Brightly Woven
Page 39
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North knelt in the soft dirt, pressing a hand to his face. “I see a line of red, pulled tight…and…a ribbon of white, hot to the touch…”
“Keep going,” Pascal said. “You mentioned he specializes in ice—see if you can find a gathering of blue. He’d be calling that magic to him most strongly.”
“I can’t.” North rubbed his face.
“Don’t be afraid,” Pascal said. “You’re holding yourself back by anticipating the pain.”
“Does it ever go away, even just the slightest?” North asked quietly. “I don’t remember my father ever being so weak.”
“You’re just as strong as your father was,” Pascal said. “Weldon was only better at hiding the pain.”
I shut the window, feeling as if I had already heard more than I should have. He had only brought up his parents once—and that was enough for me to see how deeply he felt their loss. Resting my forehead against the glass, I watched the two figures circle each other, North’s cloaks flying around him. As always, he wasted precious time untying and retying each cloak. More than ever, I realized how important my work could be to him.
The loom was still waiting for me, its rough wooden frame balanced carefully against the wall. I sat down in front of it, pulling my bag toward me. My mind was fully absorbed in every detail of the cloak, straying only once to acknowledge the sunlight filling the room.
I was halfway done with the cloak before I forced myself to stop and relight the fire. Sometime after I finished the castle walls of Fairwell and before I had begun the green of Arcadia’s mountains, the embers had died out completely. The wintry air that saturated the room had stiffened my fingers to the point that they could no longer move.
I must have watched my mother light the kitchen fire a thousand times with an ease and fluidity brought by constant practice. But she had let me try only once, and that one time—with the spilled stew and ruined pot—was enough to convince her that I had no place in the kitchen.
I ground the hard, thin piece of wood against the other, softer piece with as much strength as I could, but all I got for my effort was tired arms. I was working so hard, was so busy praying to Astraea for just a small spark, that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.
“Girl,” Pascal said. “If you were out in the wild, you’d pass out and freeze to death before you saw even a hint of fire.”
I blew my unruly hair out of my face and glared up at him. He gave a dry laugh as he knelt beside me.
“May I?” he asked. I passed the wood to him, watching in frustration as he used magic to light the fire. “Now, coffee?”
He disappeared into Aphra’s room and returned with a kettle, two beautiful teacups, and a little burlap sack.
“Where’s North?” I could already smell the coffee, and my empty stomach twisted in anticipation.
“Out prowling for Dorwan, I assume,” he said gruffly.
I looked down at the cup in my hand, studying the little blue flowers.
“Why are you training him again?” I asked when the silence finally became unbearable.
“Wizards have ways of detecting others of their kind,” Pascal said, pouring the coffee. “It’s a difficult technique, but one he needs to learn regardless of whether he wants to stay a step ahead or seek Dorwan out.”
“It looked like he was in pain,” I said.
“He was struggling with himself,” Pascal corrected me. “Over the years he’s become more and more convinced that magic is nothing more than pain and destruction. It’s hard to persuade him otherwise, especially after all that’s happened to him and his father.”
“I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “Don’t you use Astraea’s teachings in your lessons?”
“Those are the myths,” Pascal said. “The reality is that magic is little more than a curse.”
“They are not myths!” I said.
Pascal held up his hand. “You may believe whatever you choose to believe, but understand this, Miss Mirabil: magic is a responsibility, a burden, a duty. You are a slave to your faith and country. You don’t choose to have it. Very few of us would, given the choice.”
“Some wizards seem to enjoy having power,” I said.
“Dorwan?” Pascal said. “I’ve often wondered if it isn’t a weight for him as well. From what Wayland’s told me, he wasn’t allowed to participate in the ranking tournaments due to the circumstances of his upbringing. He didn’t fit in with the hedges as a grown man, but he certainly couldn’t join wizard society. He was trapped between what he wanted and what he could actually have. Perhaps that’s why Wayland stayed with him as long as he did—they were both outcasts.
“They must have been together for six, maybe seven months before Wayland decided to leave. Dorwan disappeared, only to show up again a few years later at Provincia, demanding a meeting with the Sorceress Imperial. She refused to see him, by all accounts.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked.
“Two years ago, I believe,” Pascal said. “Right after the Sorceress Imperial had taken her oath of office.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe North would ever choose to associate with Dorwan. They’re completely different wizards.”
“Different upbringings, different choices,” Pascal said, rubbing his forehead. “You may not get to choose whether you’re born with magic, you may not get to choose the people you’re born to—but how you conduct yourself is entirely up to you.”
“Keep going,” Pascal said. “You mentioned he specializes in ice—see if you can find a gathering of blue. He’d be calling that magic to him most strongly.”
“I can’t.” North rubbed his face.
“Don’t be afraid,” Pascal said. “You’re holding yourself back by anticipating the pain.”
“Does it ever go away, even just the slightest?” North asked quietly. “I don’t remember my father ever being so weak.”
“You’re just as strong as your father was,” Pascal said. “Weldon was only better at hiding the pain.”
I shut the window, feeling as if I had already heard more than I should have. He had only brought up his parents once—and that was enough for me to see how deeply he felt their loss. Resting my forehead against the glass, I watched the two figures circle each other, North’s cloaks flying around him. As always, he wasted precious time untying and retying each cloak. More than ever, I realized how important my work could be to him.
The loom was still waiting for me, its rough wooden frame balanced carefully against the wall. I sat down in front of it, pulling my bag toward me. My mind was fully absorbed in every detail of the cloak, straying only once to acknowledge the sunlight filling the room.
I was halfway done with the cloak before I forced myself to stop and relight the fire. Sometime after I finished the castle walls of Fairwell and before I had begun the green of Arcadia’s mountains, the embers had died out completely. The wintry air that saturated the room had stiffened my fingers to the point that they could no longer move.
I must have watched my mother light the kitchen fire a thousand times with an ease and fluidity brought by constant practice. But she had let me try only once, and that one time—with the spilled stew and ruined pot—was enough to convince her that I had no place in the kitchen.
I ground the hard, thin piece of wood against the other, softer piece with as much strength as I could, but all I got for my effort was tired arms. I was working so hard, was so busy praying to Astraea for just a small spark, that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.
“Girl,” Pascal said. “If you were out in the wild, you’d pass out and freeze to death before you saw even a hint of fire.”
I blew my unruly hair out of my face and glared up at him. He gave a dry laugh as he knelt beside me.
“May I?” he asked. I passed the wood to him, watching in frustration as he used magic to light the fire. “Now, coffee?”
He disappeared into Aphra’s room and returned with a kettle, two beautiful teacups, and a little burlap sack.
“Where’s North?” I could already smell the coffee, and my empty stomach twisted in anticipation.
“Out prowling for Dorwan, I assume,” he said gruffly.
I looked down at the cup in my hand, studying the little blue flowers.
“Why are you training him again?” I asked when the silence finally became unbearable.
“Wizards have ways of detecting others of their kind,” Pascal said, pouring the coffee. “It’s a difficult technique, but one he needs to learn regardless of whether he wants to stay a step ahead or seek Dorwan out.”
“It looked like he was in pain,” I said.
“He was struggling with himself,” Pascal corrected me. “Over the years he’s become more and more convinced that magic is nothing more than pain and destruction. It’s hard to persuade him otherwise, especially after all that’s happened to him and his father.”
“I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “Don’t you use Astraea’s teachings in your lessons?”
“Those are the myths,” Pascal said. “The reality is that magic is little more than a curse.”
“They are not myths!” I said.
Pascal held up his hand. “You may believe whatever you choose to believe, but understand this, Miss Mirabil: magic is a responsibility, a burden, a duty. You are a slave to your faith and country. You don’t choose to have it. Very few of us would, given the choice.”
“Some wizards seem to enjoy having power,” I said.
“Dorwan?” Pascal said. “I’ve often wondered if it isn’t a weight for him as well. From what Wayland’s told me, he wasn’t allowed to participate in the ranking tournaments due to the circumstances of his upbringing. He didn’t fit in with the hedges as a grown man, but he certainly couldn’t join wizard society. He was trapped between what he wanted and what he could actually have. Perhaps that’s why Wayland stayed with him as long as he did—they were both outcasts.
“They must have been together for six, maybe seven months before Wayland decided to leave. Dorwan disappeared, only to show up again a few years later at Provincia, demanding a meeting with the Sorceress Imperial. She refused to see him, by all accounts.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked.
“Two years ago, I believe,” Pascal said. “Right after the Sorceress Imperial had taken her oath of office.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe North would ever choose to associate with Dorwan. They’re completely different wizards.”
“Different upbringings, different choices,” Pascal said, rubbing his forehead. “You may not get to choose whether you’re born with magic, you may not get to choose the people you’re born to—but how you conduct yourself is entirely up to you.”
