Mystic (13 page)

Pomella shifted uncomfortably.

“There is poison in the Mystwood,” Yarina continued, “and it clouds our perception of activity. Three days ago, one of the rangers found a black bear near the northern border. The poor creature had succumbed to severe iron poisoning. Yesterday, an entire family of deer were found. I examined the bodies and determined that they died the same way. Trees and other plant life, too, have drunk tainted water and rotted. But most disturbing of all is that this poison is somehow affecting the fay as well. It corrupts them, drawing them into this world, and drives them mad.”

Pomella wondered what the fay were. She glanced at the other candidates to see if they looked as confused as she felt.

“I possess the means to treat all of these animals with a salve,” Yarina said. “But my supplies have dwindled, and the key component is only found by those who possess the skills of Mystics.”

A patch of ground near Pomella's feet churned. Startled, she took half a step back. A pillar of soil rose from the grass, twisting around itself, clutching a shimmering object at its peak. Similar pillars appeared in front of the other candidates.

“Fay blood,” said the High Mystic. “Go into the Mystwood, no more than an hour's walk from the tower, and find one of the fay. Do not harm it, but demonstrate your affinity for the Myst to convince it to offer a few drops of its blood into these glass vials.”

Praying her hand wouldn't shake, Pomella reached out and accepted the vial. As she took it, the pillar of soil rolled back into the ground, leaving no evidence of its existence.

Yarina went on. “Here on this island, more so than anywhere else in the world, the veil between worlds is thin. Legend has it that first humans noticed this phenomenon when they saw a silvery moth fluttering in on the shores near where they had arrived. The moth led them to the heart of the Mystwood, where it alighted upon a stone that eventually became the foundation of our tower.”

Realization of what the fay were swept over Pomella. The translucent animals she sometimes saw in the forest. The strange wolves she and Sim had encountered. So they had a name, besides just “silver animals.” Pomella gazed once more at the central tower, and found herself wondering what it would've been like to be the first person to arrive here, from a distant land, following a misty moth.

“Go now,” said Yarina. “Know that the Myst is unveiled by each one of us through our natural talents. Let it shine forth, and it will lead you. Return before sunset to complete this first Trial.”

Yarina stood and glided down the hill back toward the stone tower. Pomella and the others bowed or curtsied as she passed. The hill rumbled and sank back into the ground. They watched her re-enter the tower, and the green door closed behind her.

Oxillian spoke one last time. “Be careful in the forest. The Myst stirs of late.” With that, the ground rumbled and he slid back into it, leaving Pomella alone with the other candidates.

Off in the distance, the brown dog barked.

Vivianna rounded on Pomella. “You're a
commoner
?”

“I should have known the moment I saw you,” Saijar sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “How dare you?”

“Mistress Yarina
invited
me,” Pomella said, sounding more confident than she felt.

“So you just accepted knowing it spit in the face of a thousand years of tradition?” Vivianna said, crossing her arms.

“Disgusting,” said Saijar. “Not to mention that Yarina will make everything easier for you. It's an unfair advantage and I shall inform my father regardless of who is chosen.”

“You think I have an
advantage
?” Pomella blurted.

“Let's just go find the blood,” Saijar said, and pulled Vivianna's arm away.

Vivianna paused beside Pomella. “You lied to me. I thought—” She caught herself and adjusted a loose strand of hair, then followed Saijar.

Pomella watched them go, fuming. She looked at Quentin, daring him with a hard expression to say something negative about her caste. But for all her outward determination, she prayed to the Saints he wouldn't reject her. Without him, she would be utterly alone. Until this moment she hadn't realized how terrifying the idea was. Even when she'd set out from Oakspring, a part of her had been worried about taking the path by herself. It's why in her heart she'd wanted Sim there, and why Vlenar had been such a welcome companion, despite his silence. Now, faced with the first Trial, she needed someone. Not because she couldn't succeed by herself, but because the thought of being in this alone made her sick.

The cool morning breeze swept her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear. Quentin met her gaze, then sighed. “I don't see anything common about you.”

Relief washed over her like rain. “Thank you.” It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him.

He stepped toward her. “But you didn't have to lie to me.”

“I know, and I'm truly sorry. It's just that you're—”

“I understand,” he said, cutting her off. “You're in a difficult position. Just promise me you won't do it again.”

“I promise.”

“Besides,” he added with a smile, “I sort of suspected.”

Pomella's stomach turned over. “You did? How? Was it because I was so nervous?”

He shrugged. “No, it wasn't that. All of us are nervous. I saw Vivianna dry heaving this morning before she came out.”

Pomella had felt like vomiting herself this morning. She couldn't imagine Vivianna being that scared.

“It wasn't even your clothes. It was how you wore them, and how you cast your eyes downward whenever one of us spoke to you for the first time. I'm surprised the others didn't suspect, although now I'm sure they'll say they did.”

“I don't feel like I should be here,” Pomella said. She forced herself to not look away or lower her eyes. “Not just because of my caste, but because you're all so talented. That bird Saijar created … what was that? How did he do it? Can
you
do things like that?”

“People like Saijar have been trained in apprentice-level Mysticism since they were young. Some noble families even employ Mystics to train them in hopes that a High Mystic will one day seek an apprentice.”

“Were you trained?” Pomella asked.

Quentin shrugged. “A little, but it's been a while since I had an actual Mystic for a teacher. But don't worry; I don't think Mistress Yarina expects any of us to actually be able to use the Myst.”

“I hope not. If she does, then I definitely have no chance.”

“Well, right now we just need to find a special, mystical animal or whatever and convince it to give us some blood. That might be a bit awkward,” he said with a wry smile.

“We?”

Quentin smiled. “Of course. Oxillian said we could work together. Do you not want to?”

“No, no!” Pomella said. “I'd love to work with you. I just thought … I mean, we're sort of competing against each other now.”

Despite his words, Pomella still feared that Quentin wouldn't want to be near her. Standing in Vivianna's dress made her feel like an impostor.

“Yes, we're competing, but there will be plenty of time to distinguish ourselves. For now, I'd like to enjoy your company.”

She smiled at him. “So where do we find a silvery, uh, fay creature?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. Pick a direction.” He swept his arm wide, indicating the towering trees lining the grounds.

She laughed and covered her eyes, spinning and pointing at random.

“Northeast it is!” Quentin said, and strode in that direction.

Stilling her nerves, Pomella followed.

 

EIGHT

THE GARDEN

Pomella shivered as she stepped out of the early-morning sunlight into the shaded cover of the Mystwood. Tendrils of mist drifted around her, their movements disturbed only by her breath.

“Where do you think we should go now?” she asked.

Quentin scratched his jaw. Pomella couldn't help but admire his strong features. Back home, there were some attractive boys her age, Sim included, and a few older than her who were spoken for. In Oakspring, no one made it far into adulthood before marrying. She'd seen ruggedly handsome men pass through with the spring merchants, and even a dashing young nobleman in a carriage once. But all of them paled in comparison to Quentin's broad shoulders and smile.

“You're from this island,” Quentin said. Pomella realized she was staring and snapped her attention away from him. “Do you know where we can find some of the fay?”

Pomella shook her head. She thought of the wolves she and Sim had encountered, and hoped she wouldn't run into another pack like that. “I've never been this far into the Mystwood. The few times I've seen them, they didn't exactly come when I called.”

“Then along the river is as good a direction as any other.”

They pressed into the forest, drifting toward the sound of the river. Birdsong and leaf fall filled the otherwise silent woods. Squirrels and other critters scampered about in the branches above.

“How exactly
did
Saijar make that bird appear in the air?” Pomella asked.

“He Unveiled the Myst,” Quentin said.

“Unveiled?”

“It's a term Mystics use to mean creating phenomena with the Myst. Mistress Yarina used the term this morning. Like I said, Saijar's been trained, so he probably worked on that little illusion for a long time in preparation for today. I doubt he knows much else.”

“But
how
did he make it?” Pomella asked, thinking of the wind flower Lady Elona had conjured at the Springrise festival.

Quentin shrugged. “Everyone is different. It has something to do with expressing yourself through an action. I was never good at it in my lessons. Some people play music, like Saijar did. Some people paint. Some people chant. You start off doing what feels natural to you and over time that becomes your way of Unveiling. From there, Mystics learn to internalize it until they can Unveil without needing to do those things externally.”

Pomella nodded as though she understood. “What's yours?” she asked. “Your Unveiling, I mean.”

Quentin eyed her. “It's considered impolite to ask.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know—”

“I'm just teasing you,” he said, smiling.

She smacked his shoulder. “Tell me!”

He shrugged. “I don't like to talk about it. Like I told you, becoming a Mystic isn't exactly my first choice in life.”

Pomella frowned. “Why don't you just quit? Tell Mistress Yarina you don't want to be her apprentice.”

“It doesn't work that way,” he said. “In Keffra, family comes above all else, even personal desires. To
not
strive to become the High Mystic's apprentice would be to insult my ancestors and living relatives.”

“I see. I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn't have questioned your dedication.”

He shrugged and waved her off. “I may not be striving as hard as I possibly could at the moment, though.”

“So do you have an Unveiling?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I think so.”

“What is it?”

He looked around as if to ensure they were alone. Sighing, he began to unlace his shirt collar. “It's harder in this shirt.”

Pomella stared in surprise as he lifted his long shirt up over his head. She blinked as he stuffed it into her arms. A series of tattoos stood out against the brown skin of his left shoulder, running down his well-muscled torso and onto his rib cage. Pomella had never seen anything like them before, and found herself wanting to see more.

He stepped away from her, hands at his sides. For a moment, nothing moved except the fog. Pomella wondered if she should look away. Not that anything could
make
her do so.

Quentin moved, leaning to the side and raising both arms above his head. He shifted again, swinging his arms in a graceful arc and bringing one leg up, toes pointed down. Then he began to fight. At least, that's what it looked like to Pomella. He moved like a fish in water, like a willow in the wind. Swaying, shifting, twisting in a hard, almost sensual way. His open palms struck the air with such ferocity that the air seemed to
snap
. He leaped, and both legs twisted like a whirlwind before landing in a solid stance. Pomella watched him, transfixed. Could this man do anything poorly? Her heart thundered to the unheard music of his motion.

Finally, he came to a stop with a final finishing stance, and bowed to her. She stared, dumbfounded, before remembering to breathe again. She quickly tucked his shirt under her arm and clapped. “That was … amazing,” she said, trying not to be distracted by his muscular chest. Unbidden, she thought of Sim, with his toned blacksmith arms. Sim might be strong, too, but he'd never done what Quentin had just done.