by Jason Denzel
The snake’s silver, slitted eyes held hers. It flicked its tongue. “I freely offer to teach you how to discover and use the Myst. You shall be safe and comfortable under my care, and free to explore the forest as part of your training.”
“Lies,” Quentin snarled.
“It’s all right, Quentin,” Pomella said, keeping her attention on the snake. Pomella found herself wondering about the snake’s offer. Could it teach her? How would she live near this pond and learn? “You would really do this for me? Why?”
“I hate to see such potential wasted. We could begin today, without needing to gather whatever she sent you to find. You would never again fear the consequences of failing the Trials.”
Pomella flicked a glance at Quentin. Fear tumbled in her stomach, but not because of the snake. Strangely, she found herself considering its offer. Her mind raced, considering the possibility of being free from the fear of failure. She could cast off the stigma of being a commoner, and never worry about becoming Unclaimed. She licked her lips.
“You don’t need this creature,” Quentin said.
“Do you really think the High Mystic will choose you?” the snake said. “I promise you, in the end, she will choose one of her own. You aren’t the first commoner to try, not that anybody but me remembers. The others all died, their bones crumbling and unclaimed.”
The last word shivered through Pomella. She could feel her heart pounding. “I—”
“Come back with me, Pomella,” Quentin said. “Please.”
Pomella bit her lip. She had been about to say she’d accept. But Quentin’s pleading eyes pulled her back. She remembered how lonely she’d been at the possibility of not having him around. Surely, if she accepted this snake’s strange offer, she would live alone, away from other people.
“I must complete the Trials,” she said to the snake, dropping her gaze. “I am certain.”
“Very well,” the snake said. “But remember my offer. When the High Mystic rejects you, and you find yourself cut off and alone, unable to drag yourself home, remember my words. Remember Mantepis.”
It drew away, stepping back and folding its legs and body back into the tree. A pang of regret surged over Pomella. Maybe if she called the snake back …
Quentin’s hand found hers and she felt him squeeze. Pomella looked at him and swallowed. Why did she feel like such a dunder? From a distant part of her mind, she remembered something else. She called to the snake, “Wait! May we take some of your blood? For the Trial, and to help other animals in need.”
“I have sensed the iron poisoning parts of the forest,” the snake, Mantepis, said. “But my blood is my own, and not for the Mystics of this land.”
Pomella swallowed her fear and waded into the pond. She stepped lightly, careful not to disturb the drifting lotus flowers. She approached the snake and lifted the vials up to it. “Please.”
The snake eased its head down above the vials and hovered above her. “You cannot take my blood. But you may have my venom. Perhaps it will eliminate … obstacles … in your way.” It bared its fangs.
Venom. Poison. Eliminate obstacles. Did it intend her to poison the other candidates? Pomella couldn’t help but peer into the creature’s silvery throat, wondering if it could consume her whole. A drop of silver liquid pooled at the tip of one of its upper fangs. Pomella glanced back at Quentin, but could not read his expression. She returned her gaze and watched as the liquid swelled, grew heavy, and finally dripped.
The venom slid down the glass vial, pooling like honey. Pomella shivered.
The snake seemed to grin, and without another word, it withdrew completely into the tree, its silver eyes vanishing.
Beside her, Quentin relaxed, the tension draining from his body. “Let’s go. We need to find our way back by dusk.”
Pomella made her way back to the shore, but stopped near the edge as she caught another glimpse of the lotus flowers drifting in the water. Peering closer, she saw the flowers were smokey silver, like Mantepis and the other fay creatures. The only color they had were their golden sun-centers shining within. Pomella dipped her hand into the cool water and touched one of the flowers. Her fingers passed through it, yet she felt a soft breath of icy air as they did. She frowned. If the fay wolves could hurt the baron’s soldiers, and if Mantepis’ venom could drip into her glass vial, then somehow she should be able to touch those silver things back.
“What are you doing?” Quentin asked.
“Shush. Just a moment.”
Closing her eyes, she tried to clear her mind, and focus on feeling the flower. She scooped her hand, and once again found nothing but chill air.
“Jagged flower,” she mumbled, and followed Quentin.
But a short distance from the pond, the two little hummingbirds buzzed past her and hovered in front of her face. Dangling from each of their feet was a small flower stem, with a seed tangled in its roots.
“Sweet Saints,” she breathed. The hummingbirds dropped the stems and seeds into her outstretched hand. As the seeds touched her skin, they solidified, but kept their shiny silver color. The stems wisped away in a silvery puff of smoke.
“Thank you,” she told the strange birds. They flew away, but she could feel their content pleasure lingering behind.
Quentin looked impressed. “Come on, let’s hurry,” he said.
Pomella followed, but not before looking once more at the lotus seeds, and back toward the tree and the strange creature hidden within.
* * *
They emerged from the forest as the sun dipped below the western treetops. This was the second time in as many days that Pomella had trudged into Kelt Apar with mud and exhaustion splattered across her. She glanced at Quentin, and he grinned back. Perhaps some things had improved.
The little hummingbirds buzzed past her, eager to explore this new wide-open place. They’d followed her as soon as they’d left the pond. Somehow, she understood them. In a flash of a moment, these wee birds had lost everything in their lives. Nobody would be there to introduce them to the world. Like her, they were ready to face it, but had no guide to show them the way.
She and Quentin crossed the lawn and strode past the stone tower. On the far side, Oxillian and the other candidates had already gathered. Pomella imagined each of them with vials of fay blood. Mistress Yarina sat on a throne of stone and soil. Behind her, a small loch fed by the nearby river dazzled in the sunlight.
Everyone turned as Quentin and Pomella approached. The High Mystic’s eyes gave nothing away. Saijar fumed at them. At Pomella. Vivianna stared at the hummingbirds, eyes wide. She turned to Pomella, surprise plain on her face.
“Sorry about the dress,” Pomella mumbled as she stepped beside her. Mantepis’ warning echoed in her mind, angering her. She might be a commoner among nobles, but she had still been legitimately invited to Kelt Apar. She thought of her grandmhathir, and the strength she’d shown in life. She thought of the mhathir hummingbird, who had died leading her to the pond. She straightened her back, and waited for the High Mystic to speak.
“You have each returned before sunset, as instructed,” Yarina intoned. “It is well done. Vivianna was the first to arrive, followed shortly by Saijar. They each brought a vial, given freely by a badger and sloth, respectively.”
Pomella stiffened. She’d hoped that the other two candidates had failed as well. She tightened her jaw, and squeezed her fist behind her back until she felt the harsh bite of her nails.
Oxillian spoke. “Quentin and Pomella, have you brought your vials of fay blood for the High Mystic?”
Pomella exchanged looks with Quentin. He stepped forward and bowed. “Mistress Yarina, I’m sorry to inform you that we did not bring any.”
Pomella eyed the other candidates from the corner of her eye. Neither gave anything away other than their typical sour expressions.
Yarina’s expression remain unchanged. “Very well. I’m sorry to hear that. We will move on. Tomorrow—”
“Wait, plea
se, Mistress,” Pomella interrupted. Everyone turned to face her. Her heart thundered in her chest. She just interrupted the High Mystic!
“We did not return with vials of blood, but Quentin and I brought lotus seeds. They seem Mystical in nature, so perhaps, with time, they could grow and we could use the flowers for a good purpose. With your permission, I would like to plant them here, on the edge of this loch, so that they will be nearby for future need.”
Yarina drummed her fingers as she considered her. Pomella forced herself to stand tall, and not wilt under the terrible beauty of Yarina’s gaze. Somewhere behind her, she heard the two hummingbirds fly by.
“A wise suggestion,” Yarina said at last. “You may plant them now if you wish.”
Pomella walked past Yarina’s throne to the loch shore. From her pocket she pulled the two thumb-sized seeds. She bent and planted each seed in the mud beneath the water, patting them down. Standing, she stepped back from the water’s edge and remained there. It wasn’t much, just two seeds. Something more needed to happen in order for it to feel like an accomplishment. The hummingbirds swooped past her and she heard their song.
Following her instinct, she sang.
It began as a quiet note, lifting from her lips as her eyes remained shut. The words were ones she’d read in The Book of Songs, but the melody was her own.
“Like the wind she came
Over the hills from far away
Across the tides and
Around the lane
The lonely man called
And so she came”
The clear tone of Pomella’s song rose like a high wind gusting across the loch. She felt strength in her singing like never before, and knew with a sudden clear certainty that this, of course, was her Unveiling. The realization doubled her confidence. To her ears, the sound of strings and wind instruments rose to accompany her.
“Like the light she danced
Amid the stars so far away
Across the sky and
Among the blue
A lonely man clapped
And so she knew”
Pomella understood hardly anything about Unveilings and how Mysticism worked. All she knew was that she was ready to stop worrying. She wanted to not only compete for this apprenticeship but also earn it. She thought of the poor elk suffering in the forest. The hummingbird who died. Her grandmhathir. She sang as loud as she could, caught up in the power of the song.
“Like the moon she sailed
Beyond the heavens from far away
Across my time and
Among our glade
A lonely man died…”
Pomella paused before the last line. She lifted her eyes to meet the High Mystic’s.
“And so she stayed”
Behind Pomella, the water rippled. A familiar puff of light swished above the surface, leaving behind a silver lotus floating where she’d seeded it. A part of her registered that only one flower had emerged, and not two. But still, a flower had sprung. This was how her garden had flourished back home.
The High Mystic stood. A smile crossed her face. “Well done,” she said. Then she lifted her staff toward the sky, where the late sun made it appear to be on fire.
Hundreds of silver lotus flowers bloomed, springing to life from the water where none had been before. Their collective light covered the loch like fog, churning and fading as the flowers bubbled from the water. Each lifted tight buds skyward before blossoming its miniature sun. Finally, the last of the silver light vanished. Pomella’s hummingbirds swooped into the flowers, seeking nectar.
“Oxillian,” said Yarina, “see that this new garden is kept and tended.” She turned to face the candidates. “Two Trials remain. You may rest tomorrow, but do not leave Kelt Apar.”
The candidates and the Green Man bowed as the High Mystic stepped down from the throne. She walked to the stone tower and melted into the light shining from beyond the doorway. Oxillian nodded to Pomella and the others, and sank into the ground like the throne.
Pomella faced the other candidates, slowly letting her breath out. Saijar clenched a fist and looked at his feet. Vivianna avoided looking at Pomella. Only Quentin beamed, an admiring smile spread across his face.
Pomella stilled her trembling hands. After all the challenges she’d faced in getting here, and the hostility Saijar and Vivianna had shown, maybe she still had a chance.
Maybe she was here to stay.
NINE
THE BLACK CLAWS
The spear pushed against Sim’s chest. He lifted his hands and slowly eyed its wielder. A short man in dusty clothes with a ratlike face glared at him. Behind him, another man emerged from a bush holding a drawn bow. Even in the dim, early-evening light, Sim could see the sharp tip of the arrow pointed his way.
“You’re snooping where you shouldn’t,” said the spear holder in an unfamiliar accent. Sim estimated the man was ten years older than he was. Greasy hair hung past his ears, and a patchy beard attempted to grow on his chin. “What ya doing here?”
Sim swallowed. “Going home.”
“Oh, yeah? Where’s that?”
Sim narrowed his eyes. He could tell from the man’s expression that nothing he said would help him. This was trouble no matter how the metal cooled. “I escorted a friend to Sentry. Now I’m going back to Oakspring.”
“Ya hear that, Hormin?” the spear holder said. “The scrit says he’s from the same Oaktown as the girl.”
Sim’s guts clenched. “What do you mean?”
“Careful, Jank,” said Hormin. “He might be a ranger.” The bowman was maybe a year or two younger than Sim, barely old enough to shave. Hormin’s sharp eyes pierced Sim from behind the ready bowstring.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jank sneered, keeping his spear aimed at Sim. “Does he look like a blowing ranger to you? He’s dressed like a commoner.”
“With a sword,” Hormin pointed out.
“Besides,” Jank continued. “Look at him. He’s all worked up on the girl. You know her, scrit?”
Sim forced himself to unclench his fist. “I’m just passing through,” he said. They had to be talking about Pomella. What other girl from Oakspring could they possibly care about?
Jank shook his head. “Then why were ya spying on us, huh? Sorry, scrit, now that you’ve seen our camp, you can’t go anywhere. You might go talking to the wrong people.” His spear dropped as he turned to face Hormin. “Zicon wants—”
Sim knocked the spear aside and lunged at him. He easily overpowered the smaller man, slamming him to the ground. Somewhere in his mind, a voice told him this probably wasn’t the wisest of ideas. He ignored the voice and plunged his fist into Jank’s jaw.
The force of the punch and resulting pain in his hand knocked Sim off balance. He struggled to regain his position. By the Saints, did all punches hurt the attacker, too? The hilt of his sheathed sword jabbed into his ribs. The jagged thing was more of a hindrance than a benefit!
He pushed himself off Jank and ran. The back of Sim’s head tingled as he imagined Hormin aiming an arrow at him. He ripped to his right, hoping his skittering movements would prevent an arrow from lodging in his back.
“Get him!” Jank roared.
Sim angled around an oak tree. He looked back to find Jank. In the dim evening light he couldn’t see—
A thick club slammed into him, sending his feet skyward. He hit the ground hard, the last of his breath knocked away.
When the world resolved back into focus, a thick man stood over him. Sim blinked a few times before he managed to find his senses and some air. The large man looming above him was actually a woman with wispy blond hair pulled tight into a short braid. The club she’d hit him with had just been her arm.
Jank strode over to stand beside the large woman. He rubbed his jaw and glared at Sim. “If it weren’t for our orders, your blood would be on the ground,” he said. He kicked Sim in the stomach twice. Sim rolled in agony as Jank snatched his sword and canvas sack from him.
>
The rat-faced man rummaged through the sack and pulled out Pomella’s book. His expression darkened as he examined the cover. “Bag him,” the man said.
Sim’s heart skipped a beat as the woman hauled him to his feet before throwing a sack over his head and tying his hands behind his back. They spun him around and shoved him toward the camp.
* * *
The sound of the blacksmith’s hammering returned as the three bandits led him forward. Beneath the patchy sack, Sim managed to see only a few vague shadows.
“Get Zicon,” Jank muttered to one of the others.
The large woman’s thick hands shoved Sim, then ducked his head into one of the tents. He heard the clank of heavy iron, and moments later found himself bound at the wrists and ankles.
“Cause any trouble,” Jank breathed beside Sim’s head, “and I’ll gut you.”
Fear charged through Sim. But alongside that fear ran a surge of anger. He heard Jank leave the tent, and sensed he was alone. He took a steadying breath, and tried not to imagine what they were going to do with him. Tugging his wrists, he tested the manacles, but found no yield. They were solid iron, and nothing was going to break that.
Long minutes passed, and Sim realized all he could do was wait. Finally, he heard the tent flap open again, and several footsteps thumped in.
Somebody yanked the canvas sack off his head. Sim blinked. A large man with a black beard and blue eyes stood in front of him. He was taller than Sim, which was uncommon. Atop a black shirt he wore layered leather armor dotted with small studs. A braided cord hung around his neck, its end tucked beneath his shirt. Behind him, Jank and Sim’s other captors—Hormin and the tall, meaty woman—stood glaring at him.
The bearded man stared at Sim, weighing him as he scratched his chin. Finally, he turned to Jank and spoke with the same cutting accent as Sim’s other captors. “What’s this scat you dragged in?”
Jank shifted his feet. “He was spying on us.”
“This lumbering grunt? He’s not old enough to have hair in his pits.”
“I was walking home,” Sim replied. “I heard the blacksmith. I came to see—”
“Nobody asked you, boy,” snarled the large man.
