Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  And I will illuminate

  I will illuminate

  The sky”

  As she sang, lantern bugs blossomed in front of her, little tiny pricks of golden light that faded in and out like soft breath. More and more appeared as if they danced to her song.

  She sensed Sim watching her through the tiny lights as she began the final stanza.

  “Parting will never leave us alone

  Crush fate once set in stone

  Turn my heart to rain

  And I will illuminate

  I will illuminate

  Tonight”

  When the song finally faded, she found her face floating near Sim’s. She hadn’t realized that she’d been leaning closer and closer to him. Her heart thundered, but her hands were surprisingly steady.

  Pomella thought she could hear Sim’s heart beating, too. She had so much to say to him, so much feeling inside that needed to be let out. She wanted to tell him that she cared for him, too. That she was glad he was here with her. That, if she had to be chased by soldiers and silver wolves, and trapped in a mud pit, he’d be the one person whose company she wouldn’t mind.

  Sim leaned in to cross the final inch between them, but she turned her head. How did she tell him? He was part of her old life. He was home. And right now, it was time to leave home. If she was going to commit to the possibility of becoming a Mystic, there would be no place for him.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

  The lantern bugs vanished, the clouds obscured the stars, and the rain began anew. Sim’s hand found hers, and she gripped it back, hard.

  FOUR

  THE LOST CHAMBER

  The morning came, but the storm continued. The pit became a soaking chamber of mud.

  Pomella and Sim spent hours trying to scramble and claw their way up the sheer wall with no success. They called for help, but nobody answered. Pomella’s food ran out, and Sim shared what little he had. They had plenty of water, at least. And if the soldiers survived the wolves, they weren’t likely to find Pomella and Sim here.

  Into the afternoon, dark thoughts swirled around a shivering and hungry Pomella. There was no way she could make it to Sentry in time now. The ranger waiting for her would probably assume she wasn’t coming and return to Kelt Apar alone.

  She stared at the opposite wall, thinking about last night and how Sim had tried to kiss her. Her stomach tumbled as she wondered what he thought of her and whether she’d made the right choice.

  Rainwater drained into a little hole in the opposite wall. She focused on it, and noticed it was the same one she’d investigated yesterday. Having little else to try, she went over and looked again. The little hole was no wider than her wrist. The faint, echoing sound of trickling water came from within.

  Echoing.

  Lying on her belly, Pomella crammed her arm in. Surprise blossomed on her face. She felt nothing but open space on the other side.

  “Sim, give me your sword.”

  She heard him trudge through the mud and lean over to peer in.

  “It’s a hole,” he said.

  Pomella rolled her eyes. “Just give it to me.”

  He obliged and handed the sword to her. Stretching her arm, Pomella stuck the sword into the hole to try to loosen or widen the opening. The blade struck something hard. Curious, she removed the sword and reached her arm in again. She couldn’t reach whatever she’d found.

  “Buzzards,” she said. She yanked her arm out and kicked the hole, trying to make it bigger. A muddy chunk came free, enlarging the opening. She squeezed down on her belly and crawled in.

  “I don’t know if that’s a wise idea,” said Sim.

  Pomella ignored him. Trying not to gag as mud filled her mouth, she crawled deeper until she was submerged to her hips. Her groping fingers found the hard object the sword had struck. She yanked, and it came loose.

  She emerged triumphant, holding up her prize like a Summeryarn fishing champion. She spit mud out of her mouth and wiped her filthy forehead with an even dirtier hand.

  Sim cracked a smile. “Now you look like something out of the Toweren.”

  She smiled back. It felt good, despite knowing that mud caked her face, hair, and everything to her hips. “Mud is good for the skin,” she chimed.

  Sim laughed, and helped her stand. Their fingers lingered together.

  They looked at the object she’d pulled out. It was a simple flat stone, about as wide as her shoulders. “Look at that,” Sim said, tracing the stone’s perfectly rectangular shape. “Somebody cut this.”

  “But what is it?” Pomella asked.

  “It sort of looks like a stepping-stone.”

  “But what would a stepping-stone be doing down here?”

  Sim looked up. “Maybe there used to be more and they led up here?”

  “Too bad we can’t open the wall any wide—”

  She stopped. Shoving the stone into Sim’s arms, she faced the wall and shook her hands to loosen them.

  “I saw a passage in The Book of Songs about opening a door. I remember the song my grandmhathir wrote on that page. If I sing it, maybe I can…” She trailed off, realizing how silly she must sound.

  “I don’t know, Pomella. The last time you meddled with that book you got chased by invisible ghost-wolves. Maybe you should wait until you’re an apprentice before trying things with the Myst again.”

  “I didn’t summon them!” she snapped. “And I won’t even get a chance to be an apprentice if I don’t get out of here.” Closing her eyes, she relaxed her mind and hummed a few bars. Sim stepped out of the way.

  Nothing happened. She cleared her throat and tried again, with the same results.

  Sim raised his eyebrow. Pomella tried again but cut herself off with a frustrated growl. “I need a jagged master to teach me this stuff!”

  Sim laughed, a sarcastic snorting sound.

  She cocked her head at him. “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, no,” Sim said, holding up his hands. “Please continue. Singing to it seems to be working great.”

  Pomella felt her face heat. “Well, fine!” she snapped. She slammed her foot into the wall, right above the hole. She kicked again, and again.

  Finally, panting and dragging a loose strand of hair away from her face, she stopped. They looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

  The wall above the hole collapsed.

  Sim screamed and leaped back.

  They stared at each other in amazement. Stepping over the debris, they looked down a newly revealed tunnel, which stood taller than Sim. Stone steps like the one Pomella pulled out led down a sloping natural corridor of mud and exposed tree roots.

  “I think your foot might make a better Mystic than the rest of you,” Sim said with a smirk.

  Pomella smacked his chest. “Those stepping-stones lead somewhere.”

  Deep inside the tunnel, a sudden flicker of silvery light caught her attention. She peered forward. A silver mouse scuttled farther down the tunnel. It glowed with a soft light, brightening a small area around it.

  Pomella grabbed Sim’s arm.

  The mouse dashed out of view. Pomella followed, pulling Sim after her while he grumbled about being attacked by wolves. The slick ground sloped downward. She steadied herself on the wall to keep from falling. The stepping-stones kept her steady, although they steepened until they were almost like a ladder. The distant opening Sim and Pomella had come from became lost to sight.

  Darkness settled around them like a cold blanket.

  Sim grabbed her shoulder. She opened her mouth to berate him, but he pointed ahead. “Look!” he whispered. “Do you see it?”

  Pomella peered ahead, wondering how Sim could see anything at all. She expected to see the mouse or another silvery animal, but was instead surprised to see the outline of an archway. She gasped. “What is it? We’re so far underground.”

  “I don’t like it,” Sim said, but led the way anyway, sword drawn. She rolled her e
yes.

  They stepped through the stone archway. Beyond lay darkness. Sim stumbled on some pieces of rotting wood lying at the entrance. The air felt different here, as if they’d entered a large room.

  He lifted a thin piece of wood. “Hold this,” he said, handing it to her. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out his flint, some tinder, and an edged piece of iron. He struck it across the flint, trying to ignite a spark on the tinder. It caught after a third try.

  He worked the sparks until the board lit into a makeshift torch, illuminating the chamber. Looking around, Pomella’s eyes widened.

  “Sweet Saints,” Sim breathed.

  He held up the torch, revealing the massive interior. Stone walls created a circular room filled with wooden wreckage and thick spiderwebs. A smashed table lay in the center, next to which ruined chairs and other unidentifiable objects lay strewn about. Shattered picture frames lay in pieces below thick nails driven into the wall that had once held them. The stone extended up to form a flat roof fifteen feet above. The farthest corners of the chamber were lost in shadow. Pomella wondered how far belowground they were.

  Pomella exchanged a glance with Sim and followed him deeper into the room. Brushing aside dusty webs, she tried to count chairs. The amount of wreckage suggested about eight seats.

  Four thick candles slept in sconces mounted on the walls, their dry wax hanging like the gnarled roots of ancient oaks. Pomella took the torch from Sim and lit the one closest to them, brushing away thick webs to find the old wick buried in the depths of the candle.

  “What do you think this place was?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. But look at this.”

  Sim lifted the shredded remains of a tapestry. He brushed it to clear the dust. Squinting in the dim candlelight, Pomella examined a circle of robed figures, each holding a tall staff, standing in a circle around a great oak tree. Some of the figures wore hoods that concealed their faces. Some had their hoods down, revealing lizardlike faces. One figure, crowned in gold, held a staff made of fire. The red threads outlining the flame were the same color as the figure’s long hair. Saint Brigid. Three swirling circles, woven like a Mothic knot and arranged in a triangle pattern, hung in the sky above them.

  “Who were they?” Sim asked.

  “Mystics,” Pomella whispered. “I’ve seen similar images in my Book of Songs. And look.”

  She pointed to the faded images of small animals traced in silver on the tapestry. A deer, a turtle, an eagle, and even a wolf. Silver threads rippled off each animal. Pomella’s heart beat faster. She hadn’t imagined them!

  “You were right,” Sim said to her. “Maybe you can see things like a Mystic does. Maybe that’s why you were invited to Kelt Apar.”

  “What’s this?” Pomella said, pointing to another scene depicted next to the first. This one was rendered as a fully detailed image, showing a human man and woman bowing before the feet of a lizardlike laghart. The laghart sat atop a great stone that had swirling shapes carved into it. The laghart was unclothed, but shone with power that wove across its body and up to the tip of a staff it held. A silver halo encircled the laghart’s head.

  “Looks like a laghart Mystic,” Sim said. “Ever heard of something like that?”

  Pomella shook her head. “There’s another one over on that wall.”

  Sim set the first tapestry down gently as if afraid of ruining it further. They carefully stepped around the room’s wreckage to face the torn tapestry that somehow still clung to the wall. This one showed five men standing atop one another.

  The man at the top wore robes and carried a staff. Below him stood a man with a crown, and below again was a man holding bulging bags and a merchant’s scale. Next down the column was a farmer with a hoe, and finally, at the very bottom, was a ruined pauper. Pomella noticed that the pauper was separated from the other four, as if he was not quite part of the world that the other four occupied.

  “Well, this one’s pretty obvious,” Sim said. “If you’re a Mystic, it would make sense that you would want a tapestry to remind yourself that you were in the highest caste.”

  “Perhaps,” she mused. “I wonder what this place was.”

  “Maybe this is where they met,” he murmured. “Either way, I don’t think it ended well.” He pointed.

  A sudden noise startled Pomella. She whirled to face the deepest part of the chamber. Sim spun at the sound, too, his sword flashing in the firelight. He stepped forward.

  “There’s another door,” Sim said.

  They approached the door slowly, walking heel to toe. Pomella let Sim walk in front, but only, she told herself, because he was holding a sword.

  Definite sounds—whispers, Pomella could hear—leaked from behind the door. Sim reached out and pulled the door open with his free hand.

  Pomella gasped.

  Rotten shelves hung on the wall of a small alcove, propped up in odd ways with smaller boards as if somebody had tried to hastily repair them. Inside, a cluster of ragged men and women huddled closely together, clutching one another. They wore torn shirts and filthy pants. Each man wore a long, scraggly beard that clearly hadn’t seen a razor in many years. Pomella’s hands shook. All of their heads were shaved.

  Unclaimed.

  “Oh, shite,” Sim whispered.

  Not speaking a word, each man and woman dropped to their knees and placed their forehead on the cavern floor. Pomella fought the urge to flee. She found herself taking half a step backward. She’d never actually seen one of the Unclaimed before. Her mind boggled as she imagined the terrible crimes each of these people must’ve committed. You couldn’t be born Unclaimed. Even the rare child born to an Unclaimed woman was taken away and given to commoners to raise.

  “Mercy, Lord,” one of the women said. “Mercy, Lady.” To the Unclaimed, everyone was a lord or lady, even commoners like Pomella and Sim.

  Sim backed away from them, keeping his sword raised. “I think we should leave,” he said.

  Pomella agreed, but a new thought stopped her. Maybe these men and women hadn’t committed a crime. Or perhaps their crime had been something as simple as leaving their barony without their baron’s permission. She stared at the dirty figures with a new, horrifying revelation.

  This was what she could soon become.

  “Why are you here?” she found herself saying. She hadn’t expected to speak the thought out loud.

  One of the men spoke without lifting his head. “Shelter. Not fit to be looked at.”

  Sim took Pomella by the arm and pulled her away. “Come on. We can’t do anything for them.”

  Pomella let him lead her away, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the disheveled men and women prostrated before her. Each lacked a name, and a place in the world.

  Sim moved ahead to shuffle through the chamber’s wreckage. Pomella continued to stare at the Unclaimed. Her foot caught on something, and she jumped back.

  A dull gray shaft protruded from beneath the chamber’s smashed table. At first Pomella thought it might be some kind of thin, dead tree branch, but then she realized what it was. A bone. Piled atop more bones.

  Pomella swallowed. “Sim?”

  She turned to see Sim gathering long planks of wood from the table.

  “We can use this as a ladder,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Pomella leaped to help, silently thanking Sim for having the presence of mind to figure out a solution. She helped him lift the wood, and together they exited the chamber from the way they’d come in. Pomella gave one last glance at the Unclaimed, who still remained prostrated.

  Working around the old bones, she and Sim stacked as many planks of wood as they could and struggled back up the tunnel. Managing the uphill slope proved to be a challenge, as the runoff from the rain slickened the terrain. Both of them fell at different times, and Pomella cut her ankle on the side of one of the stone steps.

  At last they made it back to the open pit. The rain pounded harder than before, filling the hole with
deep puddles. Water cascaded over the edges above. Pomella inhaled deeply, relishing the fresh air. It cleared her mind, washing it free of the dark thoughts the Unclaimed had brought forth. Still, despite the clean air, she was beginning to really dislike the constant rain.

  “You should climb out,” Sim said, wiping water from his brow. “You’re lighter than me, and I can help steady the boards.”

  Pomella tilted her head back, feeling unsure about the slippery twenty-foot climb.

  “I don’t know, Sim. I’m not very good at—”

  “Pomella,” Sim said, his voice sincere. “‘Don’t let me give in,’ right?”

  The rain splattered on her face. Her teeth chattered. He was right. She nodded.

  Sim leaned the longest, thickest board against the pit wall and wiggled it to ensure it was stable. “I’ll give you a boost,” he said, and nodded upward.

  Pomella grasped the board and climbed using Sim’s cupped hands. She scrambled up the angled plank as quickly as she could, and found a handhold in the wall. For a moment she balanced there, but then Sim’s strong arms pushed her feet up higher. Stretching out, she stepped onto the top edge of the board she’d just scrambled up, and reached high for another jutting stone hanging above her. Looking down, she saw she was about halfway up the wall.

  “You can do this,” she told herself.

  She suddenly wondered if Mystics could learn to fly. It would certainly be useful here. But if that were true, wouldn’t that mean she’d have already seen them flying across the skies over Moth?

  Another stone jutted out above her. Clenching her jaw, she found a foothold in the rocky wall and eased toward it. Another step, another pull, arm over arm. She fingered the jutting rock, and finally managed to grab it. She prayed to the Saints that it held her weight. She pulled herself up, grunting at the exertion. The top of the pit loomed above her, just a foot or two. She reached for it, and found the edge.

  Sim laughed in delight from twenty feet below. “Well done!”

  Relief washed over her like rain. Her fingers sought a firmer hold to pull herself up. She thought she might be able to—

  Her foot slipped. She lost her hold on the edge and screamed.