Light Mage

by Laurie Forest

  One of the girls turns to glance at me, then another. A surge of whispering rises for a moment before stilling into a tense silence, and the girls’ looks of surprise change, almost in unison, to unfriendly glares.

  A girl in the center of the group bursts out crying, and the young women around her lean in to comfort her. She’s willowy and lovely, the crying girl, with vivid green eyes, a regal nose and full lips, her hair a cascade of lustrous black locks. Her eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been crying on and off for a while, and her almost palpable misery is the focus on this side of the room. But that’s not what sets me flinching back.

  She’s staring at me with a hatred so daggered, I’m instantly thrust into a storm of confusion. Feeling unnerved, I awkwardly follow the priest’s direction and take a seat at the far end of the front pew.

  The button-nosed girl next to me jerks her whole body away as I sit down, then pulls her long skirt sharply aside so that not even her clothes will touch me. She has a haughty posture at odds with her pretty face, her black hair straight and pulled back into a simple, shining twist, her forehead large and curved like a smooth eggshell. She sniffs and briefly looks down her nose at me, then makes a point of whipping her head away as if the sight of me burns her eyes.

  I hunch down in mortification, desperate to know why they all hate me so.

  A white-haired priest is talking to our parents in a low, practiced drone about the importance of maidenly purity. The adults all nod solemnly in response, ignoring the commotion on this side of the aisle.

  There’s a startling jab against the side of my rear, and I turn to find the button-nosed girl sneering at me. Then she turns her head away again in an angry huff.

  I glance down at the bench to find a small piece of paper pushed slightly under my skirt’s edge. Heart thudding, I take the paper in hand, sparing a sidelong glance toward the adults to make sure they’re still safely immersed in what the priest has to say, and discreetly unfold it.

  It contains one word, hastily scrawled, and I inwardly recoil when I see it.

  Slat’ern.

  It’s a word from the Ancient Tongue, but I know what it means. A girl with no morals. A girl who is filthy and coarse, who tempts men.

  A whore.

  Chapter 3: Tobias

  I clutch the cruel note as tears sting at my eyes, sending up a fervent prayer that the malicious, crying girl isn’t Gwynnifer Croft, desperate to not be staying with someone who inexplicably hates me.

  The button-nosed girl eyes me sidelong with disdain, her face twisting into a frown. She leans toward me and hisses, “You’ve no right to fast to Tobias. He belongs to Draven.”

  My stomach drops and cinches tight as all the pieces of this terrible puzzle come together, the realization bearing down on me like a miller’s stone. I slouch further down, lamenting my unfair treatment as I fight back tears. None of this was my doing, I silently rail against them. Tobias was chosen for me by our parents and the priests and the Ancient One above.

  After a few miserable moments, the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle, as if brushed by an invisible hand, and I’m overwhelmed by the sudden, uneasy sense that I’m being intently, silently watched.

  I turn, and my eyes catch on a slight girl in the middle of the pew behind me. She has owlish, pale green eyes, and her black hair is a wild mess. Her small, pointed nose and face are all delicate sharpness, like a fox. Unlike most of the girls here, there’s no malice in her stare, just a focused intensity that’s unnerving.

  The large Ironwood door to the left of the dais scrapes opens, and we collectively straighten to attention, craning our necks to see who’s coming in. Only Draven remains hunched down, her weeping echoing off the arcing cathedral walls.

  A young priest leads our fastmates in.

  Instantly alert, we all watch in rapt silence as the young men awkwardly shuffle in, passing directly in front of us like horses on display, the silver lines on their tunics depicting their Mage levels. I search each face, my heartbeat fluttering in my chest.

  Which one is Tobias?

  They’re all around thirteen or fourteen, like us, although one passes by who looks a fair bit younger, closer to eight or nine. But he has to be at least thirteen to fast, I reason, perplexed. He’s skinny, with ears that stick out like the handles of an urn, his eyes darting nervously toward us. His whole body practically vibrates with pent-up energy.

  Please don’t let this be Tobias, I silently pray. I imagine my disappointment if this childlike youth is Tobias. I don’t want to be fasted to a little boy.

  But no, I soothe myself, this can’t be Tobias. Draven wouldn’t sob over such a skinny little child.

  Some of the youths cast shy, unsure glances toward us as they pass. But there’s one youth who doesn’t seem unsure at all. My breath catches in my throat as he strides in. His gaze briefly rakes over us in one dazzling sweep, and a warm rush courses through me.

  He’s taller than the rest, already broad-shouldered, his stride confident, not awkward and shuffling like the others. He’s even more handsome than Rafe Gardner, with a rakish smile on his lips and mischief in his eyes. And four silver Mage stripes grace his tunic.

  A hungry hope lights in me. Please, sweet Ancient One. Please, let this be Tobias.

  Chairs are set in a row to the right of the altar, and the young men are led to their seats one by one. The confident young man plops down and casts a self-satisfied grin at the stocky youth beside him. He seems to own the cathedral, and he eyes the priests with no deference whatsoever.

  I’m instantly drawn in by him and swooning over his outrageously confident ways.

  Oh, let this be him, I pray as a desire I never knew existed in me takes sudden hold; a desire to step outside the boundaries. There’d be such freedom with this youth, sweet freedom I can almost taste in my mouth. A sudden image lights my mind—myself, dressed in garb edged in glittering purple gems and dancing with him, the two of us smiling and laughing as we twirl around a ballroom.

  The tall young priest walks up to the altar and gives us a perfunctory smile. He has a hawk’s face, with sternly watchful eyes and an elegant, aquiline nose.

  “Let us pray, Mages,” he says, then leads us all in the familiar blessing. Oh, Blessed Ancient One, he intones, and we all join in—even Draven, with a tremulous, cracking voice full of tragedy.

  Purify our minds. Purify our hearts. Purify Erthia from the stain of the Evil Ones.

  The priest smiles again, his posture reed-straight as he surveys the room with satisfaction. “We are gathered here today,” he says, his tone well-practiced, “to perform the most sacred of ceremonies. To bind for life those whom the Ancient One has brought together.” He pauses, his satisfied smile fixed and unrelenting. He looks to us maidens and grows serious, almost disapproving, as if suddenly ready to chastise us. “Wandfasting is as binding as it is sacred. A blessed spell to keep you on the path of righteousness.” He pauses again, frowning, his expression now one of great import as he looks to the assembled parents with a curt nod. “Let us commence.”

  He glances down at his notes. “I call upon Mage Stylla Gosslin and Mage Brin Paskal,” he says, enunciating each word with clipped precision and scanning the room expectantly. “Please approach the altar, Mages.”

  The button-nosed girl beside me rises. The sudden motion startles me and sets my heart beating faster. Stylla stands frozen in place for a long moment, and I can sense her fierce reluctance in how rigidly she’s holding herself. When the tall priest waves her forward impatiently, she forces herself into motion toward the altar, her eyes wide as a hunted thing. Her fastmate, a stout lad with a boyish face, reluctantly approaches as well, joining Stylla at the altar. He blinks out over the crowd as if he’d rather be anywhere but here while an older priest guides both his and Stylla’s parents up to stand behind their children.

  Styl
la’s lips are a trembling grimace, her gaze repeatedly darting toward her mother and father. She has a fierce, pleading look in her eyes that is met with firm shakes of her parents’ heads, and I’m confused by how upset she seems.

  The tall priest quietly talks to the young couple, but it does little to ease the tension. Stylla and Brin’s expressions are uncomfortable to the extreme as the priest quietly guides their hands together. Stylla’s arms are stiff, her head drawn back, as if at any moment she might tear her hands away from Brin’s and flee.

  My creeping unease swells over their obvious distress as the priest pulls out a sepia wand and holds it over the young couple’s stiffly clasped hands. He closes his eyes and drones out the fasting spell in the Ancient Tongue. The words to the spell are strange and lovely, no sharp edges or harsh sounds.

  The couple flinches, and I gasp along with the other youths as serpentine black lines flow out from the wand’s tip. The lines spiral and twist, encircling the couple’s hands like slender vines. Stylla and Brin suddenly appear to be trying to step back, their expressions now ones of fear, as if they’re struggling to wrest their hands away from each other and can’t. The lines abruptly pull in, and they both flinch again, the fasting patterns fusing to their hands. Stylla begins to softly cry.

  I loose a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look to Father and Mother Eliss, troubled by Stylla’s unhappiness. Mother Eliss catches my eye and gives me a reassuring look, seemingly unaffected by Stylla’s misery. The priest opens his eyes, lowers his wand and gives the couple before him a satisfied smile.

  Stylla wrenches her hands protectively in and eyes her new fastmate with accusation. Her parents gather round, her mother kissing her head and embracing her as her father and the priest exchange an indulgent smile. Then the couple and their parents are guided toward seats together on the adults’ side of the cathedral.

  Pair after pair are called up, all of them quietly submitting to the ceremony. Some shy. Some overwhelmingly nervous. One couple blinks at each other as if momentarily disoriented, then break into wide, bashful grins, as if deciding on the spot that they’re besotted with one another.

  My anticipation reaches a feverish pitch.

  I grip the pew seat, desperate to know who Tobias is. There are only four possibilities left: a rotund lad with disheveled hair and even more disheveled clothing who sits glowering hotly at no one in particular, his cheeks flaming red; a skinny, tall boy with thick spectacles who’s blinking out over the crowd as if he’s found himself in the wrong room; the fidgety little boy; and the powerful, confident young man. He’s idly drumming his fingers on the wooden arm of his chair, the alluring grin on his face sparking an exciting warmth deep inside me.

  “Mage Gwynnifer Croft and Mage Geoffrey Sykes,” the priest calls out.

  Gwynnifer Croft. The girl I’m to be staying with.

  My attention piqued, I glance eagerly around the cathedral. The owlish, messy-haired girl rises and makes her way toward the altar. She doesn’t walk so much as glide, holding her body oddly still, as if she’s created a fragile refuge within it. Smatterings of derisive laughter crop up, but she keeps her chin high.

  So this is Gwynnifer.

  And then I notice it—the toy White Wand sheathed at Gwynnifer’s side. My light affinity sparks to life, small prismatic stars pricking at the edge of my vision.

  “Oh look, she’s got her toy,” one of the unfasted girls behind me mockingly whispers, setting off another fit of giggles. I shrink down, mortified by my desire to play with Gwynnifer’s wand, and deeply put off by how mean some of the others are being to her.

  The little boy, Geoffrey, bounds up to the altar like he’s in a race and trips headfirst onto the dais. Most of the young women and quite a few of the boys, including the beautiful, self-assured young man, break into jeering laughter.

  The small boy bounds back to his feet, fast as a hare. He briefly frowns at the mocking laughter, then turns and confidently strides up to the altar. He reaches out and decisively takes Gwynnifer’s hands into his own as their parents join them. More mocking giggles sound from both the boys and the girls, and I notice that Geoffrey has a White Wand toy sheathed in his belt as well. Gwynnifer’s face is serene as a still lake, even though they look a bit ridiculous together—not only do they have toy wands, but Gwynnifer towers more than a head taller over Geoffrey.

  The priest eyes the laughing youths with obvious disapproval, and the smatterings of laughter quickly die down. Geoffrey straightens in defiance of the jeering as the beautiful, confident youth turns to the stocky lad at his side and shoots him a sarcastic grin.

  The priest raises his wand and intones the spell. The fasting lines form around the couple’s hands and set quickly. Gwynnifer stares down at the marks, her serenity unbroken as Geoffrey gazes at her, his grin wide and brimming with happiness. Both sets of parents swoop in around the couple, fussing and congratulating before leading them off the dais. As Gwynnifer is ushered toward the other side of the aisle, she sets her owl eyes fully on me, and I inwardly shrink back from her penetrating gaze.

  “Mage Draven Peltin and Mage Granthyn Emory.”

  I suck in air and turn as sobbing Draven is practically dragged up by the priests, her parents quickly falling in around her. They hush her in stern tones, and none of the maidens are giggling now. Draven bows down under the weight of her parents’ obvious censure and looks to me, blistering hatred in her eyes. Then she glances at the gorgeous youth, and her hatred shifts to overwhelming grief. The beautiful young man appears completely disinterested in both her and the proceedings, his eyes casting around as if he’s dreadfully bored. He whispers to the lad next to him, the two of them stifling laughter.

  An uncomfortable concern pricks inside me, along with some measure of relief. If the handsome boy is Tobias, I’m heartened to find that he’s clearly not interested in Draven the way she’s interested in him. It would be horrible to have a fastmate who wants someone else. But still, he seems oddly callous in the face of Draven’s misery.

  The skinny, bespectacled lad reluctantly gets up to stand opposite a near-hysterical Draven, eyeing her with resignation as all the adults attempt to ignore her display. Draven’s mother’s hand is around her arm like a vise, holding her so tightly that her daughter is lifted up a bit on one side.

  It’s upsetting to watch her being forced like this, and I look to Father and Mother Eliss once again for reassurance. They’re watching the troubling scene impassively, but they exchange a look, and I can detect the disapproval in their eyes over Draven’s dramatic outburst. I realize that Draven must be overreacting, like Stylla did, and I resolve right then and there to behave in a way that Mother Eliss and Father will be proud of, even if Tobias isn’t the handsome boy. Because whoever he is, he’ll be the Ancient One’s perfect choice for me.

  “No. Please, no. Momma, I don’t want to...” Draven frantically murmurs as her hands are forced forward onto the altar. Granthyn looks to his parents, unsure. His father sternly gestures toward Draven, and Granthyn relents, uneasily taking her hands in his. Her sobbing grows hysterical as the priest recites the spell.

  Draven struggles frantically as the lines form, her whole body pulling backward, but both her mother and now her father hold her hands steady as the fastlines set.

  And then it’s over.

  Draven wrenches her hands away and pushes violently past her mother, fleeing down the central aisle and out the doors of the cathedral. Her father takes off after her with heavy strides and slams the cathedral’s door hard behind him.

  Angry voices resonate just outside as we all wait. I look worriedly toward the doors when Draven’s incoherent stream of protest devolves into a high-pitched shriek. I hear a deep male voice yelling and a thump that makes me flinch, followed by a broken cry.

  And then silence.

  The door pushes open, and Draven is dragged back up the aisl
e by her father, her head bowed as she quietly weeps, her right cheek a bright, angry red that shocks me. Her father roughly pulls her over to take a seat between himself and her mother on the adults’ side of the aisle, and Draven slumps down onto the pew like some broken thing.

  “Mage Sagellyn Gaffney and Mage Tobias Vasillis,” the priest calls, and I’m almost jolted clear out of my seat.

  Heart pounding and in a sudden, light-headed daze, I rise on shaking legs and come forward to take my place at the altar. I’m dauntingly aware of everyone’s attention set solely on me and still acutely disquieted by Draven’s anguish. My parents join me, and I’m comforted by Father’s warm pat on my shoulder and Mother Eliss’s encouraging smile. A stately couple also makes their way toward the altar, the man tall and impressively stern with Level Four Mage stripes, the woman gentle-looking and lovely as a lily.

  The confident boy rises languidly from his seat, taking his time. My knees weaken as he looks me over with an enigmatic grin, and warmth flashes through me the moment his eyes meet mine, my apprehension rapidly diminishing.

  Tobias’s eyes. They’re glorious. The whole, dazzling spectrum of green. Sun-drenched spring greens alternating with deep forest greens. Eyes I could stare into and get lost in forever.

  I’m barely able to breathe, barely able to think as the priest directs us. And then Tobias reaches over the altar and takes my hands, his grip strong and warm.

  I’m being touched by a boy. The outrageous thought sends another rush of heat through me as my hands tremble in Tobias’s. I’m only half-aware of the priest sounding out the spell and its tight, instantaneous pull on my affinity lines as everything fades to the background. There’s only Tobias’s gorgeous eyes and the exciting feel of his hands around mine.

  Sparking lines of energy brush against my skin, and I glance down to find the black lines of the spell wrapping around our clasped hands like dark, tendriling vines. I watch in fascination as the lines branch and loop and branch again into identical, elaborate patterns on our skin, stopping just short of our wrists.