Mystic (27 page)

Quentin spoke very little, which suited Pomella. Her dream still haunted her, as did the feeling of familiarity and connection to the mountain. She'd never been to MagDoon, so why did she feel this way? Why was she so scared? She still had no idea what they were supposed to do when they got to the summit. Like the rest of her experience at Kelt Apar, she hardly knew what she was doing.

“What do you think of this Trial?” she asked Quentin as they trudged up the steep trail along the southern slope.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Quentin shrugged. “Only that the final Trial is traditionally linked to acquiring a Mystic's staff. You try to find one that feels right to you and present it to the High Mystic afterward. She'll wiggle her fingers over it, sniff the wood, and declare it either the will of the Myst or a piece of driftwood.”

Pomella smiled, but wasn't in the mood to laugh. “It's still strange to me how you agreed to do all this even though you have no interest in actually becoming a Mystic.”

Quentin shrugged but kept his eyes on the trail. “I didn't have much choice. It's what I am supposed to do,” he said. “Family is—”

“All-important,” Pomella finished. “Yes, I know.”

“And I'm not really competing anymore, anyway,” said Quentin.

“Yah,” Pomella said. “Well, I hope the Mystic staff will at least be helpful for climbing this jagged mountain.”

He and Pomella continued on, and she enjoyed the breathtaking views of southern Moth. The Ironlow Mountains, a central feature of the island, stretched as far as she could see. She wondered if they'd be able to see the ocean from the summit.

Pomella's feet were beyond aching. Her poor cloak was filthy. She'd done nothing but drag it through mud and rain since the night Bethy had given it to her. She herself was as filthy as the cloak. She absently stroked her hair and daydreamed of bathing in a steaming tub.

Quentin stopped and held up his hand. She stopped, too. He indicated for her to follow quietly as he slipped behind a wide pine tree near the edge of the path. They peered over the edge and heard two people arguing.

“… don't know why you need to stop. You have a walking stick now!”

Pomella's heart raced as she recognized the voice.

“My feet hurt, all right?” Vivianna snapped at Saijar. “I'm not used to walking so much.”

“Hurry up,” Saijar said.

“Don't complain to me about your sore feet later, then.”

Pomella watched from behind her tree as Saijar and Vivianna sat by a large circle of rocks. Vivianna rubbed her feet, and Pomella was suddenly glad she'd kept her complaining to herself.

Both Vivianna and Saijar carried tall walking sticks. Mystic staves.

“Do you think they're ahead of us?” Vivianna said.

“No,” Saijar said. He stood apart from her, arms crossed. “They've got to still be on their way up. It was worth pushing through the night to get ahead. By the time they get to the summit, we'll be halfway back to Kelt Apar.”

“I don't think it matters who gets back first,” Vivianna said.

Saijar shrugged. “Who cares? Those culks can race to the top if they want. My family has assured me that my place in history is secured. It's as good as done.”

“You're such a pompous ass,” Vivianna told him. “What's going to happen when you return home without becoming the apprentice?”

Saijar looked away.

Even at a distance, Pomella could see Vivianna's broad, sneering grin. “So the rumors are true. You have no Mystics in your family anymore. ‘A House without Mystics is not—'”

Saijar scoffed, “You're a fool and a child!”

“You didn't think of me as those things when you propositioned me.”

“Don't get sentimental. You'll start to sound like that filthy commoner.”

“Well, that ‘filthy commoner' might ruin your House. I hope you enjoy bowing to her.”

Quentin tugged Pomella's cloak and nodded up the slope. “Let's go,” he whispered.

Red-hot fury pulsed through Pomella. She wanted to scream at Saijar, run down the slope, and beat him over the head with his Mystic staff. The traitorous, hateful
culk
!

But she knew better than to act in anger. She stormed ahead, passing Quentin, and led the way up the mountain. Her anger gave her fresh legs, and every step became a defiant act of retribution against Saijar and anybody else who tried to get in her way. She would win the apprenticeship.

She would become a Mystic.

The day grew late, but at last the summit came within sight. They approached it from the southeast, hiking the final, long stretch along a saddle-shaped ridge littered with smooth rocks and snow left over from winter. Even at this altitude, large trees thrived here at the summit, as if each one strove to become the highest point on the island.

Pomella struggled to breathe the cold air. In the back of her mind she knew they needed to reach the summit before nightfall. She wanted to be there
now
. The peak called to her, summoned her with a silent song she'd been singing all her life. She didn't know what she would find, but somehow, she knew it would define her life. Nothing would keep her from it.

Within throwing distance of the summit, they came to the end of the path, which opened onto a wide, flat area upon which stood the ruins of an old structure. Snow covered the ground, refusing to yield to spring. The roof had fallen away, or perhaps had never existed to begin with. Its front entrance jutted out of the mountain and faced west, back toward Kelt Apar. Gray stone pillars, made of a type of rock unlike anything else on the mountain, stood in a circle, ringing outward in a now-broken pattern. Moss, ivy, and snow covered most of the pillars, clawing deep into the surface to crack them apart.

A heavy silence drifted in the air, giving Pomella a chill. On the far side of the ruins, the path continued a short way up to the actual summit. She traced her hand over the nearest pillar. The wet moss tickled her fingers.

“What do you think this shrine was built for?” Pomella said.

“I don't know,” Quentin said. “But it's getting late. There's a cave over there. Let's take a look.”

“We should go to the summit,” Pomella said, still riding the surge of urgency from before.

Quentin's hand found hers. “It's fine. We'll be back in plenty of time. There's no need to be the first ones back. If anything, Yarina will admire that you took your time and didn't just rush through the Trial. Besides, the Trials will be over tomorrow. This may be our last chance to be alone.”

Pomella considered his words. It was getting dark, quickly. They could visit the actual summit point and try to descend at night, but that didn't seem like a wise idea, despite what Saijar and Vivianna were doing. It had already been a long day of hiking, and Quentin was right that this might be the last chance for him and Pomella to be alone together.

Quentin grinned at her, seemingly reading her mind. He reached out his hand; his eyes dared her to come with him.

Pomella accepted his hand, and followed his lead. The setting sun touching the distant western horizon caught her attention. From their vantage, she could see the ocean sparkling. She stared in wonder, mesmerized by the endless horizon. The descriptions she'd heard didn't do it justice.

As they approached the cave and its unseen depths, the memory of her recent dream jumped unbidden to her mind. She remembered the temple, which may or may not have looked similar to the one at which they stood. She crossed the ruins and ducked her head under the threshold, entering the large natural cavern. Quentin followed.

The cave reminded Pomella of the room she and Sim had found in the Mystwood. Faded paintings with broken frames, barely visible in the dim light, ringed the cave walls at uneven intervals. Their style matched what she'd seen before, but once again, the meaning eluded her.

“It's beautiful,” Quentin said behind her.

Pomella's cloak caught on something as they moved farther into the cave. She twitched the cloak free. It had snagged on a metal bar, about the length of her hand, sticking out of the ground. Glancing across the floor, she saw handfuls of them, spread out to form a wide circle.

“What are those things?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Quentin said, looking from them to her. “But they aren't what I'm focused on right now.”

Pomella was suddenly conscious of her travel-weary appearance. Despite that, her excitement surged. “We're staying here tonight, right?” she asked, stepping closer to him.

He nodded. “In the morning we'll go to the summit and find our staves.”

“Do you think it matters that the others will return before us?”

“Doubtful,” he replied, shrugging.

Pomella slipped her arms around his waist. He trembled under her touch. “Then we're alone at the top of the world,” she said, and kissed him. She took it slow, savoring the feel of his mouth on hers. She'd been wanting to do this right. Her hands began to slowly move across his body. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight. Pomella's hands sped up, and quick as a skittering luck'n, rational thought fled her.

She lifted off his shirt, revealing his strong, tattooed body. He tugged at her cloak, still kissing her, and soon their hands fumbled to remove every bit of clothing they could find.

Quentin reached around her back to untie her Springrise dress. She wished he would go faster.

The dress's simple string ties fell loose, and he pulled a single sleeve down, revealing her brown shoulder. Somehow maintaining her calm, Pomella ran her hands down his muscular chest and found his belt. The buckle unlatched and she prayed that her hand didn't tremble. It didn't.

“You are so beautiful,” Quentin whispered in her ear. He leaned into her, kissing her again, deeply. His hands ran along the front of her neck, across her shoulders, and down her arms toward her wrists.

“Take my dress off,” Pomella commanded, trying to keep the plea from her voice.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and she heard the echoing sound of metal clamping together.

Panic and confusion flashed through her. Quentin stepped away from her, half-naked, his face a mask of fear and sadness.

“I'm truly sorry, Pomella-my,” he whispered.

“What's going on?” she asked, looking down at her hands. Two heavy manacles bound her wrists together. She pulled at them, but they held tight.

A figure emerged from the deep shadows of the cave. He wore rust-colored robes and carried a tall Mystic's staff made of iron. Bits of metal jutted from his exposed flesh. His face was lost in the shadows of his hood.

Quentin stood still as the man approached her. “Welcome, Pomella,” said the Mystic. “I hope you like this cave. You will be here awhile.”

*   *   *

Strange dreams haunted Sim. The moment he'd arrived in the cave, he'd finally succumbed to his aching weariness and collapsed against the wall, in a distant alcove away from the spiked circle. As he drifted in unconsciousness, he saw Dane, standing outside the cave surrounded by a magnificent shrine. Behind him, a little girl with long black hair in a white dress watched with a cold expression on her face.

Dane looked up at him. Blood drained from Dane's eyes like tears.

“Wake up, Sim.”

Sim jolted awake. He heard voices.

“Who are you?” said a familiar, quavering voice. Sim stood up and tried to shake the fog from his mind.

Pomella stood, her dress disheveled, in the circle of spikes in front of Ohzem. Between them stood the tall man Sim had seen with her the other night. Several tattoos wove around his bare torso and arms. Sim could see Pomella gaping at Ohzem's scarred and bloody face.

“I am the next master of Kelt Apar,” said the Mystic. “I am Ohzem.”

Pomella turned back to the bare-chested man. “What's happening, Quentin?” She reached toward him, and Sim saw manacles wrapped around her wrists.

“It was my family's wish,” the man named Quentin said, not looking at her. “For thirty-seven generations our family has produced Mystics. The High Mystic went too far in inviting a commoner to be her apprentice.”

Pomella's face filled with disbelief.

“Pomella!” Sim shouted, and lunged forward.

“Grab him!” Zicon yelled.

Jank and Hormin leaped at Sim, knocking him down. He scrambled and struggled in the dirt, but they managed to twist his arms behind his back and clamp the manacles back on. He kept his attention on Pomella even though Jank pressed his face against the dirt.

“Oh, Saints! Sim!” Pomella cried. She twisted to face Quentin. “Liar! I trusted you.”

Quentin stepped closer to her. Sim barely heard his words. “I had no choice, Pomella-my. My family arranged everything. Nothing is more important than family.
Nothing.
Not even my personal feelings.”

He reached out to stroke her cheek, but she pulled it away.

“Do not be so harsh on him,” Ohzem said with a strange, half-mocking tone. “Lord Bartone only played the role he was given. Why, I even think he might legitimately care for you.”

“He can wallow in shite!” Pomella snapped.

Hormin approached Pomella and clamped a heavy chain to the manacles around her wrists. A long chain ran from them to one of the spikes in the ground.

Quentin's face hardened. He pulled his shirt back on. “She's not to be hurt.”

All mockery drained from Ohzem's voice. “I will decide who is to be hurt,” he corrected. “Remember your place.”

Jank hauled Sim to his feet.

Ohzem turned to him. “You're predictable. Do not fear for her, though.”

He drew a long, dull-gray knife, its iron blade chipped along the edge, and stepped toward Pomella.

“No!” Sim blurted, panic welling up. He leaped again for Ohzem, but Jank punched his chest, driving the air from his lungs. He crumpled, trying hard not to lose sight of Pomella despite the blow.