by Jason Denzel
Cold fear gripped Pomella. “N-no.”
“I knew it,” Vivianna said, and blood drained from Pomella’s face. “Your parents insisted you embrace this ridiculous ‘humble lifestyle’ that Mystics live in order to make a good impression. My mother hinted at the idea, but knew better than to actually suggest it to me.”
She shook her head and let Pomella’s hair drop. “I’m sorry you had to cut it.”
Vivianna tapped on the door. A heartbeat later, the bald steward opened it from the outside. Vivianna leaned toward Pomella, and whispered in a tone that reminded her of Bethy, “I think they went too far in forcing you to wear that dress, though. Would you like to borrow one of mine?”
Pomella gaped, but forced herself to maintain her composure. “No. Thank you, though. I’ll use what my family sent me with.”
Vivianna offered the barest hint of a smile. “Very well. Good night, then.”
The noblemen bowed low as Vivianna exited, and Pomella curtsied, figuring that was a safe enough gesture. Two guards bearing Vivianna’s House colors escorted her into the evening.
“Well, I suppose that means this is your cottage, then,” Quentin said to Saijar.
“Cottage!” Saijar scoffed. “A wooden shack at best! Had I known these would be our accommodations, I would have brought one of my family’s large field tents. I might have my steward send some soldiers back to fetch it.”
Pomella only had a vague idea of where the nations were in relation to one another, but she didn’t think Rardaria was very close. In fact, it was probably a journey of several weeks away.
“How long are the Trials supposed to last?” she asked, risking showing some ignorance.
Saijar slumped onto the couch. “It varies,” he said. “Some High Mystics like to take their time in deciding. I’ve heard of one who took over a year to make their decision.”
“A year!” Pomella blurted.
“Saijar is speaking only of the most extreme cases,” Quentin said. “Most take considerably less time. A week, or maybe two.”
“I hope you’re not calling me a liar,” Saijar said with a smile. Despite the friendly gesture, he didn’t seem amused.
“Of course not,” said Quentin. “I’d never even consider it. But I will leave you to enjoy the comforts of your shack.” He clapped Saijar on the back. “Lady AnDone, may I escort you back to your humble dwelling?”
Pomella smiled. “Yes, please, Lord Bartone.” The sun would rise in the west before she would refuse that offer.
Saijar nodded slightly, and the steward held the door. A light chill drifted in the evening air as she and Quentin strolled among the scattered cottages. High above, bright stars shone down on them, their light drowned out only by the fat gibbous moon. “Would you like to walk a bit?” he asked.
“I’d be delighted to.”
He held his elbow out, and she took it, conscious of the fact that nobody had ever done this for her before. By all the Saints, she still couldn’t believe she was here, walking on the arm of such a handsome nobleman.
“I think Saijar is a pile of shite,” Quentin said.
Pomella gaped at him.
“What?” he said, smiling. “He’s a culk. Do you disagree?”
“No. He is a culk bastard. I’m not sure he really gets the point of becoming a Mystic.”
“Oh?”
“Well,” fumbled Pomella, “it’s just that I always thought being a Mystic was about connecting to nature and the world. Their job is to be caretakers, and to, I don’t know … care about things. He only seems to care about his ability to get what he wants.”
“You’re probably right, Pomella-my, but all we can do is compete to the best of our ability and let Mistress Yarina decide.”
Pomella nodded in agreement. They walked arm in arm past the last of the cottages, into a cluster of trees jutting out from the western edge of the forest. The path meandered through tall pines standing in soft moonlight.
“What is it?” he asked, evidently sensing her thoughts.
“Why are you so nice to me? I’m your competition for something you very much want.”
He didn’t immediately answer as they continued strolling. Finally, he said, “I think there’s a good chance that what each of us wants will be different. Each of us came here because of tradition, or opportunity, or something else.”
“So why did you come?” she asked.
“Because my family sent me.”
“Tradition, then,” she said.
He nodded, his gaze far away. “Yes, tradition.”
“Do you want to be here?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a great honor. But if it were up to me, there’re other things I’d rather do.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not say right now.”
“Oh,” said Pomella, feeling awkward. A strange silence fell between them. She bit her lip. “You still didn’t say why you’re being so nice to me.”
The corner of his mouth curled into a smile. “Do you really need me to say it aloud? I feel very connected to you. And, if I may be so bold, I find you beautiful.”
Pomella’s heart hammered against her chest until she was certain it would erupt. She fingered the tips of her short hair, then steadied herself, remembering she was a grown woman. “You … you flatter me,” she managed.
“It’s not flattery, Pomella-my, but the truth.”
“Vivianna is beautiful, too,” she said, but instantly regretted it.
“No, she’s not,” Quentin said without hesitation. “She may have a certain kind of beauty some men admire, but I’ve always been drawn to more genuine people.”
Before she could think of a reply, the path opened onto a small clearing encircled by tall white stones. In the center of the clearing stood a towering obelisk, colored like bone, with letter-runes engraved in straight vertical lines along each side. In the distance to the east, MagDoon’s snowcapped peak could be seen.
Pomella approached the obelisk and ran her fingers over it. Dirt and moss covered much of the obelisk, while time and weather had worn away other parts.
“There’re names written here,” Pomella said. “What do you think it is?”
Quentin shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“It feels old. Maybe even ancient.”
A soft wind gusted through the clearing, chilling them.
“Maybe it’s a grave,” Quentin said.
“Whatever it is, it could use a shake or two of happiness around it,” Pomella said.
“You could sing for it,” Quentin said. “I heard you doing it earlier. While you bathed.”
She snapped her gaze to him. “You … what?”
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “It wasn’t like that. I was wandering near the river and heard your voice. I admit I came a little closer, but only to hear you better.”
“That’s still creepy,” she said, but a note of amusement betrayed her.
“Will you sing for me?”
“Here? Now?”
Quentin spread his arms. “You’re the one who said this place ‘could use a shake or two of happiness.’”
She sighed. “All right. But only because you’ve been so nice.”
“And I called you beautiful.”
Pomella grinned. “Yah, yah. Now what do you want to hear?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Surely you know something upbeat?”
Pomella bit her lip and shook her head. “Not really.”
“Not even ‘Boom-bung Dog-ding’?”
She burst out laughing. “Sweet Brigid! What is ‘Boom-dung Dog-ding’?”
“‘Boom-bung,’” he corrected.
She giggled so hard her side ached. “N-no, I’ve never heard of it.”
“OK, maybe ‘Boom-bung’ is too silly. The warrums enjoy it.”
Pomella smiled. “Warrums” was a term Grandmhathir had often used to refer to little children. Hearing Quentin say the word with his accent brought Pomella
back to another time.
“It sounds wonderful,” she said. “Teach it to me, please?”
Now he laughed. “Oh, no, I have no voice for singing.”
“You suggested it. If you want me to sing, you have to teach me ‘Boom-bung Dog-ding.’ How does it start?”
“I have no idea how to find the rhythm,” he said.
“Ah blather, come on,” she said. “Clap the beat until you feel it. Sway your hips and clap, one at a time, until it comes to you.”
She demonstrated, rocking back and forth, clapping her hands once, twice, three times.
“Boom-bung dog-ding,” she sang, picking a tune at random.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then, reluctantly, he clapped his hands a few times, repeating a pattern that Pomella picked up and mimicked. His shy voice sang:
“I woke one morn
And heard him sing,
‘Give me a dance
Or feel my sting!’
Boom-bung dog-ding!
Boom-bung dog-ding!”
Pomella thought she might die of laughter.
He shook his head and waved her laughter away. “See? I told you it wasn’t very good.”
“Sweet Brigid, it’s wonderful!” Pomella said, keeping the beat going with her claps. “Let me try.” Her voice lifted, smooth like silk, repeating the lyrics.
“I woke one morn
And heard him sing,
‘Give me a dance
Or feel my sting!’
Boom-bung dog-ding!
Boom-bung dog-ding!”
“You’re much better than I,” Quentin said.
“Give me the next verse,” she said.
He shook his head. “I honestly can’t remember it. It has something to do with the sky.”
“OK, then we’ll make it up as we go,” she said, and sang. They clapped the beat together.
“I walked one noon
And heard her cry,
‘Give me a toy
Or flee the sky!’
Boom-bung dog-bye!
Boom-bung dog-bye!”
Quentin’s smile set her heart racing again. She spread her arms and twirled. Quentin kept the beat. As she sang, the clearing seemed to grow brighter.
“I ran one night
And heard them wail,
‘Give me a kiss
Or hang the scale!’
Boom-bung dog-ale!
Boom-bung dog-ale!”
For the first time in a long time, Pomella felt her worries melt away. She was just about to start a new stanza when she caught sight of a pair of glowing eyes behind the obelisk. She stopped dancing. The song died on her lips.
“What’s wrong?” Quentin asked.
The eyes slid closed and vanished.
“I saw a pair of eyes over there,” she replied.
Quentin looked from her to the obelisk. He approached, and looked behind it. “I don’t see anything. An animal perhaps?”
Pomella knew it wasn’t an animal. At least, not a normal one. Those eyes had belonged to some kind of silver animal, and they’d been looking at her hungrily.
Seeing Quentin’s confused expression, she smiled to dismiss his worry. “Let’s walk back to the cabins,” she said.
She took his arm and walked to her cottage. She didn’t dare look back over her shoulder. Instead, she tried to focus on other things. Like Quentin. Pomella snuck little glances at him that she hoped he wouldn’t notice. His rugged looks, exotic eyes, and heartwarming accent all mixed together beautifully.
When they arrived at her cabin, Quentin dipped a small bow to her. “Good night, Pomella-my. I will see you tomorrow.” He kissed her trembling fingertips, and Pomella vowed silently to all the Saints she would never pick them again. She wanted him to kiss a lot more than her fingertips, however.
A small smile lingered on his lips, then he strode away without looking back before she could invite him to stay longer. She watched him until he was out of sight. She went into her cottage and flopped onto the bed. Exhaustion rolled over her, but too many thoughts filled her mind for sleep, most of them related to Quentin, and not all of them chaste.
But memories of Sim crept in as well. Quentin had called her beautiful, but Sim had followed her into the Mystwood. Sim knew her better than anyone, and that counted for something. If Quentin was a fine noble feast, Sim was comforting stew beside a warm fire.
Thinking of food made her stomach rumble. She poked her chin up and saw a covered plate sat on the table. She went over and found a meal consisting of more vegetables and warm bread. Twin-sized slabs of cheese and butter sat beside it, along with some stone utensils.
She dug in, and found herself wondering if Quentin suspected she was a commoner. She prayed to the Saints he didn’t. She thought of her Springrise dress, which she’d carefully packed and intended to wear when she met Mistress Yarina. Then she remembered Vivianna’s dress, and its brightly colored silk.
She gulped the rest of her food. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she hurried to the cluster of other cabins. She didn’t know which one Vivianna was in, but didn’t have to look long because she recognized the guards outside one of the doors.
“I need to speak to Lady Vivianna,” she said.
The guard bowed. “She is asleep, Lady. We should not wake her.”
Pomella took a breath. She might just be a commoner, but this guard didn’t know it. She mustered her most commanding voice. “I understand your concern. Please rouse her.”
The guard bowed, then turned and knocked before slipping inside. Pomella momentarily felt bad for the man. She hoped Vivianna wouldn’t get upset with him. Or her.
The guard returned a moment later, standing at strict attention. Vivianna stood in the entrance with a thick fur blanket over her shoulders. Circles stood out beneath her eyes.
“What is it?” Vivianna asked.
Pomella took a deep breath. She was committed now.
“Actually, I will borrow a dress.”
SEVEN
THE FIRST TRIAL
A thin mist hovered over Kelt Apar in the pre-dawn light. Standing on the damp lawn near the stone tower, Pomella wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She wore the dress she and Vivianna had chosen for her a mere few hours before. The red silk brushed her skin in a pleasant way, so much that she constantly found herself feeling its smooth edges with her fingertips. She’d never before been allowed to wear anything like this. Two of Vivianna’s attendants had worked to loosen it slightly to account for Pomella’s wider hips, but the rest fit well enough.
She adjusted her bosom, where it especially fit. Bethy would’ve been proud.
Her teeth chattered from the chilly air as she waited alone on the lawn. At least, she assumed it was the cold, and not her increasing nervousness. She wished she had her cloak for its warmth and familiarity.
The stone tower loomed above her, its roughly hewn walls rising through the drifting fog. Lights shone in some of the windows, building her anticipation.
Perhaps she’d come too early? She looked toward the cottages and saw Saijar and Vivianna approaching, but no sign of Quentin. Saijar carried some kind of a stringed instrument partially wrapped with a blanket. She wondered what it could be. Oakspring didn’t have many musical instruments like that.
Vivianna wore one of the dresses Pomella had wanted to try on, a sturdy blue one with beautiful cream-colored accents. It was nowhere near as low cut as the one Vivianna had worn the night before, nor as accentuating as the one Pomella wore now.
She tensed as the other candidates joined her. They formed a line, standing shoulder to shoulder. Saijar wore a black suit with brightly polished silver buttons running down the front. His matching pin shone on his chest, right above his heart. He openly started at her, measuring her within the dress. A tiny smile crossed Vivianna’s face, but she said nothing.
They waited in silence until Pomella’s curiosity got the better of her. “Do you know where Quentin is?”
As if on cue, Quentin dashed out from the cottages, still fastening a wide leather belt. He settled beside Saijar, on the opposite end of the line from Pomella. He leaned forward and looked across the other two candidates toward her. He grinned. She smiled back.
They waited in silence. The air brightened as the sun rose. Pomella picked at her dress sleeve. Saijar frowned as he shifted from foot to foot. A bark broke the silence and Pomella saw a large brown dog lope over to them. He barked again, playfully, his tongue hanging out.
“Go away, mutt,” Saijar grumbled, but not loudly, as if he was afraid the dog might bite him. The dog barked again, crouching on his front paws, clearly wanting to play.
A shrill whistle called from across the lawn. The dog sprinted toward a large willow tree standing a short distance away. A figure with a wide-brimmed hat stood beneath the tendril-like branches of the tree, holding a rake. As the dog joined him, he bent over to ruffle the animal’s fur. The dog leaped up affectionately and bumped the man’s hat off. From this distance, Pomella could see the man was older, and had a shaved head.
Saijar craned his neck in the direction of the willow. “Who’s that?”
“Probably the gardener,” Vivianna said, also glancing in that direction. “I saw him raking when we arrived yesterday. He looks Unclaimed. I’ve heard some Mystics will actually take them in.”
Pomella’s stomach lurched. The memory of the Unclaimed beneath the old shrine made her uneasy. Generally, people only became Unclaimed as the result of punishment, doled out at a whim by the nobility or Mystics. It didn’t help knowing that she could soon become one.
The ground shook, tearing her thoughts and attention away from the gardener and the willow tree. Oxillian erupted out of the soil, pulling up the grass to form a cloak, hood, and beard. “Arise and lift your hearts,” he said. “Mistress Yarina, High Mystic of Moth, comes!”
In the distance, the door at the base of the stone tower opened just as the sun lifted above the treetops. Warm light spread across the lawn, and Pomella wondered if it came from the sun or the open door.
A tall, graceful silhouette emerged and glided toward them. A tingle rippled across Pomella’s skin. The High Mystic walked completely at ease, moving as slowly and surely as a drifting cloud. She carried her traditional wooden staff, gnarled and as tall as she could reach, and wore a long light-blue gown with a wide trailing hem. A wreath of tiny white flowers held her long black hair up in an elaborate weave above her head. Her slippered feet left no discernible footprints, as if she walked above the ground and not on it.
