Proceed to Chapter 7
Lyss awoke again later that night. The crystal witching-globes on the walls of the healing room glowed brightly, interspersed with torches. Trying to adjust to the flickering light, Lyss smiled with relief as she realized her head no longer ached. Beside her, someone coughed politely. Lyss turned stiffly to see who it was. Sitting in a small chair next to her bed, his lanky form stretched out with difficulty, was Christophe.
“You’re home!” Lyss cried, surprised. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it for the Mastery Ceremony. Dara said you would probably find some old book of spells and spend a few months lost in a library somewhere reading it.”
Christophe chuckled. “Callie knows me well, but not well enough. I wouldn’t have missed the Ceremony and the Ball for anything, especially not with you in it. Which reminds me, Mum Elfrida said that as soon as you feel well enough to be fussed over by those frazzled Moon Apprentices, you’d best go to be fitted for your gown and your robe. She said something else about slippers, but I couldn’t quite hear her…one of the Apprentices started crying because she’d made a mistake in the embroidery of the giant ElvinStar for the banquet that’s going to hang…Oops! I wasn’t supposed to mention that.” Christophe winked, then asked, “So do you feel well enough to walk there?”
Lyss nodded, then said, “I want to see Ella first, though. Where is she?”
“She’s already beat you to it…she’s at Mum’s being fitted…something lavendar, of course. We’ve all heard her dreaming of what her gown will look like. She was happy as an elf with pottery to be wearing her first dress in seven years that wasn’t pale blue or green. I’ll give you time to change. Just call me when you’re ready.”
Christophe rose from the chair, graceful as a cat, as always. Lyss had often marveled how he managed to keep track of his long limbs. With a quick salute to his charge, he strode out of the room, brows furrowed. As always his mind was on other things.
Lyss slipped into the simple green dress that one of the Healers had laid out by her bed. Brushing out her hair, she braided it into one long braid down her back. Around the end she tied a bit of string placed by her slippers. Gathering up the rest of her possessions, she tucked them into her pocket, then slid on her shoes.
Walking shakily at first and aware of the eyes that followed her from the other cots lined up against the wall, she finally made it across the room. Lyss leaned on the doorframe for a moment, staring into the cacophonous mayhem of the Wind corridor. The bell for the end of dinner had just rung, and a steady stream of people passed by the door. Some talked with companions, others walked alone, deep in thought. The stone walls caught the sound of their voices and muted them, tossing them to the ceiling, where they echoed loudly. Two small boys in the plain suits of Sun archers darted past. Lyss recognized one as Bryn, a patient whose broken arm she had healed several months before, and waved. He dashed over to see her, proudly displaying the tiny scar where the bone had poked through the skin.
“Healed good, di’n’t it?” he asked.
“Well,” Lyss corrected halfheartedly, still tired from her journey to the door. Where is Christophe, anyway? she muttered to herself.
She sighed, then realized that Bryn was searching her face, his own etched with worry. Lyss had joked to him about Arianna’s stern demeanor when he was at the Healer’s and had helped him with his writing when he stopped by her chambers in the Rim. Bryn couldn’t understand why she seemed so bored by him.
“I’m sorry, Bryn, I don’t mean to seem so mean, but I’m not feeling well. I just finished my last Mastery, and I’m exhausted. The Duke Finder said he’d be here to help me get to the Mum Elfrida’s, but I don’t see him anywhere.”
The tow-headed youth with bright blue eyes standing next to Bryn whispered nervously, “Laidy, beggin’ ya pardon, but I know where ‘e is.”
Lyss chuckled. “I’m no lady, I’m Lyss. No need to be shy. You’re from the Borderlands, aren’t you? I recognize your a’s and h’s. And who would you be?”
“Corl, Lyss. Me mother thought I was ta’world when I cime, so she nimed me Corl. Christophe told me that if I saw you, to sai that ‘e ‘ad to leave. A messenger brought ‘im something from the dwarves, and ‘e ‘ad t’see to it.”
Lyss winced. No doubt it was some gift for Dara. She was glad Christophe was so in love with her old weapons-teacher, but sometimes she wished for things to be back as they had once been, when her two best friends were only comrades. And now what would she do? She hadn’t the strength to reach the Wardrobe alone. Today was the last day for gowns for the ball to be fitted: after this, there wouldn’t be enough time for alterations and changes to style. Besides, she wanted to see her dress. Mum Elfrida had designed it herself as a surprise.
Bryn’s face visibly brightened. Without a word, he took heel and ran off, swerving between students and the occasional annoyed Master. Corl shrugged and rolled his eyes with a look that seemed to say “who knows?”, his timidity gone. Lyss giggled, gratefully leaning against the shoulder the small boy had offered, listening as he chattered.
“I ‘eard you were from Tiirlant, too. And you ‘ealed Ella, dintcha? Iveryone was talking about it, how e’en Queen Glenna couldn’t, and ya did. You’re going to be a StarMaster, aintcha?”
Lyss smiled. Corl reminded her of herself not long after she had begun training at ElvenHall, when she finally realized that noone would beat her if she talked too much. A dozen silence spells wouldn’t keep her quiet after that. She spoke just to hear her own voice, asking questions constantly and never giving the person she queried time to respond. Had she really had that accent, though? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she hadn’t: she didn’t remember Mistress Minn having it, and she spoke as her Mistress did.
Bryn appeared out of the now-thinning crowd in the hallway, still running. Winded, he paused a moment before speaking, then said, “My brother’s comin’. He’s behind me: I ran ahead.”
Lyss’s stomach lurched as she realized who Bryn’s brother was. Assigned to the Sun Queen like his younger brother, Dugald was rated second in this year’s graduating Masters, after only Lyss. One of the few who didn’t seem to mind that a girl two years younger than himself (for sixteen was the typical age to reach your Mastery) was poised to become StarMaster, Dugald excelled at weaponry. An almost unnerving archer, skilled swordsman, and brilliant tactician, the Martial Masters predicted he would become one of the most renowned warlords since the Breaking of the Star. Ella had been obsessed with him for a year, and Lyss had heard no end of the boy’s lithe, muscular body, and his grey eyes and dark black hair, which had earned him the nickname Shadow. Dugald was kind to Lyss, often speaking to her in classes, or greeting her in the halls, but she did not know him well. But kind or not, he was not the person she wanted to see her in this weakened state.
“Brynn, couldn’t you tell your…” she began.
It was too late: Dugald was already weaving through the crowd to cross the hallway. Seeing his brother and Corl standing by Lyss, he smiled in recognition and waved. “Ahnsii,” he greeted Corl when he reached the group, using the Borderland word, then offered Lyss his arm. “G’day, Lyss. Shall we be off?”
“Please, Dugald.”
As Corl and Brynn raced on ahead, weaving among brightly-clad students and Masters and laughing as they played, Lyss and Dugald walked at a more leisurely pace. Lyss leaned heavily against Dugald’s arm, ashamed at her own weakness. Little by little, however, the floor began to rock and spin less and less beneath her feet, and Lyss relaxed. They continued in silence, until finally Dugald spoke:
“My congratulations on completing your Masteries, and my thanks for healing Ella. We were all concerned for her, and so we are indebted to you.”
“My thanks, Dugald, but I prithee remember that I healed Ella for selfish reasons: she is like a sister to me. I did no good deed in helping her,” Lyss replied. She cursed silently. Why did he have to begin this endless string of pointless pleasantries? It could go on forever: the average time was about half an hour. Although Christophe had taught her well in the usage of “court speech,” she hated it. If only she could just tell him to stop… Lyss grinned suddenly. Well, why not?
“Dugald, I hate to be rude, but I’m far too tired to remember the different verbs for ‘to be’ for a duke as opposed to a page.” Lyss’s eyes twinkled merrily. “I’m afraid I’ll call you a petrified rabbit. Remember?”
Beside her, Dugald stopped abruptly, shaking with silent laughter. Two Masters in the iridescent robes of mages walked past, staring at him oddly. “Oh, Laeleena! You mean when Slenn mixed up his vowels and called the Yinlang ambassador a terrified bunny at the feast held in the ambassador’s honor? I’ll never forget it: Slenn standing, shocked, as he realized what he’d done; everyone, even the Queens, trying to hide their laughter behind their handkerchiefs; and the ambassador, sitting, his nose twitching madly….”
“…just like a cornered rabbit,” Lyss finished, smiling. She slipped her hand back into the crook of Dugald’s elbow and the two continued walking, still chuckling, ignoring the quizzical stares from others in the Moon corridor. “Did you know what Slenn did for his Weaving Mastery? He made a giant, animated tapestry of a hunt: these monstrous, drooling, red-eyed hounds galloping through the woods, and finally stopping in front of a bush, in front of it which sits, tiny pink nose twitching like there’s no tomorrow…a rabbit. The Healers said Mum Elfrida couldn’t stop laughing when she saw it. One of the Apprentices found her and Queen Celia standing in front of it, tears streaming down their cheeks. When he asked them what was wrong, they just laughed and said ‘be careful what you say.’ He didn’t know what to make of it.”
Dugald chuckled. “Good old Slenn. He was always rather absentminded: his full name is Slennya, for Dreamer, and rightfully so. He was the one who taught me the Borderland dialect, though: he comes from the mountains there. I used to room with him, years ago. He always had a story to tell. We used to say he should have been a bard instead of a weaver. Speaking of weavers, here we are.”
The Elvin Star:
Prologue | 1
| 2 | 3 | 4
| 5 | 6 | 7
| 8 | 9 | 10
| 11
Short Stories:
For Robbie
Poems:
Wizard | White
Witch
©1999-2002 Lizbeth