Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  Zicon dragged Sim away by the arm. “What’s your story, boy?” he snarled. “Where did you go, and why? Did you go to the tower? Lie to me and I’ll suffocate you with my own hands, the Mystic be damned.”

  Sim met his gaze. “Fine,” he said. “I went to Kelt Apar to find Pomella, my friend.”

  Zicon’s face hardened. “Why?”

  A stream of reasons flowed into Sim’s mind. Because he needed to warn her. Because he needed to stop the very man breathing into his face at this moment.

  He settled on a version of the most honest answer. “Because I overheard Jank say we were near the tower. I didn’t know if she’d made it there safely or not. I-I wanted to see her.”

  Zicon narrowed his eyes. “There’s more. Tell me.”

  “No, there’s not,” Sim said, holding his ground. “I miss her, OK? I figured this would be my only chance. I won’t see her ever again, and the thought of her not being in my life is hard. Surely you understand that? You ever had a woman snare you into thinking about her and doing dunder things for her?”

  He knew he’d struck the metal right. Zicon’s jaw tightened. Mags arrived with iron cuffs for Sim. “You’re under lock until this is done,” Zicon said.

  Sim didn’t argue. Mags bolted the metal cuffs onto his wrists. Rochella waited on her knees a short distance away. Her lank hair spilled across her striped face.

  Perhaps sensing him, she looked up and held his gaze.

  * * *

  Zicon led them south to a crossroad. The company took the east road, heading toward MagDoon. Exhausted, Sim straggled along as best he could. They allowed him to eat some dry meat and wilted vegetables. It tasted terrible, but he wolfed down every bite.

  MagDoon loomed before them, even larger than the stories implied. It cast hard shadows across their path as it blocked the sun at this early hour.

  “As soon as our business is done, I’m gunna enjoy skinning you up,” Jank said from behind him as they walked. “You know, to make this trip worth it. Even with triple pay, I was beginning to think it wasn’t. But you’re making things look brighter. Maybe I’ll use your old sword to do it.”

  Sim ignored the taunts. He kept his eyes down and concentrated on walking. They arrived at the base of the mountain, where at least four winding paths led up. Sim’s heart sank at the sight of the steep slopes. “Are we climbing that?”

  Zicon reined to a stop, his muscular stallion dancing with energy. “Hormin, you and Jank unpack what we need from the wagon. You’ll come up with us. Mags, remain here with the ranger and the horses. Dox, get the chest ready. You’ll stay here, too.”

  Confused, Sim watched as Dox and Mags lifted the heavy wooden chest from the back of the wagon.

  “You,” Zicon said, kicking Sim’s shoulder with the toe of his boot, “you’ll be carrying that up.”

  Sim looked at the heavy chest and glowered back. “Yah? And how am I supposed to to do that?”

  “Figure it out, boy,” Zicon said, and trotted his horse to the trailhead.

  Jank stuffed a tangle of ropes and leather strips in Sim’s face. “Get going, scrit.”

  Mumbling curses to himself, Sim set about securing the chest. He examined the jumbled lines, trying to figure out where to start. Why were they climbing MagDoon? Pomella was in Kelt Apar.

  Dox helped him unwind the straps and loop them around the chest. “Wrap it around your shoulders and waist like this,” he said. “Don’t use your arms.”

  “What’s in there?” Sim asked.

  “You don’t want to know. I don’t understand it myself, anyway.”

  At Zicon’s command, Sim began dragging the chest uphill through mud. The leather and rope dug into his shoulder, and by the time he’d taken four steps he knew it was going to be a miserable haul. Within ten minutes, he thought he would die. He lagged behind, but Jank walked behind him, murderously taunting him.

  “You’re filth,” Jank said. “After we reach the top and Zicon does his task, I’m going to kill you. Or maybe I’ll maim you and let you starve as Unclaimed.”

  Gritting his teeth, Sim poured his hatred of Jank into pulling the chest. Somehow he survived an hour, and found himself looking back across the forest from a short way up the side of the mountain. Ohzem led the way up the path, using his iron staff as a walking stick. Sim eyed it enviously.

  The rain held off, thank the Saints, but the muddy trail seemed endless. Zicon ordered a rest when they came to the base of the switchbacks. Hormin passed out food, as quiet as ever.

  Sim welcomed the food, but the time spent resting only reminded him how tired he was. As they packed up, he stepped off the path and found a heavy oak branch that had fallen. He checked its height and thickness, and judged it to be good enough for a walking stick. Between dragging the chest and having his wrists cuffed, he thought he could manage if he used both hands. He snapped off a few extra branches and hitched the straps over his shoulder.

  “Put the stick down, scrit,” Jank said, hands resting on Sim’s sword hilt.

  Sim held his hands up to show how they were bound. “It’s just to help me walk.”

  “I said drop it, or I’ll crack you with it.”

  “For a little man you sure have a big mouth,” Sim retorted. “Does it make you feel brave to threaten me when I’m tied up and hauling a stone weight of wood and iron?”

  Jank’s face contorted with rage but Zicon’s yell prevented him from snapping back. “Shut it, both of you!”

  Sim grinned and began dragging the chest, using his new walking stick for support. He was glad for its help, because the path steepened. With every step he became convinced that his next would be his last. At first he swore he wouldn’t stumble in front of Jank, but later Sim settled for just hoping the rat-faced man didn’t trample him.

  As the afternoon wore on, Sim struggled to put one foot in front of the other. The angle of the sun indicated they had swung around to the north side of the mountain. Had it not been for the staff, Sim knew he would have stumbled face-first into the ground. He tripped several times, his legs barely strong enough to move. He lagged behind, and soon he and Jank fell behind the others.

  “Jank!” Zicon called from up the slope. “Help him carry it!”

  “Ah, dead Graces, Zicon! I didn’t sign up for—”

  A glance from Ohzem silenced him. The mercenary swallowed and looked at Sim. He spit to the side and lifted the opposite end of the chest.

  “Walk,” Jank said. “If you fall, I’ll break your ribs.”

  Night fell, and Zicon insisted they keep walking. Ohzem conjured four tiny, floating lights, similar to the guiding stone the Green Man had given Pomella. They floated in the air, drifting lazily, giving off just enough light to walk by.

  Sim found himself nodding off as he walked. Twice he fell, and each time Jank cursed and kicked dirt into his face.

  They arrived near the summit after sunrise. Sim couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. Zicon motioned for them to set the chest down, and Sim collapsed, glad to be done with it. Part of him registered the stunning view to the west, but mostly he didn’t care and just wanted to shut his eyes.

  “Bring it into the cave,” Ohzem told Zicon.

  Grunting, Sim managed to stand and drag the chest with Jank’s and Hormin’s help, leaving the oak branch where it lay. He looked around, trying to get a sense of what the Black Claws intended. Slabs of ruined buildings lay scattered across the clearing. A cave entrance loomed against a hillside. From what Sim could tell, the path led just a little farther around the hill toward what must be the mountain’s summit. What did this place have to do with Pomella?

  Ohzem led them into the cave.

  Dim light revealed a wide, hollowed-out cavern, about fifty feet across. The chamber was roughly circular and appeared to be natural, although Sim wondered if it had just been crafted to appear so. Drawings on the wall caught his attention, similar to the ones he’d seen with Pomella in the other cave. The style seemed the same,
but time had faded the images into obscurity.

  Zicon looked around, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his sword. Ohzem walked to the center of the cavern and swept his staff around in a slow arc. The glowing lights he’d summoned earlier followed his movement, illuminating the cave’s dim recesses.

  “Prepare the circle,” Ohzem said.

  Hormin and Jank set the chest in a deep part of the cave. As they did so, Zicon opened the large sack he’d carried up and dumped out the spikes Sim and Dox had forged.

  “What are the spikes for?” Sim asked.

  “To shove in your cavity,” Jank said.

  “Enough,” Ohzem said. He looked at Sim. “Attend me.”

  Zicon gestured for Hormin to hand Sim one of the spikes and a heavy mallet. Ohzem tapped his staff on the ground, and a thin crack appeared. “Here,” he said.

  “What is—?”

  “Just do it!” Zicon snapped.

  Sim knelt down and balanced the spike in place. He didn’t like what was happening, but as long as Pomella was safe in Kelt Apar, he’d continue to go along with this.

  He lifted the mallet, and hammered the spike into the crack.

  Ohzem tapped another spot on the cave floor, about a stride away, and Sim hammered in another spike. They continued in a wide circle until all of the spikes were buried half their length into the floor.

  “Now we wait,” Ohzem said.

  Sim wiped his brow. “Wait for what?”

  “For a new dawn,” the Mystic said.

  FOURTEEN

  DREAMS OF THE MOUNTAIN

  The next morning, the rain fell in slanting torrents across Pomella and the other three candidates, souring their moods even further. They stood by the lake’s edge under Ox’s patient gaze. Pomella shifted her feet, feeling plenty of aches. Vivianna, who stood beside her, glanced at her and rolled her eyes. None of them moved or said anything to one another as they waited for the High Mystic to arrive and reveal their next Trial.

  Pomella shivered inside her cloak. She’d been up all night, sicking into the night pot. She’d slept for maybe an hour on the floor beside the bed. Her stomach lurched again as she thought of her bitter argument with Sim. It still boiled her guts how he was always trying to save her, but now she regretted some of her words. She’d been embarrassed when he saw her with Quentin, and drunk as well. Perhaps she could have listened better. She tried not to dwell on their argument, but not even the more pleasant memory of kissing Quentin could settle her.

  Her head throbbed like it’d been kicked by a bear, and the constant pelting of rain atop her hood didn’t help. Some sunshine would be nice for once. She wore her Springrise dress beneath the cloak because it was the nicest outfit she had.

  Pomella dared a glance at Vivianna, and wilted anew at the noblewoman’s splendor. Vivianna carried a wide umbrella to keep the rain off, so her perfectly made-up face remained a cool mask of dignity. The woman dressed far more practically than she had for the first Trial, though no less beautifully. Snug, tan breeches tucked into knee-high travel boots tightened with gleaming silver buckles. A burgundy leather vest covered a pale, lime-green silk shirt, both snug enough to emphasize Vivianna’s narrow waist. To Pomella’s surprise, the noblewoman’s long hair was pulled back into a simple tail.

  Pomella wiped a drip of wet snot from her nose and hoped Vivianna fell into a muddy puddle.

  The door of the tower opened, spilling light. Mistress Yarina emerged and strode toward them. Pomella stared in wonder as the rain somehow missed Yarina, leaving her perfectly dry as she moved across the lawn.

  As before, the ground rolled with the High Mystic’s steps, rising to form a small hill crowned with an earthen throne. Yarina wore a tasteful dress of burgundy and pale green. Pomella stared at it, and then at Vivianna’s perfectly matching outfit. How did they keep doing that?

  Saijar and Quentin bowed, and Pomella hurried to curtsy. Vivianna, wearing breeches, bowed as well.

  “Good morning,” Yarina said. “Today dawns the beginning of your third and final Trial. I shall choose my apprentice from among you when you return.”

  A pang of fear shivered over Pomella. This was it.

  “Your final task,” Yarina said, “is to travel to the summit of MagDoon, the great mountain that looms east of here. Follow the road out of Kelt Apar until you come to the marker at its base. From there, a path will lead you to its summit. This is a road walked many times, by all apprentices before you, including myself.

  “Once atop the summit, you will find an old shrine, built by Mystics from a time before record. Return with the wisdom of their lesson, and with your Mystic staff. The mountain shall provide.” She lifted her own staff high and, at that very moment, the sun peeked above the treetops, breaking through the clouds to warm them with brightening light.

  Without another word, she descended the rounded hill. It rolled flat as she passed over it. To Pomella, it was as if Yarina had placed the sun in the sky by raising her staff. Pomella curtsied again, and the other candidates bowed. A calm silence crossed over Kelt Apar as the door to the central tower closed.

  “Green Man!” Saijar demanded at once. So much for silence, Pomella thought to herself, rubbing her temples. “We need food and travel supplies! See to it that mine are brought immediately.”

  “Provisions were placed in your cabins while Mistress Yarina spoke with you,” Oxillian said. “You will find them waiting for you there.”

  “He’s not your blathering servant,” Pomella said, still rubbing her temples. She was exhausted. Not just from the lack of sleep, but from putting up with these arrogant people.

  Saijar stepped closer and loomed above her. “You haven’t the slightest understanding of how this world works, do you? I don’t care who invited you, or how many flowers you can sing to life. You’re a commoner. You exist only to serve your betters. While my ancestors summoned the Myst and ruled nations, yours hoed vegetables. Get out of my sight, and get out of my way.”

  Quentin stepped forward, but Pomella barred his path with her arm. She was also tired of people thinking she needed their help.

  “What are you going to do?” she demanded, cocking her head sideways. “Assassinate me? Send your Black Claw mercenaries to do your work?”

  A look of genuine surprise appeared on Saijar’s face. Pomella’s heart raced as she looked for any signs that he recognized the name. It was a stretch to accuse Saijar of something so terrible without evidence, but she hoped she could shock him into giving himself away. If Sim was telling the truth, Saijar had to be involved. Who else would want her to fail, and who else had the means to hire mercenaries? They were also both from Rardaria.

  Quentin eased Pomella away from Saijar. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “And you,” Saijar said to him. “You’re just as pathetic as her. What would your family think?”

  Before she could register the comment, Quentin surged at Saijar, driving his fist toward his jaw. The blow would have landed, but in an instant quicker than thought a tangle of vines and grass erupted from the Green Man and caught Quentin’s hand. The angle and force of the grab made him cry out in pain. His arm twisted behind his head. He fell to a knee.

  Enraged, Saijar swung a kick at Quentin’s face, but that, too, was caught by another tendril emerging from Oxillian. The Green Man lifted Saijar up by the ankle, his arms dangling as he cursed and swore.

  “There shall be no violence in Kelt Apar,” Oxillian rumbled.

  “You’re all fools,” Vivianna murmured. She turned and hurried toward the cabins.

  “Put them down, Ox,” Pomella said. “Please.”

  Oxillian complied, releasing them onto the ground. Both men stared at the Green Man, anger flashing in their eyes. Then their glances snapped to each other. Saijar spit at Quentin’s feet and gave a final, spiteful glance at Pomella before stalking after Vivianna.

  Without another word, Oxillian merged back into the ground. Pomella helped Quentin to his feet and dusted som
e dirt off him. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he replied. “Let’s get our supplies and get going.”

  Pomella bit her lip. “Perhaps we should travel separately this time.”

  Quentin paused as he adjusted his wrinkled shirtsleeve. “You don’t want to go together?”

  “This is the final Trial,” Pomella said, not meeting his eyes. “We should try to distinguish ourselves individually.”

  Quentin looked toward MagDoon in the east. “I don’t want to become the apprentice,” he said. He returned his gaze to Pomella. “I want you to earn it. Let me help you.”

  “No, you can’t. You deserve to—”

  “Deserve?” Quentin scoffed. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you. I would make a terrible Mystic. But you wouldn’t. You not only want it more than anybody else, but you have a natural affinity for the Myst. You said you did poorly on your second Trial. I can help you with this last one. It would sadden me very much to see you disappointed.”

  Pomella knew she would be a lot worse than disappointed if she failed to become the apprentice. But Quentin was right; she needed help, desperately. She nodded to him reluctantly. “Very well. I’m not sure I even have a chance anymore. I could use whatever help you’re offering.”

  A few minutes later they approached the eastern path leading into the forest. Pomella adjusted the bulging backpack that had been left on her doorstep. A quick examination had revealed two days’ worth of food, a full waterskin, and a thick blanket. Without letting herself second-guess her decision, she packed the glass vial of Mantepis’ venom into the bag. She’d also tucked away The Book of Songs Sim had left her.

  Sim.

  What was she going to do about him? Couldn’t he just fade into her past without kicking up her old feelings for him?

  She shook her head. No matter how much she wanted Sim to stop muddling up her life, she couldn’t deny that a part of her had been glad to see him. She felt safe around him. He was a warm fire of familiar comfort. He’d always been there for her, and had only the best of intentions. Maybe she was too hard on him, despite his terrible timing.