now they were with him again.
A room full of young children, many of them with eyes red from crying, their clothing replaced by the thin, unadorned robes of acolytes. The children, Alain among them, shivered in the cold room, not yet having learned to ignore physical discomfort. Each child sat or lay on a sleeping pallet which was little more than a threadbare blanket on the stone floor. Next to each pallet rested a loaf of stale bread and a cup of water.
A very pretty girl on the next pallet looked at Alain, trying to force a smile despite the tear-stains on her face. Her blond hair was tangled and uncombed.
“At least we know they don
’
t want us to die,”
she had said in a hoarse voice as she picked up her bread. She had brushed some strands of hair from her face, looking very weary.
“Did you want to be a Mage?”
“No.
Did you?”
“No.
We don
’
t have any choice, though.
I have an uncle who is already a Mage.
If he could survive this, I can.”
“I
’
m not sure I will.”
Even across the years, Alain could remember the despair which had filled him then.
The girl had forced another smile.
“You
’
ll make it.”
“Thanks.”
That was when he had last said that word.
“You
’
ll make it, too.”
“I
’
m Asha.”
“I
’
m Alain.”
Two Mages had entered the room then, watching everyone, their presence making every child fall silent even before one of them spoke.
“You are alone.
Do not speak to shadows.”
The Mages had still been there, watching the shivering, silent acolytes, when Alain finally fell asleep that night.
He and Asha had spoken only a few times after that, growing distant first from fear of the Mage elders and later from knowledge that neither mattered, that nothing was real.
Now Alain kept his eyes closed, but he could still see the acolytes’ room, still recall something of what he had felt that night. The long suppressed memories were troubling him again.
This, too, must be the work of the Mechanic. What had she done to him?
* * * *
As their horses plodded into Ringhmon, Mari studied the Mechanic weapon openly carried by one of the guards they passed, seeing that it was another standard model repeating rifle. The arms workshops in Danalee had found more than one customer in the area of Ringhmon, it seemed. It was unusual for such a valuable weapon to be entrusted to gate guards, leaving Mari wondering who Ringhmon was trying to overawe. From the subdued behavior of the commons using the gate, she guessed they might be the targets of that threatening display.
Mari searched the crowd around the caravansary, hoping to find a representative of the Mechanics Guild Hall of Ringhmon awaiting her. She saw no one, though. She had not had any privacy once they got close to Ringhmon and so had not been able to call ahead using her far talker. Still, she was overdue. Why hadn’t the Guild Hall tried to call her? Why hadn’t they posted anyone here, even an apprentice, to watch incoming travelers and demand any news of the late caravan?
The group of traders clattered to a halt and Mari dismounted, wincing as her muscles protested. Her horse had been docile enough, but days of riding had left Mari wondering if her thighs would ever stop aching.
Give me a seat in a locomotive any day.
She glanced across the caravansary and her eyes met those of the Mage. What was he thinking now? No telling. Not her problem, she told herself. But he had saved her life, and even helped her dismount the first morning as if he had known how important it was to her dignity not to fall, so Mari wished him well. She gave the Mage a brief nod, then turned away.
She took leave of the head of the traders, getting his name so that she could arrange payment for him, and received in return directions to the Mechanics Guild Hall. Hoisting her pack into a slightly more comfortable position, she started walking, her Mechanics jacket earning her easy progress through the streets. Citizens of Ringhmon stepped
A room full of young children, many of them with eyes red from crying, their clothing replaced by the thin, unadorned robes of acolytes. The children, Alain among them, shivered in the cold room, not yet having learned to ignore physical discomfort. Each child sat or lay on a sleeping pallet which was little more than a threadbare blanket on the stone floor. Next to each pallet rested a loaf of stale bread and a cup of water.
A very pretty girl on the next pallet looked at Alain, trying to force a smile despite the tear-stains on her face. Her blond hair was tangled and uncombed.
“At least we know they don
’
t want us to die,”
she had said in a hoarse voice as she picked up her bread. She had brushed some strands of hair from her face, looking very weary.
“Did you want to be a Mage?”
“No.
Did you?”
“No.
We don
’
t have any choice, though.
I have an uncle who is already a Mage.
If he could survive this, I can.”
“I
’
m not sure I will.”
Even across the years, Alain could remember the despair which had filled him then.
The girl had forced another smile.
“You
’
ll make it.”
“Thanks.”
That was when he had last said that word.
“You
’
ll make it, too.”
“I
’
m Asha.”
“I
’
m Alain.”
Two Mages had entered the room then, watching everyone, their presence making every child fall silent even before one of them spoke.
“You are alone.
Do not speak to shadows.”
The Mages had still been there, watching the shivering, silent acolytes, when Alain finally fell asleep that night.
He and Asha had spoken only a few times after that, growing distant first from fear of the Mage elders and later from knowledge that neither mattered, that nothing was real.
Now Alain kept his eyes closed, but he could still see the acolytes’ room, still recall something of what he had felt that night. The long suppressed memories were troubling him again.
This, too, must be the work of the Mechanic. What had she done to him?
* * * *
As their horses plodded into Ringhmon, Mari studied the Mechanic weapon openly carried by one of the guards they passed, seeing that it was another standard model repeating rifle. The arms workshops in Danalee had found more than one customer in the area of Ringhmon, it seemed. It was unusual for such a valuable weapon to be entrusted to gate guards, leaving Mari wondering who Ringhmon was trying to overawe. From the subdued behavior of the commons using the gate, she guessed they might be the targets of that threatening display.
Mari searched the crowd around the caravansary, hoping to find a representative of the Mechanics Guild Hall of Ringhmon awaiting her. She saw no one, though. She had not had any privacy once they got close to Ringhmon and so had not been able to call ahead using her far talker. Still, she was overdue. Why hadn’t the Guild Hall tried to call her? Why hadn’t they posted anyone here, even an apprentice, to watch incoming travelers and demand any news of the late caravan?
The group of traders clattered to a halt and Mari dismounted, wincing as her muscles protested. Her horse had been docile enough, but days of riding had left Mari wondering if her thighs would ever stop aching.
Give me a seat in a locomotive any day.
She glanced across the caravansary and her eyes met those of the Mage. What was he thinking now? No telling. Not her problem, she told herself. But he had saved her life, and even helped her dismount the first morning as if he had known how important it was to her dignity not to fall, so Mari wished him well. She gave the Mage a brief nod, then turned away.
She took leave of the head of the traders, getting his name so that she could arrange payment for him, and received in return directions to the Mechanics Guild Hall. Hoisting her pack into a slightly more comfortable position, she started walking, her Mechanics jacket earning her easy progress through the streets. Citizens of Ringhmon stepped
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