Jo Clayton - Wild Magic

Everyone had to wait here, even the Amrapake. The mighty brought low, equal in Chumavayal’s sight with the sorriest of beggars.

The bearers quick-trotted across the court, their tanned hides slick with sweat.

Wenyarum Taleza settled himself in the chair, closed the door with a snap. “Walk beside me.”

Silently Faharmoy took his place.

His father slapped his hand on the door and the bearers started forward, walking a few steps, then breaking into a trot. Faharmoy loped along beside them, blessing Chumavayal that his road was down not up.

He brooded as he ran. Why now? Since he emerged from his mother’s womb, his sire hadn’t bothered with him beyond the yearly ceremonies of his birth, and he had to come to those or risk rumors about his son’s legitimacy.

Rumors…

Ah! It’s true, then. Famtoche’s making me his heir. He sneaked a quick look at his father, but there was nothing to read in that somber profile. What’s he up to? What’s he mean by this?

By the time the chair reached level ground and approached the Temple Gate, he was exhausted and panting, but he’d lost his fear; he was too angry any longer to care what happened to him.

Goddance. The Ninth Year

Abeyhamal buzzes in place, wings vibrating ., larynx vibrating, bee eyes on the black old man. Abruptly she flips the fimbo up and over, holds it away from her body, parallel to the Forge Floor. She bends her knees, turns her feet out and hop-shuffles at a slant to the Forge Fire. When she is even with the fire, she stops, glides backward to her starting point, her feet moving, the rest of her quite still, then she hop-shuffles at an opposite slant, pas de vee.

Faan began to find her strength, studying with the Sibyl; she ran the ways and wynds of the Edge with her friends, a hard bite to their play.

Chumavayal surges up from the stool, stamps the Forge Floor with feet turned out until the stone booms with the weight of the blows. With his left hand he brings the iron Hammer curling up over his head; with his right he snatches the Tongs from the Anvil and brings that curling up over his head. He clashes them together. Sparks fly.

The spring rains were late in Zam Fadogur, hot winds blew eternally from the western deserts, dried the earth to dust and blew it away.

Faharmoy Taleza na Banadah encounters Reyna and from the shock the Prophet is born.

The GodDance goes on.

Sibyl

The Wheel is turning, the Change is near

One by one the signs come clear.

Drought spreads as days warm

There’s death in the street

Honeychild storms

Rebellion is sweet

Magic goes freeform

And blooms in the heat

Honeychild. Itvelve now. Just tipped over puberty.

What a handful. She waxes her hair till it stands up in spikes. And she paints it green and orange and whatever color strikes her fancy-except for one long limber plait she wears falling across her face. Luck’s forelock, she says. My tribute to old Tungjii and hisser bald head, she says.

Nine years.

The Sibyl shakes her massive head, pulls the veils tighter about her shoulders; the hot wind is blowing strongly up the caves from the lava lake at the heart of Fogomalin, whipping wispy ends of white hair about her face.

Nine years since the Honeychild came.

Nine years since the Goddance began.

She closes her eyes. Her hands tighten on the finials; the black opal gleams.

Changes, so many changes.

Faharmoy the dedicated young scholar is a dedicated warrior now. Fervor is fervor; he would be the same whatever he did.

The Amrapake is pleased with him; he openly speaks of Faharmoy as his heir. In spite of this he hasn’t set his hand on Faharmoy’s head and proclaimed: You Are He.

The Sibyl .chuckles, shakes her massive head. Heirs have been known to hasten the Day.

As obtuse as ever, the General is busy making enemies with his arrogance.

Changes, so many changes.

The Salagaum grow more discreet; they carry their robes in a bag when they’re out and bind down their breasts.

And the Honeychild, ahhh!

Poor little Reyna, poor little Salagaum.

You picked up what you thought was a kitten and it turned to a tigress in your hands.

And it will get worse.

Ah diyo.

Faan dug in her shoulderbag, brought out a stub of candle and worked it into a crack in the cave floor. She poked at the wick with her finger, drew her hand back at a word from the Sibyl.

The Sibyl sang a note and the candle lit. “Focus on the flame,” she said, “that’s your lesson this week, that and nothing else.”

Focus on the flame.

Be one with it.

Understand it.

Tease out the currents in it and see how they clash and meld to make the light take shape.

Faan fixed her eyes on the fire, reached within, and found the means.

Slowly, painfully, it began to come apart; thread by thread she combed the light and separated the twisted strands…

Abruptly it broke away from her, expanded enormously and whooshed at her.

The Sibyl spoke-a word that shattered air, but made no sound.

The fire was gone. Banished.

Faan brushed ash from her face and scowled. “What did I do wrong this time?”

The Sibyl laughed. “Honey, honey, you’ve learned your lessons too well. Loosen up, be flexible-or barbecued.”

Faan rubbed irritably at her nose. “But you said…

“That was then when you needed it. This is now, when you need something else.”

“Vema. Let’s try it again.”

“Next lesson, honey. For now, we’re going to do wind. Let’s see you catch the wind.”

Faan squeezed one hand inside the other. “Tell me about my mother first; you know who she is, where she is, I know you do.”

“The answer is the same now as it was yesterday and the day and the day before that. I cannot speak to you of your mother.”

“Then tell me where I get this…” She snapped her fingers and tiny blue flames danced on the backs of her hands. “Tell me why!”

The Sibyl sighed. “The answer is the same now as it was yesterday and the day and the day before that. Consider, Honeychild. The wind blows and has power, but you can’t see it. It has layers and eddies like the river. Consider them. Touch them. Turn them this way and that. Consider the wind.”

Chapter 6. One Night And The Morning After

With Ailiki running in circles about them and chittering with excitement, Faan, Dossan and Ma’teesee slapped hands and hopped in a rocking, tail-switching dance, giggled, linked arms, and went strutting down the lane. “Wascra girls,” they caroled. “We are the Wascra girls.” They zigged and zagged and jigged along, broke apart to clap hands, linked elbows again. “Waste the wonkers, paste the ponkers,” they chanted, “Wascra Wascra Wascra we.”

A sailor off one of the coasters whistled at them, grabbed at Ma’teesee; he was soaked in mulimuli or high on bhagg, but he hadn’t lost his sure hand and he was strong as a bull saisai. Ma’teesee clawed at him; Faan and Dossan kicked and scratched, but he wouldn’t let go.

Peshalla the Ilivemer came roaring out, brought a heavy rungo down on the Mulehead’s wrist and broke his grip, then grabbed his collar and the seat of his pants and threw him down the nearest wynd, speeding him on his way with a heavy boot. He came back, dusting his hands and looking satisfied. “Get outta here, you scraps.” He chuckled, shook his head. “Wascra girls. Hunh!”

Two habatrizes leaned from an upper window, applauding loudly and Louok the Nimble tossed a copper moju to the girls as he went into Peshalla’s for his evening meal.