Spurred into action, Morgan assembled the components of the incant he was trying to create. Into each waiting crucible he dropped the azafris, the powdered bone, a smidgin more this time of shaved urvil. It was a neutral ingredient, a bonding agent. Using susquinel he needed more of it, but not too much more. The balance was delicate. Crucial.
Last of all, he unstoppered the vial of susquinel. The distilled tincture was acrid, viciously stinging his eyes. A glass dropper-rod dipped into it, one miserly drop for each crucible…
The catalytic reaction was almost immediate. Stoppering the vial again, hastily shoving it out of the way, he took a precious moment to calm himself, banish the lingering remnants of his anger, and recall the words of the incant.
“Ravak tokai.”
The glimlit air above the crucibles shivered awake.
“Ravak hinmish.”
He felt a tremor pass through him, waking echoes in his bones.
“Ravak vanteri.”
A change in the atmosphere, like the looming promise of a storm. He held his breath. This moment had been his undoing last time.
But not now. I cannot fail again.
Avidly he stared into the crucibles, feeling the laboured drub of his heart. Watched the azafris and susquinel melt and meld and transmute. Bright blue turned dark green then grew brighter, and brighter again. Astonished, he felt an answering glow beneath his skin, power calling to power. The green substance in the crucibles began to bubble and seethe.
And now he was come to the knife-edge instant of creation, to the calling forth of the recrafted sigil at the heart of his new incant. Once, he’d done this… but the sigils hadn’t held.
They’ll hold this time. They will. They must.
His eyes were burning. Sweat, not susquinel. He dragged his embroidered sleeve across them, heedless of stains. A small part of him wanted to shout down the stairs, shout for Rumm to rouse Lord Danfey and haul the sick old man out of his bed and up to the attic so he could see the kind of mage his son was. Because he knew, he knew, that this time was different. He could feel it, he could taste it.
Slowly, so very slowly, he traced the shape of the sigil onto the shimmering air above the first crucible. Antithetical. Clockwise. The very opposite of what was known. And then he watched, teeth sunk into his lower lip, as the green substance within the crucible spun itself into a thin thread, idly at first and then picking up speed. It spun and spun itself into the air, spun itself into an echo of that slowly traced sigil. Became the sigil, green and glowing, crucible-cradled and strong.
If he smiled any wider his face would tear in two.
Carefully, for overconfidence would undo him, he traced the second sigil and after it the third. Then he stood back from the workbench and savoured the sight of all three glowing sigils. No sign of inconstancy. No hint of poor cohesion. No teetering on the brink of pathetic collapse. Laughter bubbled through him, washing away what remained of fear and doubt and pain.
Venette’s right. I am the future. And I will keep Dorana safe.
Of course, this was but the first step in the creation of his new transmutation incant. The next step was to transform the sigil into a malleable part of the recrafted working, something that could be called and used and banished at will. In many ways that was as tricky as the creation of the sigil itself. Mages had died, or been ruinously injured, attempting such a feat. Brahn Sorvold had died attempting it, slowly and in great pain.
But not me. I won’t die.
Only first, the sigil had to prove itself stable.
Waiting, he paced the attic again. At last he halted before the window and stared into the night. Rested his hot forehead against the cool glass and could have wept for wanting.
Let them hold. Let them hold. Let this be the moment of my making.
Time dragged by, slow as a hobbled horse. He kept his back turned, knowing he’d feel the first instant of disaster. But the sigils held. At last he swung round.
Green and glowing and sturdy, each sigil sat in its crucible. Their extravagant, cursive signatures were imprinted on his eyes. They lived in his fingers. They dwelled in his mind. Let him see one hundred summers, he would never forget them.
Fresh sweat slicking his skin, Morgan undertook the next step: confirming the sigils. No azafris or susquinel or tilatantin for this task. Requiring pure and simple magework, it was a test in the blood. One breath too much power, one breath too little, a moment too long or too short, and the sigils would destroy themselves and most likely him as well.
Breathing rigorously controlled, he spread his fingers wide. Felt for the weft and warp of magic, for the power and glory in the air. The peoples beyond Dorana’s borders lived in kingdoms of the blind, the deaf, the dumb and the lame. They could no more see or feel the magic surrounding them than a stone could drink soup.
Poor wretches. Pitiful paupers. They might as well be dead.
He focused on the first sigil. Eased his mind around its trembling edges, feeling for any weakness in its fabric. Found none, and softly laughed.
“Belemi. Belemi. Ra’tu. De’sak.”
Slowly, so slowly, the sigil’s trembling stopped. It flared once, sun bright, then it settled to a mellow glow, green like new grass.
Morgan felt himself blink. Felt more laughter bubble into his throat. He swallowed it, swiftly. That was only one sigil. Two remained that could kill him.
But they didn’t.
It wasn’t until the third and final sigil firmed into permanence that he allowed himself to acknowledge his ruthlessly strangled fear. Shaking like a virgin facing her wedding bed, he felt his legs give way. Felt himself thud to the attic’s floorboards, his vision swimming with tears and relief and triumph.
Luzena. Luzena. I wish you were here.
Chapter Seven
It was agony, waiting for a reply from the College of Mages. Not even a second commission from Lady Grie, a natal clock for her aged mother, could ease the churning in her belly.
“Barl, you have to be patient,” Remmie said, sounding impatient himself. “Two weeks isn’t so long. Do you think you’re the only mage in Dorana with a question for the College?”
Elbows braced on the kitchen table, Barl glared. “This isn’t a question, Remmie. This is my life.”
“Your life,” he said, under his breath. “Barl, you have a life already, a good one, and—”
“So you say!” she retorted. “But I decide the quality of my life. If you choose to squander your gifts in some obscure little hamlet schoolhouse, well, that’s your choice. But I won’t make the same mistake and I won’t sit around hoping for scattered crumbs from the great mages’ table. I’m not stupid. I know what they’re doing. They think if they ignore me for long enough I’ll give up and go away. Well, I won’t. Not this time.”
Instead of answering, Remmie took his emptied plate and used cutlery and clattered them into the sink. Then he stood there, head lowered. She’d hurt his feelings, disparaging his precious little school. Disparaging him. Well, she was sorry for that, but she was right. And she was tired of him refusing to admit it.
“You should’ve let me mention you, too,” she said, slumping in her chair. Her sausages and green beans were hardly touched. She wasn’t hungry. “In a pinch they might be able to ignore one exceptional mage, but two? I swear, Remmie, if they turn me down because—because—”
“Because why?” he demanded, turning. “Because I’m content with my life? Because I’m not obsessed with becoming a famous mage?”
“Neither am I obsessed!”
He laughed at her, scornful. “Of course you are. And because I’m not, because I believe in teaching, in helping children who’ll never be great mages, because I don’t care about fame, you think I’m a failure.”
Oh, he was so stubborn. He understood perfectly well what she meant.
“It’s not about fame, Remmie! It’s about making a real difference. I can make a real difference and so can you. Schoolteachers are as common as
daisies in a field.”
His fist thumped the sink’s draining board. “So I’m common now, am I? In that case, Barl, I’m surprised you don’t want to hide me away somewhere I’ll not be an embarrassment!”
Well, he was just determined to misread everything she said, wasn’t he? Because he didn’t approve of her dreams, thought she should be satisfied with a life spent at the beck and call of mages like Lady Grie and Artisan Master Arndel, he was going to twist every word she uttered into something mean and hateful, as though she were mean and hateful.
And I’m not. I just want a chance to spread my wings. Why is that so wrong?
Remmie was still glaring, his dark blue eyes hot and hurt. She couldn’t remember the last time she and her brother had been so much at odds.
And it’s his fault. Never once have I stood in his way, but now he thinks to stand in mine?
Torn between misery and her own resentful anger, she leaned across the table. “Of course you don’t embarrass me, Rem. But if you had a student who wanted to make a difference, who you knew could make a difference, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to help him make his dreams come true?”
“Barl…” Folding his arms, Remmie leaned against the sink. “You know I would.”
“Yes, I do,” she said, fighting the urge to shout. “So why won’t you do the same for me? Why would you do it for a stranger and not your own flesh and blood?”
Now his eyes were sullen. “You like to pretend that what you’re after is simple, but it’s not. You’re one mage, Barl. You can’t unmake centuries of history.”
“Who says I can’t? The greatest flood starts with a single drop of rain.”
“Perhaps it does, but floods are destructive! If you want to make a difference, invent a new incant, one that will change lives for the better, like Mage Lakewell did. And don’t tell me you can’t because the Lindin name’s not ranked. Plenty of unranked mages have been patented and celebrated ever after for their work.”
“Plenty?” she said, incredulous. “You call twelve mages plenty? In three centuries of trying? Remmie—”
“At least it’s not none!” he said, goaded. “At least you must admit you could be considered. But you won’t have even that chance, Barl, not if you persist in—”
“In what?” she said, longing to shake him. “Pointing out how wrong it is that a handful of men and women on the Council of Mages hold sway over so many? That the finest education Dorana has to offer is denied to all but a select, self-appointed few? Remmie, you’re a teacher! How can you defend that?”
“I don’t!” he retorted. “I’m not blind, I can see where Dorana could do with some changing. But you can’t make people change, Barl. Not when the change you want means upsetting the way they live. You have to be careful. You have to be tactful.”
She leapt to her feet. “How can you be so staid, so prosaic? Careful. Tactful. Next you’ll be saying I should apologise for being angry!”
“I’d never say that,” he snapped. “But this isn’t about what you feel, Barl, it’s about—”
“I’ll tell you what it’s about!” she said, riding roughshod, because give him half a chance and he’d prose on at her like a teacher until first light had every cockerel in the lane crowing. “Dorana is hidebound, Remmie, that’s what this is about. And the mages on the Council are keeping it hidebound, for no better reason than to protect their own precious superiority! It’s wicked, you know it is. If there’s you and there’s me with our true potential unexplored, how many other mages are there who could make the most amazing discoveries, but who’ll never get the chance because the First Families keep them in their place?”
Remmie rarely lost his temper, but when he did his face went pale. It was milk-white now. He shoved away from the sink, hands fisted by his sides.
“You call me staid and prosaic, and maybe I am,” he said. His voice was coldly distant, hardly sounding like Remmie at all. “But when was the last time a staid, prosaic mage hurt someone? Barl, you’re so arrogant. And it’s the arrogant mages who do the damage.”
“No, Remmie. It’s the cowards who hurt us,” she said, desperate for him to see things her way. “They see what’s wrong in the world, they see its injustices and they do nothing to fight them because they’re afraid of being noticed and losing what precious little importance they might have.”
“So by your lights I’m a staid, prosaic coward?” He looked away, as though the sight of her pained him. “That’s quite a list of accomplishments.”
“Remmie, no… wait…” she said, as he headed for the kitchen door. “I didn’t mean you’re a coward, I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did,” he said, over his shoulder, not pausing. “You meant every word. And now I know what you really think of me.”
Staring after him, she felt a wave of furious grief crash over her. Oh, Remmie. If only he’d be reasonable, if only he’d climb down off his high horse and admit she was right. Then they wouldn’t have to argue and say hurtful things to each other.
Well, she certainly wasn’t going after him. He was wrong. He thought her fight for recognition and acceptance had nothing to do with him because he was safe and happy in his little hamlet schoolhouse.
But that’s only because the Council of Mages, or someone from a First Family, has no desire to interfere. If ever that changes he’ll swiftly learn how little he and his life and his pupils matter to them.
Disconsolate, she collected her plate from the table, scraped her unwanted dinner into the pail for scraps, then turned her attention to the sink. Often, Remmie would stay and dry the dishes as she washed them and they’d good-naturedly argue various points of mage lore. Laugh at each other’s foolishness. Play do you remember with tales of their dead parents, keeping them alive, even though some memories hurt.
But there’d be no companionable laughing or sweetly painful memories tonight.
Sighing, she plugged the sink and turned on the taps. Washing dishes by hand never failed to soothe her. She knew Ibbitha thought her very odd for it. But it was like walking home from the artisanry instead of using a travel incant. Magework was too important for frivolous usage. A mage who lost touch with the earthy reality of life was in danger of becoming so detached from the world that remembering the impact magic had on it became harder and harder until it was never remembered at all.
Remmie couldn’t be more mistaken. I’m not careless of my actions. Someone’s got to hold the Council of Mages and the First Families accountable. And if I don’t, who will? Nobody else seems to care.
As she scrubbed the plates and pans and cutlery, then towelled them dry and put them away, and after that cleaned the hob and the kitchen table, she waited for the sound of her mistaken brother’s footsteps in the corridor. It didn’t come. He didn’t come.
She couldn’t remember him ever walking away from her with such anger and hurt in his face.
But then, I can’t remember being so mean to him, either.
Their whole lives they’d never let their resentments fester. He was her shadow and she was his. She’d have to swallow her pride, it seemed, and go after him. However would they be able to look at each other over their boiled morning eggs if she’d slammed her door and he’d slammed his without this upset put to rights?
After hunting through every empty room in the cottage she found him outside, beside his beloved vegetable patch, recreating the night’s constellations with little glimfire stars.
“That’s pretty,” she said, smiling to cover the ache in her heart. “Is it for a lesson?”
At eight and nine, his pupils were still young enough to be enchanted by magic, to be taught with games and laughter. The harder, solemn lessons were yet to come. He could have taught those too, easily, sought out older students, like Barton Haye had, but he didn’t want to. Though he was a grown man there remained something boyish about him. It was why the children loved him. Why he was so good at his job.
With a gentle snap of his fingers,
Remmie extinguished the glimfire. His face plunged into darkness. “Yes. What do you want?”
For you to admit that I’m right! For you to fight with me, not against me, and accept you could be so much more than a teacher.
She sighed. “To say sorry.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Not when you don’t mean it.”
The unfriendliness in his voice was like a slap. “I do mean it!”
“Then show me, Barl.” Now he sounded weary, and as sad as she felt. “Convince me.”
“Or what?”
He shrugged. “Or we’ll stay at odds. I don’t want that. Do you?”
No. But she didn’t want to be bullied into submission, either. Irritated, she conjured glimfire so she could see him properly.
“And I suppose the only proof you’ll accept is if I give up my dream?”
“The world’s full of dreams,” he said softly. “Please, Barl? When the College proctor finally writes back to tell you no, please, accept the decision. Throw your energy and passion into clockmaking. You’re so good at it. In a year or two, with Lady Grie’s help, you’ll be a master artisan in your own right. You’ll be renowned, I have no doubt. There’s honour and prestige in that. Don’t provoke the anger of mages we can never hope to best. Seek fame where it won’t hurt you. Or me.”
Hugging herself, she looked at the stars. They were a blurred dazzle through her tears. “Why won’t you believe I’m not interested in fame?”
“Because I know you, Barl!” Remmie said, his voice tight with frustration. “You love praise. You live for it. Growing up you were never happier than when Pa called you his best and brightest little mage.”
“You’re jealous?” Shocked, she stared at him. “Is this why you begrudge me wanting acceptance to the College? Because Pa used to praise me? He praised you too! He praised you always!”