Mystic (19 page)

Sim squirmed as Ohzem watched him. The sharp lines of iron sticking out of Ohzem's body sent shivers down Sim's spine. The Mystic's eyes searched his, as if they could see past his feeble cover story and stare into his heart. Sim hustled away but tried to convince himself his urgency had nothing to do with fear.

He went to the main wagon and began to unbundle the rolled canvas that would form the large tent. He paused as he realized he was alone. Dox and Ohzem were back by the forge wagon. Jank and Hormin were scouting. Mags was with Rochella, and Zicon had ridden off.

This was his chance.

Under the guise of unpacking the tent, Sim rummaged through the wagon, looking for the key to the chest. Or a key to Rochella's thick manacles.

He tore through the supplies, shaking down rolled bundles and setting aside other gear. He glanced over his shoulder, but nobody came. He shoved the main tent canvas onto the ground and searched the wooden crates beneath it.

Nothing.

“Bugger and shite!” he cursed to himself.

He emptied another crate of its contents, but found only iron spikes and rope for the tent. He threw it all onto the ground and rummaged more, hoping for anything at this point.

His hand found a bundle of rolled-up clothing. He lifted it, making sure nobody was watching. It contained a few spare shirts wrapped in a belt. Tucked in the middle of the roll was a smooth wooden cylinder.

His heart thundering, Sim pulled it out. It was painted black, with delicate white birds in flight across it. He'd never seen such fine woodwork before. He unfastened the latched end cap, and pulled out a tightly rolled sheet of paper.

Across the smooth surface, written in a neat hand, were foundational letter-runes he could read.

My Dearest Zicon,

Forgive me for not coming to port today to see you off. You know how my parents, Papa in particular, feel about us seeing each other. I know you detest the task you've agreed to, but please apply your greatest skill and dedication to its success. I spoke to Papa last night and he swore by the Lost Kings of Rardaria that he will ensure the documents allowing us to marry are secured if you return successful.

Besides Papa, I know of no braver man than you. Please, my Beloved, fulfill this task and put this nonsense of a commoner Mystic behind us. Once that is settled, all will be right in our world and I will be yours.

Be careful of the man who calls himself Ohzem. I do not like him and fear his intentions differ from ours. Do not cross him. Keep this promise for me?

If you can, please ensure my brother is not harmed. Saijar fancies himself to be iron, but even with his training, I doubt his blood is as cold as he believes it to be. My parents put such pressure upon him to succeed. Indeed they do for all of us. “A house without Mystics is not noble” is the saying.

With the Wind

Across the Sky

Beyond the Moon

Until I die,

Charliss

“Did you find something, boy?” came a cold voice from behind Sim.

He jumped and spun. Ohzem stood there, watching him without emotion, seemingly undisturbed by even the faintest breeze.

“Mystic Ohzem,” Sim managed, bowing low. “I-I was trying to unpack the tent. I didn't know what it was until—”

Ohzem silenced him by holding out his gnarled hand. Sim placed the paper in it, carefully avoiding contact.

Sim shifted his feet as Ohzem read the letter. Despite the Mystic's presence, Sim's gut twisted over worry for Pomella. The letter proved … what? That Zicon and the Black Claws were here to hurt her? Or that they were here to ensure she didn't become the apprentice? How could they have known at all about her coming? Pomella herself received the invitation just a few days past. This letter had to have been written weeks ago.

Ohzem rolled the paper around in his fingers. “Zicon is just another animal,” he said. “Driven by base desires. Tell me, boy, do you love that commoner girl?” He tapped the paper with a pointed fingernail.

Sim swallowed. “I-I don't know.”

Ohzem made a strange choking noise. It took a moment for Sim to realize that the Mystic was laughing.

“You're a young fool. Of course you love her.” He stepped closer, and Sim found he couldn't pull his gaze from the man's ruined face. The bars of iron ripped through his skin, their edges bleeding and infected. “Is she pretty? Does her scent still linger? Do you see her at night, while you lone in darkness, with her hair loose and back arched as she—”

“No,” Sim fired back. “I don't. Not like that.”

Ohzem's eyes grew distant, as if he were looking back in memory. “You'll need to learn to stop lying to yourself, boy. And after you do, you'll need to let her go.” He returned to the present and glared at Sim. “Otherwise, you're as doomed as Zicon.”

He held up the note, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A thin line of orange heat spread from his fingers and burned a charred circle into the parchment before fading.

Ohzem handed Sim the letter. “Put this back and tell nobody what you found. If you do anything to sabotage our work here, I will kill your friend slowly.”

Sim took the letter back. Where Ohzem's name had been written, there was now only a small burned hole. He looked at the Mystic, who turned and walked away.

Sim slipped the letter back into the wooden case and placed it back in the wagon. He forced himself to steady his hands before unpacking the tent. There had been a moment as Ohzem spoke when Sim had realized that the Mystic wasn't speaking about his or Zicon's romantic interests. Ohzem had been speaking of his own. The thought of the iron Mystic being driven by those emotions made him seem even more dangerous.

He needed to help Pomella, but how? Time was running out. He needed to act.

Tonight.

 

ELEVEN

THE HIGH MYSTIC

Pomella hummed to herself as she left her cottage, carrying a folded bundle. Patchy sunshine greeted her with light slanting through storm clouds that had abated somewhat from the past few days.

Her Common Cord circled her wrist. After the events of yesterday afternoon by the pond, it felt good to wear the little bracelet woven by the women back home.

She'd taken no more than five or six steps when her hummingbirds flew overhead and spun around her, trailing silvery mist. She shooed them away. “Go on; you can buzz about me later. I don't think she'll appreciate you being around.”

The smaller of the two, whom Pomella had named Ena, zipped toward her face, wings stuttering in irritation, then zoomed off toward the moat of flowers surrounding the central tower. Her brother, Hector, followed.

Pomella shook her head. She still didn't understand how she was able to feel their emotions and communicate with them. It was strange how she hadn't really done anything to tame the silver birds. Nothing about her had changed, and she certainly didn't feel like a Mystic. And yet the little birds followed her everywhere, and she could somehow sense their emotions. It was as if each were a little fire—sometimes hot, sometimes blazing—whose emotional temperature she could discern by putting her hands up and measuring what they radiated.

She skipped up the steps to Vivianna's cottage and knocked. Still humming, she rocked back and forth from her heels to her toes.

The door opened and Vivianna glared out. Her tangled hair fell across her makeup-less face. She rubbed her eyes. “What do you want? You aren't coming to sing another song, are you?”

Pomella pinched her lips shut and stopped humming. Without thinking, she dropped a hurried curtsy. Vivianna's face hardened, and Pomella realized the other woman probably thought she was mocking her.

“I'm returning your dress,” Pomella said, holding the folded garment out to her. She expected Vivianna to snatch the dress away and slam the door.

But the noblewoman didn't do that. She pursed her lips and studied Pomella. Vivianna's eyes flicked in the direction of the hummingbirds, and for a moment Pomella thought she saw a touch of jealous interest.

“I'm sorry it became muddy,” Pomella added, trying to break the awkward silence. “I washed it for you and let it dry overnight.”

Finally, Vivianna reached out and took the dress. “Let me tell you something. I may have been able to get past you being a commoner. But you
lied
to me. Being noble isn't just about your family heritage; it's also about acting the part. You may have impressed the High Mystic, and who knows, maybe she'll choose you. But nothing you've done so far has been noble. You can learn to use the Myst all you want, but the people will always see you for what you are. A fraud.”

Pomella stared at her, eyes wide. Her hands began to shake, but she forced them steady.

“I'll see you tomorrow for the next Trial,” Vivianna said, and closed the door.

Pomella stood there, picking her fingernail, her confidence draining like a bucket full of holes, leaving her empty and cold.

She left the cottage, forcing herself to relax. Why did Vivianna bother her so much? She should just ignore the noblewoman and her jealous, spiteful words. But as much as Pomella might try to convince herself otherwise, she knew a part of what Vivianna said was true. She hadn't been honest.

Just as Pomella began to eye the nearby cottages in the hope of finding Quentin, she heard his voice coming from within the nearest one. “… Don't be absurd.”

“I can't believe you're helping her!” said another voice.

Pomella's eyes narrowed. Saijar.

Glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, Pomella hurried toward the cabin and tiptoed through its garden. She crouched beneath the window, and listened.

“Yarina invited her,” Quentin said in his nonchalant voice. “I know it's unusual, but—”

“It's not unusual; it's disgusting!” Saijar snapped. “Commoners exist to support the nobility. It's for their own good.”

“Perhaps,” Quentin mused. “But she
is
talented.”

“Yeah. And what happens when that talent wins her the apprenticeship?”

“Then I guess the rest of us go home,” said Quentin. Pomella could practically hear the shrug in his voice.

“Maybe you can,” Saijar said, “but I cannot. If I'm not selected as the apprentice—” His voice cracked. There was a pause, followed by a heavy thump, like a table being kicked. “Not all of us can coast through these Trials like you. Some of us actually
want
to win. If that commoner had any decency, she'd remove herself from the competition. The Myst is only for those of noble blood.”

A chair inside the cabin scraped against the floor as it was pushed back. “I have no doubt you'll do anything to win,” Quentin said.

Pomella slipped away from the window and hurried toward her own. She hoped the noblemen hadn't noticed her snooping. She could tell Quentin later that she overheard him, but she didn't want him to—

The ground rumbled. Pomella jumped back as patches of dirt tore out of the ground and formed into the Green Man.

“Sweet Brigid, Ox! I'll never get used to that!”

The Green Man smiled, the grass and dirt bending to show his amusement. “I'm sorry. I am told I take time to get used to, like all things. Here. An apology.”

He opened his massive palm to reveal a golden lotus flower, just like the ones that had bloomed the night before. “Its root became severed and I thought you might like to wear it while it lasts.”

Pomella reached for it. “Thank you.”

“Allow me.” He tucked it into her hair with surprising gentleness. Bits of dirt trickled from his fingertips.

Pomella touched the flower and brushed the soil away. “It's lovely.”

Oxillian straightened, still smiling. “Mistress Yarina summons you to the tower.”

Pomella gaped. “Now? What for? I'm only wearing work clothes.” Not that she had anything else to wear after returning the dress to Vivianna.

“Your attire is not important,” the Green Man said. “The High Mystic understands this is short notice. Please come with me. We should not keep her waiting.”

He turned and strode toward the stone tower. Pomella steadied her nerves by smoothing the long skirt of her work dress. She followed Oxillian but glanced toward Quentin's cottage. She smiled a little remembering her clumsy attempts to hide her nervousness after last night's Trial. She'd been hoping to go see him after returning Vivianna's dress, but that would apparently have to wait.

The Green Man led her down a thin dirt path. Two goats grazed, chewing without care. When she crossed the little wooden bridge, she heard a bark. The brown dog she'd seen yesterday ran up to her, his tongue hanging out of his grinning face. Remembering how poorly Saijar treated the dog, she reached to pat his head, but he hopped up to lick her face.