by Jason Denzel
They arrived at a small cluster of low buildings with shingled roofs and glass windows. A ring of river rocks circled the modest dwellings, each of which had a tiny garden planted beside it. Seasonal vegetables were just beginning to sprout. Wooden wind chimes sounded somewhere nearby.
“Who lives here?” Pomella asked.
“As of today, you do,” Ox said. “You will be joined by the other candidates. Beyond that, only Mistress Yarina and a few others occupy Kelt Apar. She has been very busy since becoming High Mystic. Once an apprentice is chosen, more will come to dwell at Kelt Apar. Ah, here we are.”
Pomella stared at the cabin he stopped in front of. “Who will I share it with?”
“This one is just for you,” Ox replied.
“But this is almost as big as my home in Oakspring!”
“We hope you will find it to your liking. I will let you settle in and rest from your journey. A highsun meal is ready for you within. Your first obligation will be to come to the main lawn at sunrise tomorrow, where you will present yourself to Mistress Yarina.”
Pomella’s stomach tumbled over itself. A hundred worries came to mind, ranging from whether she was truly ready for this experience to where she could find a bath. She took a calming breath to ease her anxiety.
“If you need anything, ring any of these bells.” Ox indicated a palm-sized silver bell mounted beside the entryway to her cottage. He bowed to her, and her cheeks burned. The Green Man just bowed to her! Then, turning, he took three steps away from her and rumbled back into the ground, leaving no trace that he’d ever existed.
“First the Green Man, then a laghart, and now my own cabin,” she mumbled under her breath. “Next, I suppose Saint Brigid will join me for dinner.”
The cottage proved to be much smaller than she’d first assumed. Not that she minded. The long, rectangular room hosted a table with stone utensils and unused candles set atop it, and a thick-cushioned chair pushed in beneath. A wooden tray of mixed fruits, nuts, and vegetables sat beside a matching goblet of water on top of the table. At the far end of the room, the cottage angled to the left, revealing a narrow nook containing a wooden bed, a dresser, and a night pot.
She dumped her travel sack onto the floor, and fell back against the bed, arms wide. She sighed in contentment. A shelf laden with books caught her eye. It sat beneath one of the square glass windows. Pomella sat up; snatching a strawberry off the wooden tray, she slid onto her knees to examine the books. She grabbed one at random, a thick book of children’s tales from the Continent.
Just as she opened to the first page, a knock sounded at the door, startling her. She hopped to her feet and opened the door, ready to see what else Ox needed.
She blinked.
A tall, dark-skinned boy, maybe a few years older than herself, waited outside with his hands clasped behind his back. Dark, braided hair hung past a set of broad shoulders. A crisp white shirt with loose collar strings gave her a glimpse of his broad chest, where a gold necklace—gold!—glimmered against his skin.
She stared at him, mouth open, taking in his handsome face. The boy smiled, which only made him prettier.
“You must be Pomella,” he said in a thick, fluid accent. “My name is Quentin, of House Bartone. I’m from Keffra.”
Pomella collected herself as best she could. The moment he’d spoken, she’d recognized the accent. He spoke with the quick, clipped sounds she associated with her grandmhathir and, to a lesser extent, her fathir. Each word part sounded musical to her, as if they were trying to somehow find a way to rhyme.
When she failed to reply, his smile slipped a little. “You are Pomella, right?”
“Yes,” Pomella hurried. “She’s me. I mean, I’m her. Bethy calls me Pom. And Ox, too. No, wait. She doesn’t call me Ox. Ox calls me Pom. I think.”
Her hand went to her hair as she realized it was still caked in mud. “Oh, shite, I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”
Quentin grinned, and a roguish gleam twinkled in his eye. “Hardly, Lady Pomella. In fact, I believe I may already adore you.”
It was a miracle of the Saints her heart did not explode out of her chest. “You … you do?”
He shrugged. “You made me smile. That’s a good way to begin a friendship, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it is.” Pomella took a deep breath. “Do you want to come in?”
He stepped into the cabin, looking around. “It’s just like mine. So small.”
Pomella quickly shoved the book of children’s tales back onto the shelf. “So, um, are you one of the other…”
“Candidates? Yes, I am. I arrived yesterday, and my entourage left this morning. I’ve been bored ridiculous and’ve been waiting for the rest of you to arrive. You’re the first besides me. I didn’t see you arrive with anybody besides Oxillian, though. Where are your servants?”
“I traveled with a single escort. He left two days ago,” she said. “One of the rangers, Vlenar, escorted me from Sentry.”
It stretched the truth, but didn’t strictly lie. She knew the other candidates wouldn’t expect her to be a commoner, so it would be better to learn more about them before giving up that nug of information about herself. She’d find a way to explain the whole story at a more appropriate time, hopefully when she wasn’t covered in mud. Besides, she didn’t know if Mistress Yarina wanted her to reveal her humble upbringing.
“I see,” he said. “Oxillian said you were from here on Moth?”
“Yes.” She hoped he didn’t press her for more.
“Your island’s reputation is well known, even in Keffra. Many powerful Mystics came from here. You must be very proud to be of their nobility.”
Pomella managed a weak smile. She hated being deceitful. Perhaps she should reveal the full truth.
She opened her mouth to explain, but at that moment the sound of ringing bells filled the air. They peered out the door and across the lawn, past the great stone tower. An elaborate caravan with a palanquin at its center emerged from the eastern edge of the clearing.
“Another candidate,” Quentin said. “Coming from the eastern road, which means they came through Port Morrush. This must be the candidate from Djain.”
Pomella watched as the palanquin entered the clearing, carried by six strong, bare-backed men. A mounted escort preceded them, the foremost of whom held a flag bearing the symbol of a golden key set against a field of red.
Ox rose up out of the ground and greeted them, although Pomella could not distinguish his words at this distance. The carriers set the palanquin down and opened the carriage door. Out stepped the most beautiful girl Pomella had ever seen. Long tresses of dark hair spilled down her back like shimmering silk. Her green embroidered dress rested off her shoulders, displaying a wealth of pale skin. Pomella sighed and fingered her muddy dress. Were all the nobility so beautiful?
Another round of bells rang, this time from the northern end of the lawn. “Another one?” she asked.
Quentin nodded. “It appears so. Oh, by the Graces, look at that. That can only be House Hanjalus.”
Pomella watched as a line of at least fifty horses trotted into the clearing, each carrying an armored rider. In the center, surrounded by bannermen, rode an unhelmeted young man with perfectly styled blond hair. He held his head high, surveying the grounds and tower like a general. Moments later, his horse reared as Ox rose from the ground to greet him. The man deftly settled the animal.
“I bet they traveled overland together from Port Morrush and planned this dramatic entrance,” Quentin said with a thoughtful look.
“How many candidates are there?” Pomella asked.
“I only know of four, counting you,” he replied. “Decent odds, wouldn’t you say?”
She laughed. “I don’t think my odds are very good regardless of how many candidates show up.”
His dark eyes caught hers. “You have a beautiful laugh.”
Her heart hammered. It took every scrap of her will to keep her voice
from trembling. “I’m … um, going to go bathe. I’m filthy.”
The corner of his lip curled up in a small smile.
Pomella bit her lip. “Do you know where the baths are?”
He shrugged. “Just ring for Oxillian and he will draw one for you.”
Before she could object, he reached out and rang the silver bell by her entrance. In the distance Ox looked toward them, and sank into the ground. A moment later, he rose up in front of the cabin.
“Yes, Quentin?” the Green Man said.
“Oxillian. Lady Pomella is feeling fatigued and road weary from her journey. Draw her a bath and bring soap. I imagine she would appreciate several draws.”
“Oh, Ox, please don’t trouble yourself. I can fetch my own.…” She trailed off as she realized that a noblewoman would never offer to haul her own water.
Ox bowed. “It will be no trouble. I will ready it immediately, Goodmiss AnDone.” He stepped back into the soil, and vanished.
“Thank you,” she murmured to Quentin. She noticed him staring at the place where Ox had vanished, a slight frown on his face. “What is it?”
Quentin shook his head. “It’s just that he called me by my first name. I’ve never had a servant do that before. But I suppose that by becoming a Mystic, my old ways will have to change, right?”
Pomella nodded, but realized with alarm that the Green Man called her Goodmiss, and not Lady. “Yah, I mean, yes. But maybe he’s not a servant?”
“He certainly looks like one to me.”
Pomella rolled her eyes. “Let’s just call him an assistant, then.”
Quentin grinned. “Yes, I suppose that’s fine. Enjoy your bath, Pomella-my. Maybe we can meet afterward and greet the other candidates?”
“I’d like that,” she said, wondering what he meant when he said “Pomella-my.” She thought she’d seen another twinkle in his eye when he’d said it.
He bowed and left, striding over to one of the other cottages. Pomella watched him for a long moment, then closed the door and leaned her back against it, head thumping against the wood.
That boy was going to be a distraction.
SIX
THE CANDIDATES
Later that afternoon, after a luxurious bath in a tree-concealed wooden tub, Pomella toweled off her hair and put on a clean work dress. She returned to her cottage and unpacked her meager possessions, suppressing another dose of sadness as she remembered her lost Book of Songs.
Quentin came by, greeting her again as “Pomella-my.” She decided not to question it. She liked hearing him call her that.
They walked together toward the northernmost cottages as the sun dipped below the western treetops. Two sets of guards stood outside one of the cottages. They wore heavy bronze armor and swords of the same metal at their sides.
“I don’t see why they need guards,” Quentin said. “Kelt Apar is protected by the High Mystic and the ceon’hur.”
Pomella felt anxiety build within her as she wondered what the ceon’hur was. Once again, the worry that she wasn’t ready for these Trials washed over her. She dared not ask Quentin to explain.
They approached the cottage entrance. The guards watched them, but said nothing. Pomella tried not to show her nervousness as their piercing gazes swept over her.
Quentin knocked on the door. A moment later an older, balding man opened it. He wore a black robe belted with gold silk. “Ah, my lord and lady. Lord Hanjalus and Lady Vinnay are expecting you.” He opened the door wide and bowed as they entered.
The other candidates—the handsome blond-haired boy and the beautiful girl—sat on plain wooden chairs, sipping wine from crystal goblets.
The boy stood, a fine black coat covering his lanky frame. He was several years older than Pomella, with light-brown eyes and a narrow chin. A pin depicting a silver hawk clutching leaves in one talon and a knife in the other gleamed on his chest. He sipped his drink and studied them. Maybe it was his pin, but Pomella suddenly felt like a mouse being weighed by a hungry raptor.
The boy extended a hand to Quentin. “Lord Bartone,” he said. “I am Saijar Hanjalus, from the Baronies of Rardaria. This is Lady Vivianna Vinnay, of Djain. I had the honor of meeting her for the first time this afternoon.”
After Quentin introduced himself, Lady Vinnay rose. She had changed out of the emerald dress she’d been wearing when she arrived, and was now wearing a low-cut maroon one. The noblewoman’s long neck of pale skin led down to an ample bosom, which the dress barely concealed. “Oh, please,” she said, shaking Quentin’s hand, “call me Vivianna. We’re all equal here.”
“Until the High Mystic decides that we are not!” Saijar joked.
The noble candidates all turned to Pomella. She picked her fingernail, wondering what to say. A part of her wanted to flee from these mighty nobles, but another, growing portion was ready to stand its ground and proudly declare her common upbringing. But somehow, the timing didn’t seem right. She needed to understand these other candidates first.
The black-robed servant appeared just then to offer her a cup of wine from a tray. She gladly took it and sipped, hoping for a surge of courage.
Quentin spoke before she did. “Lord Hanjalus and Lady Vinnay, may I present Lady Pomella…” He trailed off, and Pomella realized she’d never given him her surname.
“AnDone,” she managed, barely preventing a dribble of wine from staining her dress. “Pomella AnDone.”
“Lady AnDone is from here on Moth,” Quentin said. “She walked overland with one of the laghart rangers and arrived just before you did.”
“I’d always heard the Mothic commoners were hearty,” Saijar said, swirling his wine. Pomella’s heart raced. “But I didn’t realize their nobility matched their ruggedness.”
The bald steward bowed and slipped out the door, leaving them to their privacy. Nobody else seemed to notice him leave.
Vivianna lifted Pomella’s hand, startling her. “You have lovely features. Your skin tone is simply beautiful. I’ve never heard of anyone from Moth having such color.”
“My grandmhathir was from Keffra, Lady,” Pomella replied. “I mean, Vivianna.” Vivianna’s smooth hands felt like silk against Pomella’s calloused ones. She pulled her hand away.
“A product of mixed nobility?” Saijar sneered, disdain thick in his voice. He covered it quickly with a rigid smile. “Your homeland has such progressive … ideas.”
“I-I suppose,” Pomella said, wondering if she’d just been insulted.
“Have any of you seen the High Mystic yet?” Vivianna asked. “I’m surprised she hasn’t greeted us.”
Pomella shook her head. “No. But Ox, I mean, Oxillian, said she would receive us in the morning.”
“That’s not very considerate,” Saijar said. “Tradition dictates that noble guests should be greeted as soon as they arrive.”
“The Green Man greeted you,” Vivianna chimed behind a cool smile as she sipped wine.
Saijar snorted. “That grassy construct? We should have been greeted by the High Mystic herself.”
Quentin shrugged. “I heard she’s young, and holds radical ideas.”
“She’ll learn quickly enough how things work,” Saijar said.
Pomella couldn’t believe what she was hearing. None of them had even met the High Mystic, and here they were criticizing her while each hoping to become her apprentice.
“What have you heard, Pomella?” Vivianna asked. “Surely, being from Moth, you have heard more about her?”
“Yes, tell us what you know, Pomella,” Saijar pressed, taking another sip of wine.
“I-I know very little, actually,” she said. “I know the previous High Mystic, Master Faywong, retired. Soon after, Mistress Yarina spent a month in contemplation. When she returned, she was anointed as our High Mystic.”
“I wonder why he retired,” Quentin mused. “Mystics don’t do that very often.”
“The High Mystic of Djain disappeared fifteen years ago,” Vivianna said. “When
he did, his replacement, Master Willwhite, declared him a Grandmaster who’d taken retirement.”
“But nobody knew where he went?” Saijar asked.
“Indeed. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“Then he’s probably dead. The Grandmaster title is just a formality.”
“Do you think Grandmaster Faywong is dead?” Quentin asked Pomella.
They all stared at her, as if she would somehow know the answer to such an impossible question. “I never considered it,” she admitted.
“He was exceptional, I can say that,” Quentin added. “The Keffrican Mystics frequently sought him out for wisdom and guidance. I’ve heard rumors that he ranked First among all the High Mystics.”
“I doubt that,” Saijar said. “He was from Qin, wasn’t he? Everyone knows the most powerful Mystics come from one of the larger nations.”
Pomella wished she understood more of the politics and histories of the Continent. She hadn’t even known that the other nations had High Mystics, let alone that there was a “First” among them. It made sense now that she knew about it, but she’d never considered it before. The High Mystic was just the person who protected the Mystwood on Moth, and that was all.
Vivianna set her glass down and stretched, arching her back and raising her arms above her head. A minor surge of jealousy washed over Pomella as Quentin and Saijar stared at Vivianna’s lithe body.
“Whatever the reason,” Vivianna said, completing her stretch, “I am glad Faywong retired and opened a vacancy for me to fill.” She smiled sweetly.
Quentin bowed. “You will make a most excellent apprentice, and an even finer Mystic, I am sure.”
“Well, it’s been delightful, but I am going to retire for the evening,” Vivianna said.
She slipped past Pomella but paused at the door. Turning back, Vivianna lifted the tips of Pomella’s hair. “Do all noblewomen from Moth keep their hair short, like commoners?”
