Tullen, who’d stopped too, took the instrument from Narre. “Pretty dull axe.”
“It’s more of a bludgeoning type of axe, rather than a chopping type,” Narre said. They laughed. She took the so-called axe back and quickly used her magic to break it apart, dropping both pieces back on the ground and releasing her magic.
They meandered through the grass again. Tavi loved this “magical play time,” as they called it. Magical training in the Meadow was unstructured, totally different from the midwife-led training that prevailed throughout the rest of Cormina.
In the Meadow, Blessed of all ages played with their magic, experimenting and discovering. Tullen had encouraged Tavi and the other gifted students in Cormina to adopt some of these Meadow practices, and even Ellea, the head midwife in Oren, had let Tullen influence her training style a little.
But it wasn’t until Tavi arrived at the Meadow that she really understood what it meant to play with magic. The only rules were those inherent in magic itself. It was freeing. It was fun.
Tavi was trying to decide which of her gifts to activate when several young people entering the park distracted her. One of them, an adolescent girl, thrust her arms in the air, giving a joyful smile as her hands filled with light. Then she held one hand out, palm flat, and pointed it toward the ground several feet in front of Tavi. A rock exploded into tiny pieces, bringing Tavi and Narre to an abrupt halt. Tullen didn’t stop in time and bumped into Tavi’s back.
The girl reached out her hand again, and this time, the tiny shards of rock came back together, like they’d never broken apart.
“What was that?” Narre asked the girl, sounding just as awed as Tavi felt.
The girl looked their way, and her whole posture changed. She straightened like a rod and crossed her arms. Her eyes shifted to the side as she answered, “I can break and bind. Just like you.”
“But you didn’t even touch the rock!” Narre said.
“I threw my magic,” the girl said, as if Narre was an idiot not to know that. Then she looked toward the others she’d arrived with, cried “Wait for me!” and ran off, not giving her curious audience another glance.
The Golds were used to such treatment. While some Meadow Dwellers traded in the outside world, most of them never left their secluded home. They were suspicious of outsiders entering their haven. Some broke through their discomfort and gave the Golds a chance. Others, like the girl they’d just encountered, seemed to fear they risked contamination just from breathing the same air as Tavi and her friends.
But at this moment, Tavi didn’t care what the touch-blessed girl thought. She cared what the girl had done. She turned around and grasped Tullen’s arm. “Tell us what it means to throw magic,” she said. “And tell us why you’ve never mentioned it before.”
Tullen looked down at Tavi’s hand with a slight grimace, and she realized how tight her grip was. With an embarrassed smile, she let go. “Should we sit?” Tullen asked.
Once they were all seated in a sunny spot near the edge of the grass, Tullen said, “I’ve never thought much about magic throwing. It’s something many people in the Meadow learn to do, but it doesn’t apply to me. I can’t use my stride gift at a distance; it just affects how my feet move and how I perceive weight. And my hearing gift already works at a distance; there’s no need to throw it. It never occurred to me to think about whether people outside the Meadow can throw magic.”
“What is it?” Narre asked. “I saw what she did, but . . . well, what did she do?”
Tullen shrugged. “We all know magic flows through our bodies. But I’ve heard people in the Meadow say it’s more like light than like liquid. So it can flow through the air too. She simply threw her magic to the rock. Her magic flowed there, and it acted as it would have if she’d touched the rock.
“I’m sure plenty of people outside of the Meadow have figured out how to throw magic,” he continued. “It’s just not part of the midwife curriculum, so the knowledge probably gets discovered and lost over and over. You’ve done it, Tavi. When you were at the farmhouse and you directed your stride gift to break up the ground several feet away, you sent your magic to a different location. You threw it through the ground rather than through the air.”
Tavi nodded and couldn’t help but think about the long, torturous minutes when she’d tried to send her magic into the earth beneath the Grays in the forest. She should’ve been able to do it, but resistance had stopped her. And then that man had grabbed Misty . . .
She gave her head a tiny shake, encouraging the memory to flee. Then she caught Tullen watching her, compassion in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking, somehow. She sat up straighter and said, “Narre, you should try it.”
Narre’s face broke into an eager smile. “What do I do?”
Tullen shrugged. “We don’t have any textbooks with instructions. In the Meadow, if we know something is possible, we try it.” He grinned. “And if we don’t know whether it’s possible, we try it anyway.”
Narre stood, her hands glowing. She held one of them out, pointed toward a rock, just as she’d seen the other girl do.
Nothing happened.
She thrust her hand out a little further, with the same result. She turned to Tavi. “When you were at the farmhouse, how did you get the ravines to form right where you wanted them?”
Tavi stood and activated her stride gift. She looked into the trees, confirmed no one was there, and sent her earth-splitting magic into a spot between two oaks, creating a tiny, finger-width fissure. She released her magic and turned to Narre. “I don’t know how it worked then or now,” she said. “I just told my magic to go there, and it did.”
Narre tried again, the skin of her forehead wrinkling in concentration. Still no luck.
“Don’t try so hard,” Tullen suggested, standing and brushing the dirt off his pants. “Remember, magic should be fun.” And in an instant, he dashed to Tavi with magically assisted speed, threw her over his shoulder, and sprinted through the trees.
Tavi squealed in half-delight, half-terror. Tullen laughed, jumping far higher than was necessary over rocks and roots and ducking low under limbs they had no risk of hitting.
Once she’d caught her breath, Tavi focused. Tullen had carried her away from the Grays four times. The first time had been at the farmhouse; the second and third, in the forest the day Misty had died; the fourth, when he’d taken her away from Konner’s house in Savala. In urgent situations such as those, sometimes Tullen had to carry Tavi in whatever awkward position she’d been in when he’d picked her up. Recently she’d worked on adjusting her body into an optimal position while Tullen was running. He could go faster if she was on his back rather than over his shoulder or held in his arms.
At this moment, Tavi hung over Tullen’s right shoulder, her feet at his front and her arms dangling down his back. In a smooth motion, she looped an arm around his shoulder, then swung her legs from his front to his back, landing in a perfect position with her legs tight around his waist and her arms around his neck.
Or at least that was what she tried to do. But her movement was arrested by a tree she could have sworn wasn’t there a split second before. Her legs hit the tree hard, and she and Tullen went down in a cacophony of arms, legs, and alarmed cries.
Tavi’s head hit a root, and in a second, Tullen was crouching over her. “Are you all right?”
Her head hadn’t hit hard, and despite a few scrapes and bruises she’d need to heal later, Tavi was fine. “I’m grand,” she said. “You?”
“Never better.” Laughing, he stood and offered Tavi a hand. She accepted it, and he pulled her to her feet.
“Let’s walk this time,” Tavi said. “Sorry about that. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“Nothing more than a bruise or two.”
“Good.” She slid her arm around Tullen’s waist. He responded with an arm around her shoulder, and she reached up and grasped his hand.
They were walking like that when Narr
e found them. She gave them the same look of amused admonishment she’d given Tavi at the autumn festival. “You have leaves in your hair,” she said, pointing at Tavi’s head.
Tavi reached up and found two leaves. Suddenly self-conscious, she giggled. “We fell.”
Narre raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You fell.”
“Sadly, she’s telling the truth,” Tullen said. “That’s all that happened.” He released a dramatic sigh.
Tavi removed her arm from his waist and reclaimed her hand, then gave Tullen a light shove. “Let’s do some more magic,” she said.
“Tavi, what are you doing?”
It was after dinner. Narre and Tavi were the only ones in their cottage. Reba and Wrey were working long shifts at the Meadow’s healing and midwifery house, and Jenevy was spending the evening with her family.
Tavi looked up, confused. “I’m forming a loaf with this dough. I know it’s too late to bake it tonight, but I’ll cover it and let it rise outside overnight. The flavor will be great tomorrow. Haven’t you seen me do this before?”
“Not the bread,” Narre said. “Tullen. What are you doing to that poor boy?”
Tavi looked down at the dough in her floury hands and focused on forming it into the roundest, smoothest loaf she’d ever made. She realized the silence was getting awkward and released a small laugh that made it even worse. “He’s not a boy,” she said.
“Fine, then. That poor man. And don’t change the subject.” Narre stepped closer to Tavi.
Tavi had formed the dough into a perfect circle, but now she stretched the whole thing out, added a handful of flour, and started over. “I’m not doing anything to him.”
Narre was so close, Tavi could smell onions on her breath. “What is he to you?” Narre asked.
“He’s my friend.”
“Then why do you treat him like he’s more?”
Tavi slammed the dough onto the bread board. She couldn’t seem to get it back into the right shape. She finally met Narre’s eyes. “I treat him like a good friend, because he’s a good friend.”
“That would all be well and good, if he wasn’t in love with you!”
Tavi laughed and turned back to the dough, sprinkling more flour on it, though it wasn’t at all sticky. Her face felt hot. “Don’t be silly. He flirts a little, but he’s not in love with me.”
Narre’s voice turned sad. “Oh, Tavi.”
Tavi glanced up, then back down. “What?”
She felt Narre’s hand on her back. “Either you’ve turned suddenly stupid, or you’re in denial. I know you’re not stupid, so why won’t you face the truth? Is it because you don’t love him . . . or because you do?”
“Of course I don’t love him!” Tavi hated the shrill sound of her voice.
Narre backed away and sat at their tiny kitchen table. Tavi risked a quick look and found that Narre was still watching her.
“This is hopeless,” Tavi said, slamming the dough down. She’d added too much flour, and it was getting dry. Now she couldn’t get it round or smooth. She released a frustrated grunt, covered the whole breadboard with a large towel, and walked out the door with it. Once the loaf was on the table outside, with the towel tucked around the edges of the board, Tavi had no desire to go back in. She let out a long sigh and leaned back against the wall of the cottage. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t know why.
Soft footsteps approached from the house. Then Narre was there, looking like she wanted to hug Tavi, but Tavi held herself tightly instead, her arms pressed against her chest. Narre was silent.
Feeling an urge to explain her tears, Tavi said, “Misty used to make beautiful loaves of bread. They were perfectly round, and she slashed the dough with intricate patterns before she baked them. They were works of art.” She gestured toward the awkwardly shaped loaf she’d just set down. “I’ll be lucky if the thing under that towel is even edible tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry,” Narre whispered.
Tavi nodded, freeing one hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. She returned her arm back to its position, hugging her other arm directly over her heart.
Narre’s voice was soft. “Tavi, what are you so afraid of?”
“What do you mean?” Narre didn’t answer, and Tavi knew it was because her cousin recognized the question for what it was: a distraction. So after taking a deep breath, Tavi said, “Haven’t you ever wondered what would happen if things didn’t work out between you and Sall? He’s your best friend. If your romantic relationship ended, you’d probably lose your friendship too.”
“Sure, I’ve thought about it. I hope it doesn’t happen, but I’ve thought about it. A lot.”
“Well, that happened to Tullen and me, and it was awful. I don’t know how we managed to become friends again, but I’m not letting all that happen a second time. If we’re friends, we can always stay friends. If we’re more, we might lose it all.”
“But is it enough? For either of you?”
Tavi didn’t trust herself to answer without losing control of her emotions. She just lifted her shoulders into a small, tight shrug, then let them fall back down.
“You know what I’m scared of?” Narre asked. “I’m scared that Tullen will get tired of waiting for you.”
Tavi looked up and met Narre’s gaze, somehow resenting the sympathy she found there. “Tullen’s fine,” Tavi said. “I am too.”
She walked back into the house.
Chapter Four
I long to hear what living in Savala is like during this exciting time. Do you ever see the king and queen? In the dreary countryside, things are unchanged, and I want nothing more than to wake one day to a parade of monarchs and nobles, marching down the street with banners flying. I would even settle for a public flogging or two, carried out by guards in royal garb.
Please write soon and tell me stories of the capital city. If you have nothing interesting to share, you must embellish. Remember, your wretched, rural cousin is counting on you.
- Mika Stag to Erti Stag, from Year One: Correspondence in the Corminian Kingdom
Duke Rogile Gistler and Duchess Ora Gistler sat down to breakfast. It was the same breakfast they’d had every day for the past twenty-nine years. The first year of their marriage, Rogile had allowed the cook to experiment, but once they’d discovered the perfect meal, why change it?
One week after settling on this menu, Rogile had purchased a clock from the best clockmaker in Tinawe. Then he’d hung it in the kitchen. His friends couldn’t understand why he’d waste such an expensive item on the kitchen staff. It was because of the soft-boiled eggs he and Ora ate every morning. Hourglasses clogged, but a good clock could work perfectly for a lifetime, so long as it was properly maintained and someone wound it every day. Thanks to the clock, the eggs were always perfectly done, their centers cooked just enough, warm and thickly fluid.
Rogile’s egg sat in a little holder in the middle of his plate. To the left of that was a crepe, folded into thirds. Always thirds. It seemed to stick to itself if folded into fourths, and it hung off the plate if folded in half. On the other side of the egg bowl sat a narrow pile of potatoes, diced into uniform squares, fried with onions, and seasoned with salt and pepper. Tea (black, steeped for four minutes) completed the meal.
Rogile tapped the top of his egg with his spoon, cracking it open. He peeled off enough shell to fit his spoon in. For seven and a half years, he’d allowed the cook to peel his eggs for him, but the woman hadn’t been able to get the timing right, and at least one-third of the time, the egg was cold by the time she served it to him. So for over two decades, he’d been opening his own eggs. He found it satisfying to hear the shell crack, to see it splinter into small pieces that didn’t quite separate completely. All in all, he rather enjoyed taking part in his own meal preparation.
“Lovely morning,” Ora said, after cracking the top of her own egg.
Rogile spared her a short, annoyed glance. She knew he never engaged in conversation until he’d fin
ished his egg. After swallowing the last bit of creamy yolk and smooth, solid egg white, he responded, “It is indeed. Sunny and brisk.”
They completed their meal as usual, with short conversations about Rogile’s business, the health of their horses, and the dinner menu. It was a perfect breakfast, save for Ora’s ill-timed comment on the weather. When they finished, Rogile and Ora stood in unison and nodded to each other. She exited to . . . well, to whatever she did all day. He made his way to his study.
Just before lunch, Rogile heard a clopping sound outside. He strode to the window of his second-floor study and raised his brows upon seeing a well-dressed woman leading her horse to the hitching post. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and most people knew Rogile did not approve of surprises.
This woman, however, was unfamiliar to him. Perhaps she knew nothing of his preferences. Rogile strode back to his desk and sat, continuing to write the letter he’d been working on.
Not three minutes later, a knock sounded on his study door.
“Yes?” Rogile called, not lifting his pen from the page.
“It’s Pellum, sir . . . ahem, Duke. May I enter?”
Rogile sighed, invited his butler to enter, and blotted his letter.
Pellum took one step in and said, “Remina Birge here to see you, Duke.”
“Who?”
“Remina Birge. She says she’s an emissary of King Relin.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Rogile stood, took his glasses off, and set them down. “I shall meet her in the sitting room, then. Tea, we must have tea. Inform the cook we’ll have a guest for luncheon as well. Dear Sava, what’s she doing here?”
“Sir—Duke—I’m afraid she didn’t say.”
“The question was rhetorical.” Rogile waved Pellum away with both hands. “Go, go!”
Facing the Fire Page 4
