Before I know it an even surlier Marbruk is turning the key in the lock, I assume to bring me my dinner. I start from the book in my lap and am surprised instead by the entry of the same Mother that had been in attendance at the Council, and had refused my transfer back to my tribe. She flounces in with robes billowing, followed by Javol, looking like a whipped-dog. She is very short yet seems to look down with disdain on me and my messy chambers, and the tall High Magi that seems as though he is trying to hide in the corner. “Mistress Lyrah WhiteThorn? “She clips out. “I am here to review your case. Seems you are the youngest apprentice for us to ever consider sending to the Mage Prison in Valspar.” She waits for these words to take effect, and an icy slice of terror slips into my heart. The dark whispers about the Mage Prison are feared by all mages.
“Considering how everything you are taught you only use to try to escape, we are loath to allow you to go to class right now. So for the time being, you will be sent to work at the storehouses and spend the remainder of the time in solitary confinement. Javol is insisting that the Grand Ashipu be consulted in this matter considering your age. Were it up to me there would be no question. You would be on your way to Valspar within the hour.” The coolness of her attitude belies the hate of her words. “When you have finished supper you will be moved to a different part of the Tower.” She looks about with pressed-lip disdain for the rest of my chambers, and then sweeps from the room.
Javol came from the corner and looks at me in utter misery. “I’m sorry, Lyrah, I wanted you to continue with your studies. I suggested moving you to a magi council with more, um, elves, that you might feel more at home, and I’m afraid that is what prompted Mother Fenhall to make this decision. I’m so sorry; I have only made things worse.”
He just stands there looking anguished, and I feel sorry for him. I put my hand on his arm, and say as kindly as I can, “Sir, please don’t trouble yourself. As you say, we cannot decide our fate as other mortals.” I smile at him. He returns the smile, but it is watery, and he looks very tired.
Marbruk stands glowering over me while I try to choke down the hard bread and cold stew. I am glad I have gotten in what studying I could as I will no longer be allowed access to books. Or the parchment that has my hand drawn map. With Marbruk watching my every move there will be no way I can now get the parchment to stash it in my robes, the book is lying on the floor and I am banned access to books now. I finish the stew and water and rise to go, Marbruk’s steadfast glare hawking me every step of the way.
I feel a joyous surge when I discover that we are going down, not up.. I want to be close to ground floor as possible, and I am being marched right past the clinic. Marbruk and I clump past the same clinic he had set the alarm on the night before (seems he was getting some elbowing from his fellow Hellebardiers about the slip) and through those massive double doors. Then, we turn and trudge down the steps that I had been up last night, and into the tunnels and passages that were to be my prison, on the other side of those massive doors, now open. Marduk ducks into a small room that looks more like a large closet, furnished with a cot and a small table. Outside this tiny room are the passages and tunnels that twist and turn in every direction and criss-cross each other. I think the room I have been given is a modified storage cupboard.
Marbruk stands in a corner of the room, I move the crate with my robes to the floor and lie awake in the dark for some time, listening to the chinking of Marbruk’s armor as he passes guard through the night. At some point he is replaced, and when the bells ring again in the morning, I am wide-eyed and sore from lying in the same position so long. My mind is full of the descriptions of the shapeshifing spells I have read about. As I lay there, thinking of how a bird could sure fit through one of those small tower windows, it seems that it is time to start the day.
Marbruk has been replaced in the night by an older Hellebardier, one that has guarded me before but I do not know his name. He nods to me curtly and tells me to dress quickly, that he is ordered to take me to breakfast first. He then leaves the room and I struggle into my robes.
The servant work of the Sacellum and Tower were done by the acrolytes and apprentices of the clerics, usually starry-eyed young fanatics who are freshly indoctrinated into the faith, and have alot of enthusiasm for the mundane chores that stacked up. I was shuffled off to help them, the orders sent out by a sour faced drudge of a woman, hard work and never ending toil had turned her into a raspy, harsh bone of a person. She looked at me with instant contempt, before assigning me to sweep and mop the unused classrooms, used for combat training for the Hellebardiers. The airless rooms were stuffy and hot, and the work tedious. Every room I left, I was shadowed by my guard. The other servants avoided me, watching me with wide eyes. Most of them stared at the Mage’s Mark, the missing piece of earlobe that is the epithet of those born with magic and imprisoned by the Sacellum for it. This sliver of flesh taken from every mage that enters the Tower is known as the ‘relic’, used by the Sacellum if need be to track that mage down. Most of the servants avoid me, terrified of the power they have been taught to fear. I ponder at the lives of the servants, children also, most of them, but they get to go home to families, not expected to stay in the tower. I ponder how my life would have been if I had not been captured, if I had stayed with mother and been able to rejoin with my father, and with our tribe. I lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling of the broom closet they have given me to sleep in, daydreaming of being Ovayte to the tribe, singing to the trees, speaking with the wind. My daydreams become real dreams, and I slide into sleep.
Memories of running, and the shrill voice of the Sacellum Mother denying my transfer to my tribe. If only I could dream about her on fire.
I awake to find the older Hellebardier had been replaced by another, an elven one. But he is not Ennish, he is an adult and has no tattoos. I had not yet received my tattoos, I had been separated from my tribe before I had reached the proper age when my people would mark you as an adult member of the tribe, and tattoo streaks of duiria into your skin, making the tattoos stand out silvery white on our usually tan skin. But, even without my tattoos, he knew me to be Ennish, and he treats me with more silent hostility than any human Hellebardier has. Sometimes I find more prejudice amongst my own kind than I do from humans. He was raised with humans, thought as humans, though he was always treated as inferior to them. But I am sure his reasoning was that he was at least a peg or two higher than a pure savage, such as myself. Seeing me awake, he wordlessly steps from the room, to allow me to dress. Sensing he will not allow me privacy for long, I do not linger, but pull a clean robe on and head to breakfast. I know with this guard I will not have even a moment to myself. There will be no chance of searching, or to even to practice shapeshifting. I resign myself to the day instead, dull work carrying crates to various spots; full crates, empty crates, and lots, and lots, of cleaning. I completely hate a mop and bucket by the end of the day. The Hellebardier elf with the perpetual cold shoulder and I share a silent supper, and then go up to my quiet room. I lie awake on my cot for many hours, before my eyes finally close, taking me on my nightly visit to the Drift.
It takes me some time before I can practice any shapeshifting spells, but I finally have a schedule of work, and restocking is a time time when I take the larger, empty crates down to the lowest levels. These are times when I am not guarded, and there is a long, private walk back. These are the times I begin to practice shapeshifting, when my mental concentration can be left unbroken, and I do not have to hide working magic. My first few tries are unsuccessful; outside of sprouting some feathers I do not accomplish much. Immersing myself in the mental concentration of it, twice I my guard becomes suspicious that something is going on when feathers are seem sticking from my clothes and strewn about my cot.
One morning I awake to find Corbin watching over me. I smile at him, and stretch, his face pinking as he quickly looks away. He moves toward the door.
“I will be waiting to take you to breakfast when you are ready.” He shut the door behind him. I know Corbin will not rush me, and I am grateful for the few moments I have to myself. I lie back in the bed and close my eyes, concentrating on going deep within myself, seeking the dark river within that maintains the form, seeking to transform, demanding a change, to have a beak instead of a nose, feathers instead of hair, arms that become wings and legs that become scaly and thin- suddenly I find myself swaddled in too much cloth, and as I beat about to free myself from this avalanche of material I realize that I am swimming in my own robes, and I burst from robe and sheets in a flurry of feathers. Being a bird was wonderful, though I bumble about like an infant, struggling to get my wings under control. I flap past the water flask on the table and knock it over with a clang, and in surprise I cried out, but my voice was a screech instead. From the sound, I am a hawk of some sort.
I hear Corbin’s muffled voice on the other side of the door, “Lyrah? Is everything all right?” and the handle rattling as he opens the door. I dive for the bed in a panic and miss, and Corbin enters to find a hawk flapping across the room as though both wings are broken, and no one else in the room. Corbin tries to grab my wings, and pain lances through my ‘arms’- my screech of pain changing to a scream as I regain my elven form, rather quickly, and much to Corbin’s complete embarrassment as he is now holding me stark naked by both arms in the air. Promptly turning scarlet, I am dropped to the floor where I land rather hard on my backside. Corbin grabs a blanket from the bed and throws it at me without looking my way. I gratefully pull it across me and try to detach the feathers caught in my hair.
“By the Creator, Lyrah, what are you doing??” Corbin’s back demands. “You are forbidden from doing any magic!” He is truly angry, for once, I can feel it. I skitter over to my robes and pull one on as quickly as I can.
“I’m sorry, Corbin, I never thought it would work anyway, I had just read something, was thinking about-“
“I’m supposed to report this!! Damn, woman, do you WANT to go to prison?” I can hear the fear in his voice, his worry only deepens my affection for him.
“Then report it if you must. I’m sorry Corbin, what more can I do?” By now I am standing, dressed, and he turns around. His face is still completely scarlet, and he will not meet my eyes. He is flustered and upset, and he bangs his fist on the wall by my door, making the dust filter down from the ceiling. He turns to face me at last, but he will still not meet my eyes.
“I’m not going to report this, but PLEASE don’t ‘try’ anything else, while you are on probation? Please?? If it gets out, I lose my position as well. But if I report you, they will send you to Valspar for sure… in the name of the Bride, why do you put me in this position?”
I stand silent, waiting for his decision. He glowers in my direction. “Well? Are you gonna go down for breakfast or not?” His face is still scarlet and he seems very flustered, he keeps rearranging his sword belt. He strides off toward the dining hall without another word. I follow meekly in his wake.
Comments (0)
See all