“It might be.” He stood and stretched, fingertips brushing the ceiling, leaving faint lines in the dust. “We’ll go, yeah, but you and your sister, there’s not enough jewels in the world.”
“And…I’m sorry, Grimmek. I should be trusting you, but good or bad, we have to do these things.” Sunken red eyes gazed sullenly at the map.
“Better to know what we go into, good or bad. I’m seeing what your sister does.”
The lagoon was still and sweet today, humming with birdsong and the whisper of waves on the white sand. Wisps of clouds traced the breezes, the cerulean sky as deep as the far off waters. Tiny boots, stockings rolled and tucked within their respective shoe, stood neatly with her bag in the shadow of a boulder, hidden from the attentions of seagulls. Was she always so careful with her possessions? Grimmek wondered and a flash of white seemed to fall from the sky.
What had started as a sedate walk along the beach [judging by the heel-heavy march of little footprints] had evolved into a dance with the wind, sun and water. Bait spun and skipped through foam, moving through half-remembered dance routines, leaping high, a scrap of conch shell in one fist, scouting for interesting stones. Her hair was a pale yellow mist around a flushed face, eyes glittering like the waters. The shapeless black dress had been swapped for something of linen and cream lace, blending with the fluttering arms, ribbons trailing from her waist.
She was whispering as she went and only Grimmek’s hearing could have caught the words.
“Stone I am, stone I am
what has gone is going
What is going, gone
My dad is not a man
my dad is one of thee
I will visit when I can
Remember me, remember me.”
Grimmek was teased sometimes as a dust worker, stone and earth were the first things you learned to mix with. Rhythmic, solid, forgiving of mistakes, earth mixtures were learned and abandoned, like nursery rhymes, like play. He had taken the lessons farther, worked with the language of the deep rock, the icy peaks, the coral forests and mountainous steam vents beneath the sea. Water, lightning, all their sorts, were flashy, capricious, difficult and impressive, but Grimmek had lived his age only with the patience learned from dust. He crouched on the sand, studying Bait. There were subtle beats in her steps, her breath. The beach moved itself that she not stumble, every grain rolled and stood at attention. The burden of her Making power, the ground itself would honour her. What Bait whispered was nothing more than part of the agreement, staying connected to where she came from, where she had to return to someday. But the line about her father…how had he died?
There was silence at the end of the beach. Bait stood still, thin chest heaving, watching Grimmek warily as he traced his thoughts in the sand. He didn’t grin; it was wasted effort on her; trust would have to be translated through her brother.
“A going away song?” he asked her as she walked, once again precise, sedate, towards him.
A shake of the head. “It’s just what there was to say. You can’t go away from the mountains, just the North.”
He nodded. Even folded up as he was, Grimmek looked down at her. His arms were as long as her body.
“It’s odd,” Bait said, waving a hand towards the misty blue smudge at the end of the ocean where the Rim Range began, “wherever you go, there’s always mountains.”
The unspoken question itched at his ears.
“Fandral is surrounded by mountains,” he said.
“So was Mother.” Her face scrunched, she stomped past him towards the house, eager to not let him see her cry.
“Leave your brother to his happiness,” Grimmek said, “he’s got lot to learn and likes it. You need some mixing.”
She paused, distrustful.
“That’s why we hired you. And I shouldn’t use my power. I have to save it.”
“Mixing uses no Making power. It’s with what you have.” He pinched globs of sand between his fingers, let them plop back down.
“Blood?” Bait asked, “Switch would kill you first.”
“Nah. That’s just one thing you can do. Some people don’t like scars, use spit or hair, maybe nail parings. It’s all part of you and part of the world and the words between.”
She edged closer to him, but stayed out of reach. “Then why use blood at all?”
He almost smiled despite himself.
“That’s all about the smell of your power. I might use tears or so if I’m hurt or blood-sick, but the mixture isn’t good, doesn’t last. And maybe you can’t use blood at all.”
She bit her lip, wanting to argue with him but not wishing to test it.
“Now, you’re good with the words, that won’t be your problem. And mixing can make anything. Your mother, I bet she mixed all sorts.”
“I never saw her….no! She did!” Bait knelt opposite him, chewing her thumbnail. “She used her hair, it was so long, although once…once, she peed in front of some wolves that were attacking the horse Dinah’s daughter was riding. They ran, were screaming so hard.” She glared at him, daring a laugh, a smirk, anything.
“That would be the wisest to use there. Animals have a trick like that, to show where others can’t go. What happened to the wolves?”
Silence.
“They died. And the grass around them died. Vultures and worms wouldn’t eat the meat.”
“You saw them?”
Bait nodded.
“Mother couldn’t use Making magic to kill beasts.”
“Other Makers can.”
She eyed him warily, remembering yesterday’s admonishment.
“So what will I be mixing?” she said at last, carving lines in the wet sand with the shell fragment.
Grimmek pointed at the mother-of-pearl.
“Just a little thing, hiding you from Makers, from Fandral. Now temporary mixings, my wards, a fire, you use temporary stuff. This, you need all the time. The idea is that it’s armor, so you use armor-like things.”
Bait laid the shell down, stared at it.
“What part of myself would I mix with it?”
“What does armor say to you?” Grimmek asked and adjusted his legs into a lotus position. Crouching was making his calves cramp.
The girl played with the shell, flipping it over, rotating its shimmering smoothness.
“I should wear it,” she said, “if I braid some hair and make a necklace, would that count?”
“Throat works okay. Waist or head better.”
“It’s not long enough yet for those. A necklace.”
She was smiling slightly now, from her cleverness, from the challenge of new magic. Grimmek wondered when she had last been happy. None of his daughters had wanted his place, nor, really, had he wanted them there. One or two of his sons, perhaps, but they could inherit nothing. All of them chose or changed their paths as they were inclined to and none were faulted for it. How different from these kids! Switch was free of the Making burden, but Bait…pinned beneath a destiny by an all-powerful mother, unsure of her ability to fulfill it. Why destroy the one who inadvertently saved you?
“It will need a hole,” she said, “should I find more pieces? Would that make it more powerful?”
Grimmek nodded, pointed down the beach.
“Just not too much for the hair to carry,” he replied.
The sun slid overhead, passed into afternoon. A misty golden light filled the sand forest, illuminating vanishing paths between the trees. Grimmek examined their growth as he sharpened the awl, carefully wore holes into the bits of shell Bait rushed over to him throughout the day. She was relentless, utterly focused, frequently freezing in place for long minutes as she evaluated the colour and worth of the whatever shards she found. Grimmek had gone inside once or twice, fetched bread and fruits, pulled the protesting siblings away from their respective tasks long enough to eat and rest. Switch, blinking, has emerged from the house after lunch with a few waterproof booklets and a rug to sit on, occasionally pausing to watch Bait dash up and down the coast.
Eventually, flush, exhausted, Bait sat next to her brother and he snipped nearly invisible hairs from the base of her neck that she collected in freshly-washed hands. The strands were braided into a smooth, round rope, glittering shell beads knotted in for strength. Bait paused half-way, shook a fly from her nose and looked at her brother.
Switch’s sigh, how he reluctantly folded the manuscript, hinted at a long-time argument that no longer needed words.
“Which one?” he asked and she smiled, flashing tiny, even teeth.
“The gypsy prince of the nomads and the fire princess, Yaa.”
“He wasn’t a prince.”
“He was when they got married.”
“No, then he was a king. And she was a queen. He was never a prince.”
“But *she* was a princess.”
“Yes.”
“He was very prince-like, in what he did. And his sons were princes.”
“He was still just the son of a Seer.”
“Why don’t you just tell the story?” Bait turned her attention to the necklace growing in her hands and the flash of annoyance in Switch’s eyes made him look as young as he really was.
“Fine. Brat.”
“It was 1347, and a boy, Hopelast, was born to the famous Seer of the blue light wastes, Vemdekkamorn, or Pearlsight as she was called. Her eyes were as white and as shiny as the bits of shell on your necklace. Her name had another meaning. Those were famine times, and the ships that sailed the wastes stopped bringing home game. So Pearlsight hunted beneath the hard earth and found treasure that they traded for food.”
“Get to the good part.”
“It’s all good parts.” Switch laid back and closed his eyes, voice measured and even with too many re-tellings.
“Hopelast grew, was brave and strong. He could best any man in combat, with sword or fists or spear and people said he had a bit of his mother’s gift, that would tell him where an enemy would strike next. For one eye was black, like all nomad eyes, but the other was green and this had never been seen before. He was still the most handsome man in the tribes and was well to the age where he should leave his name to children. But none of the women he knew would do. ‘Not one of these girls, however beautiful, kind, wise or wealthy, are all of these things and without such a wife, our people will never know greatness.’ Hopelast was jeered for his boasts, but many who had been defeated by him in battle or swayed by his charms wondered if this might be true.
It was the great summer festival, when bonfires as large as a castle were lit on the edge of the wastes, making night as bright as day. With everyone dancing and drinking at all hours, Hopelast and Pearlsight kept vigil over the largest fire of them all. At the stroke of midnight, a vision appeared to all gathered there, of a beautiful princess trapped in a tower of gold. The wavering flames could not hide her jet dark hair, her whitest skin, the wisdom in her eyes or her tenderness as she wept. A name came to everyone’s tongue, but only Pearlsight dared speak it. ‘She is Princess Yaa, daughter of the King of Flames, who rules the walled mountainhold far beyond the lava fields. For all her cunning and wisdom, trapped there until the bravest and strongest overthrown the city that has never been conquered.’
Hopelast knew he had found his bride. Getting to her though, that would be more difficult.
‘A thousand thousand men could not defeat the mountain fortress!’ the people cried to him.
‘Then I will take one hundred.’ And Hopelast set out with only one hundred of the strongest and bravest men from every tribe in the wastes.
The adventures they had would fill the largest of books, but at the end of a year, Hopelast, even stronger and more courageous than ever before, stood in front of the golden tower, hovering high above the instant death that waited in the lava fields. Princess Yaa, looking down, saw the man of her dreams in gleaming armour and a swirling black cloak and fell instantly, forever, in love.
‘No one can live on magic alone. There must be a way in,’ said Hopelast and disguised himself as a beggar, venturing into the mountainhold to learn what he could.
With mud on his face and his long hair tucked into his collar, no one recognized the dashing nomad. All spoke freely of the horrors the King of Flames visited upon them: maidens vanishing into the castle never to be heard from again, the bravest youths killed before their families, the endless numbers of his bloodthirsty army.
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