Miara jumped, then shook her head. “Shouldn’t you be in the stables?”
“What about you? Shouldn’t you be, too?” Her sister was persistent, as many twelve-year-olds were.
Miara glanced up, looked back at her work, and then nodded. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” But she did not meet her sister’s eyes as she spoke.
“If there was nothing to worry about, you would have already told Father.”
“He worries about everything.” Father was not really Luha’s father, nor was she Miara’s sister, at least biologically, but they had chosen each other and become a family when Luha had first arrived at Mage Hall, five years old and all alone.
“When do you leave?” Seeming to relax a little, Luha slunk into the room and cuddled beside Miara on the bench.
“Tomorrow or the next day. Won’t be gone long. A week, perhaps two. I’ve got no problem handling myself out there. Don’t fret for me, okay? Promise?”
“You never tell me what the Masters ask you to do. It’s never good. How can I not fret?”
“They are not good, so how could their chores be any different? But we’re still here, aren’t we?” She squeezed Luha’s shoulders in a one-armed hug. “You’ve had a full day of hard work. I’ve just been here studying books and maps. You should go get some dinner before the evening prayer starts.”
“And you really should tell Father,” Luha said, eyes twinkling. “But I won’t do it for you. See you at home, then.”
She was gone with a nod.
Miara hurried to finish her preparations. The itch on the back of her neck grew worse, and her shoulder panged occasionally, urging her on. She worked through dinner.
Only the dreaded clanging of the evening prayer bells roused her. She’d even forgotten to light more than a single candle, and the sun had nearly set.
She hastily got to her feet. Every night, when the prayer bells rang, all mages were forced to bow and worship. If she didn’t get off the bench, she’d be in for an uncomfortable time.
She held herself poker straight even as the compulsion to kneel swept over her. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging in and drawing blood, as she resisted.
They wanted her daily routine to be supplication to the goddess Nefrana, who told them magic was evil. Or so they claimed.
Instead, her daily routine was resistance.
It pained her father to watch her struggle, so she was glad he wasn’t here. As much as he, too, hated slavery, he feared Nefrana did not understand. He feared the Masters could be right. Miara was fairly certain she didn’t need any goddess who thought she was evil when Nefrana herself had made her this way. Perhaps in Akaria she could find a temple of Anara to worship at instead of this foolishness.
With time, the pain became too great. She relented and fell to her knees, bowing her head to rest on her forearms against the dark stone floor, listening as the crystalline chimes echoed down the halls of Mage Hall.
As soon as it ended, she finished the last drawing, gathered her books and notes, and headed home. Drawing the map had taken forever, and much of Mage Hall slept. She grabbed a leftover roasted chicken leg and a pastry, eating like a roguish bard while she walked. She would miss real food that someone had actually cooked while on the road.
When she reached their rooms, she found Luha and her father were already asleep. She tiptoed to her room and collapsed onto her bed, opening Gargoyles in the Sky. Who needed rest, really?
Every Akarian fortress was described in agonizing, ultimately meaningless detail. Her heart sank at the descriptions. These were not fortresses for show, they were made with folks like her in mind. Well, more likely they were made with armies in mind. She would have to find a way to convince someone to let her in willingly—and then somehow, crazily, let her see the prince. Alone. Sure, that should work out just fine.
Maybe this was going to be even harder than she’d thought.
She thought over her past conquests, looking for inspiration. She had stolen treaties from beside the Estaven ambassador, listened to dozens of conversations that she shouldn’t have been able to hear, even planted an envelope in the king’s own chambers. She’d absconded with a handful of treasures. But every target had been much less rebellious than a full-grown man, and certainly much less fortified.
She skimmed and skimmed, and just as she was nodding off, her eyes caught on a passage about Estun.
Estun Hold is sometimes called the “Seat of the Sky Kings,” as Akarian kings have from time to time chosen to take up residence there, especially in turbulent times. Estun itself was designed and built to prevent the assassination of King Irark III amid political upheavals in Akaria and beyond in Takar, which were ultimately settled peacefully. The hold is almost entirely underground. In exchange for this security, it gives up a great deal of natural light and air circulation. The fortress includes palatial accommodations for the king and a large family, as well as high-ranking visitors. Kings may rule for long periods of time from this hold. Estun has a full complement of servants and stockrooms that can hold several months’ worth of wood, coal, grain, salted meat, and other dried foods, as well as cold chambers that keep perishable foods and provide ice. As a result, Estun can operate comfortably without opening its doors for several months at a time.
She groaned inwardly. Couldn’t they have started her on a kidnapping mission a little easier than this? By the gods. What were they thinking? This was a suicide mission. If the hold didn’t open its doors for months at a time—and had no windows—there was nothing she could possibly transform herself into that could sneak into cracks that weren’t there. Would she have to become a groundhog and dig her way in?
Estun also has a tiny mountaintop garden terrace that is only accessible from inside the hold. Using this garden, servants can grow winter vegetables. The terrace is highly inaccessible, with steep ascents on all sides. The innovation in the addition of this terrace lifts Estun to one of the finest Akarian holds, and its independence serves the greatness of our king.
Her heart skipped a beat. Oh, now this was something. She skimmed frantically for more details, but that was the only mention of this terrace. It was enough. A servant’s entrance was an excellent target for her to get inside. Highly inaccessible meant fewer guards. Or possibly no guards!
“What about you? Shouldn’t you be, too?” Her sister was persistent, as many twelve-year-olds were.
Miara glanced up, looked back at her work, and then nodded. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” But she did not meet her sister’s eyes as she spoke.
“If there was nothing to worry about, you would have already told Father.”
“He worries about everything.” Father was not really Luha’s father, nor was she Miara’s sister, at least biologically, but they had chosen each other and become a family when Luha had first arrived at Mage Hall, five years old and all alone.
“When do you leave?” Seeming to relax a little, Luha slunk into the room and cuddled beside Miara on the bench.
“Tomorrow or the next day. Won’t be gone long. A week, perhaps two. I’ve got no problem handling myself out there. Don’t fret for me, okay? Promise?”
“You never tell me what the Masters ask you to do. It’s never good. How can I not fret?”
“They are not good, so how could their chores be any different? But we’re still here, aren’t we?” She squeezed Luha’s shoulders in a one-armed hug. “You’ve had a full day of hard work. I’ve just been here studying books and maps. You should go get some dinner before the evening prayer starts.”
“And you really should tell Father,” Luha said, eyes twinkling. “But I won’t do it for you. See you at home, then.”
She was gone with a nod.
Miara hurried to finish her preparations. The itch on the back of her neck grew worse, and her shoulder panged occasionally, urging her on. She worked through dinner.
Only the dreaded clanging of the evening prayer bells roused her. She’d even forgotten to light more than a single candle, and the sun had nearly set.
She hastily got to her feet. Every night, when the prayer bells rang, all mages were forced to bow and worship. If she didn’t get off the bench, she’d be in for an uncomfortable time.
She held herself poker straight even as the compulsion to kneel swept over her. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging in and drawing blood, as she resisted.
They wanted her daily routine to be supplication to the goddess Nefrana, who told them magic was evil. Or so they claimed.
Instead, her daily routine was resistance.
It pained her father to watch her struggle, so she was glad he wasn’t here. As much as he, too, hated slavery, he feared Nefrana did not understand. He feared the Masters could be right. Miara was fairly certain she didn’t need any goddess who thought she was evil when Nefrana herself had made her this way. Perhaps in Akaria she could find a temple of Anara to worship at instead of this foolishness.
With time, the pain became too great. She relented and fell to her knees, bowing her head to rest on her forearms against the dark stone floor, listening as the crystalline chimes echoed down the halls of Mage Hall.
As soon as it ended, she finished the last drawing, gathered her books and notes, and headed home. Drawing the map had taken forever, and much of Mage Hall slept. She grabbed a leftover roasted chicken leg and a pastry, eating like a roguish bard while she walked. She would miss real food that someone had actually cooked while on the road.
When she reached their rooms, she found Luha and her father were already asleep. She tiptoed to her room and collapsed onto her bed, opening Gargoyles in the Sky. Who needed rest, really?
Every Akarian fortress was described in agonizing, ultimately meaningless detail. Her heart sank at the descriptions. These were not fortresses for show, they were made with folks like her in mind. Well, more likely they were made with armies in mind. She would have to find a way to convince someone to let her in willingly—and then somehow, crazily, let her see the prince. Alone. Sure, that should work out just fine.
Maybe this was going to be even harder than she’d thought.
She thought over her past conquests, looking for inspiration. She had stolen treaties from beside the Estaven ambassador, listened to dozens of conversations that she shouldn’t have been able to hear, even planted an envelope in the king’s own chambers. She’d absconded with a handful of treasures. But every target had been much less rebellious than a full-grown man, and certainly much less fortified.
She skimmed and skimmed, and just as she was nodding off, her eyes caught on a passage about Estun.
Estun Hold is sometimes called the “Seat of the Sky Kings,” as Akarian kings have from time to time chosen to take up residence there, especially in turbulent times. Estun itself was designed and built to prevent the assassination of King Irark III amid political upheavals in Akaria and beyond in Takar, which were ultimately settled peacefully. The hold is almost entirely underground. In exchange for this security, it gives up a great deal of natural light and air circulation. The fortress includes palatial accommodations for the king and a large family, as well as high-ranking visitors. Kings may rule for long periods of time from this hold. Estun has a full complement of servants and stockrooms that can hold several months’ worth of wood, coal, grain, salted meat, and other dried foods, as well as cold chambers that keep perishable foods and provide ice. As a result, Estun can operate comfortably without opening its doors for several months at a time.
She groaned inwardly. Couldn’t they have started her on a kidnapping mission a little easier than this? By the gods. What were they thinking? This was a suicide mission. If the hold didn’t open its doors for months at a time—and had no windows—there was nothing she could possibly transform herself into that could sneak into cracks that weren’t there. Would she have to become a groundhog and dig her way in?
Estun also has a tiny mountaintop garden terrace that is only accessible from inside the hold. Using this garden, servants can grow winter vegetables. The terrace is highly inaccessible, with steep ascents on all sides. The innovation in the addition of this terrace lifts Estun to one of the finest Akarian holds, and its independence serves the greatness of our king.
Her heart skipped a beat. Oh, now this was something. She skimmed frantically for more details, but that was the only mention of this terrace. It was enough. A servant’s entrance was an excellent target for her to get inside. Highly inaccessible meant fewer guards. Or possibly no guards!
