Mystic (33 page)

The ground shifted, forming a gently sloped path beneath her feet. The High Mystic approached the monument, bowing when she reached it. Pomella and the other candidates copied her before watching Yarina sink onto a throne-like chair that rumbled and rose from the ground. As she sat, flowers bloomed at her feet and across the throne.

“Welcome,” she said, smiling. “It has been a troubling few days, made all the darker by the events of this morning. Pomella, I trust you are feeling better?”

Her body ached all over and the burn along her neck seared constantly, but Pomella curtsied and said, “Yes, Mistress, I am. Thank you.” It occurred to her that the neck wound would become a permanent scar. She suppressed a sigh.

“Despite the unusual set of circumstances surrounding these Trials,” Yarina continued, “we must conclude the process and declare a new apprentice. For that reason, we are gathered here, beneath the witness of past masters, to make that declaration.”

Pomella closed her eyes. She thought of her grandmhathir, who had dreamed of becoming a Mystic but had given it up for … for what? Love, maybe? And she thought of her fathir, a man who, despite the smaller man he'd eventually become, had once wanted to be a Mystic as well. Each of them, in their own ways, had helped bring her to this moment that she knew would forever define her, and perhaps be remembered in history. She waited, with her breath held and her eyes closed tight.

“Therefore, I, Yarina Sineese, High Mystic of Moth, do hereby select Vivianna Vinnay as my apprentice.”

Silence filled the grove. For a moment, Pomella wondered if she'd misheard or if a paranoid part of her mind had filled in the name. She opened her eyes and saw Vivianna staring at her with a stunned expression. Saijar, too, looked from Pomella to Yarina, and back again with wide-eyed surprise.

“M-Mistress Yarina,” Vivianna said, “did you just say my name? Didn't you mean her?” She pointed at Pomella.

“No, Vivianna,” Yarina said, “I choose you.”

Numb shock washed over Pomella. She had been so certain, so confident that she'd be selected the apprentice. How could she
not
become a Mystic after all she'd done?

“But Mistress Yarina,” Vivianna blurted. “I don't deserve this! Pomella—”

Yarina held up a hand to forestall her. “The Trials are not just about the candidates' outward accomplishments. They are about an apprentice finding her true master, and the master finding the proper successor. The Myst weaves through lives in ways we cannot predict or understand. But it is always right, whether we can see its ends or not. You remind me of myself, and I sense profound potential within you to one day inherit the duties of nurturing this land. Now please, come forth, speak your vows, and accept your Mystic name.”

In the end, she will choose one of her own.

The cold bite of Mantepis' words echoed through Pomella.

With a final, sorrowful look at Pomella, Vivianna stepped forward and knelt before Yarina. The High Mystic rose and held out her hand. “Your staff.”

Vivianna offered up her staff. Yarina held it aloft.

“Do you, Vivianna Vinnay, swear your life to the Myst, and to the service of all beings in all times and places under its reach?”

“I do,” Vivianna said.

“Do you swear to follow and obey me, your chosen master, along with the Grandmasters and all who have come before us?”

“I do.”

“Finally, do you revoke all former title and property, oaths and obligations, and start afresh for the benefit of yourself and the Myst?”

“I do.”

The High Mystic leaned over and whispered into Vivianna's ear. Her Mystic name.

Yarina straightened. “Speak the sacred oath upon this monument.”

Pomella heard Vivianna's words, but her attention drifted. A terrifying realization dawned upon her.

Vivianna had just gained a new name. But after today, Pomella would lose hers. She would be Unclaimed.

*   *   *

Later, as sunset kissed the island, Pomella sat on a rock beside the swollen creek, sniffing back her tears. After all she'd been through, she finally allowed herself a time to let the tears come. She'd excused herself for the evening, and found a quiet place beyond the pond to sit and think. Vivianna, at least, seemed to understand.

The stone utensil knife from Pomella's cabin lay in her lap, on top of
The Book of Songs
. She'd grabbed them both on the way out here. She'd been paging through the old tome, thinking of how it would be her only connection to the Myst.

After the ceremony, Ox had told her that tomorrow one of the rangers would escort her home if she wished. Pomella had just nodded. She managed to ask about Sim, but all Ox could tell her was that he hadn't returned from MagDoon.

Saijar had stormed away as soon as he'd been able to, and in some strange way Pomella sympathized with him. But while she knew he had to travel a great distance to return to the Continent and face his terrible family, she knew she could never go home.

When word of the new apprentice reached the barony, Lady Elona would ensure the baron declared Pomella Unclaimed.

How had it come to this? Fathir had been right. Pomella thought of running away. Perhaps she could join the Unclaimed living in the old shrine she and Sim had seen. Or maybe there were other places where the Unclaimed could live quiet lives. Despite the sadness, she wondered if there was still a chance of another Mystic accepting her as an apprentice.

No, who would want to take on a commoner when the High Mystic herself had rejected her?

Unbidden, Pomella thought of her garden back home. She wondered if anybody had tended it since she left. Probably not. Like her, it would wilt away, unnoticed and uncared for.

She lifted the knife and considered its weight. Perhaps it was time to let go of this foolish notion that she'd ever be something more than a commoner. More than an Unclaimed.

Pomella stroked her fingers through her hair once, and held it out straight. She lifted the knife and poised it against the base of the tresses. She closed her eyes.

“Why sad, Pomella?” said a voice behind her.

She turned to see a short figure in a wide-brimmed hat. She sighed and relaxed the knife. “Oh, Lal. I didn't want anybody to see me like this. I think I just want to be alone.”

“I leave you alone if really want,” he replied in his thick accent. “But I think you could use a friend right now.”

She opened her mouth to tell him no, she didn't, but then thought better of it and nodded. “Yah, maybe that'd be nice.”

“Thought so,” said the gardener. He walked over and sat beside her. She instinctively pulled her arm away from him, but stopped when she realized what she was doing. She was sick of the whole caste system and how rigid it made things. Besides, she was as good as Unclaimed now, anyway. Lal was a nice man and it wouldn't harm her if she had incidental contact with him. She hated how easy it was to fall back into old habits.

“Did the Mystic hurt you badly?” Pomella said.

Lal waved his hand. “Yes,” he said. “Very badly. But I OK. Still breathing! Now tell me why sad. Need more chi-uy?”

Pomella sobbed a little laugh. “No, definitely not. I think that caused me more trouble than anything else.”

“Tell Lal.”

Pomella grasped for the words. They came slowly at first, but soon they poured out of her. “How is this fair? I know I did something special; I
know
it! And now I have to go home, but I can't just do that. The baron's daughter said I would become Unclaimed. Who'll take me in? No other Mystic will teach me! No matter what I did today, I'm always going to be worthless.”

They sat for a minute while she held back tears.

“Do you really feel worthless?” Lal asked.

“Of course!” she blurted. “Have you been listening to what I said?”

“Yes, Lal listens. But prove it. If you really feel this, then sing it.”

“What?”

“Sing song. You owe me from before. Remember? Sing me song that says, ‘Lal, I am worthless goat shite.'”

“I-I can't. That's just blather.”

“Exactly. It
blather
! You grew since you arrived here. Now let go of fears. Give yourself the gift of not attaching to your worries. Show Lal how you give thanks for this precious life. I heard you sing the mountain's song.
Huzzzz-oh!
Now sing me song about
you
. Not song about you being sad, or song about losing boys. Close eyes and sing me the song that calls the hummingbirds and breaks iron. Sing me ‘Pomella's Song.'”

Pomella looked at him and scrubbed the tears from her face. She swallowed. “OK.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her mind chattered like a crazy luck'n, but she kicked those thoughts aside and did her best to quiet herself. The gently flowing stream and even Lal's patient presence helped her find the stillness she sought.

She listened for the melody that always played in her mind, day and night, that she'd learned to tap into at an early age. Sometimes she'd hear it and need to hum it. Sometimes she'd sing it to words her grandmhathir taught her. But this time, right now, she listened to her heart and pulled the words as they arose.

When she had it ready, she lifted her eyes to the flowing stream and sang just above a whisper:

“You kick me down

You shout at me

But now I rise

And I am free

“You draw your blade

You strike at me

But now I hold

The remedy”

Pomella recalled the experiences of the past days in which she'd found strength. Perhaps her life would be fine. No matter her caste, even though Yarina wouldn't train her, the Myst would never abandon her. Her grandmhathir had lived a happy life. If that was enough for her, then maybe it was enough for Pomella as well.

She wasn't worthless.

She rose the power in her voice:

“You crash the sun

You darken me

But now I shine

And I will see

“You lift me up

You make me see

And now I am

Completely me

“Now I am … completely me”

Pomella lingered on the final note. Then she leaned into him and hugged him, not caring about the labels others put upon them both. She rested her head on his shoulder, and let peace wash over her. When she pulled away, Lal seemed different somehow. But before she could dwell on it, she glimpsed a figure leaning against a tree a short distance away, watching them. A smile burst onto Pomella's face.

“Sim!” she cried, and rushed to him.

She heard him grunt as she crashed into him, squeezing him hard. “You're alive! I'm so glad you're back. I'm sorry I didn't believe you about … about everything.”

His arms tightened around her. “You're safe,” he said. “That's what matters.”

Pulling away, she traced her fingertips over the angry scar peeking out from his shirt. “But how did you survive?”

Sim touched her neck scar. “I don't fully understand it myself. I was asleep, and I dreamed of silver animals coming to me. Birds and squirrels and other small creatures. And then something larger, something I didn't recognize and can't describe, sat beside me and sang. The singing was deep and resonant, like it was sung by the mountain itself. But it also…”

“Also what?” Pomella said.

“It was you,” Sim said, his voice as soft as the drifting clouds overhead. “Your voice lifted me as I fell. I am here, without a doubt, because of you.”

Pomella swallowed a lump in her throat.

“Then I woke up,” Sim said, “and Rochella was there, patching my wounds.”

Pomella touched his face. “Thank you for coming back.”

Sim touched her
Book of Songs
. “I'm glad you have your book again. I'm sorry we didn't go back to get it when you wanted to. It comforted me, and helped me remember you while we were apart.”

She placed the book in his hands. “Keep it. Please. I won't be needing it. Another apprentice was chosen.”

Sim's eyes widened. Pomella told him of Vivianna's selection, despite what had happened at the tower. But she couldn't bring herself to remind him of Elona's threat about becoming Unclaimed.

Sim looked at the ground and scratched his head. “I'm leaving soon, Pomella. After I rest for a day or two, Rochella said she would take me away to train me to become a ranger.”

Pomella's heart sank, but she smiled. She'd already let him go once, and so she could do it again. “Then we'll make these last few days the best ever.”

Pulling his face to hers, she kissed him. It wouldn't last, she knew, but they'd been through so much and right now it was perfect.

She kissed him for what felt like the life of the stars, one perfect moment that could last forever. He pulled her close, holding her in his strong arms.

When they finally eased apart, somewhat breathless, Pomella glanced back over Sim's shoulder, and glimpsed Lal. In that moment, as the daylight lit upon the wrinkled gardener, she understood.

Gone was the whimsical set in Lal's posture. His smile had shifted from one of lighthearted fun to a serene glow that lit his whole face. She recognized him. She'd seen him before, in a painting. A trembling fear, as swift and powerful as the nearby river, washed over Pomella. Her hands began to tremble.

The name on the monument. The master who had retired.

Sim followed her stare. “Um, Pomella, are you going to introduce me?” he said, his voice sounding awkward.

Pomella crashed to her knees.

“Grandmaster Faywong,” she said, her voice trembling. “How—forgive me, I never even suspected it was you.”