by Jean Gill
Her intention rather than her words was enough to bring the smile back. He wiped his mouth, smearing the black over his cheek, and she couldn’t help smiling with him.
Declan was watching them closely, too closely. He grunted approval, and Mielitta’s stomach clenched. He needn’t think she’d forgiven either of them.
‘I’ll just put this on the anvil to cool,’ he told them.
She followed him back into the forge, where they could speak more privately. She sat on a table, swinging her legs over the edge as if she were a child again. The forge was briefly the dirtiest place in the Citadel but quickly became the cleanest. Every speck of dust was removed within minutes. ‘If dust gets into the fabric it will destroy steel, sure as fire burns,’ he’d told her. She knew that the forge cleaned itself by magecraft but she’d never known what else the Mage-Smith did that way. He was just Declan to her and he worked like any master smith would.
‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ Mielitta began, then looked pointedly at Kermon and changed the subject.
‘Would you make me a Damascene steel arrowhead?’
Declan looked up at her from under bushy brows and was blunt. ‘Why?’
Two people could be direct. ‘Because Kermon took the job that should have been mine and you owe me severance for my apprentice-work.’ She couldn’t keep up the cold tone. Her voice cracked a little though she still swung her legs, defiant as a five-year-old who refuses to come off the swing.
‘Think of it as a parting gift, for luck in my life. You have been like a father to me.’ She couldn’t say more so she stopped, aware of Kermon, who couldn’t help but listen, however much he busied himself with arranging pieces of wood and metal on shelves.
Eyes like green pools in the darkest part of the Forest, Declan growled. ‘I am a father to you and will take none of your nonsense. You’re a girl and that’s that. I should have been firmer with you but what’s tempered can’t be put in the flame again and you’re not as well-tempered as I’d like.’
Mielitta bit her lip and her legs stilled. When she spoke, her voice quavered. ‘That’s the trouble – I’m not a girl and I’m not a woman. So if I’m different, you should let me do what I’m good at!’
‘You’ll lead a Perfect life, girl, whether you like it or not! You must wait until Shanagra finds you ready for the Maturity Test. Maybe there’s a reason she hasn’t, with the mouth you have on you for answering back!’
Was he going to hit her? She’d not been chastised so since she was little. But no. He stepped back, calmed, came to some decision.
‘Kermon,’ Declan called, in a voice that brooked no refusal. ‘Are you ready to make your smith-piece?’ It was not truly a question and would not be asked twice.
Mielitta drew up her legs onto the table, hugged her knees. It should have been her. She knew the pattern she would have made, folding just so, to make an army of interlaced waves that moved like wings when the light caught them. Everyone would have marvelled, asked who he was, this new smith. And Declan would have said with pride, ‘Not he, but she. My daughter, Mielitta.’
Instead, Kermon glowed, made no hesitation. ‘I am ready, Forge-Mage Declan.’
I am ready. I am open. Mielitta silently mocked the courtesies. Well, I am ready and I am open but only for what I choose. And I have been to the Forest, and survived, and you haven’t. If she was going to be treated like a child, then she would behave like one.
‘Then treat Mielitta as your client and you shall make her an arrowhead. Note your client’s requirements, then go to the archery yard to collect an example for a template.’ Declan went over to the assistants to rearrange their work, leaving Mielitta more red-faced than any fire could have made her.
Kermon looked down at the floor. In the V-neck of his grubby workshirt she could see the hair on his chest. The silence grew. Then they both spoke at once.
‘I want–’ Mielitta began.
‘I know I’m second-best–’
‘Yes,’ she told the honest hazel eyes raised to hers. ‘but neither of us has a choice so there’s no point arguing. Let’s just get this over with.’
‘You might be surprised,’ Kermon told her. ‘Don’t judge my work before you see it.’
‘I’ve seen the best Damascene steel in the world,’ she said. It was just a fact, not an insult.
The apprentice took no notice of her words or her tone. Declan had taught him well. She was a client.
‘You know what’s possible,’ he observed, ‘so is there a design you would like?’
‘Yes, I want–’ She saw again the beauty of an arrowhead, a flight of wings in steel, aerodynamic and streamlined. And she let it go. Why would she punish Kermon? It wasn’t his fault.
He was studying her face as if he could read it, as she had studied the cauldron of oil. Afraid no doubt that she would condemn him to failure, or at least to admitting his lack of skill.
‘No,’ she said. ‘it’s your smith-piece.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘So, surprise me.’
He nodded, his face composed, serious, older than she’d thought. ‘It will be my best work.’ He gave a rigid little bow, left, and Mielitta realised she was alone with Declan. Her face flamed again. How was it that one person could reduce you to childish ways with just one word? Well, she would show him and he would be proud of her! She opened her mouth to tell him about the Forest and not one word came out. Stoppered, she thought. Shit!
‘Well?’ Declan’s deep voice was comfortable, reassuring as a blanket. ‘What did you really want to talk to me about?’
‘My Maturity Ceremony is tomorrow,’ she announced. She couldn’t help sounding like a child who’d hit a nail with a hammer for the first time. However, the impact was everything she could have wished.
Declan looked stunned. ‘B-but,’ he stammered, ‘I thought you weren’t going to…’
She’d certainly practised the next line. ‘I’m a late starter,’ she told him. And then for good measure, ‘Mage Yacinthe said so. And that the Ceremony was to go unremarked because it’s just me, and the circumstances are exceptional. So as not to make a fuss over me being a late starter.’
‘But nobody told me,’ Declan said, looking at her strangely.
Just like nobody told me Kermon was taking my place as your apprentice. She knew it was wrong to enjoy such a petty revenge but it made her feel less child, more equal. Anyway, why should Declan have been told?
‘I expect the children usually tell their parents, and that’s what I’m doing. The Maturity Mages have more important things to do.’
‘You want this? To be an adult. You’re sure?’ What was the matter with the man? One minute he wanted her to fit in like a good girl and the next he wanted to sow doubts about the joys of adulthood?
‘Of course,’ she told him. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
He licked his lips before replying. ‘No reason.’
‘And,’ she’d saved the best until last. ‘I’m to assist Mage Yacinthe in the library.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, his tone listless.
‘I’ll be busy,’ she said airily. What with doing all the work in the library and visiting the Forest. ‘But I’ll try to visit now and then.’
‘That would be nice. But you know you can’t use weapons when you’re a woman. The arrowhead you asked for – you can never use it.’
‘I know.’ She smiled sweetly, pure woman. ‘It’s just for luck, for the memories,’ she lied.
‘For the memories.’ Suddenly he looked so old, his face crushed.
She jumped off the table and hugged him, seeking shelter one last time in the blackened apron and hard-muscled arms. She was nearly as tall as he was now.
‘Children grow up,’ he murmured. ‘Become forged, become adults. It is the way of the Citadel. I didn’t think… but of course you must have your place here too.’
Trust Declan to think of people in steelworking terms. ‘I don’t mind being forged,’ she told him and agai
n, he looked at her strangely. Was that fear in his eyes? He blinked and the strangeness was gone.
This wasn’t what she wanted for her last afternoon as a child with her parent. ‘Tell me about my finding,’ she demanded. She’d heard the story a thousand times but it was their story, their bond, and she needed to hear it once more, now.
‘I’m fetching knives from the kitchen,’ he began, ‘minding my own business and I’m walking along the passage, when I hear this noise.’
‘Where?’ she interrupted, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Where was the baby?’
‘We haven’t got to that part yet,’ he objected. ‘But it was – you were – on the way to the west courtyard door, I think, by the inside wall. Yes, definitely the inside wall.’
‘I thought so.’ Where I hid my memories. A wall with history, indeed! She didn’t explain herself. ‘Sorry, I won’t interrupt again.’
‘So I head towards the noise, which starts as a little cough then turns into a full-size baby’s cry. And sure enough, when I turn the corner, the baby noise is loud and clear but there’s nothing to be seen but stone walls and stone floor, same as always. Then the wall sort of shimmers and forces out this little basket, as if hands are pushing it through the wall into the passage. The wall goes solid and there you are, screaming. I put a finger to your mouth, say sh but you latch onto that finger, suckling away, and I know you’re hungry.
‘So I put the knives in my pockets, pick up the basket and take you to the nursery. And you know the rest. Same as all babies in the Citadel, you’re shared out with the mothers so none of them gets tired of mothering or stuck with a tricky baby all the time. And I get to do a share of fathering, seeing as you’re my Foundling, in a manner of speaking.’
He looked at her then, with all the pride she’d hoped for. ‘A special father. And you go to school with all the children…’
‘And I watch the other children become adults while I’m passed over,’ she finished for him. ‘But it’s my turn now. You understand that, don’t you.’
‘Better than you do,’ he told her and kissed her forehead.
‘Tell me about the name,’ she ordered. ‘You missed that bit.’
‘In that basket, you were all wrapped in white and I could see some writing pinned to you. I thought it was going to say something about where you were from but it was just one word. Mielitta. And when I said the word aloud, the writing faded and disappeared so nobody else ever saw it. But I spelled it out to the Nursery Mage and she said it had no meaning so it must be your name. And that’s what you’re called.’
‘She was wrong.’ Mielitta was fierce. ‘My name does have a meaning – it’s who I am.’
Declan shook his head. ‘Still shouting after eighteen year-cycles,’ he teased her. ‘I should have known to walk on by when I heard that screaming. Still, I’m glad I didn’t.’
The tension between them vanished like bubbles from oil and they spent the last moments of Mielitta’s childhood choosing wood for handles.
Dead, piped the voices in her head as she debated the virtues of yew – beautiful patterns, the spalting so prized by craftsmen – versus walnut – plain but less prone to crack in cutting.
Dead, they told her again and she wished she could tell Declan about the living beauty that was wood in the Forest. But the words stuck in her throat and she settled for the affection between them as parent and child. More was not possible for they already lived in different worlds.
Chapter Ten
The High Table was empty for the evening meal, Mielitta’s last as a child among the servants. If Jannlou and Bastien were too busy to harass her, so much the better. No doubt the Council and favoured mages were eating in the Council Chamber while they debated the threat posed by the Forest. Mielitta smiled. Little did they know.
‘M-Mielitta?’ Drianne queried the smile. She was still behaving oddly since the attack, flushing at nothing, avoiding Mielitta’s eyes but watching her covertly. She’d get over it. Especially after the Maturity Ceremony. No doubt Drianne would have her own soon enough and Mielitta was only pre-empting the ending of a one-sided friendship.
‘Just thinking,’ Mielitta told her, still smiling, ‘about the new apprentice in the forge, Kermon.’ All young girls wanted gossip about attractive young men, didn’t they? But Drianne’s eyes flicked away.
Her problem. Mielitta shrugged, reminded herself of all the children she’d befriended, only to lose them to maturity. They’d turned into all those adults who made her squeeze against the wall as they gossiped past her, without even noticing her, let alone remembering her name. Well, it was her turn now.
She looked at the freckled young face opposite her, mouth tight against an unfair world, a world that mocked stammers and difference. What last message could Mielitta give? She leaned across the table, so only Drianne would hear, and the words came out before she could weigh their wisdom.
‘Drianne,’ she said. ‘You are a beautiful person. Changes are coming, good changes.’ The girl flushed crimson but didn’t look up.
Damn. Mielitta had said too much already. The whole point of her plan was to fit in. She continued, ‘You should make the most of your archery until your Maturity Ceremony and then you’ll have adult matters to occupy you.’
Drianne flashed a look of contempt at her, well-deserved. She sounded like a lesson on citizenship!
‘There is more than this,’ Mielitta finished lamely, knowing all too well how it felt to be alone. But this was for the best. Drianne had already suffered from this impossible relationship. In a different world she could have been a sister. But Mielitta could never say so.
She instinctively reached out across the table towards the girl and then realised how odd it looked so she picked up a ball of grey sustenance from the plate in the middle of the table, to hide the gesture. Don’t believe the words, she pleaded with Drianne. Watch the hands. Another of Tannlei’s sayings. But Drianne didn’t look up once, lost in her own misery, and Mielitta could only leave the Hall as if this were a normal evening at the end of a normal day.
In her chamber, Mielitta prepared for the next day. She rolled her discarded clothing into a tight ball and tied it with a spare bowstring. It would be more practical for visits to the Forest than would her lavender gown, which was shaken out over her chair. Inside the gown, Mage Fabrisse had tucked two cream modesty scarves, one for her bodice and one for her head. There was also a garment Mielitta had never seen before. She’d never seen a woman’s undergarment but she was sure that was what she was looking at now, silky and stretchy. She’d grown used to binding her breasts with a shirt ripped into strips but she knew that from now on, she’d have to look the part she was going to play.
Her stomach fluttered with nerves but at least her head was quiet, empty of voices. She lay in bed, waiting for the greylight to dip to black at its customary time. Looking at the lavender colour of the dress soothed her and she thought of all the Forest colours she would see the next day. As the last light faded, she banged her head deliberately against the pillow six times, schoolgirl magic to wake her at a given time. Then she drifted into dreams of flight and flowers.
The pale greylight of morning turned the gown grey too, dove grey, thought Mielitta, excited at the thought of the life ahead, words turned into reality. She would see doves in the Forest. And hear them coo softly as they snuggled up to their mates. Mate. She savoured the word as she slipped into the stretchy silk, adjusted the elastic support, wriggled a bit. It fitted and was comfortable. Why then did she feel so exposed?
She had a hand mirror so she held it at arm’s length to view her new silhouette. Pointy. Curvy. And embarrassing. But there was no alternative so she covered the undergarment as quickly as she could with yards of lavender, tucking the cream scarf down her front. That helped a bit but the shape was so different from what she usually wore. She’d rather have her legs on show and be free to run than display this bare expanse of neck and be cinched into a curved, waisted shape. It felt
like an invitation. Mate, she thought. Why had she not thought about that aspect of her adulthood?
She braided her long red hair, tucked it under the second cream scarf and looked at her face in the mirror. Black, slanted eyes stared back at her, unblinking. Tawny skin looked darker and escaping wisps of hair redder against the cream scarves. Whatever she might be, she was no child, but she didn’t need a mirror to tell her so. And if any man, attractive or not, had mating on his mind, an arrow would be within her reach!
She didn’t need hose under the long dress so she’d cut some to make ankle-length socks. They were comfortable with her boots, which she saw no reason to part with. Maybe fresh air out in the Forest would heal that irritating patch on her thigh. Then she realised that her thigh no longer itched. Good! Healed, finally.
She hitched up her skirt to see what the patch looked like now, turning towards the window’s growing light. And she gasped as a thousand buzzing voices woke in her head. The One. Yes, yes, the One. At last.
Outlined on her thigh, a huge bee was pricked on her skin in a thousand dark points, rippling its wings when Mielitta moved.
Beautiful Queen, the voices chorused.
Unnerved, Mielitta threw her skirt back down to hide the bee design. No time for that now. Nor to listen to voices in her head that weren’t there. They quietened. She must live out the lie she’d constructed the day before and her first task was to get to her own secret Maturity Ceremony too early for anybody to know what hadn’t happened.
She rushed across the empty courtyard. She unlatched the familiar door to the forge, ignored a weak clamour in her mind, warning her Smoke! Fire! Fly! and sped through the silent interior to the small door at the back. She had no idea why Maturity Ceremonies were held in a barn behind the forge but she’d often peeked through a spyhole in this same door as a little girl and witnessed the gatherings, longing for the day she too could be an adult.
Today was that day. She was not going to draw the wooden slat sideways and peek through the hole. She was going to go through the door, find a way into the Barn and come back as the fully-forged adult she’d been for some time. The Maturity Barn was forbidden except by invitation but so was the Forest and she’d survived that. No, she’d enjoyed it and she was going to return.
