A Twist of Ether (35)

Her gaze triggered in me a spiraling of old memories, things I had not consciously thought of for years

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Shortly after dawn, Mother and I stood at Godiar’s door.

The servant, Shegla, let us in without comment — unsurprisingly, as I doubted we shared any common language. We sat as we had the night before.

Shegla went into the back room and returned with three small packages — our provisions for that day. She set one in front of Mother, one before me, and the other where Godiar could readily retrieve it.

Mother thanked her, and she bowed in acknowledgement before turning away.

As Shegla stepped out of the room, she glanced back. The look in her eye pierced me, sending me reeling. Her eyes held such emotion, such loathing, such despising, that had I not been seated already I might well have buckled under the weight of it. And I am not susceptible to such weaknesses.

Could Shegla be a mage in her own right?

I felt no hint of power around her, no twist of ether beyond the emotion itself. She had no agency. No ability. No Art. I dismissed it as the old bitterness of an old woman.

But my mind didn’t find ease. The gaze triggered in me a spiraling of old memories, things I had not consciously thought of for a number of years.

*

I step into the hall, and the hum of noise evaporates. They all turn to look at me. Hundreds of pairs of eyes. The weight of them all brings me to a halt.

The moment hangs like a chicken carcass waiting to be plucked, the last drip of blood falling to the sullied ground.

Blood is evident in their eyes. Murder. Malice. Contempt. Disgust.

My peers. My friends. My former allies. Unified, now, against me, in opposition to me.

And none of them care at all about the truth, only the convenient lie of the herd.

I didn’t do anything. It’s not my fault. I didn’t know.

I loved her more than anyone.

I am the one with the right to be raging, not them.

A rustle of sound echoes through the hall, as one of these slack-brained imbeciles turns away. The spell is broken, and many more turn from me. Most, though, continue to stare.

I have faltered, but I must go on. I step forward, striding through the empty space that has formed in the middle of the room, and that grows as I approach, as if each of them seeks to avoid the contagion of proximity to me. I repel them like we are opposite poles.

I have never felt more alone.

The parting crowd reveals a figure I had already been dreading, my dear friend, Old Master Grake. My tutor and guide for many years, for much of my time here. Old Master Grake, who gave me such wise counsel when I needed it the most. Old Master Grake, who honored me by speaking Peledarri to me in private moments, his fourth or fifth language, not the Abrilian which served as the school’s common tongue.

Hope and fear battle within me.

When I can see his eyes clearly, I falter again. Fear and dread have won. Even Grake has turned against me.

Indecision flashes on Grake’s face. The hall is once again silent, in anticipation of what might be said.

Grake sneers. Into the silence, he hisses, “Your father was right about you.”

I feel it like a punch to the gut. A wound inflicted so deliberately, so expertly, based on the years of shared confidences, of shared trust. I am bereft. My last friend has turned from me. Now I am truly alone.

Grake physically turns from me, as if he has dismissed me for the day, as if I am no longer relevant, no longer worthy of notice.

But I notice something now, finally. He had spoken the final words not in the Abrilian that the silent audience would all hear plainly and understand immediately, which would have humiliated me even further before them all, but in my native Peledarri.

The silent audience could hear the bitterness in the words, even if they didn’t understand the meaning.

And certainly, some few did understand, and would soon share the meaning and implications with huddled groups of gasping whisperers.

But, in this moment, speaking the words in Peledarri wasn’t only an attack designed specifically to hurt me. It was also a mercy, a gift.

The words cut more keenly, but, for now, they were intended for me alone. A necessary public rebuke, but—

*

“Araled?” Mother looked worried.

“It’s nothing.” I smiled, but she didn’t believe me, so I said, “Just remembering something from long ago. Not related to anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Now she nodded, and returned her gaze to the stairs.

Presently, Godiar descended the stairs, in loose robes that would ward off the afternoon sun but were surely inadequate for the morning chill.

Godiar took one look at me, amusement in his eyes.

I looked down at my clothes and realized that, at least in comparison to him, I was overdressed. Still, nothing could be done about it now.

Very soon after that, we were on our way out of the Mill Precinct, but the malice in Shegla’s gaze hung over me like a dark cloud.

Continue reading with Part 36.