Mystic (20 page)

“Down!” She laughed.

“Broon!” called a voice.

The dog raced away. Pomella looked up to see the gardener standing near the base of the tower. His elderly face stood out beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. He clutched several weeds in his gloved hands, and stretched his back. When he saw Pomella looking his way, his wrinkled brown face broke into a smile revealing several missing teeth. Pomella turned away, shivering. Vivianna had probably been right about him being Unclaimed. She prayed to the Saints she'd never become one of
them
.

Oxillian stood beside the wooden door to the stone tower. “Mistress Yarina will meet you in the foyer. Please go inside to await her.”

Pomella curtsied as he merged into the ground, hardly disturbing a single flower. She took a deep breath and opened the tower door.

It swung easily on stone hinges. Warm air gusted around her as if the tower had sighed. She crossed the threshold, and her skin pebbled. An overwhelming sense of familiarity arose within her, giving her that distinct feeling that she'd been here before, crossed this same threshold, worn this same dress, and appeared just as nervous.

She stepped in all the way, and the door shut behind her.

The foyer was little more than a rounded room with a great spiral staircase ascending the far wall. Small, rectangular windows lined the stairwell at uneven intervals. It surprised Pomella how small the tower seemed from within. She'd never seen a structure this big before, but once she was inside, it was more … humble.

“H-hello?” Pomella ventured, pinching her fingers. “Mistress Yarina?”

No answer came, so she took another echoing step. Looking up, she caught her breath as a rainfall of glowing lights circled above her. They drifted like lantern bugs, casting a soft light around the foyer. She gaped at them.
This
was real, tangible evidence of the Myst. Why were these not present in every home across Moth? Why didn't every Goodness and her husband have lights like this so that they didn't need to buy lantern oil? Could she learn to conjure such a thing?

“Ah, Pomella,” said a warm voice. Again, that sense of repeated action surged through her. So powerful was the feeling that Pomella wondered if her next words were preordained.

“Um, t-that's me. Yes?”

The High Mystic glided down the staircase, flanked by Vlenar, the laghart ranger. Pomella cringed. If she was repeating this experience, she hoped that wasn't how she'd always responded! She curtsied deeply. “I mean, yes, Mistress, I am here. How may I serve?”

High Mystic Yarina stepped off the stairs and nodded a dismissal to the ranger. “Keep looking, Vlenar. You'll find her.”

Vlenar barely spared Pomella a glance before slipping out the door. Yarina stepped up to Pomella and took her hands. Maybe it was her nerves, but Pomella had to force herself to not pull away. Yarina's smooth hands were chilly and colored several shades darker than Pomella's own. Her hair hung long and loose, unlike yesterday when it had been woven up. She wore a simple light-blue robe belted with a gold sash. Pomella noted that even when dressed casually, the High Mystic was radiant. Up close, she really did seem young. Young for an old person, anyway. Pomella estimated she was about forty.

“You have the look of your grandmhathir,” Yarina said. “She shines through you.”

A sudden lump welled up in Pomella's throat. “You knew her?”

“Lorraina Savarti was a true friend. Come,” Yarina said, releasing Pomella's hands. “Let's speak in the library.” She led her up the staircase.

Stifling a thrill of excitement, Pomella followed, paying careful mind not to slip on the steep steps. They passed two landings, neither of which Pomella had time to examine. She looked at them as she and Yarina ascended the stairs, longing to explore their secrets. Finally, they came to a third landing. Yarina said, “Here,” and exited the staircase.

The pungent scent of incense drifted around Pomella as she stepped into a dazzling library. Rough wooden shelves, loaded with more books than she'd ever seen, reached from floor to ceiling and circled the room, breaking only where a small window or a framed painting hung. Like in the foyer, drifting lights lit the room, but these cast a warmer glow that reminded Pomella of candles. Flat, rounded cushions lay scattered across the carpeted floor. A vase of marigolds sat atop a wooden table beside some cups and a pitcher.

Pomella studied the nearest framed portrait, a painting depicting a handsome woman with long, blond hair. She leaned in close, admiring the fine strokes of paint that created the wreath of wildflowers encircling the woman's head, and the pink touches that formed her faint smile.

“Saint Serrabeth,” Yarina said, opening a small tea box. “She was the High Mystic of Moth three masters before mine.”

“She was beautiful,” Pomella said.

“She's even more so now,” said Yarina. “Like most of our predecessors, she's awakened to the realization that she is inseparable from the Myst. She's everywhere now.
Is
everything.”

Pomella didn't understand, but nodded anyway. She walked through the room, shifting her gaze to the other portraits. “Do all the High Mystics do that? ‘Realize' themselves, I mean?” Too late, she wondered if what she'd said was inappropriate.

Yarina either didn't mind the comment or decided to let it pass. She poured steaming water into two teacups and joined Pomella in front of a painting with a sharp, clean frame. “It's hard to say,” the High Mystic said. “I like to believe they do. I certainly feel their active presence. People and their deeds are bound to certain places and times, and here in Kelt Apar, within the Mystwood, I especially feel the light of the past masters guiding me in all my actions.”

She handed Pomella one of the cups.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Pomella said. She tested the unfamiliar brew and gazed at the portrait in front of her. This one showed a man with a long, braided gray beard. His hair was tied into a long tail. Like so many other things in the tower, Pomella found him to be familiar somehow. “Who is this one?”

“That is Grandmaster Faywong,” said Yarina. “My teacher.” She lifted her teacup in a gentle salute to the painting. Not sure of the etiquette, Pomella mimicked the gesture.

“He retired, as you know, just recently.”

“Yes, I heard,” Pomella said. A sudden question rose in her mind. She bit her lip but rushed ahead before she could stop herself. “Was it difficult for you, Mistress? To inherit his duties? Were you ready?”

Yarina shifted toward another painting that rested on a bookshelf, propped up from behind by some old tomes. The painting was rendered in a strange style, with long lines of various thicknesses used to represent trees. But the lower portions of the trees faded out, as if the brush had run out of paint. The effect, it seemed to Pomella, was that the collective forest was shrouded in a misty fog that lapped at the bases of the trees. A parade of figures emerged from that mix of fog and wood, silvery and bright, and at its head walked an old man with a tall staff in one hand and a flower in the other.

Yarina stared at the painting for a long time before speaking. “Grandmaster Faywong painted this, during the time of his Anointment. He told me he did it because the effort kept him grounded. The experience that he had to go through—that indeed I went through during my own Anointment—takes a great toll. No matter how much you prepare for it, you are never ready.”

Pomella thought she understood. At least a little anyway. She could barely imagine what it would be like to become an apprentice, let alone a High Mystic, but in a strange way, she wondered if the experiences weren't so dissimilar. Yarina was still just a woman, subject like anybody else to being afraid. Perhaps Pomella wasn't that much different from what Yarina had once been when she was an apprentice candidate.

Turning away from the painting, Yarina looked at her. “What is it? Tell me.”

Pomella paused a moment, gathering her words. “Why did you invite me, Mistress? You had so many people to choose from. Nobles like Lady Elona. I don't understand why you…”

“Why I invited you despite an old tradition?”

“Y-yes.”

Yarina gestured to the cushions. “Sit down, Pomella. We have much to discuss.”

Pomella took her seat, but not until the High Mystic settled onto her own first. Yarina sipped her tea. “I met Lorraina when she was, like you, a candidate to become a Mystic's apprentice. I was—”

“Grandmhathir was a
Mystic
?” Pomella blurted before she could help herself.

Yarina quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Sorry, Mistress,” Pomella murmured.

“I met Lorraina when she was a
candidate
to become an apprentice,” Yarina repeated. “She was no more a Mystic then than you are now. I was a little girl when she arrived at my home, having traveled from a bordering province in Keffra to call upon my fathir, the Sadan. Our families had been close for generations, but this was the first time I'd met her.”

Pomella was certain her heart would beat out of her chest. A thousand questions clamored in her mind, each demanding to be spoken first. But the High Mystic was speaking, so she held her tongue, squeezing her jaw to ensure nothing slipped out.

“I remember her kindness,” Yarina continued. “She spoke to me openly and honestly, even though I was not yet ten years old. She shared her nervous concerns, and explained to me how special it was to take the apprentice Trials. She told me stories of Mystics I'd never heard before, and I became enthralled with their tellings. Your grandmhathir had a talent for telling stories. In years since, I've wondered if it was her natural way of Unveiling.

“Her visit sparked something in me. When she departed, I began learning everything I could about the Myst. My teachers had difficulty keeping up with my hunger to learn. The Myst courses through all of us, and I have no doubt that her inspiration led me directly to where I am today.”

Pomella frowned. “I never knew she became a Mystic. Fathir said she was a fraud.”

Yarina shook her head. “She was not a fraud. Some people can sense and manipulate the Myst easier than others. There is no visible pattern or reason for one person having an affinity for it over another. Your grandmhathir possessed it strongly. But she never became a Mystic, nor an apprentice.”

Pomella blinked in surprise. “But … if she was so powerful…?”

“‘Powerful' is the wrong word,” Yarina corrected. “The Myst manifests in countless ways, and it is rarely about immediate spectacle. The wise understand that ritual, meditation, and acts of courage and kindness will always have the longest-lasting effects and influence on the world. You may live for years in the home of a Mystic, and never see the swirling lights glimmer. From the letters she wrote me later in life, I understood that your grandmhathir forsook her caste in order to marry your grandfathir, and, because of the political fallout, came to Moth and settled in Oakspring. She
chose
that life instead. A rare and beautiful choice.”

“But why?”

“Who can guess the mysteries of a person's heart? The path of a Mystic is not an easy one, and the call of a quiet life is hard to ignore.”

“Did you ever think of giving it up, Mistress?”

“No,” the High Mystic said immediately, her voice strong and steady. “Since the day your grandmhathir awoke the Myst within me, I've dedicated myself entirely to its study and practice. Even when I received the affections of a young man—a boy from here on Moth—I never wavered from the path. The question now is, are
you
ready to dedicate yourself in the same way? Mystics live quiet lives, removed from the attachments of families and worldly gain.”

Pomella swallowed and nodded. “There's so much I don't understand. I still don't even know what the Myst actually is, and why I can see those silver animals, and why the hummingbirds follow me. By the Saints, I don't even know how to read Grandmhathir's old
Book of Songs
!”

“You know more than you realize,” Yarina said. “The book was likely an old tome, often given to noble children in preparation for Mystic studies. Your grandmhathir probably filled it with notes and basic lessons given to her from her tutors. The Myst is not described easily. It's not tangible, or something you can see. Rather, it's a force that both is natural to our world and exists beyond it. The fact that you can Unveil creatures from Fayün tells me you've been exposed to the Myst a long time, or at least been near somebody who could. Your garden back home also surely bloomed through the unconscious use of the Myst.”

A rush of excitement and fear ran through Pomella. Mantepis, the snake, had mentioned Fayün.

“I've only recently learned what the fay are, Mistress, but may I ask, what is Fayün?”

Yarina nodded. “The realm of Myst. It mirrors our own, like the opposite side of a coin, and is the source of both wisdom and confusion. If you become an apprentice, you will learn more of it in time.”

Pomella frowned.
If
she became the apprentice.

Yarina sipped her tea. “My comment upsets you? You are, of course, prepared for the consequences if I do not choose you to become my apprentice?”

Pomella choked on her tea, and had to catch her cough with her elbow. Yarina's matter-of-fact tone scared her.

“Mistress?”

“Oh, come now, Pomella. You know exactly what I speak of. If another is chosen, you may become Unclaimed.”

Pomella gaped, her mouth wide open. “I— How did you know—?”

“I am well aware of Lady Elona AnBroke's jealous threat. Unfortunately, it is a very real one.”

Mantepis' assurance that Yarina would choose one of the noble candidates flickered in Pomella's mind. “But, as High Mystic, couldn't you overrule the baron's declaration?”