Mystic (21 page)

“No. Traditionally, a Mystic's focus is given to protecting our land, learning the Myst, and seeking harmony with all things. We freely leave the rest to the nobility.”

Pomella gaped at her. “You'd let me become Unclaimed!”

“I do not control your fate. You do.”

Anger flared in Pomella. She barreled ahead, heedless of respect. “Then why invite me at all?”

“Your grandmhathir wrote about you on several occasions. It was obvious from her letters and from your gardening reputation around the north part of the island that the Myst flows strongly through you.”

Pomella tried to say something, but couldn't find the words. Her hands shook. She didn't bother to hide the dismay that must've been clear on her face. In the days since she'd received the invitation to the Trials, she'd daydreamed of what the real reason could've been to convince the High Mystic of Moth to have a special interest in her. Perhaps it'd been her love of nature, or her ability to sing so beautifully. Or perhaps the High Mystic had looked upon her from afar, gazing through the veil of the Myst, to see the way she'd cared for her grandmhathir and Gabor when her fathir wouldn't. Many reasons, each more elaborate than the last, had occurred to Pomella, teasing her with their possibility.

She was such a blathering fool.

“You are disappointed,” Yarina said, sipping her tea.

“I-I just thought the reason you invited me would've been less … simple.”

“You are not special, Pomella,” Yarina said. “None of us are. Renounce that misconception now. Too many would-be apprentices bring that to the Trials.”

Pomella's anxiety flared, feeding the inferno of anger building within her. “Of course I'm not
special
. Commoners don't need that reminder. Every day, nobles like Saijar and Elona ensure that we don't forget. As do the Mystics, when they spit on us and force us to grovel because we crossed their path.” She jammed her teacup down, slopping dregs across her hand. “Even my fathir takes the time to remind me of the inequity we live in.”

“I did not say we live equally,” Yarina replied, eyes narrowing. “I meant that, in the eyes of the Myst, we all have the same potential. The ocean does not distinguish between the multitude of drops within it.”

“Yet you judge us and handpick only one person to be your apprentice.”

“Why do you think we do that?”

Pomella set her jaw. “Why you judge us?”

“No,” Yarina said. “Do you know why we take apprentices at all?”

“To pass on your wisdom?” Pomella said, trying to keep the bite from her tone.

“Partially, yes. But mostly, we choose an apprentice to complete ourselves. Most people see the Trials as a political game in which candidates need to make themselves stand out in a positive light. But what the Trials are truly about is finding the right match, on a deeper level, between Mystic and pupil. Often, it is the apprentice that defines the master. And so we choose our successors carefully, and only after we have spent time with them.”

Pomella churned those ideas over in her mind. Perhaps there was something she could demonstrate to prove she would be a fine match for the High Mystic. She closed her eyes, gathered her resolve, and tried to remember the soaring feeling from yesterday, when the flower had blossomed above the water, and where everything had felt
right
.

She hummed quietly, trying to unlock her ability to Unveil. Yarina waited, but Pomella dared not open her eyes to look at her reaction.

Nothing seemed different. Pomella wondered if she sang, rather than hummed, maybe it would—

Yarina's hand touched hers. Pomella opened her eyes.

“It cannot be forced,” the High Mystic said in an infuriatingly condescending tone.

Embarrassed by her failure, Pomella pulled her hand away. “I don't know why you're putting me through this.”

Yarina rose from her cushion. Pomella moved to stand, but the High Mystic gestured curtly for her to remain sitting. Yarina extended her hand, and Pomella realized she was beckoning for the teacup. Pomella placed it into Yarina's palm, and watched as she took both of their cups to the table near Grandmaster Faywong's painting.

A long moment of silence filled the room. The heavy gaze of the past masters bore down on Pomella. She stared at Yarina's back as the High Mystic tidied the teacups.

“In the end,” Yarina said, “all actions I take, indeed all actions
anybody
takes, whether they know it or not, are done by the grace of the Myst.”

Pomella bit back a sarcastic retort. Yarina was shifting responsibility. Mantepis hissed in Pomella's ear, whispering about true masters who could simply glance at a person and instantly measure them.

Yarina looked up at the painting of her predecessor. “You are dismissed,” she said. “Your second Trial is complete.”

Pomella's heart nearly erupted from her chest. “My … second Trial? What do you mean?”

“You have the rest of the day free. We will meet tomorrow morning for the final Trial. Upon its completion, I will choose an apprentice.”

“Mistress, I—”

“I trust you can see yourself out.”

Pomella stood and bowed. “Yes, Mistress.” By all the Saints, had she just ruined her chances? She walked to the door, trying to appear as regal as she could.

“Pomella,” said Yarina as Pomella reached the exit.

Pomella paused in the doorframe, her back still to the High Mystic.

“We don't walk this life alone,” Yarina said. “We all need help at some point. There is no shame in walking a path that was blazed for you. Don't run from it. Walk it with confidence and honor the memory of those who made it possible.”

Pomella didn't trust herself to speak. She nodded and fled the tower, unable to respond further without getting angry.

 

TWELVE

SAD SONGS

Outside the stone tower, cold wind and damp air raked past Pomella. She gritted her teeth, wanting to scream. A draft of chill air caught her hair, scattering it back. Irrationally, she swatted at the wind as if it were a biterbug.

What a complete dunder she'd been. She couldn't keep her jagged tongue between her teeth long enough to keep it from spitting nonsense. She'd just ruined her second Trial, and possibly lost the entire apprenticeship. Her rash actions might have cost her her freedom. She would be branded Unclaimed for this, just like Fathir had said. Bitterness swam in her stomach like mudshite stew.

Pomella twisted toward the tower and considered going back in. Perhaps she could apologize to Yarina and try again.

No. She needed to walk.

She walked back toward her cabin, a storm cloud of anger and fear surrounding her. Maybe she didn't even
want
to be Yarina's apprentice.

Looking around, Pomella saw nobody else nearby, not even the gardener. Heavy clouds gathered, threatening more rain. Despite the disastrous meeting, Pomella's mind swirled with questions about the Myst. Somehow, she'd left with more questions than when she arrived.

Unveilings. Fayün. Attachment. Grandmasters.

Lorraina.

She'd rarely heard her grandmhathir's name used before. Pomella's anger at herself faded, leaving only a lingering fear. Sadness crawled into the place her anger had been. She rubbed her arms to stay warm.

Grandmhathir had always just been a kindly old woman, quick with a hug or melody. But today Yarina conjured images of her as a young woman, maybe no older than Pomella was now. She tried to imagine what Grandmhathir had looked like back then. Likely beautiful, with the same strong features she'd had in old age. Raven hair rather than gnarled gray. What could it have been like to be her? A young noblewoman who traded a lifetime with the Myst for a quiet one with a man.

Why, then, had Grandmhathir encouraged Pomella to learn of the Myst? Did she regret the choice she'd made?

Unbeckoned, Sim's gentle face came to her. She wondered what he was doing. He'd be home by now, wouldn't he? How long before he didn't even think about her anymore?

She sighed. But why should he? It didn't matter. He was part of her old life now. Her current life needed to be here in Kelt Apar, doing everything it could to survive.

The hummingbirds waited for her on the edge of her cabin's roof. Hector buzzed his wings and Ena flew off, taking him with her.

As Pomella watched them race away, her attention drifted to Quentin's cabin. She walked over to it and knocked. Nobody answered, and she couldn't hear anything inside. She glanced at Vivianna's and Saijar's cabins, but decided against checking for him there. Maybe he was out walking the grounds, perhaps even looking for her.

Thunder rumbled the air. Sweet Saints, she hoped it wouldn't start raining now! Hector and Ena caught up to her right away, flying around and ahead of her. She enjoyed their presence.

Quentin wasn't at the round clearing where the strange monument stood, so she followed the river's flow and crossed the small bridge beside the loch. Tall trees swayed in the wind. In the distance beyond the eastern treetops, MagDoon slept beneath its blanket of snow. She shivered, and wished she'd brought her cloak.

A smattering of sheep roamed an open field. She hadn't been over this way yet, where the grass was taller and more wild than the well-trimmed lawn around the central tower. On the far side, right up against the edge of the forest, a small cabin rested peacefully. Despite the hour, warm light spilled from its single window, and gray smoke wafted from a river rock chimney. Cool shades of blue and gray clouds mixed with the slanting sunlight.

Approaching the cabin, she passed sheep that were thick and ready for their spring shearing. They grazed, hardly sparing her a lazy glance. The cabin's window yawned open, its wooden shutters thrown wide. She peered in to find a sparsely furnished room with a lantern hanging from a peg on the wall. Besides the light, the only indication of an occupant was a small stone cup sitting on a crooked table.

A cold nose touched her hand.

Pomella jumped as the brown dog licked her fingers. A short distance behind him, the gardener leaned on a wooden hoe and nibbled a reed. His wide-brimmed straw hat, tied with a cord below his chin, shaded most of his face.

She took a step back. “H-hello.”

The gardener bowed.

She squirmed in discomfort. You weren't supposed to talk to the Unclaimed. But with his attention focused on her so directly, she felt as though she had no choice. “Have you … seen my friend? He's one of the candidates. The one with dark skin?”

The old man shook his head.

“Oh, all right. Thank you.”

An awkward silence rose between them. Pomella turned and began to walk back to her cabin. She felt the man's eyes on her, and shivered. He was Unclaimed. She shouldn't be around him. It wasn't right.

Pomella stopped. In a day or two, she was likely to become Unclaimed herself. “Oh, buggerish,” she mumbled to herself, and made up her mind. She turned to face him. “I'm Pomella.” She hated that her stomach fluttered with a small bite of fear.

“Lal,” he replied in a thick accent she couldn't identify.

“Lal,” she said, testing the surprisingly awkward name.

The gardener grinned and doffed his hat. “I once called that, anyway.”

Pomella bit her lip. So it was true. He'd lost his name. “I'm sorry to snoop around your house. I was just looking for my friend.”

“Not mine,” he said, and pointed the tip of his hoe toward the distant central tower. “House belong to High Mystic Yarina.” Each word he spoke was clipped, as if it were its own sentence. Pomella assumed this wasn't his native language.

She followed his gesture. Of course. Unclaimed were not allowed to own property. The dog nuzzled her hand again, clearly seeking attention.

Hector and Ena swooped down, buzzing past the dog. The dog lurched and leaped at them.

“Broon!” Lal scolded.

“It's OK,” Pomella said, scratching the dog's ears before addressing the hummingbirds. “Stop it. He's being nice. You should, too.”

The gardener laughed. “Your pets?”

“They're my friends,” Pomella said. “They follow me around, and—hey! You can see them?”

He shrugged. “Live in woods long enough, be near Mystics and fay. Not unusual.”

“Sorry they bothered your dog,” Pomella said.

“Not mine,” Lal said.

“Oh. Right. The High Mystic.”

“No.”

She looked at him, confused. “I thought you said…”

“Broon free. Wild dog.”

The dog barked at the hummingbirds again. Suddenly Lal lifted his hoe high above his head and let out a warlike scream. Pomella gasped and backed away, bumping into the cabin wall.

The gardener charged the dog, screaming and shaking his hoe. “Wild dog! Leave hummingbirds alone! Pomella my friend!”

She watched, wide-eyed, as the dog crouched playfully and barked. Lal swung the hoe, but the dog dodged and ran. They chased each other, fur and legs tumbling and rolling through the field. Suddenly she burst out laughing.