries-worth of Doranen travellers had used to guide them home.
It was a tricky incant. Doubtless some teachers, and maybe some parents, would chide him for expecting too much but he knew his students. They relished a challenge… and because he’d always been careful, even the most limited mage amongst them was made to feel useful. Just as the best mages were praised, but never lauded so high they became arrogant.
If only Barl’s teachers had troubled to do the same.
Though he loved his sister dearly, the bald truth was that a sound dose of humility would have served her well. But she’d not received it, which meant she had to learn her lessons the hard way.
Just like some of his pupils, as it happened.
Over by the window, Jossie Tindel, a clever mage and a pert little minx, was busily contradicting her team mates. She was wrong and they were right, but Kinthy Scobie and Bedel Royce barely possessed one strong spine between them. And so, by letting Jossie rumble right over their timid suggestions, they were condemning themselves to share her fate. A harsh lesson, but a useful one, assuming they took it to heart.
And will Barl take hers to heart, when it comes?
He was horribly afraid she wouldn’t. There was a wildness in her, a reckless refusal to accept any hand on her bridle. And he was beginning to think he’d never find a way to change that.
His other pupils were faring better, at least so far as teamwork was concerned. Sadly, only Rine Grovsik and his two best friends had managed to recreate the constellation incant correctly. They’d carry the class honours today. But at least the rest would fail harmoniously, and not because they’d let themselves be bossed down the wrong path.
Unlike Kinthy and Bedel. Poor little mites.
He couldn’t help feeling sorry for them as Jossie’s unbalanced incant fell apart, taking the rest of their Waterfall constellation with it. And he ignored the tears and tantrums and cries of dismay until Jossie decided to start laying blame.
“That’s enough,” he said, and was rewarded with immediate silence. “You’re all three of you at fault. Jossie, your mistake was in the rhythm and pronunciation of the incant. You should have listened to Bedel. And Kinthy, you should’ve insisted on drawing the second sigil your way.” He raised an eyebrow at them, letting his admonitions sink in. “When you know you’re right, stand your ground. And you, Jossie, need to remember that you aren’t always right.” Kinthy and Bedel exchanged glances muddled with pleasure and mortification. Jossie’s cheeks turned pink with resentful shame.
“Can we try again?” said Kinthy, fingers twisting in her pretty cotton dress.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. The day’s nearly over.”
Her face fell, tears brimming.
“But if your parents don’t mind, you can practise the conjuration by yourself this eve and show me before lessons start on the morrow,” he added.
Kinthy lit up with pleasure. “Really?”
“You all can,” he said, looking at Jossie and Bedel. “I must still record a fail in the class book, but I’d like you to get it right for yourselves. Now take your seats while I see how the others are faring.”
Kinthy and Bedel scampered to their desks, a little cheered despite their failure.
“Jossie,” he said, as the girl turned away slowly, ready to sulk.
She turned back, still pouting. Her dark green eyes were angry. “Yes, Master?”
“There’s more to magery than having the loudest voice. The best mages listen and aren’t too proud to admit a fault. Remember that.”
“I will, Master,” she muttered.
But would she? Watching her stomp back to her desk, he had his doubts. She could go either way, Jossie Tindel, and on days like this he had his own doubts on whether he could keep her safe from self-made trouble.
Especially since I can’t save my own sister from herself.
“Master!” piped Rine Grovsik. “We’re finished!”
A good teacher never showed favouritism, so he didn’t rush to the classroom’s far side. He wandered over, circumspect, making sure to pause and offer encouragement to Bril Coop, Henne Chatsik and Tyne Yolen. Their magery was about to fall apart too, bless them, but they’d done their best. They nearly had it.
Of course, Rine and his friends Ullie Michin and Ebie Droft did have it. He praised the three boys, and promised himself that next time he’d make certain Rine worked with Jossie. He was a match for her, talent-wise, and more than a match when it came to rumbling.
It’ll do her good to be taken down a peg.
Bril’s team cried out with disappointment as their constellation disintegrated into sparks. Moments later the others did too, and he had to wait while his chastened pupils moaned and commiserated and argued the whys and wherefores of their failure. After that he spoke to each group, explaining what went wrong. The one successfully completed constellation he bound in a holding incant and placed on the classroom’s display shelf, a reward for success.
On his desk, the day clock Barl had made for him chimed the late hour. At least, not chimed. Letting her giddy sense of humour hold sway, Barl had crafted his class clock so it honked like a goose on the hour, every hour. And on the hour, every hour, hearing it, his pupils dissolved into giggles.
“Take your seats!” he said, over their hilarity. Discipline was important. His children were never permitted to bolt from the room like startled rabbits. “Take your seats for the Oath of Mages.”
It was how they began and ended each day: with the solemn recitation of that most sacred of vows. Scuffled to their rightful places, heads bowed, hands clasped before them on their child-sized wooden desks, even sulking Jossie joined in the careful chant.
“By the scales of justice we do properly swear that no harm shall be done, no darkness shall guide us, for we are Dorana’s mages, humble and true.”
Remmie swept his gaze across every small, trusting face in his classroom. “We are Dorana’s mages, humble and true. And let that be true of us, every day of our lives. Class is dismissed.”
Their self-control lasted until they crossed the room’s threshold. And then, because they were children, they ran and squealed and shoved their way outside into the afternoon sunshine. Because it was safe now, he laughed. Barl never understood his delight in teaching, in children. He couldn’t understand her lack of it.
Relishing the quiet, he entered his thoughts in the class book, noting who had passed the day’s mage tests and who had not, and a few little comments here and there. He’d be meeting with his pupils’ parents soon, and they were a useful reminder.
With the class book completed, that was almost his day over. Last of all he doused the room in a powerful cleansing incant, washing away the remnants of his pupils’ failed constellations. When that was done, he breathed a sigh of relief. The children’s poorly constructed energies never failed to distress him.
It was the only sorrowful part of teaching. Well… that, and whenever he felt he’d failed to do his best by a child.
Like his temperamental sister, he preferred to walk home. Of course for him the journey was short, since their rented cottage and his classroom were both in Batava hamlet. There was no denying Barl’s eccentricity, that she took pleasure in walking nearly an hour to the artisanry and home again. And not just in summer, either. She walked everywhere in winter too, bundled warm in a coat. She even walked in pouring rain, protected by a repelling incant. Small wonder so many mages looked at her askance.
But she wouldn’t be Barl if she wasn’t raising eyebrows.
Barton and his students were out in the school’s little flower-strewn field, practising inanimate translocations. Batava’s older pupils stayed in class a full hour later, which meant Barton had the longer working day. Waving his friend a cheerful farewell, Remmie headed for the laneway and home, by way of the poulterer. Herbed chicken for dinner. His belly rumbled, anticipating. And there was another eccentricity, that Barl left him to cook. What woman didn’t like cooking? Did his sister hope to marry some day? He’d never asked her, but he thought she must. All women did, didn’t they?
So she’ll have to find a way to love cooking, or else a husband who’ll cook for her. Justice knows I’ll not be her cook forever.
And he was sure she would marry, sooner or later. Beautiful and talented as she was, how could she not? Though she’d never admit it aloud, she knew her quest for a place in the College of Mages was nonsense. It was only visiting Elvado that had stirred her up. Let that memory fade, let her come to fully appreciate her good fortune at the artisanry, accept it as both home and future, begin to trust and enjoy Lady Grie’s patronage, and she’d not give two hoots about the College. Instead she’d let herself relax and join the local community, make friends, learn to play. Then she’d lose her heart to some man and wed him and that would tame her restless spirit once and for all.
And then, at last, I’ll be free to think of myself.
A prickle of guilt followed hard on the heels of pleasure. But he had no cause for self-reproach. Never once had he abandoned his sister, no matter what it cost him. It was the last thing he’d promised his dying mother. “Take care of Barl, Remmie. You know how she is.” And of course he’d promised. How could he refuse?
But he did wonder, sometimes, if his mother would have asked for his word if she’d known the price he’d pay for keeping it.
Irielle.
Nearly a year now, but he’d not forgotten her. She was the sweetest, most beautiful girl he’d ever known. From time to time he toyed with the notion of returning to Granley, seeing if she was still there, still unspoken for. He dreamed there was a chance they could rekindle what his sister’s impetuous temper had doused.
Provided she’s forgiven me for putting Barl ahead of her.
He had to believe he still had the hope of making a family of his own, having a loving, normal life. Because promise or no promise, he couldn’t live the rest of his days in Barl’s restless shadow.
But a wife and children of his own would never happen until his sister found her peace. Until then, no matter what he threatened, no matter how it hurt, he couldn’t leave Barl to fend for herself. He didn’t dare think of the strife she’d fall into if he wasn’t at hand to keep her feet on the ground.
I just hope she finds that peace soon. Before I start resenting her for the promise I made.
Unsettled, he shook himself. It was far too lovely an afternoon to be dwelling on such melancholy thoughts. Besides, here was the poultery. It wouldn’t do to walk in there showing a thundercloud face. Everyone in Batava knew him. Tongues would wag.
With a plump, freshly killed and plucked chicken paid for and wrapped in a length of cheesecloth, he wandered the rest of his way home planning supper. Herbed chicken, yes, with buttery green beans and some baked baby carrots. Strawberries with clotted cream for after. His mouth watered. Oh, he did love to cook.
Gaddie Larken from the top of their lane had let her tamest milch cow out to graze the lush verges. He paused a moment to chat with the beast, rub the nub of bone between her gently waving ears and give her glossy flank a pat. Gaddie sold him butter and cream when she had some to spare. Come to think of it, he was running low. And he needed more eggs, too. But there was no time to duck in to see Gaddie now, he’d have to remember on the morrow.
It wasn’t until he walked into his small, tidy kitchen that he realised he wasn’t the first one home. The bread board, the bread knife and the raggedly remains of a crusty brown loaf had been left on the table. The butter was out, uncovered, with a yellow-smeared knife beside it. The honey pot, too, without its lid, an invitation to flies.
Barl.
Heart thudding, he put the chicken into the sink. She was hours early. And the only time she ever came home early was when there’d been some personal disaster. Fear and grief flooded heat throughout his body. He could feel himself trembling. His fingers were clenched into fists.
I don’t want to leave.
There’d been other classrooms, other pupils, but the little hamlet school of Batava touched him to his heart. He belonged here. He was needed.
A tiny groan escaped him. How many times was this, that his sister had been dismissed or walked away over some insult, some hot-tempered falling out? Four times? No, five. Five upheavals of his life, and in only three years.
For the longest time he stood beside the kitchen table, breathing in and breathing out. If his impossible sister was in the cottage somewhere, he had no desire to find her. And if she was in the garden she could stay there. Lay eyes on her now and he’d say things they’d never forget… or forgive.
He’d not intended to start dinner yet, but he needed a distraction. So he fired up the oven’s heat bricks then pulled out the baking dish and set it on the hob. Unwrapped the chicken and placed it breast-up in the dish. Next he took scissors and snipped fresh herbs in their windowsill pots. Retrieved the butter, beat the herbs into three generous, softened spoonfuls, carefully inserted the mix between the chicken’s skin and its flesh. All the while his thoughts seethed.
Any other artisan mage in Dorana would tie himself in knots to earn a place in an esteemed artisanry like Arndel’s, to be granted the honour of Ancilla Grie’s patronage. But not the great Barl Lindin. Oh, no.
He could feel his embered temper stirring to flames.
When you were busy asking for promises, Mama, I wish you’d thought to ask one of her. I wish you’d made her promise to think of me, now and then.
The last touch for roasting the chicken was onions, peeled and quartered and pushed inside. If his eyes stung, if tears slid down his cheeks, that was the reason. It was the onions. Nothing else.
He shoved the chicken into the oven and stood back.
“Vegetables,” he said to the silent kitchen.
And that meant the garden. If his sister was in the cottage he’d have seen or heard her by now. She never could keep her furious misery to herself. So most likely he’d stumble across her on his way to the bean patch. Was he ready? Could he face her? Would he be able to hold his tongue? He didn’t know. Uncertain, he hesitated.
A good cook was also a tidy cook. He couldn’t go outside leaving a mess behind him. So he cleaned up after himself, washed his hands even though they’d soon get dirty enough, pulling carrots, and splashed some water onto his face. Wretched onions. Someone should invent an onion that didn’t make a grown man cry.
If Barl is so set upon changing the world, that would be an excellent place to start.
Adrift between the sink and the table, he chewed his lip. There was no good reason to tarry any longer. Besides, he needed those carrots and beans.
Stupidly nervous, he went outside. When he didn’t find his sister skulking amongst the vegetables, for a handful of heartbeats he felt a vast relief. And then he breathed out a resigned sigh and went looking for her.
The schoolmaster’s cot
tage had a duck pond, right at the bottom of the garden. Fringed with rushes and drooping fenna trees, home to deep-voiced green frogs and water newts and one solitary drake, a rickety old wooden bench invited taradiddlers to stay a while and twiddle their thumbs in repose.
That was where he found his sister, on the bench beside the still, deep pond, kept company by the drake who swam round and round.
“That’s me, you know,” Barl said, as he hesitantly approached. “I’m that stupid old duck. Swimming and swimming, going nowhere at all.”
“I’ve often thought you walk like a duck,” he said, and stopped at the other end of the bench.
Her face was mostly turned away from him. What he could see of her mouth twisted in a brief, wry smile. “Ha ha.”
Whatever he’d expected to find, it wasn’t this. Not Barl subdued and sorrowful, all the fight drained out of her. Every other time she’d stormed away from a position, or been dismissed, he’d found her feisty and spoiling for a brangle, fired up to defend herself and justify her actions.
But this time? This time, for the first time, she looked… defeated.
“I’m roasting herbed chicken for supper,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. Because all the hot words he’d had for her were cold now, and too unkind.
She shrugged, listless. “That sounds nice.”
“I’ve come out to pick beans and baby carrots. Want to help?”
“Not really.”
“Barl.” Feeling defeated himself, he sank to the other end of the bench. It wobbled a little then steadied under his weight. He kept meaning to fix it, but always forgot. “I’m sorry. But perhaps it’s not too late. Whatever’s gone wrong, I’m sure it can be put right. Even if you were right, perhaps if you swallowed your pride, just this once, if you begged Arndel for another chance—or if it was Lady Grie who upset you, enough that you lost your temper and—well, I’m sure if you explained about artistic temperaments, then—only you shouldn’t give up so easily, you really shouldn’t.”
“Remmie—” Barl was staring at him. “What are you talking about?”
