Proceed to Chapter 10
Lyss awakened just as the bells rang for breakfast on the morning of the Master’s Ceremony. Cursing herself for oversleeping on this of all days, she sprang up out of bed, pulling on clothes as she went. Two frenzied minutes later, she was sprinting down the corridor towards the dining hall. Pausing a moment before entering to hastily rake her fingers through her hair, she stepped into the Hall.
Everyone was already standing for Queen Laeleena’s daily toast. Lyss breathed a sigh of relief that the blessing had not yet begun. Slipping into her place at the Seven Years’ table next to Ella, Lyss raised her empty goblet, muttering angrily to her roommate, “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I tried. You kicked me,” Ella whispered back, eyes never flickering from the dais where Laeleena stood. “It hurt. For someone who claims to be inept at fighting without weapons, you did pretty well.” With her free hand, she raised the hem of her skirt to show a bruise that was just beginning to purple.
Lyss winced. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been kindof…”
Laeleena raised her hand for silence, cutting off Lyss’s apology. Turning slightly in order to view all the residents of the Castle, the First Queen smiled slightly, then began. “Today, fifteen of our own will take the final step to achieving their Masteries. Each time another Master is crowned, we come closer to defeating the dark and mending the Star. In the hectic preparations of the day, it is easy for those of us not involved in the ceremony itself to forget the true meaning of tonight’s proceedings: to honor those who have worked so hard for so many years. So this morning, I ask you to raise your glasses for fifteen exceptional people, soon to become fifteen exceptional Masters. May they be forever in the star, and in our hearts.”
“So mote it be….Inta baat liit…Qing taal…” The blessings echoed in so many different tongues throughout the hall, filling Lyss with a sense of power, of belonging. The Queen waited for the voices to die down, then spoke again.
“All Wind-followers to report to the banquet hall directly following breakfast; Sun to the forge or kitchens; fifth and sixth years to Master Ropa. Seventh years to the baths in ceremonial dress within the hour please. You may begin.”Hundreds of seats scraped and squeaked along the floor. Within a few seconds, chatter filled the air. Slenn absentmindedly chewed toast as he listened to Anna, the other Wind-follower, jabber on about silk dyes between mouthfuls of egg; Dugald and his fellow battlemage, Lars, debated the pros and cons of long versus short bows. Noone mentioned the upcoming ceremony, though the subject lay barely hidden beneath the surface of everyone’s conversations. Lyss simply allowed herself to sink into the sound of their voices, enjoying the last time she would sit at this table as a student. Looking around at the fourteen other faces, she wondered at how they would ever mend the Star. They were all great mages, but…they were so young. Slenn looked up from his breakfast and caught her eye, raising an eyebrow. Lyss tried to smile, and then thought of Slenn’s tapestry. The smile became genuine, and her anxiety ebbed. Anyone who could think of a Mastery like that could mend the Star.
Ella shrieked with frustration. The hundreds of small rings that marched up the side of Lyss’s ceremonial gown refused to be laced. Lyss had already spent the past half hour threading thin white rope through the tiny mother-of-pearl hoops sewn all the way down the bodice and sides of the skirt. Ella was just as frustrated as Lyss had been.
“Only five more,” Ella muttered through clenched teeth, as she kneeled by the hem of Lyss’s skirt, fingers fumbling with the cord. Lyss toyed with hair, twisting it up on the top of her head.
“Done!” Ella cheered, standing up to survey her handiwork. “There. With barely a moment to spare, too. Let’s go.” The two hurried out of the room, and into the hall, heading for the royal bath.Steam drifted from the bathhouses, rising up into the sky in great plumes of silvery-gray. Although it was summer, the air had not yet warmed to a temperature that made Lyss’s gown comfortable, and so she shivered as she walked quickly through the fields. A line of seventh-year girls stood outside one bathhouse, the boys another. All wore the simple white, buttonless garments of official ceremonial dress. Lyss and Ella ran to take their places on line. A connection Master, who Lyss could have sworn hadn’t been there a moment before, raised her hands for silence.
“One at a time will enter the bath house. Tell only fellow Masters what you see.” With that, the Master disappeared, translocating to some unknown place.
Lyss raised an eyebrow at Ella, who shrugged. From out of the bathhouse, a voice called, “Lysistrata.”
“Good luck,” Ella whispered.
“Thanks.”
Lyss had been in the ceremonial baths only once before, when she was first taken on as a student. Then, half a dozen students had been about, cleaning marble, preparing the water with lavendar. The baths were empty now. Lyss looked around, taking in the carved marble inner chamber, the hot spring pouring over the stones into the bath, which was little more than a bowl carved into the rock from thousands of years of the water flowing over the stones. Reaching to touch the water, she felt warmth sliding over her fingers. Should she get into the bath? She wasn’t even sure what the Bathing Ritual was all about. There were rumors that it determined your assignment following the Ceremony, but who knows? Nobody was allowed to tell a non-Master, anyway.
A hand tapped Lyss on the shoulder. She spun around, arms up in defense position. The room was still empty. Feeling foolish, Lyss relaxed, and then stiffened again, as she felt something whisper about her legs. Startled, she looked down. The laces were coming undone on her skirt. Instinctively, she felt with her magic, touching an incredible power…
“No magic.” The voice was thin and wispy, like the breeze through willow branches, sounding about as strong as a sapling, but Lyss obeyed. A hand slowly materialized on her skirt, then an arm, a body, a head, hair. Soon three shimmering shapes surrounded Lyss. One gestured to the laces at Lyss’s bodice, indicating that the shaking student should untie them. She did so warily, then slipped her dress over her head. Standing shivering in the morning cold, Lyss stared at the spirits.
“Better.” The voice was laughing.
Almost defiantly, Lyss stripped off her skirt and stepped into the pool, slipping into the water. Gasping from the sudden temperature change, she went for air again, and into the smiling face of a spirit. It handed her a tiny crystal mug, commanding, “Drink.” Lyss obliged, tasting sulphur and metal. She made a face, but swallowed. Dots appeared in front of her eyes. “Poison!” Lyss’s mind screamed. She desperately tried to find her fingers and mouth to induce vomiting.
“Hush,” a voice said. “It is only the Water of Sight. Wait a moment.”
As if at a signal, a picture appeared in front of her eyes. “Remember this,” the voice whispered.
Lyss was climbing a mountain, accompanied by a figure she couldn’t quite make out. It was summer: the grass was green, and Lyss was aware of an oppressing heat. With a start, she recognized the slope as one not far from the mines where she had spent her first few years of life. The image changed, and she saw an old, old man seated in a chair carved of stone. On his arm roosted an owl black as night. The scene changed again, and Lyss saw a great mass of swirling snow that parted for an instant to reveal a castle of ice.
And then Lyss was back in the bathhouse, standing now, the three figures relacing her gown with practiced fingers.
“We can tell you only this. Listen, and remember,” they told her.
“Child of noone, and of everything, who wears on her finger the elves’ ring, and Prince of the old times, son of the hills, who knows how to hear the Moon’s Eye’s trills, journey to the mountain, veiled by the mist, speak to Old Man Time, who holds the Eye on his fist. Go where he tells you, tarry not, ‘til what he told you to get, you have got. We know not the ending, only the start, So listen with your soul, and see with your heart.”
The last words of the chant echoed in the chamber as the spirits threaded the cord through the final loop on Lyss’s gown. Smiling, they stepped back to view their handiwork. “Perfect!” they declared. Lyss stared back, still dazed from the visions. One of the spirits gave her an appraising glance, them with a quick motion of her thin, silver arm, drew a tiny vial out of the air. She waved it under Lyss’s nose. For an instant, Lyss breathed in a scent she couldn’t name. The room sharpened into focus.
“Thank you,” Lyss whispered gratefully.
“Our pleasure, dear. You really must come back and visit us again. We have so few visitors, you see.”
Lyss nodded weakly, barely hearing their simultaneous chatter. The Eye…child of nothing…where did she know them from? She gasped. “The Star? I’m supposed to look for the Star?”
The spirits blinked, then regained their glittering smiles. “Why, of course. What did you think it was?”
“But…I’m not even officially a Master yet.” Lyss blanched.
“We’re counting on you. You’re the best we have…the two of you are.”
“Two?”
“Why, yes. Dugald, of course. Now, be a good girl and smile. There, that’s better. Just follow what you saw in the vision, and you’ll be off to a good start. Now off with you! We have others to deal with.” The spirits smiled, then curtsied. “Return in triumph.”
Lyss sank down into the formal court curtsey of respect. When she rose again, the strange spirits were gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
The Star? That was her assignment? And with Dugald? Lyss shook her head, sighing, then suddenly smiled. She would be going home! And after all, she had never really wanted a traditional post. This would at least leave her free to wander as she might. Lyss gathered up her skirts and gave an experimental spin, practicing her waltz on the smooth rock floor, then looked around for the door that led outside. It was high time she dressed for the ceremony.
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