by Cat Bruno
For a moment, Bronwen considered tidying the room, but then heard voices in the hall behind the closed door and settled on seating herself on the edge of the bed to wait for Willem, tightly wrapped in the towel still. When he entered, Chien trailed behind him, carrying garments draped over her arms.
“I have brought some hot tea, honey cakes, boiled eggs, and fresh melon,” he said to her, nodding toward the silver tray that he held.
While looking at the food, Bronwen couldn’t help but notice that at some point Willem had also washed. His hair was still damp, his face cleanly shaven, cheeks flushed, and he was wearing a striking tunic embroidered by a fine hand with delicate leaves around the neck in a sparkling, blue thread. His pants were of a similar style to what he normally wore, tight, supple, grayish leather. He was, she had to admit, an undeniably attractive man, and for an instant, Bronwen paused in thought, but only for a moment, for then Willem was speaking to her again.
“Chien has brought some dresses for you to try. Keep whatever fits or whichever you fancy. Chien has modified them to cover your neck. It seems she was at work long before the sun rose. I shall leave you two, but when you are finished, meet me in the courtyard. We will talk then.”
His last words fell heavy to the floor, undeniable in their meaning. Then, he placed the laden tray on the messy bed before turning and leaving the two women, closing the door gently behind him without looking back. Bronwen sighed deeply and with an unexplained longing.
Bronwen looked away from the small woman, aware of what Chien must be thinking after viewing the room around them, wondering if she should try to give an explanation for what had occurred. Without knowing where to begin, Bronwen gave up, reaching for a cup of tea and raising it to her lips. Chien glanced at her, so Bronwen held up the second glass, offering it to the tiny, serious woman.
Chien finally smiled shyly, still hesitant to look directly at Bronwen, but accepted the cup Bronwen held.
Bronwen was sucking on a juicy piece of orange melon when Chien began laying the gowns that she had brought across the bed. A rainbow of colors splashed across the discarded sheets. Reds, purples, even yellow, which Bronwen doubted would suit her pale coloring.
When Chien was finished, she spoke for the first time in Bronwen’s hearing, a soft, musical voice that sounded much like a seabird, “Try this one first, my lady, it will be so pretty on you,” she cooed, holding up an elaborate gown as blue as the sky.
The dress was nothing that Bronwen would normally wear, cut from a shiny material that she couldn’t name and garnished with sparkling beads shaped in flowers from the East, perhaps it was Chien’s own gown, Bronwen wondered.
“Chien, are these your dresses? I couldn’t possibly take such beautiful gowns from you. Perhaps I might be able to borrow a simpler robe?”
Bronwen again looked at the gowns lying on the bed, hoping that Chien understood what she had said and wondering how she would even be able to fit into such clothes if they did belong to Chien. Standing next to her, Bronwen could look down upon her shiny, ebony hair.
“Master Ammon says these dresses are for you. They are much too long for me. See?” Chien added while she held up the yellow gown against her own body, the dress dragging on the floor beneath her feet.
“Okay, well, maybe I will try them on. But not that yellow one. Is there anything simpler, without any beads or jewels upon it? I have to get back to the clinic, so I need something appropriate but still high-collared. And I need to be able to move freely in it.”
The two women, one tall and freckled, the other delicate and pale, stood together at the edge of the bed admiring the collection of twenty or so gowns. Bronwen had never considered herself a woman concerned with such niceties, but she had to admit that the dresses were lovely, and she was enjoying sorting through them. Some seemed Rexterran, fine, exquisitely mastered embroidery threading through the expensive material and of the most remarkable shades, colors so vibrant that Bronwen wondered where the dye had originated. A few of the gowns were surely from the East, satin, floral-inspired ones of a similar style to the gown that was now missing. A few seemed to be from the Southern Cove Islands, long, wide-sleeved, simply cut, but dyed in rich, jewel tones of orange and red, and decorated with swirling, patterned shapes. The Island gowns proved to be the most comfortable when Bronwen slipped one over her head, but the deep v-cut of the gown accentuated the purpled bruises that still tarnished her ivory neck rather than covering them.
Bronwen was intrigued by a simple, layered dress that appeared to be of Northern origin, what she might be wearing had circumstances been different, she thought. The dress consisted of a fine, white cotton chemise with long, full sleeves that gathered at the wrists, and a high, fitted collar that would certainly hide Bronwen’s neck. On top of the chemise was a sleeveless bodice that plunged low and snapped from waist to breast with dazzling, silvery clasps before an attached skirt flowed outward from hip to ankle. The bodice and skirt were a deep green, but a shade that Bronwen couldn’t name, as each time the sunlight reflected on the fabric, the color changed, from shining to matte, and Bronwen couldn’t take her eyes off of it.
Chien noticed the way Bronwen played with the gown, running her fingers over the nearly iridescent fabric and opening and closing the clasps on the bodice, and asked, “Shall I help you into that gown?”
With a nod of her head, Bronwen sat on the bed as Chien pulled the orange Island gown over her slightly damp hair. Bronwen sat naked while Chien searched through the pile of discarded clothing, unnerved and blushing.
Finally, after what seemed like half the morning, Chien handed her a pretty, light-colored shift which she assumed would serve as underclothes. As quickly as she could, Bronwen slipped the shift over her head, gently tugging it into place, somewhat surprised at how snugly it fit her, especially around her breasts, which had never been anything but average in size. When the shift was in place, Chien handed Bronwen the chemise, a soft, simple shirt, but clearly well-made and of exceptional quality, which Bronwen shrugged on, lacing it up to her neck, relieved at the coverage it offered. Next, the two women worked together lifting the surprisingly supple gown over her head and then down her body. With quivering fingers, Bronwen placed the silver closures through the small slits on the bodice until it fit her smoothly, ending just under the tops of her breasts. When all the fabric was in place, Bronwen sighed, realizing with a start that she had been holding her breath.
Unlike most of the rooms at the Academy, Willem’s quarters held many large, nearly life-size, glass mirrors. Bronwen awkwardly tottered over to the opposite wall, near the privy, and stood in front of a tall, rectangular looking glass, confused by what she saw there. Surely the woman staring back was not her, but, rather, some mage-shifted image of her.
Yet, when Chien came to stand next to her, Bronwen knew the image was no lie, for Chien still appeared as she had moments before, only now she was beaming.
“Sweet lady, you look like a queen!”
Kingmaker. Rexaria. Conri was never far from her, Bronwen realized then.
25
Master Rova often woke early, well before the first hint of the morning’s rays peeked out behind his small cottage. And today was no different as he had already dressed, and had broken his fast on some hard, dark bread, softened with honey and butter, and a steaming cup of lemon balm tea. Rova was tired this morn, troubled by a fretful night of sleep and the dark dreams that had haunted him.
As he walked from his cottage on the back side of campus to the Master’s Hall, which was across from the library, Rova had time to consider how he should handle today’s meeting. Was it the right time to inform the Master Council of what had occurred, or should he wait until he had gathered more information before sharing his suspicions with his fellow teachers? In the end, he had concluded that waiting seemed the wiser choice, especially considering the implications. So, for now, he kept the black-ice hidden in his small garden, buried underneath a newly planted juniper tree,
hoping the stories that his grandfather had told him about the juniper’s protection against evil spirits held a little truth, the memory creating the first smile that had covered his face since his discovery.
Growing up as the only son and grandson, Rova had been well-loved, especially by his mother’s father, a man small and dark, yet full of so much light that he was rarely forgotten by those who met him. He had taught Rova much about plant and herb lore, never missing an opportunity to teach his grandson something new. Rova could still recall how his grandfather had once stopped in front of a juniper tree as the two walked home from selling his mother’s woven baskets at the market. He had watched as his grandfather plucked the orange-red berries off the large shrub, squeezing them between his fingers. After he had done so with several berries, his fingers had turned a rusty shade. Then he raised them to Rova’s forehead, and, startled, Rova had stood silent and motionless as the old man gently painted a pattern onto him.
In the center of his forehead, he had drawn a circle, and on each side of the circle, as well as at the top and bottom, he had made a curved line. And even though Rova could not see the shape that his grandfather had drawn, he knew it by touch. It was the sign of the Lightkeepers. Just as quickly as he had drawn it, his grandfather erased it, wiping at the boy’s forehead with the sleeve of his tunic, staining it a deep blue. Yet, Rova recognized what had happened, even as a child, and he knew with certainty that his grandfather was a Lightkeeper himself. With the juice of the juniper, his grandfather had not only offered him protection from evil spirits, but now he was setting him upon the path of service to the light, a path Rova still tried to walk, even as a lone Lightkeeper at the Academy.
He continued walking as he reflected, and by the time the sun was fully risen, Master Rova had arrived at the Master’s Hall, a low, flat building that hid in the shadow of the towering library. The pale exterior of the building shined in the morning light; otherwise, the Hall was a rather unimpressive building, no different than many other modestly built structures throughout Tretoria. Yet, the Master’s Hall had a unique layout, different from the others in that it was comprised of one large room, undivided and without walls. So when one entered the Hall, it seemed to be a large classroom, with chairs, mats, and cushions scattered about the room. A large table sat at the front of the room, and, often, it was there that the Masters would sit.
The Masters engaged in a meeting at least once per moon to discuss various issues concerning the Academy, from which classes to offer to how the gardens would need to be planted. Often the discussions would only briefly touch on healing before venturing into other subjects. Rova doubted that today’s meeting would be any different, although soon he would have to speak of the Dark Arts with his fellows. But not yet, he thought, for he still needed time to seek answers.
Master Rova was not the first healer to arrive at the hall, as the aged, yet still quite sharp, Master Torino was sitting in an oversized chair reading some sort of manuscript.
Rova called out to his old friend, “Good morning to you, Torino. I had thought I’d be the first to arrive, but I am not disappointed to find you here. Might I inquire into what you are studying this morning?”
Torino cleared his throat and gently closed the book, turning it so Rova could read the gilded lettering.
“Ah, yes, Rova, I see I’m not the only one who had troubled sleep. But I have been accompanied by this most interesting book, To Live and Die as a Rexterran Noble, which was recently acquired by Master Tywinne. How lucky we are to have him!”
Master Rova nodded his agreement, and none could deny how valuable Tywinne was to the Academy, although he was rarely seen, choosing instead to spend most of his time in his reading rooms. But one only had to show a passing interest in a subject, and before the sun set, a book or manuscript with the desired information would be delivered. Rova often wondered how Master Tywinne could recall all the titles that his library held, as it was easily the largest library of its kind in all of Cordisia. When students at the Academy no longer showed an interest or talent for healing, Rova would send them to Tywinne first, hoping to keep them before sending them home. The library employed many former healers, of all years.
When Master Torino hadn’t resumed his reading, Rova realized that he was waiting for him to reply, “Rexterran politics! I’m certain that such a subject could fill a whole floor of our great library. Such is life, and, unfortunately, we are not immune to politics even here in our isolated world. So, what is scheduled to be discussed today?”
Master Torino replied, a crooked smile on his wrinkled face, “I believe we have need to examine the construction of a few new classrooms, as our enrollment has been steadily increasing. Also, I wanted to talk with you about Bronwen, if I may. I had heard that she has been ill, yet sought no treatment, neither at the clinic nor with any senior healer. Surely she has learned enough not to self-treat, I hope. Do you know what ails her? I have not seen her in over a quarter-moon, and even then, she seemed, well, distracted.”
To cover his concern, Rova looked down, sipping at the now cool tea he had carried with him to the meeting. Torino’s words were certainly nothing new, as he himself had heard the rumors of Bronwen’s mysterious illness. And, had it been any other time than now, he would be unconcerned as Bronwen never had given him reason to doubt her dedication or talent. Yet, since finding the black-ice, Rova’s unyielding trust of Bronwen, indeed, he admitted, several other healers as well, was not as solid.
After sipping his tea for a moment, Rova answered, “It is not so unusual that becoming Master Apprentice causes some changes, and she is still quite a young woman after all. Or, if she is truly ill, mayhap it is a feminine condition that she had not wanted to discuss with us old men! It seems that she and Kennet Dannovska, who we sent to the library many moon years ago, have been spending time together lately. Let us give her time to adjust to her new responsibilities.”
“Kennet? The bespectacled fellow? I had always thought them to be friends, but you are right, Rova, what does an old man like me know about these young healers. Ah, look, who is that entering now?”
Both men looked at the door as a few more long-robed Masters were entering. Rova knew all of the Masters, especially as he had been at the Academy longer than most of them. However, there was a bit of a division between the newer Masters and the ones like he and Torino, and even Tywinne. Nothing more than a difference in style and a differing approach to healing, Rova thought.
Holding open the heavy wooden door was Master Ellaine Chicora, a gentle, yet strong healer whose preferred approach was the simplest approach, which she reminded her students of as often as she could. She was the Master in charge of the first year students and tirelessly tended to their needs, as often the early students were young and separated from their families for the first time. Master Ellaine’s natural demeanor was a perfect fit for her duties with the young students as she was both mother and teacher, loving and caring, yet firm when necessary. As well as supervising the first year students, Ellaine was in charge of the care and maintenance of the large gardens that could be found throughout the Academy. Rova hoped she might be familiar with the warning systems that the Mage-Guild had placed in the main garden and eyed her as she stood at the entrance to the hall, her long, thin arm clothed in a light-blue robe, strong and unbuckling against the weight of the door. Master Rova smiled to see her, grateful as ever that she was here at the Academy.
Before the door glided closed behind her, a small, balding man rushed in behind her, calling out as he entered, “Ellaine, I need to speak with you.”
The man trailing behind Ellaine was a squat, dark fellow, with thick, black hair covering his arms and lower legs, visible below the knees because of the shortened robe he wore. At the Academy, he was known as Master Black, although his birth name differed. Few even knew his name, and even fewer asked, as Master Black had a disposition as dark as his hair.
But not even Black could distress one as calm as Ellaine,
and she simply waited for him to be beside her before turning, looking slightly down as she stood taller than him.
“What can I help you with, sir?” she asked in a kind, pleasing voice.
Master Black, rarely a man to smile, grimaced before replying, “You must do something about those first years of yours, Ellaine. As a whole, I have found them to be lazy, whiny creatures who can’t seem to do anything correctly, not even plant identification. Do you know that just the other day I asked that dim-witted child Kelvin to fetch me some fired wine and some dried comfrey? And, Ellaine, do you know what that fool came back with? Well, I will tell you. When he returned from the storehouse, he handed me some watered wine and a satchel of pepper leaves!”
He paused, looked intensely at Ellaine, before adding, “Imagine if I had not checked myself, the poor mother who had just delivered a large, broad-shouldered son would have had a compress of pepper leaves pressed up into her. Ellaine, something must be done.”
Ellaine placed her thin hand on Master Black’s forearm tenderly, although as Rova got closer he noticed that her other hand was clenched into a fist.
When he was at her side, he heard Ellaine respond, “Master Black, you forget that we were all first year students once. They will learn, as we all did. But let us all remember, even as far as we have come as healers, that we are still teachers and still have much to learn. These children are new to the path that we have long labored on. Would you agree, Master Rova?”
“My lady, you always speak the truth. Is there a problem, Master Black, that I might be able to help you with? If not, might I have a moment to confer with Ellaine about a section of the main garden that requires her attention?”
Black quickly excused himself, as Rova expected, knowing how little interest Master Black had in topics unrelated to him, and Rova allowed himself a moment’s guilt over his small fib before addressing Ellaine, making certain that Black was well across the room before speaking.
