Ber, Day 22 of Rhexia, Blinking Moons, Evening Star, Year 602
"There is not much that separates humankind from the gods. Willpower, perhaps." —The Facerum
* * *
Evin woke to another grey day. This must have been the fifth in a row, and her psyche was growing weary of it.
She sat up in bed and took out her messy brown braids, running her fingers through the strands to loosen them and breathing a sigh of relief when the tight pull on her scalp finally eased.
She had another day off, and wasn't anticipating the loneliness that sometimes brought.
With a flash of inspiration, she decided to go and visit Wynn.
She sneezed suddenly, and messily, and goose pimples popped out on her forearms. She ignored the feeling of thickness in her head and slowly got up.
Evin's older sister Wynn ran The Upset Owl, one of the most reputable inns in Liminey. Though Wynn didn't own the property, she'd become inextricably associated with the business, offering comfortable rooms and good food and enjoying plenty of custom as a result.
Since Wynn was ten years older than Evin, the relationship between the two women tended to morph according to emotional need and precedent. Evin saw her sometimes as a doting aunt, sometimes a trusted friend, and sometimes, as a mother. And Wynn responded in kind, sensitive to Evin's moods. They'd never known their father, and had lost their mother when Wynn was only fourteen summers old—and Evin, only four.
Wynn was married now to a kind man in the village named Cotter, and together the two of them ran the inn smoothly and thriftily.
Evin sighed as she left her rented room at the boarding house and looked up into the heavy sky. The clouds simply refused to dispel and had been looming overhead for what seemed like weeks. The temperature was still cool for Liminey in Rhexia, too, and Evin shivered to herself. At least it isn't raining, she thought.
It was only a short walk to the Upset Owl. She made her way through a series of tradesmen carting wheelbarrows of goods and adjusting the heavy packs slung over their shoulders. A pair of children, probably slated for deliveries, darted around her as she stopped in front of the Upset Owl.
The building made one smile just to look at it.
It was a three-story affair with a sturdy stone base on the first level, and hewn beams and cob above. The stone chimney jutted up from the center of the inn roof, where it ran from the pub on the first floor and through subsequent levels, warming the Owl from the inside out. Wynn and the staff had three fireplaces to tend, but only one would be in operation at this time of year; the cookfire on the first floor.
Evin rounded the corner and glanced up at the shop sign hanging over the street-side door. It sported a primitive painting of a roosting owl and what was meant to be a wooden ale mug. And of course, the tavern name was painted just below.
Evin had some letters, but they were slow and halting. Reading a recipe was a task she could handle if needed, but if she pushed herself to go too quickly, it was almost certain she would make a mistake. The words seemed to tumble over themselves on the page, intent on confusing her. It gave her a frustrated, squirmy feeling—sometimes it made her want to rip pages from the books and crumple them, or hurl the volumes against a wall. Word were slippery things, she knew. Better to go slow. That was what Stacia always told her.
But the sign above the inn was easy; she already knew what it read. And there was the painting of the owl, too.
Evin ducked inside.
The inn was uncharacteristically quiet. It was mid morning, and Evin realized she'd arrived during that perfectly still pocket of the day that Wynn sometimes talked about. Guests who were in a hurry to leave would have departed already, but the 'leisure guests,' as Wynn called them, weren't yet up.
The tables were empty and polished, and the shelves behind the counter held several rows of gleaming bottles. The slate floor had already been swept. She smelled sausages and fried dough, the remains of breakfast.
"Hullo," Evin called softly.
"Evin!" cried her sister, coming out of the ledger room toward the back of the building.
The oldest Sacande sister was a brunette like Evin, but instead of grey, her eyes were a golden brown. She wore her hair in a loose chignon, frequently braiding her bangs into a crown to keep them out of her eyes. The two women shared a quick, tight embrace.
"It's been a couple of days," Wynn said kindly, looking Evin over. "Are you well?" She pressed a hand to the younger girl's forehead. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine," Evin insisted, laughing and brushing Wynn's hand away.
"Are you hungry?"
She answered this with a sly smile.
"I'll get you some breakfast," offered Wynn—with an answering grin of her own.
Joining her at one of the polished wooden tavern tables, Wynn plied her younger sister with sausages and fried oatcakes. "I was starting to wonder if you'd decided not to brew for us anymore," Wynn said reproachfully.
Evin gave her a flat look. "That's rather dramatic, Wynn," she said. "I mean to keep going as I have been, truly. I've just been a bit preoccupied."
"Well, it's just that you usually bring us your crates on Tuvos," said Wynn "And it's already Ber."
"I've been a little busy," Evin told her sister. "I'm sorry. I'll bring over some bottles as soon as I can."
Evin, in addition to her work at the Wheel and Well, kept some equipment in her room and brewed independently as well, selling simpler potions to The Upset Owl. Stacia even allowed her to store some finished inventory at the potions shop. Wynn kept the pre-brews on hand at the inn for guests who complained of the chill, or fatigue, or traveling pains.
"What are you out of?" Evin asked curiously.
"Nothing yet, replied Wynn. "But," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "We are running low on Passion."
Evin giggled. That was the one made with water crocus.
"Oh," said Wynn with mock intensity. "Business has been very good lately." The two of them laughed. After a moment she added, still smiling, "In actuality, we could absolutely use more Minor Ward, Headache Relief, and For General Pain."
"It's a bit of a thing for me to bring the crates over alone," Evin said, trying not to sound whiny. "I have to take several trips, and they're heavy."
"I know," Wynn said sympathetically. "And we're not always able to get away and help out. But this time, since we need several boxes, Cotter and I can come over with the cart. Should we go to the Wheel and Well?"
"Yes," Evin replied. "If it's a large order, I try to keep it there."
"Good. That's what we'll do. Really, Evin—they're selling very well. You should be proud."
"That's good to hear," the younger woman said. "It's not easy trying to study alone. It's hard asking Stacia for more of her time when I know it's so limited."
Wynn nodded sympathetically.
"Which reminds me," continued Evin. "We had a visitor the other day, a South-Urdan, and he told me I should get a formal education."
"Wouldn't that be nice," Wynn said, laughing.
Evin shook her head consideringly. "I took it as a compliment rather than an insult. But it was irritating too, somehow. He didn't know me from Calumn, and tried to tell me what to do with my life. As if I don't already have it mapped out!"
"I'm sorry, dear," Wynn said sadly. Characteristically, she was seeing through Evin's frustrated tone to what was really happening inside—a hunger for better resources and training. "I don't think we will ever be able to afford university for you," she said regretfully.
"That's the thing," Evin said, remembering. "He said that many universities today offer scholarships, especially for talented young people." The hope in her voice broke something in Wynn, who only shrugged wordlessly.
"I'm really not very interested, though," Evin finished dismissively. "I'd have to pack up everything, leave you and Cotter... it's too much. I have a job I like, and a comfortable place to stay. I'd hate to be so far away from you." She took Wynn's hand impulsively. "And who would keep me in line?"
Wynn smiled gently, saying, "I'm glad you feel that way."
Evin nodded.
"Because I have something to tell you."
Evin sat up straighter in alarm, looking at her sister. "Wynn," she said, trying not to panic. "What? What is it?"
Still smiling, Wynn took a breath. "Don't fly off on me," she admonished. "Promise you'll stay calm."
"Divines, Wynn! Tell me!"
The elder let a tiny pause build, and then let out the news on a little puff of air. "Cotter and I are expecting."
Evin's jaw dropped. "What? Oh, Wynn! Oh, I'm so happy for you!" she cried. Whooping, she stood and embraced her sister.
"Thank you!" Wynn said, laughing.
Evin kissed her hard on the cheek.
"Thank you," Wynn repeated. "We're very excited. They baby's very young right now, so please don't tell anyone. We'll announce it soon enough."
"I promise," Evin reassured her.
After breakfast, Wynn sent Evin away with a full belly and a handcart full of clean, empty vials to fill with new product.
As the door to the Upset Owl closed behind her, Evin noticed a lingering scent expelled from the building on a light gust of air. It clung to her own clothes as well—her sister's smell. It was clean, like fresh laundry and clean wooden floors, but with a sweetness to it that was Wynn herself. Her food, her hair. That smell was home, and Evin aspired in all thing to emulate the older woman.
She wondered suddenly what her own rented room smelled like to people who had never encountered her before. Resolving to check today, Evin gripped the handles of the cart and pushed it over the nubbly cobbles.
Though the skies remained cloudy, her spirits had improved greatly just by spending the morning with Wynn, and she found she didn't mind the weather so much anymore. A fully belly could right all sorts of wrongs.
In Liminey on the way home, Evin rounded a corner and nearly collided with a middle-aged man wearing a red hat and carrying a crate full of tallow candles.
"Excuse me!" she cried, trying to avoid him. "So sorry."
He had a day's growth of stubble on his chin and a nose that looked as it it had been broken before. The man stopped up short and sneered—actually sneered at her! over the piles of candles in his crate and muttered, "Damnation take you, death-brewer."
Evin felt the heat rise into her face.
Death-brewer?
"I'm sorry?" she said slowly, hardly believing what she'd heard.
And the candle-maker spat onto the stones next to them, making her jump. "You and your kind stay out of my way," he said in a low voice that was nearly a growl.
My kind? Evin was so surprised that she stopped short right there in the street, unable to craft a reply as the man stalked away.
What had all of that been about?
* * *
The day was absolutely glorious, sunny with just a hint of breeze, and Farax was grateful to be outside. She unwrapped the kerchief that held her lunch and arranged it cozily in her lap. She couldn't seem to get enough dried meat these days and kept picking it up when she went into Craestor to shop. It was satisfying to rip into and gnaw on. She also had a hunk of cheese and a couple of fresh, sweet plums.
She was seated on the ground a few gerds away from Ishka's combat class with her back against the sun-warmed stone wall and her legs in the soft, cool grass. The students had turned out onto the university grounds and were holding full-sized quarterstaffs, listening intently to the master combatant.
"Yes, that's right," he was saying. "Knees bent. But Alais, you've got your weight on your heels still. You need to shift it all to the balls of your feet." As the student looked down self-consciously to adjust, Ishka addressed the class. "Can anyone tell me why?"
Farax nearly raised her hand and caught herself, feeling foolish.
When no one answered, Ishka said slowly, "Keeping your weight on the balls of your feel ensures mobility. Come here, Alais."
His Eralian accent was distinctive and clipped. Ishka was tall, with dark blond hair he wore wrapped into a bun on top of his head. He had thick, ropey biceps and a narrow, triangular waist. Today, he wore a loose-fitting, sweat-stained eborel shirt with a hood. He had been leaning on his quarterstaff, which stood a little taller than the top of his head, but shifted as the young student approached him.
"Now," he said. "Alais, sit back onto your heels like you were doing just now. Yes. And bend your knees. We always want our knees bent."
Alais frowned in concentration and sank into fighting stance.
"I'm going to attack you," warned Ishka. "Your goal is not to be there when I arrive. Ready?"
The younger man nodded.
"And—go!"
Ishka advanced on Alais, who tried to back away but moved clumsily and even toppled a little. Ishka stopped and addressed rest of the class while the young man regained his composure. "See? He's off balance, and cannot move quickly when he needs to. Now, put your weight where it should be."
Alais adjusted his weight slightly forward and looked up at the master.
"Right. Now, the same. Ready?"
Alais nodded again, licking his lips.
"Go!"
This time when Ishka lunged for the boy, Alais sprang lightly back, covering more ground than before, and there was an audible noise of understanding from the rest of the students.
Farax noted that there were several middle-aged students in this particular class. Of the nine students Craestor accepted every year, two on average were older, which rounded out the university populace nicely. Farax found that the presence of the mature students tended to keep everyone grounded, and that in general they took their studies much more seriously, which awoke some healthy competition in the younger attendees.
"I want you to know how this feels," Ishka was saying. "This is not silly, or useless. The first person we fight when facing a new adversary is—us. The body needs to get out of its own way. Does this make sense?"
Several of the students nodded, and Ishka said, "Pair up. Practice this. Please do not swing the quarterstaff at your partner as we haven't covered that yet. This is only about the footwork."
The class broke into pairs and began to practice advancing and retreating, trying to catch each other off guard.
Farax popped half of a plum into her mouth and watched while she chewed, fascinated. The human body was so interesting, the way it was made, the way it moved. There was a female student near the front of the group with a particularly strong pair of legs. When her partner attempted to gain on her, she jumped back instantly like some sort of insect.
Ishka was striding across the grounds, approaching her. "Farax," he said, by way of greeting.
She nodded in reply. "Ishka."
He was a little breathless from the exertion, but happy. "Fine day," he offered.
Farax nodded again. "It is. I like this," she said, gesturing to the group of students with a piece of dried meat held between her thumb and forefinger. "It reminds me of my studies at Gradl."
"That's right," Ishka said. "You take a personal interest in combat. I forgot."
"I'd like to go back someday and get my masters certificate."
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Canonmaster Farax Lucean," he said, trying it out. "Sounds nice, that's certain as starshine."
She smiled. He was right. Anyone officially trained in two classes could be called a canonmaster. It had seemed an afterthought to her; she was so focused on the actual subject and practice.
"If you'd ever like to join my combat classes in the meantime, you're welcome to. I'd be glad of an assistant who knows what she's doing."
"That's very kind," Farax said. "I'd be happy to help. I need some practice to keep me sharp."
The conversation dwindled a bit, and Ishka looked back at the class. A couple of the pairs' activity had devolved into playful lunging and giggling, and he knew that was dangerous. "I should go," he said. "But before I do, I wanted to ask if you're free tonight."
She cocked her head at him. "I am," she told him. "Why?"
"A new pub opened in Craestor proper and I'd love to buy you a drink."
Farax nodded. "That sounds like fun," she replied. "Let's ask Bricot too, and some of the others. We masters could all use a break."
Ishka opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. He shook his head slightly. "All right. Let's—let's do that. Tonight," he added, beginning to walk away.
"Tonight," Farax echoed, and went back to her lunch.
* * *
In another part of the university, Bricot straightened his tunic and knocked at Colin's door.
Colin Slager, Grandmaster Combatant, was the Chancellor of Craestor University. He had summoned Bricot to his rooms this afternoon for a "quick conversation."
As far as Bricot could tell, there was no such thing as a "quick conversation" that involved Colin in any way.
"Hullo, Camdetch," the man said, muffled through the closed door. He sounded pleased, but Bricot grew wary at the casual use of his surname. "Come in."
Bricot did.
Slager's workroom was messy. So many books! Bricot often wondered if the grandmaster went out and bought every single new book as it became available, just to have them all.
Piles of ledger books and pots of ink littered his desk, and the whole place smelled of Colin's pipe smoke. He talked incessantly about how he was trying to quit, but Bricot didn't believe a word of it.
The grandmaster's bedroom and office were connected by a door he usually kept closed. Today, it was open, and Bricot could see leftover breakfast dishes on the small table next to the bed.
"Sit down, sit, sit, sit," Colin said, gesturing wildly to the wooden guest chair, and the two men settled in, facing each other.
Colin was a big man, substantial and very tall. Cheery crystal blue eyes peered out from under a mostly bald pate still sprinkled with wiry bits of shorn grey hair. He was perhaps sixty odd summers old.
"Talk to me," the grandmaster said without preamble. "How are you doing?"
Bricot took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. That was a complicated question. "I'm well," he started, then, "I'm very well. Classes are going well, I have a lot of respect for my fellow masters... I would say, all in all, everything's going—"
"Well," Colin finished for him.
Bricot nodded.
"And your family?" the older man asked. "You have family in... Boradîn, yes?"
"Yes."
Colin leaned his abundant weight all the way back in his chair, which creaked. "I've been to Boradîn," he said fondly, anecdotally. "Cold."
Bricot laughed. "True."
"So you're family is well?" Colin prompted.
Bricot's face fell suddenly, realizing he hadn't heard from them in some time. His parents were aging rapidly, and Colin's continued line of questioning made him suddenly and inexplicable nervous. "Divines, I hope so," he answered anxiously.
Colin nodded curtly and seemed not to notice. "Good. Camdetch, I wanted to talk to you today about your progress on the Facerum."
Ah. Is that why I've been called up here?
"How is it coming?" Colin asked him.
Bricot considered for a moment. "Quite well, I think."
The Grandmaster watched him.
"I mean, it's heavy stuff, Chancellor," Bricot added. "Ruqa is very tricky, and, as I'm learning, quite subjective. But I seem to be on track."
"Learned the secret of life yet?"
"What?"
"Nevermind. How far through it would you say you are right now?"
Bricot frowned. "If pressed, probably... an eighth of the way through? It's slow going."
Colin nodded. And kept nodding.
Bricot leaned forward slightly. "If I may ask, Grandmaster Slager—is everything alright? Are you finding my performance satisfactory?"
"Of course," the older man said quickly with an air of assent. "Of course I am. Bricot, you're an exemplary scholar. We're damned lucky if I may say so, and very proud to have you with us here at Craestor. In fact, this may be the most important residency project in the history of Heladrith."
High praise...
Bricot's eyebrows shot up. "But?"
"Well," Slager said hesitantly, "I'm so sorry to do this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to work... a little faster."
This was new.
"Faster?"
Colin met his eyes. "I've had some news from the Capital this morning. Apparently, there was an attempt on the emperor's life last night."
"On Emperor Beynon's life?
"Yes."
"Gods," he breathed. Bricot let this sink in for a moment.
"The perpetrator was disguised as an imperial guard—well, now they're saying that he was a guard, with all of the meet and necessary paperwork—but that's not so important. What's important is that he tried to commit the murder with a dipped blade."
Bricot listened as Colin continued.
"No one can tell if this man was backed by some sort of group or if he acted alone. But either way, it doesn't bode well for the study of alchemy."
Bricot was still confused. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"It's no secret," Colin explained patiently, "That the emperor hates alchemy. I believe he eventually wants to stamp out the practice entirely. He's been trying to pass new legislation with the council to move toward criminalizing the use of potions."
"But that's bizarre," Bricot pointed out incredulously. "His own military force uses potions."
Colin shrugged. "Reports say he wants it all to stop," he explained. "And he's not alone; he has people backing him. And he'll have even more after last night."
Realization started to dawn on Bricot. "You're worried about the university," he said simply.
"I'm worried about the university."
There was a moment of heavy silence, and through the closed windows, Bricot could hear the sound of chirping of birds on the Craestor green.
"I don't want to panic you," Colin said. "If this new development continues, he'll start small, and we won't see changes right away. But my sources tell me that we should be prepared. Better over than under, hey?"
Bricot nodded.
"If something terrible were to happen, I'd protect the school, obviously," Slager said reassuringly. "And you, and the other masters. Obviously. But if that document isn't translated and distributed, I'm concerned that it could be lost."
"Of course."
"Now, I'm going to assign some student workers to copy it over, from Ruqa to more Ruqa, so at least if everything goes to ruin, the Facerum will have a chance of survival," the grandmaster said slowly. "I think that's the wisest thing to do. But it won't make sense to them. No one understands Ruqa. It'll just be empty lines and figures to them, and I can't ensure integrity at that point..."
Bricot was nodding rapidly. "I understand," he said.
Colin stood up, sighing, and Bricot joined him. "It's something that I've been considering a lot. I truly hate to ask this of you. I've always believed excellence can't be harried, or it isn't excellence."
"This is out of your control, Chancellor. I promise I'll do what I can."
Colin's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I appreciate that," he said. "You're a good man, Camdetch. Hopefully this is all for nought and the Council stands firm."
"Hopefully," Bricot agreed.