one’s natural gifts spill over into vanity? How rarely had I examined myself in this quoph-searing mirror …
Mata’s truth, had she seen me beforehand? I knew the women sometimes spied on the consorts before choosing their favourite. But I had thought the housemaster’s demands too sudden … she added, “Do you draw the envy of many? Tell me, how came you to this–this mockery?”
“I feel no mockery in my service,” said I, taut with umbrage.
“I am surely no prize–or did you this for pity’s sake?”
She knew how to rile. I exploded, “In Mata’s name, woman! I had no choice .”
That must have hurt.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I stumbled on, “I’m but a bondservant to this house, Honoria, and a foreigner in this land.”
But her words had stirred up something else. Pity? Ay, and the power to put that pity into action. No natural process or disease I knew of could have produced such a dreadful outcome . Indeed, why should it remain so?
The power surged forth, shockingly responsive to my thoughts. Fervent. As if it had been lurking there all along … a latent charge, a river swollen with the seasonal rains of Glooming which sweeps all manner of silt and vegetation before its formidable flow. How facile to shape the commands with the tools of will and empathy. How much more challenging to initiate the questing of my hand.
I felt a jolt. Not quite lightning, this time –afraid, I had held back at the last instant.
Torri gasped, “Nethespawn!” Her hand leapt to mine.
“What?”
“That … tingling. What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She jerked away. “Liar!” Torri must have been checking herself in the darkness, for she cried, “My skin–it’s changed … what in Mata’s name is going on here?”
How many makh had I not wrestled to convince myself that healing Alila had been a one-off event, that my will did not dangle from the strings of Jyla the puppeteer? Janos would have sneered, ‘Only cowards abdicate responsibility, Arlak.’ These words I remembered from an argument we once had over my failure to diagnose lormix–a type of parasitic fungus–in my jatha. It had led to infections on the neighbouring farm too, which I had initially refused to pay for. Responsibility was another virtue Janos had laboured to instil in me.
Not a personal favourite, I thought with a grimace.
But necessary.
Could it be? Would it rise again at my behest?
If only to pound the truth into my obstinate skull, I reached out again and found Torri’s arm in the darkness.
This time I proceeded with greater care, allowing my fingertips to trail along delicately and sense the changes as they happened. I had no need of her hiss to confirm what I already knew. To Hajik with doubt! This was real–but suddenly I felt faint, and slumped back upon the pillows to catch my breath.
Mata’s preserve me –Jyla was right. What power! A simple touch had wrought wholeness. How was this possible?
Torri stroked her arm as though she could not believe the change so keenly communicated through her fingertips. She examined herself over and over in childlike amazement. “Feel this, Arlak! The skin’s perfect! Can you feel it?”
“Perfect indeed,” I murmured.
So what of Jyla’s Wurm now? Dread coiled in my belly, and flicked my bones with a frosty forked tongue. Sick dread born of onyx eyes, attending my every waking makh. What did I know of Jyla’s sorcery? Panic’s giant hands clamped around my ribcage, squeezing mercilessly. A metallic tang of blood and smoke rose in my throat–a taste remembered in anna of my nightmares. The taste of Janos’ death.
And yet heard his voice in my mind, a lesson from my youth, ‘You will not progress beyond hacking at the wind, Arlak, if you cannot learn to keep your peace. It is peace, not anger, that separates the true warrior from the pretender. Walk with me.’ We walked nine makh that day up Hadla’s Pass before cutting off onto a precipitous goat-trail up to the
Mata’s truth, had she seen me beforehand? I knew the women sometimes spied on the consorts before choosing their favourite. But I had thought the housemaster’s demands too sudden … she added, “Do you draw the envy of many? Tell me, how came you to this–this mockery?”
“I feel no mockery in my service,” said I, taut with umbrage.
“I am surely no prize–or did you this for pity’s sake?”
She knew how to rile. I exploded, “In Mata’s name, woman! I had no choice .”
That must have hurt.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I stumbled on, “I’m but a bondservant to this house, Honoria, and a foreigner in this land.”
But her words had stirred up something else. Pity? Ay, and the power to put that pity into action. No natural process or disease I knew of could have produced such a dreadful outcome . Indeed, why should it remain so?
The power surged forth, shockingly responsive to my thoughts. Fervent. As if it had been lurking there all along … a latent charge, a river swollen with the seasonal rains of Glooming which sweeps all manner of silt and vegetation before its formidable flow. How facile to shape the commands with the tools of will and empathy. How much more challenging to initiate the questing of my hand.
I felt a jolt. Not quite lightning, this time –afraid, I had held back at the last instant.
Torri gasped, “Nethespawn!” Her hand leapt to mine.
“What?”
“That … tingling. What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She jerked away. “Liar!” Torri must have been checking herself in the darkness, for she cried, “My skin–it’s changed … what in Mata’s name is going on here?”
How many makh had I not wrestled to convince myself that healing Alila had been a one-off event, that my will did not dangle from the strings of Jyla the puppeteer? Janos would have sneered, ‘Only cowards abdicate responsibility, Arlak.’ These words I remembered from an argument we once had over my failure to diagnose lormix–a type of parasitic fungus–in my jatha. It had led to infections on the neighbouring farm too, which I had initially refused to pay for. Responsibility was another virtue Janos had laboured to instil in me.
Not a personal favourite, I thought with a grimace.
But necessary.
Could it be? Would it rise again at my behest?
If only to pound the truth into my obstinate skull, I reached out again and found Torri’s arm in the darkness.
This time I proceeded with greater care, allowing my fingertips to trail along delicately and sense the changes as they happened. I had no need of her hiss to confirm what I already knew. To Hajik with doubt! This was real–but suddenly I felt faint, and slumped back upon the pillows to catch my breath.
Mata’s preserve me –Jyla was right. What power! A simple touch had wrought wholeness. How was this possible?
Torri stroked her arm as though she could not believe the change so keenly communicated through her fingertips. She examined herself over and over in childlike amazement. “Feel this, Arlak! The skin’s perfect! Can you feel it?”
“Perfect indeed,” I murmured.
So what of Jyla’s Wurm now? Dread coiled in my belly, and flicked my bones with a frosty forked tongue. Sick dread born of onyx eyes, attending my every waking makh. What did I know of Jyla’s sorcery? Panic’s giant hands clamped around my ribcage, squeezing mercilessly. A metallic tang of blood and smoke rose in my throat–a taste remembered in anna of my nightmares. The taste of Janos’ death.
And yet heard his voice in my mind, a lesson from my youth, ‘You will not progress beyond hacking at the wind, Arlak, if you cannot learn to keep your peace. It is peace, not anger, that separates the true warrior from the pretender. Walk with me.’ We walked nine makh that day up Hadla’s Pass before cutting off onto a precipitous goat-trail up to the
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