The Spirit Gate

by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  “I couldn’t even read the symbols!” she argued, her heart clenching in her chest. “They were just . . . patterns to me. They made no sense.”

  Lukasha raised a warning hand, bringing the white linen sleeve of his under vestment into a shaft of crystalline sunlight. Kassia felt as if she had looked directly at the Sun. “You lie to yourself, Kassia. Never do that. I would prefer that you not lie to me either.”

  She blinked, blinded by both the light and the knowledge that he was right. She had lied to herself. She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the regret in his voice when he said, “You are not, I think, ready for those ancient secrets just yet. But I think you are ready to do more than index a few murky spells. I think you are ready to annotate, illustrate and perform them.”

  “Illustrate?” Kassia fought to see the expression on her Master’s lean face. Slowly, her blurred vision righted itself.

  “I will teach you that part. And you will teach me the other.”

  “I teach you? Master, that’s absurd!”

  He tapped the end of her nose with a mock-stern finger and affected a whiny voice. “Don’t call me absurd, you silly woman! That is not way for an Apprentice to speak to her Master.”

  Three thoughts collided in Kassia’s reeling brain—from the absurd (He’s imitating Damek!), to the sublime (Apprentice, he called me!). What came out of her mouth was, “What will Zakarij think of this?”

  “What? No, ‘thank you, Master,’ just ‘what will Zakarij think?’”

  He was teasing her, not unkindly. She smiled. “I merely mean that I wouldn’t want to . . . infringe on his rights and privileges. I . . . am not sure Zakarij likes me much as it is. I would hate to cause him to resent me more.”

  “I don’t believe he’ll resent you, Kassia. He is an Aspirant. More and more he has his own path to follow. He will be examined at the Solstice, which will be upon us in little more than a month’s time. Besides, what I need done now, Zakarij cannot do. As I said, in some things, you will be my teacher. Then too, there is this—among the secrets I showed you, there are things only your eyes and mine have seen. Zakarij does not know of them, nor any Mateu, nor even the ubiquitous Damek. For that reason, I ask that you reveal nothing of what I have shown you or said to you here today. These are our secrets, Kiska. Yours and mine.”

  She went away from him with a warm flush of excitement, anticipation and affection suffusing body and soul. There was another element there as well, something sharp and chill and bitter. Something Kassia did not yet recognize as fear.

  Chapter Seven — Apprentice

  Kassia’s days in Master Radman’s class were at an end. This pleased Matim and Gavmat much, for they supposed that she had been dismissed. Master Radman did not disabuse them of the idea and, of course, they wanted the happy details of her expulsion. He replied simply that Master Lukasha had told him she would no longer be attending the Mysteries class.

  Ari knew all, for she was in Kassia’s confidence. She was torn between keeping a tender and juicy secret and (thereby proving to herself that she could) and wiping the satisfied smirks from the young men’s faces on the spot. She decided to be forbearing, knowing that the two would one day see Kassia in her Apprentice’s tunic. Ari prayed she’d be present when it happened.

  The event occurred much sooner than she expected. After a frustrating mid-day break, at which Kassia did not appear, Ari moped her way to Religion. The class had not yet started; Gav and Mat were holding court in the far corner of the room when Kassia glided in, face shining, wearing tunic and leggings of azure, on her shoulder a badge of the four primary colors arranged in a cross.

  At first no one noticed her, for she also wore a loose velvet hat into which her hair was tucked. She was just one Apprentice in a room that often contained one or two. Then Ari recognized her and gasped, “Kassia!” Conversation ceased; even Brother Sisa started and stared, and Gav and Matim, seconds before convinced they were rid of the arrogant shai, realized she had once again circumvented the rules of order to which they were slaves.

  Kassia, meanwhile, had no intention of upstaging Brother Sisa. She seated herself at the back of the group and spent the class time in silent attention, not speaking unless spoken to by Sisa himself. That did little to soothe her adversaries. Before class was over, they had decided that Kassia Telek’s headlong flight upward must be checked.

  oOo

  ”Absolutely livid,” said Ari, describing Gavmat’s face. “And Matim as white as a Mateu’s skirts. It’s odd, isn’t it, how people react so differently to bad news?” She giggled, destroying the serious expression on her face. “They’ll make trouble. Even I can feel that.”

  Kassia glanced at her sideways, slowing her pace very slightly. “You know them better than I do. What might they do? Are they pranksters?”

  Ari narrowed her eyes against the glare of sun on bleached stone and pursed her lips. “Oh, if Matim were left to his own devices he’d likely come up with some stupid and embarrassing prank, but Gavmat’s not likely to be nearly so childish. I expect he’ll lodge a formal protest. He could reasonably argue, I suppose, that you were made Apprentice ahead of them when they were due. Well, Matim’s overdue, actually. There are only a limited number of Apprenticeships, after all.”

  Kassia put out a hand to stop her friend before they entered Shagtai’s domain. “What do you think, Ari? You’re also overdue, as you put it. Does it anger you that I’ve been . . . promoted so quickly?”

  “I’m happy for you, Kassia. I’m sure you deserve your Apprenticeship.” Her mouth curved up in a sly smile. “Of course, I suppose you could be spelling Master Lukasha to make him promote you. But if you can do that, well, I’d say you deserve to be made Apprentice, anyway.”

  Kassia smiled. “That may be, but I asked how you felt about it. Aren’t you the least bit angry?”

  “Yes, I’m angry. At myself. If I’m overdue for Apprenticeship, it’s my own fault for not having any magic in me. I’m sad, too. Our friendship means a lot to me. Your help means a lot to me. I’m going to miss both.”

  “Ari, no, no and no!” Kassia threw an arm about the girl’s shoulders. “You’re full of magic! Your poetry is magic. And you’ll have both my friendship and my help as long as you want them. You’ll be an Apprentice too, Arax-itu,” she said, and felt a swift certainty leap to her heart along the fingers that rested on Ari’s arm. “You will be,” she added, putting conviction into her voice.

  Ari glanced over at her, half-shy, half-sly. “I wish you could find time to tutor me.”

  “I’ll find time.” Kassia started them moving toward Shagtai’s.

  He was putting an elaborate tail on a fish kite when they entered the workshop. Beyla, watching as his “uncle” Shagtai explained how to braid the streamers, jumped up and ran to give his mother a hug.

  “Oh, mama, you look so fine in your new costume!”

  Shagtai looked up from his work long enough to fix Kassia with a measuring gray gaze. When he had looked her up and down, his lined face inscrutable, he grunted and turned back to his fish tail. “So, it’s Apprentice now, is it?” he said, and that was all.

  It was fortunate, Kassia thought, that Master Lukasha was more impressed with her than Shagtai was. Of course, he expected to be impressed—that much was obvious. The tests he gave her the first full day she spent as his Apprentice were fairly straightforward. Using the shai spells she had indexed, she found hidden objects, read a tablet that was concealed within a box, and held fire in the palm of her hand.

  Lukasha had called Zakarij in to witness these things and initial a testament to their having been performed without mundane trickery. Kassia was not sure why he did this, but supposed it must meet some official requirement. With that done, Lukasha set Kassia to work annotating some of the material she had previously indexed, and excused himself to attend a meeting of the Sacred Circle.

  Zakarij dutifully stayed to oversee Kassia’s work, she at the Master’s writing desk beneath the
library window, he at his own table beneath the shelves. She had been at her task for perhaps an hour when she realized he was watching her. Reluctant, defiant, she looked up to meet his gaze.

  He spoke the instant their eyes brushed, as if the words were spilled from him by force. “How do you hold fire in the palm of your hand?”

  Kassia glanced down at the hand in question. Presently, it held a reed pen and rested in a colorfully fractured spot of sunlight. She caught her shrug before she inadvertently implied that anyone ought to know that much about “Itugenic” spells.

  “It’s probably one of the first things mother taught me. I’ve known that spell since I was ten or eleven.” She smiled wryly. “A good trick for a little girl who’s afraid of the dark. Beyla—” She caught herself on the verge of revealing the boy’s talent. Only Devora had even an inkling of his real abilities.

  “Beyla. That’s your son, isn’t it?” Zakarij’s dark gaze was questioning—a half-smile played about his full mouth.

  Kassia nodded and made a dismissive gesture. “I was just going to say that Beyla’s a lot braver than I was at his age. He’s not afraid of much of anything.”

  The funny smile-not-smile on Zakarij’s lips hovered a moment longer—long enough to make Kassia uneasy—then he shook his head and patted the papers he worked over into a neat stack. Their eyes met again, hers consternated, his musing.

  What? Kassia wanted to shout. What about me do you find so very amusing?

  As if he’d heard the annoyed mental bleat, he said, “It’s strange, you know. We’re of an age, you and I, but I’ve barely lived and you . . . you seem to have had several lifetimes. You had a secret childhood and a public one, you’ve lived as a beloved daughter, as a man’s wife, as a child’s mother. You’ve been unwelcome in your own village; outcast by your own family. And now you’re here—Initiate to Apprentice in barely a month’s time. And I . . . Until I came here, I lived all my life in my family’s home, cared for, loved, approved, taught I could have whatever I wanted if I but wanted it enough. Seven years I’ve been here, Apprentice, Kassia. Seven years of slowly progressing toward a goal. I think I live life at a normal rate of speed for a man of twenty-four, but you, Kassia—you live in a whirlwind.”

  She was utterly bereft of any sense of his mood or intent. He was as opaque as Lukasha—no, more so, for the Mateu’s smiles and frowns resonated in her heart. Zak’s were closed doors denying her access to whatever lay behind them.

  “Could you teach someone else to control fire?” he asked his neat pages.

  “Someone?”

  “All right. Could you teach me to control it?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Would you like me to try?”

  “Yes.” He rose from behind his desk, eyes burning her with sudden heat.

  “Now?”

  “What better time?” He moved to the foot of the stair, his gaze never wavering, and gestured for her to rise.

  She glanced upward to where the spiral ended. “Up there? Are you sure?”

  “Apprentice, we are not disobedient children sneaking into our father’s workshop to profane it. I am an Aspirant and Master Lukasha’s First Apprentice.” He laid subtle stress on the rank. “You are charged with both the practice of your art and obedience to me. Up there,” he gestured with his eyes, “no one will dare disturb us. Or do you not mind the thought of Damek walking in on us?”

  She hesitated only a moment longer, then came to her feet and preceded him up the stair. Once in Lukasha’s private sanctum, Zakarij moved immediately to the dais, where Kassia had performed her “test” earlier that morning, and stepped up onto it. She followed him reluctantly, still uneasy about using Lukasha’s private studio in his absence, and feeling more than a little awkward in the role of teacher. Up till now, she had instructed only Beyla; to teach someone as well-schooled in magic as Zakarij or Lukasha, who also expected her tutelage, was daunting.

  All right, she told herself, teach as if it was your own son who received the lesson. A deep, quick breath and she placed herself in the center of the circular platform facing Zakarij.

  “All right now. First, watch me perform the spell. But do more than watch,” she added as his lips parted to protest. “What I mean is, watch with all your senses. Let all vision enter your eyes; and all sounds, your ears; and all sensations, your skin; and all whispers of spirit, your heart and soul and mind.” She deliberately made her tones rhythmic, musical, chanting, willing him to enter such a state of meditation that he could really do these things. “Now,” she repeated, and began the equation. “Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” She held out her hand, palm up and repeated the invocation. “Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” She saw the fire in her mind—a tiny, graceful flame in a place of utter darkness. Seeing it, she raised her palm and blew a breath of air upon it. “Ahni!” She sang the name of the spirit of fire; two tones—one low, the second a fifth higher. The flame, small, beautiful and bright, rose from her palm to unfurl within the lamp of her curled fingers.

  She heard Zakarij draw in a hissing breath, glimpsed his hand moving toward the flame. She raised her own free hand in warning. “It will burn.” She looked into his face, yearning to see his envy, his respect. His opacity frustrated her once again, for though she could read excitement in the parted lips, the over-bright eyes, she could not see herself as he saw her—white hair a gleaming aura in the sunlight, flesh burnished bright, fire dancing in her cupped hand and mirrored in tilted eyes that were nearly black.

  He dropped his hand. “I can’t . . . I didn’t feel a thing.”

  She closed her hand, mentally subtracting air from the spell and extinguishing the flame. “Let’s try again.”

  “Can’t you just tell me—”

  “Yes, but until you feel it, see it, hear it, the words will be meaningless to you. Here, like this.” She stepped closer to him, took his hands in her own and raised them to face her, palms out. Zakarij jumped as if her touch carried a static charge. She felt a tingling backwash race up the backs of her arms. She ignored it, assuming it was some defensive barrier she had accidentally breached. “Close your eyes. Breathe. Sam-ha.”

  “What?”

  “Buddhist monks do this. Here.” She moved one of his hands to her diaphragm. “Like this.” She breathed in through her nose, deeply, pulling the air all the way to the bottom of her lungs. Then she let it out through her lips. His hand, beneath hers, rose and fell. “Breathe in—sam; breathe out—ha. Deeply. Slowly. Breathe into your soul. You try.”

  She put the hand against his ribs. He breathed, a little raggedly, but better.

  “Again.”

  He complied.

  “Better. Now.” She brought their hands up again between them, palms out at shoulder height, and held him there for a moment, palm to palm, fingers not quite entwined, bodies a few hand spans apart. A sheer veil of energy vibrated between and around them, rippling like the cold flames Mat set in the winter sky. Snow fires, they were called, and it was believed they were a gift to the beloved Goddess, to warm her till spring. Kassia savored the sensation. It was as if her body was filled with hot, delicious liquid fire. As if she embraced the snow fires and was in turn embraced.

  Surely, she thought, surely he must feel this.

  She moved back a step, stretching the invisible veil, and loosed his hands to raise her own between them. He breathed deeply, but Kassia could tell he struggled. “Watch,” she murmured. “Listen. Feel. Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” She breathed into her palm. “Ahni.”

  The flame blossomed—a flow of light and heat. She looked up at Zakarij. Tears stood in the smoke-dark eyes, lips and hands quivered. And Kassia felt, through the barriers he held so tightly in place, a great silent longing for the flame. Before that desire could be lost, she let the flame go, pulled his hands down between them and formed his fingers into a bowl.

  “The words,” she prompted.

  He blinked and breathed. “Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” He breathed into his hands
.

  “See the flame,” she ordered.

  His eyes closed, brow furrowed. “Ahni.”

  Nothing happened except that his hands trembled harder.

  “Ah-ni.” She murmured, stressing the tonality of the catalytic word. “Again. Breathe.”

  He did. “Isak Itugen. Isak Rez.” Breathe. “Ahni!”

  It was small and ruddy and flickering, but it was fire. Zak’s eyes opened to it—in his hands! He might be the only man in a generation to hold Itugen’s flame. His breath rode out on a moan. “Did you . . . do this?” His eyes were steady on the flame.

  “No, Zakarij. You did. You evoked the fires of Itugen. Your words, your will.” She pulled her hands away from his. The flame, as if to prove the truth of her words, shimmered just as brightly.

  “Ah,” he whispered. A moment later, “How do I put it out?”

  She grinned at him. “Should I tell you?”

  “Kassia . . .”

  “Water or air. Your choice. I subtract air. You could add water.”

  He frowned, invoked water. The flame dissolved with a hiss. He wiped his hand on his tunic, smudging it, and shook his head. “Thank you, Kassia. I’ve never . . . I’ve never felt magic before.”

  “Never felt it? Then how-?”

  “It always came from here.” He tapped his head. “Never . . .” His hand brushed down the length of his body. “Before, I constructed spells the way a man would build a house. My magic has always come from me. This was . . .” His dark eyes caught hers, seeking a connection. “This was of me. Is that what you feel when you raise the flame?”

  Kassia nodded. “Would you like to try again?”

  He smiled fleetingly. “Ah, no. I think once is enough today. We’ve other work to do.”

  oOo

  By the time Master Lukasha returned from his Circle meeting, Kassia had writer’s cramp and was glad of the interruption when he called her up to his studio to go over the pages of annotation she had completed.