Falsestone

A new harvest of rot comes through the port doors. Sheets of bark are piled on a wagon, each speckled with red and blue fungus. The smell hits me. The harvesters treat the wood with vinegar and ash and it all gives off a stench like potatoes left in a cellar of a long dead gardener.

Mayar, the Scholarch of Weathward Tower, holds a kerchief to her nose and greets Arn Troff. Mayar is slender and dressed in yellow silks. She glides when she walks, as though on ice. Arn is a giant plodding man, with a wild grey beard draped over a filthy tunic, and a belly that rivals any of my father’s prized sows.

“Only one?” Mayar says. Her gaze rises to Arn’s son, Bohdy, who’s atop Ressia, the Troff’s packhorse.

“Scavengers,” Arn says. He drops his head. “They picked two wagons off us.”

Mayar’s chest glows white under her silks.

Bohdy gives me a wink. What have you done? Arn knows better than to lie. Doesn’t he?

Mayar’s light goes out. “Where were the Baron’s men?”

“The lot of them got in to lady Wesser’s reed wine last night,” Arn says “I couldn’t wait for them to stop casting demons this morn, or we’d risk spoiling the rot.” Arn throws a thick finger my way and his big belly shakes. “Ask Ganny. A few cups of it and ya be dancing stark and singing to the stars.”

All nine of the other acolyte’s stare at me. How mortifying. “I never–”

“I’ll send word to the Baron to have them replaced,” Mayar says. “You shouldn’t be in danger because of their incompetence. Was anyone hurt?”

Bohdy leaps off Ressia and pulls his tunic down past his collarbone. Thick purple pricked with still weeping blood covers his shoulder. I gasp.

“One of them got me with a pummel,” Bohdy says. He slaps the axe handle at his waist. “But I got some justice, and a couple of fingers.”

“Ganna,” Mayar says. “Take him to the apothecary. Nettle balm and willow powder. I trust you know the application?”

“Yes, Scholarch,” I say.

“Good. The rest of you unload this. We’ll make due with the short supply. Perhaps it will motivate some of you to not waste what we have.”

I can’t bear to look at her. I know she’s talking about me. Nearly a year at Weathward and I’m still no closer to being a mage than my first day here.

“So, have you done it yet?” Bohdy says, as we head up the stairs. He has a skill for saying the wrong things at the wrong time.

“No."

He trounces two stairs at a time and leaps ahead of me. I’m winded by the second flight.

“It’ll come,” Bohdy says. “I remember starting out. I couldn’t back-cut a hinge for years. Then all a sudden, one day I–”

“It’s not the same. Every other acolyte has made a stone, and I have nothing. Not even a falsestone. Trinia’s made sage. She’s not yet fourteen.”

“Ganny, take a breath.” Bohdy says.

“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t know the pressure of—”

“No, take a breath now. You’re huffing like a spooked whitetail.”

“On your left,” I say. I stop and breathe while Bohdy shoulders open the apothecary door.

“So what really happened?”

Bohdy winces as I press the nettle balm onto his shoulder. “That hurts.”

“Stop squirming. And stop wiggling your words. Was Arn lying about the Scavengers?”

“You think he’d lie to the Scholarch? Everyone knows she can sniff out a fib.”

“I know you’re not telling me the full of it.

Bohdy pushes my hand away. “This ain’t from Scavengers.”

“Who?”

“The Baron’s men”

“What did you do?”

“Defended my home. Our home. The soldiers were drunk and rowdy, like pa said. A few of them were after Wessel’s girl, and they weren’t taking no’s.”

“Auby? She’s barely of age.”

“Beasts, I know. Weren’t only me that went after them. Pa, your pa—”

“What? They’ll torch Northtap. You all have to leave.”

“Quiet.” Bohdy puts a finger to my lips. “We handled it.”

“How? The Baron will know his men are missing.”

“He’s already got em back.” Bohdy smiles. “Pa wasn’t lying about the Scavengers. They got two of our wagons. It was the price for them to claim an attack. And they’ve sent soldier heads back to the Baron. Not a drop of blood will stick to our hands.”

“You should’ve come here and told Mayar. She wouldn’t stand for–-”

“Ganny, every mage works for the Baron. And every fancy furnishing in this place is paid for by his coin. The Scholarch and him are so far up each other’s behinds they can taste each other’s supper.”

“You’re disgusting”

“No. Those men were. Do you think Auby was the only gal to fall under a Volshire boot? Do you think she’ll be the last? We need to take a swing at that beastmaster.”

“Here.” I slap a tin of powdered willow bark in his hands. “Mix it with hot water and drink it two times a day. “There’s nothing more I can do for you.”

“There is. Become a mage. We might need you.” Bohdy dons his tunic. He’s all sinew and muscle. Was Arn once lean too? Will Bohdan Troff get old and fat like his dad? I can only hope so.

Bohdy leaves and I sit on a bench in the apothecary. I want to go to my family and convince them to run. But I can’t. When I took my oath, I also took a vial of tracker's liquor. It’s for your protection, Mayar said, Scavengers kidnap mages and force them to make stone.

Besides, I don’t want to leave. Gods, you knothead, why did you tell me this? If I stay and Mayar questions me she’ll find out. If I leave, they will find me and surely hang us all. No…she won’t question me, there’s nothing for her to suspect. I was here, and I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason for—

“Ganna, is everything alright?”

Mayar’s at the door. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“It’s quite a mess isn’t it?” she says.

"What is?" What do you know?

“Are you being smart? This room is filthy. Not your doing. Healer Jessin is as slovenly as he is skilled. But you can tidy it up before you leave.”

“Oh, yes of course.”

“Thank you dear. After you’re done, come see me in the athanora, I have something to discuss with you,” she says, before closing the door behind her.

—-

Mayar attends to the undying flame inside the fire-brick furnace that stretches up five floors. It’s the only athanor in all of the Barony, and all aspiring mages dream of a spot at one of the ten alembic stations surrounding it. It was my dream once, but I have come to loathe this place, and my failures here. And now, I dread stepping inside.

“You’re not the only one, you know.” Mayar says. She closes the egg-shaped vessel nestled in the furnace. After a few days of slow heating, distilling, and mixing with the mother liquor, the rot will be transformed into the prima - the base substance from which all magic stones are born.

She dusts her hands and turns to me. “I know of an acolyte that didn’t see their first crystal until well into their second year. And it wasn’t from a lack of skill. You see, this whole process of taking what’s raw, what’s rotten, and patiently distilling it, caring for it, it’s not only about the purity of the prima, it’s also about what’s inside you.”

“So there’s something wrong with me then?”

Mayar laughs. “Of course. There’s something wrong with all of us. But before we become mages, we must break the spells inside us. We must know what’s hidden.”

“You think I’m hiding something?”

“Not from me dear, from yourself. There’s a thorn in you that slows every step forward.”

“How can I remove it? All I want is to make a stone.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean? To be mage is what countless people dream of.”

“All for different reasons. It’s not easy to get here. The studies, the sacrifices, the tests upon tests. All need some driving force to keep them going. Some dream of torching a tormentor. Others want to bend wills to feed desire. We voice the lofty ideals, but there’s always a deeper personal reason for seeking the power granted here. What’s yours?”

“Pigs,” I say

Mayar raises a brow.

“My father is a hog farmer. My mother and her family too. Every morning it was my job to feed them.”

“I see,” Mayar says. “And you resented it.”

“No. I loved seeing those little piglets grow and I hated seeing them to the slaughter. I saw myself in them. Born into a world I didn’t choose, trapped by it, with death closer every day. Coming here was my escape from that. To be free to choose my path.”

Mayar laughs. “That acolyte I told you about. Who couldn’t fashion a stone. Her family raised chickens.”

“What came of her?”

“She became a Scholarch.”

“You?”

Mayar nods. “I don’t proclaim to know what’s in your soul. But I can tell you how painful it was to realize that those I loved and admired my whole life had small minds with small ideas. Sometimes, disastrous ideas.”

I’ve never noticed the golden hues in her hazel eyes. Though she’s never stared so intently at me before. She knows.

“What should I do?”

“Most spend their lives pushing away their pain. You must embrace it. You can’t pluck a thorn unless you know where it is.” Mayar pats my shoulder. “Tomorrow is another day, and another chance to be a mage,” she says as she walks out of the athanora.

—

A week at my alembic and another week of failure. One late moon, I had a nightstone in my hands, and it shattered as quickly as it formed. Trinia embraced me while I sobbed. All I could feel was her pity. She did help. My anger cleared up my tears.

What thorn? What pain do I need to feel? Mayar said hers was the recognition that those around her were knotheads. But it’s not mine. I realized that when I was ten. Save for my mother, who must be the smartest hog farmer in all the realm. If she had the chance, she would’ve made sage by now.

“Everyone!” Mayar says. “The harvesters are on their way. Clean your stations and prepare the loading bay.”

They’re early? “Scholarch, my prima is only half distilled. ” I say. “I don’t wish to waste it.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” Mayar says. “And from your efforts this week, I don’t see it as a great concern.”

Trinia walks over to my station. “Did you need help cleaning up?” she says.

I don’t reply. I dump the black sludge in my still into the waste barrel. The healers use it for a balm that helps treat insect bites. There’ll not be a single itchy bump in Otham from my efforts.

We head to the port doors and Ressia comes through with three wagons hitched behind her.

Father?

“Ganny,” my father says. He comes through the doors with open arms. All the acolyte eyes are on me again, but I don’t care. I run to his embrace.

“Why are you here?” I say.

“Arn needed a hand today. Poor sap’s feeling the frost,” he says to the room. He drops his head to my ear. “He was taken. You must come with us. We’re leaving Northtap.”

The Baron found out? Was it Mayar who told him? I should have left, I should have never met with her.

“I can’t. She’ll find us.”

“She knows?”

“I don’t know.”

“Madam Scholarch,” father says. “Ganny’s ma is missing her dearly. Could we take her off your hands for a night?”

“That is not my decision,” Mayar says. “All acolytes must stay here until they’ve made a stone, or they quit. Ganna has only one option.”

Father looks at me. “Well?”

“I’m not leaving.” I will only lead you to the slaughter.

Bohdy leaps off Ressia. “She ain’t coming then. Let’s get unloaded, so she can hurry up and make her stone.”

The acolytes come forward with barrows. “I have to work,” I say. Father blinks hard, fighting to keep composure. Will this be the last time I see him? He squeezes my palm and lets me go.

“Come help me with this tie. I need some tiny fingers,” Bohdy says. He walks to the back of the last wagon and gestures for me.

“The scavengers need prima.” he whispers. “They got a mage who can turn sunstone. It’ll give us a chance.”

“I can’t walk out of here with prima.”

“I’m not asking you to. That healer, Jessin, he’s with us. He said all you gotta do is pour some fresh stuff in the waste barrel and he’ll take care of the rest.”

“This is all too much.”

“Please. I must break him out.” Bohdy’s eyes are red and swollen. He’s unshaven and looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Okay,” I say.

Bohdy frees the knot. “Knew you could do it,” he shouts. “Alright, bring them barrows over and be quick about it. You’re not the only ones with distilled liquor to attend to.”

The unloading goes quickly. My father pleads once more for me to come, and once more I refuse. He takes the silver and leaves.

—

“Trinia, I need your help.”

“You do?” She looks surprised.

“I’m sorry I was cross. I’m beyond frustrated,” I say. “Could I use your station? I’m not stopping until I have a stone and the double batch would help.”

“You don’t have to run both,” Trinia says. “I’ll make it for you. And I’ll brew some ginger tea and stay up with you as late as it takes.”

Always so cheerful and helpful. We’d be great friends if I didn’t hate you so much.

“You’re a true sage,” I say. Trinia smiles and goes off to her alembic.

One by one, the other acolytes leave. I’m on my final circulation when my vessel cracks and the prima leaks out.

No...no…no. “Curse everything!” I shout.

“What is it?” Trinia says.

“It cracked. It’s ruined. I’m useless.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Trinia puts a hand on my shoulder. “My batch is fine.”

I slap her hand away. “Of course it is.”

“You hate me, don’t you?” Trinia says.

“No. I don’t hate you. You’re everything I wish I was. But I’m not you. I hate myself. I hate this.” I smash the alembic on the ground and the cloudy white solution spills at my feet. “I don’t want to be a mage. I only did it because I thought it would free me, because everyone said I should. But I’m even more trapped here than I was with the pigs.”

Trinia’s mouth hangs open.

“What? My family are hog farmers. Is that some great shame?”

“Look,” she says. “Sagestone.”

At my feet, a crystal has formed. It’s red with yellow streaks like sun rays bursting from the center.

“It’s falsestone, you knothead” I pick it up. “See, no glow.”

Trinia’s cheerful smile is gone. I have to think about Arn, about my family. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. Again. Your batch is ready?”

“Yes”

“Good, let’s get rid of it. I’m starving.”

“You can’t waste pure prima,” she says.

“Watch me.” I pour from her alembic into a pot, and head to the waste barrel.

Bohdy, I hope this is enough.

“What are you doing with that?” Mayar says.

I freeze.

“It was a bad batch Scholarch,” Trinia says. “She was helping me—”

“Trinia. Leave us.”

Mayar walks to me. I turn and face her.

“Put that down,” she says.

“You know. Don’t you? You told the Baron.”

Mayer sighs. “What those soldiers did was vile. But justice and vengeance are two different things. The Northap posse murdered three innocent men to get to the guilty.”

“Posse? You mean my family, my friends? Those defending an innocent victim.”

“Your family is safe. The Baron knows nothing of their involvement. But Jessin has confessed. Whatever that harvester boy thinks is going to happen, is not happening.”

“And what of him, and Arn?”

“Someone has to face justice. Put the pot down and return to your room. I can’t let you waste your potential for the sake of the small folk.”

“No.”

“I know what you’re feeling. You want the realm to change. We all do. But as I said, change happens on the inside. And you won’t change a thing from a cell or the end of a noose.”

“Change? This is not a place of change. This is a place to keep things exactly how they are. It’s a cage, to keep the minds that could threaten the Baron’s rule under lock. And you are the jailor. I’m done. I quit. And I’m leaving with this out the front doors. You’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

I walk forward, trembling with every step.

“Oh my dear, I don’t need to kill you, to stop you.” She throws open her robe and holds her sagestone pendant forward. A net of light shoots forth.

“No!” My hand grows hot. A burst of yellow rays shoots from my fingers and they scatter her net. Mayar is thrust back and hits the floor.

“You made sage,” she says. She’s smiling.

My hand pulses. I feel a surge of energy coursing through me. Like I could leap and take flight. Like I could snap my fingers and cast the Scholarch into the undying flame.

“You will make a great mage,” she says.

“I don’t want to be a mage. I want to free my friend.”

And now it’s time to fight.