Mystic (32 page)

The last word tore away the last of Pomella's rational mind. Strangely, she no longer felt her skin burning. She no longer felt his weight upon her. She felt only the calm embrace of silence, as if she floated in a space beyond her body and emotions. It was like she sat beside a quiet stream, alone, in another time, in another life perhaps. A life where she'd been crying beside the Creekwaters for her lost family. Crying for Sim. For herself. Now here she was again, but this time she understood that the fear she felt was temporary. She sensed a power welling inside her that was stronger than any torture upon her body. It raged like a secret song, yearning to be sung.

The fear drained from her. She focused her gaze upon the Mystic and managed to sneer. “I am beyond you.”

She inhaled deeply and felt the power peak. She pulled it in from the air, from the ground beneath her back. In that place she'd come to, devoid of distractions and thought, she saw only the light of a power, the luminance of the Myst, and heard a song she'd never sung, but knew immediately. That song, like a chant, built inside her until she could no longer bear it.

With a mighty exhale she sang out a word. A word she'd learned from an old gardener. A man who was Unclaimed yet stated she was worthy to sing it.

“
Huzz-oh!
” she sang.
“Huzz-oh!”

A blinding light flared from her staff and burst across Ohzem, knocking him back. She scrambled to her feet. He snarled and swung his staff at her, but filled with confidence and the strength of the Myst, she blocked it and sang, “
Huzz-oh!
” at the moment their staves collided.

Ohzem's iron staff shattered like glass, its shards exploding outward. Several of them struck her and drew blood. She ignored it. Her body, hurt and scarred, was nothing.
She
was more than just dark skin and hair, bones and teeth. Labels and castes melted away. The real Pomella, she now knew, was a song, a Mystic song beyond words.

Beyond limits.

Ohzem reeled back, bloody gashes lashed across his face from the shards. One of his hands lacked all its fingers. He lunged toward her, ruined hands outstretched as if to strangle her.

Pomella summoned the Myst from all around her. She could feel the power of this place, the island of Moth, the great forest, Kelt Apar, and the central tower. The Myst sang in her heart like a symphony of nature itself.

With supreme calmness she sang another perfect note, “
Huzz-oh!
” and tapped her staff.

She could not see, but rather felt, the Myst swirl around Ohzem, delving into the smallest pores on his body and feeding on the poison there. Mid-leap, his body disintegrated into a shower of blossoms, beginning from his chest and spreading outward. His final scream made no sound, or if it did, it was consumed by the all-encompassing might of the “
huzz-oh
.”

His gnarled hand reached for her, but just as it touched her, his fingertips turned to flower petals and flew away, caught in the quiet wind.

Metal clicked, and the other candidates' manacles dropped to the ground. Pomella looked to Quentin, who stared wide-eyed, his dagger only halfheartedly held to Yarina's neck. The High Mystic beamed at her, seemingly no longer aware of Quentin's threat.

“It's over, Quentin,” Pomella said.

Remembering himself, he resumed his tight grip on Yarina. “Don't move or I'll cut her throat!”

“No, you won't,” Pomella said. “You're better than that. You're more than what your family expects of you.”

“Family is everything,” he said, his hand shaking.

“I don't think you believe that. You told me I was worthy of being here,” Pomella said. “If that's true—and it is—then you are worthy of being more than what your family demands.”

His face contorted as if to sob.

“Put it down, Quentin. You'll gain nothing from hurting anybody now. Please.”

He dropped the dagger to the ground.

Vivianna ran up to Saijar and unbound him. Saijar blinked to clear his vision and, seeing Quentin, ran over and kicked the dagger away. He pushed Quentin to the ground.

Lal stirred, helped up by Vivianna.

At that moment, the world seemed to rush back to Pomella. Searing pain raced through her body. Dropping her staff, she gasped and fell.

Steady arms caught her before she hit the ground. “By all your Saints, I'm impressed,” Yarina whispered over her. “Sleep now, Pomella. All will be well.”

“I used the Myst,” Pomella said through a haze of pain. “Why didn't you call upon it to save yourself?”

Yarina's gentle smile was the last thing Pomella saw before sleep took her.

“I did,” Yarina soothed, stroking Pomella's hair. “I called to the Myst, and it sent us you.”

 

EIGHTEEN

THE APPRENTICE

Pomella woke to the sound of swiftly buzzing wings. Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself lying in bed in her little cabin. A sharp pain burned across the base of her neck, making her groan.

She sat up, realizing she was mostly naked, wearing only loose undergarments.
Silk
undergarments.

She winced at the other things she wore. Bandages covered her body, covering cuts and bruises she could only imagine. By the Saints, what had happened? Her mind raced as she recalled the struggle with Ohzem and the other events outside the tower. How long ago had that been?

The buzzing sound caught her attention again. She looked through her half-shuttered window to see Hector and Ena hovering outside her cabin. They swirled around in the air, seeming excited.

“I'm OK.” She winced. “No need to buzz like a honeyhive. I'll come out in a minute.”

She stood, wobbling slightly, and looked for her clothes. There was no sign of her cloak or Springrise dress, or anything else she'd brought with her from Oakspring. A pot of tea steamed on her table beside a plain white dress and sash.

Beside the dress was a wooden vase containing a bouquet of flowers. And resting beside that was her
Book of Songs
. Her heart leaped. She'd left the book with Ox in the cave. Had he returned?

She quickly slipped the white dress over her shoulders, enjoying the feel of the material that matched her undergarments. She didn't see any shoes, which was fine. The cool grass outside would feel good.

Her oak walking staff leaned against the wall beside the door. Combing her hair with her fingers, she picked up the staff and book, and left the cabin.

The sun hung high in the sky with only a scattering of clouds. Hector and Ena zoomed over and danced around her. She giggled as she felt their giddy joy. “Yes, hello, I'm glad to see you, too!”

“Ah, you're awake!” boomed a familiar voice. “You recovered quickly.”

Pomella's face lit with happiness as she turned to see the Green Man striding toward her from across the lawn.

“Ox!” she yelled, and ran to him. He laughed as she crashed into his leg and hugged him. “You're free! How did you get here? Are you all right?”

He knelt down to bring his face closer to hers. “I am well. Ranger Rochella reached the cave a short time ago and managed to break the iron binding. She tended to Sim while I rushed back here through the ground immediately.”

Fear and hope twisted in Pomella's stomach. “Sim! Is—is he alive?”

Ox's smile faded. “When I left him, he sat at death's edge. But your little hummingbirds returned with a steady stream of friends, who all carried herbs. Rochella indicated it should be enough to stave off an infection. I do not know if the wound itself can be healed in time. The ranger will do everything she can.”

Pomella stilled her thundering heart and held out her hand for the hummingbirds. “Thank you,” she told them as they alighted on her palm. “You may have saved my friend, and you definitely saved me.” She bowed to the two tiny birds in her palm, not feeling silly whatsoever. They buzzed their wings and flew toward the central tower.

“I heard what you did to save the High Mystic,” Oxillian said. “I am in debt to you, Goodmiss AnDone.”

“Oh, Ox,” she said, “Don't be such a dunder. It's I who should thank you.”

He hugged her. “I should be careful not to soil your apprentice dress.”

“My … apprentice dress? Am I her apprentice now?”

Ox shook his head. “Not yet. It is tradition for all candidates to wear their apprentice whites on the afternoon of the selection. Lady Vinnay was the one who tended to you in your cabin. She has been worried about you. Apparently, she has skill with brewing herbs and making salves.”

Pomella thought of the tea and the flowers waiting for her when she awoke. “I haven't seen her, or anybody else. Where is everyone?”

“Come, I will escort you to the point of past masters.”

He led her down the dirt path to the grove of trees that jutted out from the western side of the clearing. She remembered this place from when she and Quentin had strolled into it on her first day. The towering rune-carved pillar rose from the center of a ring of stones.

“Who were they?” Pomella asked, remembering the faded names written upon the obelisk's surface. Quentin had not been able to tell her when she'd last visited.

“They list the names of the past masters of Kelt Apar,” Ox said. “This monument has stood longer than I've existed. It is likely to be as old as the tower itself.”

“So many are faded,” she said, gently touching one side of it.

“Not all of them,” Ox said. He strode back toward the tree line. “I will summon the others and tell them you are here. They will join you soon.”

The ground rumbled as he sank into it. Pomella strolled around the pillar, until she came to the side with the most recent names inscribed. These, she could read:
Yarina Sineese
. Above her,
Ahlala Faywong
.

A sense of reverence floated through Pomella. “Thank you,” she said, bowing deeply, “for allowing me to be here.”

Ox returned soon after with Saijar and Vivianna behind him. Each wore the apprentice whites—Vivianna in a dress and Saijar in loose pants and a shirt—and carried their own staff, presumably found somewhere on the slopes or summit of MagDoon. Quentin was nowhere to be seen.

Vivianna hurried past the Green Man but stopped when she reached Pomella. The noblewoman looked at the ground and bit her lip, obviously uncomfortable.

Pomella reached out. “I heard you watched over me. Thank—”

Vivianna threw her arms around Pomella. Pomella stumbled back half a step, smiling.

“I was wrong about you,” Vivianna said, squeezing. “You are
truly
noble.”

Pomella pulled away. “I'm sorry I lied to you about my caste. I hope we can be friends. And I hope I can borrow another dress, sometime.”

Vivianna leaned in close. “I'll have a whole wardrobe made for you!” She squeezed Pomella's hands. “Also, I asked Ox to deliver your festival dress and cloak to my seamstress. She'll patch them up before they take me home.”

Pomella couldn't help but notice the disappointment in Vivianna's voice. Her gaze fell across Saijar, who glowered at her.

“It was my family that hired the Black Claws,” he said, dropping his gaze. “The Bartones somehow discovered that the High Mystic would invite you. They revealed that to several Continental nobles, including my family. That culk Zicon was in love with my sister. Apparently my fathir told him that he could marry her only if he successfully—” Saijar sighed again. Pomella was sure he'd been about to say,
if he successfully killed the High Mystic
. “If he succeeded in the mission. They never told me of these plans. I swear it.”

Pomella believed him. The nobleman just seemed upset that somebody of a lower caste had outperformed him in the final Trial. But it still didn't answer the question of how the Bartone family had known about a commoner being invited to begin with.

“Well,” Pomella said, smiling, “at least you won't have Zicon as a brother-in-law.”

Saijar shook his head. “Your efforts to save the High Mystic are commendable. But that doesn't make us friends, and I still think it's wrong for you to be here as a commoner.”

“She won't be a commoner for long,” Vivianna said. “She's all but guaranteed to become the apprentice. And a fine one she'll make.”

Pomella bit her lip. “What happened to Quentin?”

Vivianna and Saijar exchanged looks. “Mistress Yarina declared him Unclaimed,” Vivianna said. “After she freed the laghart ranger, he took … that man … away. That's all I know.”

Pomella suppressed a shudder.
That man.
That man who had once been named Quentin. Despite her changed perceptions of the caste system, she hated to think of the life that awaited him.

“The High Mystic comes!” Ox intoned.

The three candidates bowed or curtsied as Yarina glided into the grove. She wore an emerald dress accented with cream-colored highlights. Her hair was raised, showing off her long neck. Her staff glowed in the sunlight.