Rowyn Bluethorn dumped another crate of artifacts and antique rubbish on top of the worktable. Billowing dust made her sneeze hard. Her eyes burned, her head and her back ached from long hours spent in the poorly lit chamber. A single mage-light—all that Tor Dekar would spare—cast a circle of dim light. The rest of the windowless room remained in shadow.
She hated it. She hated Master Dekar and his thin, cold smile. She hated the endless trunks, crates, sacks, and chests filled with useless oddments made in obscure places for unknown reasons. She hated being forced to work below the ground, far from the light of the sun. Most of all, she hated being ‘dakiin.’ Children orphaned before reaching legal age, the dakiin had no rights. They were appropriated along with the rest of the deceased’s property, automatic slaves of the state. The rich could afford to purchase freedom for their unfortunate relatives, if they so desired. Rowyn’s grandfather had found nothing desirable in the skinny, unruly offspring of his disgraced son, no matter the level of prestige the latter had attained. And Rowyn, for her part, found nothing desirable—or just—about slavery. She would be free, somehow, some way…
She had a feeling that Tor Dekar knew how she felt, though she’d gone to great lengths to keep the extent of her hatred to herself. He had a way of looking at her: weighing, analyzing, judging. How much hatred and resentment? What would it take to break her? Would she still be useful when he was done?
With a snarl, she shoved the rubble away with both hands, clearing a small half circle on the table. It was her job to sort through the mess, separating each piece by shape, size, and composition. Someone else catalogued the junk before storing it elsewhere.
Tor Dekar was proud of his appointment as Director of State Museums and Libraries. Under his expert eye, every last item from statue to ancient utensil to chunk of rock would be cleaned, indexed and ordered. Rowyn was sure (in her heart if not her head) that she was the only one assigned to the monumental task. Master Dekar didn’t like the streak of rebellion he often saw flickering in her eyes and had come up with the perfect cure: darkness and isolation.
She slept in a dark little cubicle on a thin pallet, ate the meals delivered to her at dawn and dusk, bathed on the prescribed day each fortnight, and took care of personal necessities in the reeking water closet at the end of the passageway. That’s what he called it, anyway. Rowyn had other names for it. The gloomy vaults first swallowed the sun, then time. She’d long ago lost track of the days, and even the seasons. She would never admit to herself or to anyone else that she would never be free, that when she’d outlived her usefulness she’d be put down like a useless workhorse. Or a dog.
Contemplating vengeance on her master kept alight a fire within her that might otherwise have dwindled to nothing. She would stuff him in the latrine head first. She would make him sleep on the bare stone floor. In the dark. She would put rats in the room with him. She would have his head shorn of all his lovely raven locks and give him a job that would leave his carefully manicured nails ripped and dirty.
With another snarl, half hopeless and half raging, she reached for another trinket. A tingle ran up her arm from fingertips to elbow before she dropped the thing with a startled yelp. It thumped against the table and rolled to a stop in the cleared space under the feeble light. A plain-looking gray stone, slightly oval, it bore strange lines that began at the wider end and met in irregular points at the narrower end. A flower? She wondered. If so, it was extremely primitive. With another bit of refuse, she nudged the thing around, deciding the lines looked more like flames than a flower. It would fit easily, comfortably within her palm. Hesitantly, she touched it with her finger. Again the tingling sensation rippled up her arm—then further. It didn’t hurt at all, and the longer she let it go on, the warmer she felt. It was not warmth in the sense of heat, but rather the sense of emotion and heightened mental awareness. She took it in her palm, and a sense of power seeped into her body and mind. It was a strange experience, like being filled with wave after wave of tiny bubbles.
“What are you?” she whispered.
A breath of air tickled her ears.
Amazing. Was it magic? A stab of excitement pierced her. How would it work? What could it do? She sent a nervous look over her shoulder. Was that someone, crouched over there against the boxes? “Blazes, I wish I could see better!” she muttered.
The mage-light over the worktable flared brilliantly and held for as long as it took Rowyn to utter a shriek of surprise and drop the stone. She heard it roll, then stop with a dull thunk. “I’ll never find it in this stinking dark rat’s nest,” she growled. Grabbing the mage-light, she held it down near the floor. One slow sweep revealed nothing but dust. With a sigh, she got down on her hands and knees to search through all the dusty, spider-webby corners.
#
Hours—no, days—of experimentation taught her little, if anything. The magical stone responded only randomly to her requests. Light was easy, warmth unpredictable and not long-lasting. The size of her dawn meal doubled, but she couldn’t duplicate the action with her dinner. Despite her lack of progress, excitement burned within her. How much could she accomplish with a little magic? She needed to learn more about the stone. What if the answers lay as close as the Library where the cataloging was done?
Reluctant to take her treasure with her in case she was captured and searched, she hid it in plain sight on top of yet another box of junk, fifth stack from the door. Five was her lucky number. Up the cellar stairs Rowyn crept, barefoot and swathed in shadows. Her pounding heart did not give her away to the single guard dozing at his post, nor to the pair pacing the huge landing on the floor above that. Back and forth they went across the wide space, turning at the walls, passing in the middle. When they turned their backs, she darted across, secret as a whisper.
Her scoffing at the number of guards Tor Dekar employed to protect his dusty relics and the handful of slaves he claimed turned to trepidation when she reached the main staircase. If she met someone else coming down, she’d have nowhere to hide. A heavy candlestick solved that problem: she’d spring at her foe and clobber him senseless. Padding silently up the stairs, she hugged the wall where the shadows hung deepest. A waning moon provided scant light, but there weren’t many windows to let it in.
At the top, she hesitated. She knew that the room was on this floor; she’d heard one of the catalogers complaining about having to come up three flights of stairs to the Library. So, now which way? It was six to one, half a dozen to the other. She turned left. She could just make out the shapes of the plaques that hung on each set of doors, identifying what lay beyond, but it was too dark to read them. She frowned and tugged impatiently on her lower lip. She wished she had dared to bring the stone. A little light would be nice…
Tracing the lettering on the plaque, she deciphered the words ‘director of’ and stopped. It was not the one she was looking for. She proceeded slowly from door to door, one, two, three, four. The lucky fifth was the Library. Her triumphant grin lasted only a moment. What if it was locked? Only one way to find out. She lifted the latch slowly, and the great door swung open on well-oiled hinges. The pitch blackness inside suggested that the windows—if there were any—were covered.
Half by cautious feel and half by the scent of herb-infused oil, she located a lamp on the huge desk that faced the door. Nostalgia bit at her. When she’d been young (it seemed like a hundred years ago), she’d helped her mother crush rosemary leaves to steep in the oil with other fragrances. This oil smelled different, but still lovely.
Finding a flint and striker in a drawer, she soon had light. Closing the door to the corridor, she lifted the lamp and turned around. For the first moment or two, Rowyn stood in silent awe. Her parents had owned a considerable number of books, but comparing their books to these was like comparing a sandpile to the beach. Rows and rows of bookshelves as tall as the ceiling marched away into the shadows.
“Well,” she whispered, “gawking will get you nowhere, Rowyn Bluethorn.” Smoothing her wildly curly locks away from her face, she bound them in a tight braid and went to work. Her fingers skipped adoringly over the bindings. Eventually, she came to the great index cabinet that stood in the center of the room. It seemed to take forever just to figure the system out, and then another eternity to find the books she thought she needed. It was nearing dawn—she knew because she kept creeping to the velvet-draped windows to peek out—before she finally found what she was looking for: a carefully drawn and shaded picture of her stone and, beside it, the title, “Mir Stone.” Beneath that the description read: “or Mirror Stone. Created by the Wizards of the Flame some time previous to the forming of the Great Church, 3rd Measure. Ref. ‘Basic Teachings of the Early World’ by Taroy Mandiel, 9th Measure. Believed to function as a mirror or focus for the powers of magic within the user. Some evidence supports the view that the Mir Stone, when used properly, also amplified the wizard’s ability. 14 originals. 2 broken (inoperative). 11 presumed lost. Last known appearance of the surviving Stone is recorded at the Temple of the Pillars by—”
“Ah, what have we here?” Tor Dekar’s mocking voice cut across the room like a whip.
Rowyn slammed the book shut and leaped to her feet, heart in her throat. How had she not heard him come in? Her eyes narrowed and her chin came up.
Approaching her, Dekar gently pried the book away to run his fingers over the embossed leather. One brow hooked questioningly. “Lost Secrets of the Ancients? Such profound works for a child of your age—and position.”
Rowyn didn’t answer him, but stared at a point past his shoulder.
“Do you know slaves are not allowed to read except as specifically assigned?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.” She was furious that she had allowed herself to be caught.
“Really.” It wasn’t a question. “Was it enjoyable reading? Did you learn anything?” Tucking the book under one arm, he stepped close to her and his finger came under her chin to force her head up so he could see her face. Light from the lamp on the floor cast shadows over his features, pulling them into a demonic mask.
Rowyn’s only response was to press her lips together more tightly.
Tor Dekar smiled. “I hope that it was worth the price.” He held her there for a long moment, his glittering eyes only inches from hers. His breath fanned her cheek, warm and sweet. She suppressed a shudder and suddenly he let go of her. “Take her,” he said, turning away.
The guards appeared as if out of thin air, grasping her arms firmly and leading her away, their faces immobile and their eyes expressionless.
#
For a long time Rowyn drifted in and out of consciousness, struggling to grasp any single thought. After a while the pain caught her attention. She fought against it at first, against her own helplessness in facing it. It was a devil jabbing and prodding her mercilessly, but it was a constant—something she could focus on. Eventually, other thoughts began to gather in tattered bits: her name and who she was, dust, darkness, Tor Dekar, the Library… Memory of the journey back to the cellars brought her to tears. The guards had taken her to a portion of the underground vaults she’d never seen before and locked her up.
Was that all her punishment would be? A few days in a room with no light?
Of course not. Tor Dekar meant to teach her a lasting lesson in obedience, and one day a tall, expressionless man had come to the room to do just that.
“Don’t cripple her,” Dekar instructed, “and don’t leave any permanent scars. She’s fetching enough I can still get a good price for her.”
The room was large, but not large enough to evade the reach of the tall man, who soon had Rowyn manacled, then hung like a side of beef from a chain attached to the ceiling. She didn’t even see the first blow coming, but she certainly felt it.
“No!” she cried. “I’m sorry! I’ll do what you say, I swear!” The words tumbled out of her mouth like rain tumbling off a roof.
Tor Dekar ignored her begging and watched for awhile, the familiar thin smile warping his mouth.
Rowyn’s screams of pain fused with her screams of rage until her throat was as bruised as her body. When she could make no more noise, and could cry no more tears, the tall man took her down and carried her away as if she weighed no more than a child’s doll. Then he dropped her into endless darkness.
Now—hours or even days later—she sucked in a deep breath and willed her eyes open. Nothing. Panic stabbed her. Utter, complete darkness filled her vision. He’d blinded her! She jerked herself upright—only to be stopped abruptly. A chain rattled as she fell on her face with a thin scream of agony. Pain radiated from the point of impact to head, neck, shoulders and back. She lay still for a long time, until tears of shock subsided. Until the ragged breathing smoothed and perception regained its footing.
“Be sensible,” she told herself, her voice the rasp of one of her rubble boxes dragged across the floor. “He wouldn’t have blinded me. That would ruin his profit.” The chain jangled as she lifted a shaking hand to rub her eyes. How could one person simply trade another for coin? As if the one sold was not an actual living, breathing, feeling human being…
Following the chain to a bolt in the wall, she pulled herself up to lean against the cold stone. Every muscle protested. Every bruise and break made itself known in vivid detail.
Why should she be so harshly punished because her parents had died? Why was it wrong for her to live a life of freedom? She’d been born to it, raised in it—only to have it cruelly ripped from her in one brief, searing moment of disaster. The State Community Home ignored her grief and enshrouded her in degradation and humiliation.
At the ripe age of twelve, only three years after her parent’s death, she’d been eligible for market. Three masters and four years later, Tor Dekar purchased her. The price had been ridiculously low, and she’d exulted in it until Dekar had punished her the first time for her little bursts of rebelliousness. She had seen in his eyes that here was where hope stopped. Well, maybe for anyone else, but not for her. Never for her.
Hope and purpose burned in her breast.
She waited to heal.
She waited to discover whether Master Dekar would sell her or return her to the suffocating, dusty tombs beneath the museum. And, for the first time in a long time, she worried. What if Master Dekar assigned someone else to sort through her rubbish and came across the Mir Stone? What if she’d lost forever the unbelievable miracle that had fallen in her lap?
The stone was important, but it wasn’t everything.
The book had said the stone merely reflected what someone already possessed. Until that moment, she’d had no inkling she had any power at all. Magic was a fey thing, and there was no predicting where it would show up. She had always thought, though, that it would be more obvious, like accidentally setting things on fire, or suddenly becoming invisible. She could do neither. She’d wished it often enough. Maybe magic—her magic—was small and weak. If she practiced, it might grow. But try as she might, she could not turn the weak, tasteless broth delivered twice a day into a roast, nor even into two bowls of slop.
Time oozed. The surrounding darkness may have been night, or it could as well have been day. She remembered vividly her relief the first time her jailor brought her food. She carried a weak light, but Rowyn welcomed the wrenching pain it had caused her eyes. She ate her awful meals. She suffered the ministrations of the jailor; after all, she would need her health and strength to leave this awful place. The woman was not unkind, but neither did she help any more than strictly necessary.
Finally, thankfully, one of the guards freed her from her cell. He walked her back to her old room and pointed to a bucket of water and a clean stack of clothes. “Wash the stink off and get back to work.”
Nothing more than that, and no lecture or gloating from the master, either. She was only a slave, after all.
The icy water made her shiver. The loose tunic and britches—slave gray—scratched her skin. It took forever to work the snarls out of her hair with the broken wooden comb she claimed as her own. For a miracle, no one had taken it.
Not one to procrastinate the inevitable, Rowyn marched to the long, narrow sorting room and barked the magical word that brought the mage-light to life. Bracing herself, she counted the stacks of boxes. One, two, three, four, five… Seeing the Mir Stone exactly where she’d left it took her knees right out from under her. Hugging herself, she laughed silently, nearly hysterical with relief.
#
Today was The Day.
Rowyn awoke in her dim little cubicle with excitement and anxiety trembling through her. For weeks, she’d laid careful plans, tucked the things she would need into a secret place, and practiced using the Mir Stone. The thing never seemed to work in quite the same way twice. She refused to give in to impatience. There was more than enough time to iron out the wrinkles, and far too much at stake.
Security was her main concern. Tor Dekar had guards stationed at every door and no one passed without their notice. Only a select few had permission to go in and out on a regular basis. Rowyn didn’t need permission, she needed to pass unseen.
She could do that—she just couldn’t maintain the spell for long. Practice had given her ample opportunity to observe the comings and goings of the staff as well as outsiders that provided routine services. Tucked behind one of the refuse bins next to the kitchen, she waited for the regular boy to empty all but one of them. Then, on his last trip, she came up quietly behind him with a good-sized bone from a leg of beef. With a grimace of reluctance, she whacked him solidly over the head. She really didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t think of any other way to incapacitate him.
Dragging him behind the bins, she stripped off his coat, tunic, and breeches. His clothes were damp, and it took a few harried moments to change her clothing, then grab the last refuse bin. It was heavier than she expected, and she had to struggle with it. At the door she pulled her stolen cap down low. Dismal rain pattered against the paving stones, making puddles in the broken places, rattling down the drain spouts. Never had a journey seemed so long! From the garbage area to the cart, then back again with the empty bin, each step announced her ploy to the world, each rustle of her clothing declared her falseness. Rowyn’s heart beat painfully against her ribs, her breath rushed in and out past dry, cracked lips.
Biting the inside of her cheek in apprehension, she climbed aboard the rickety old cart and gathered the horse’s reins in clammy hands. Pretending she did such a thing every day, she slapped the leather against the brown rump and clucked the beast into motion.
“Keep safe, lad!” a guard called out. “And see if ye can leave some o’ the stink at the dump on the morrow!”
Her heart leaped into her throat. Nervously, she nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgement. Ten paces. Thirty. She was nearing the iron-wrought gates. A sudden gust of icy wind whipped through the gateway, taking her breath away and blowing her hat off.
“’Ey! You there!”
Another blast pulled her wild hair free of its rough knot.
“That ain’t Lafe!”
“Stop! Stop that girl!”
“Guard!”
Rowyn slapped the reins hard against the horse’s backside, provoking a startled whinny and a burst of speed. Houses and shops went by in a blur, caused as much by their hurry as by the tears the wind dragged from her eyes. The cart rocked and lurched over rough cobblestones, and she saw people running from her path. Others shook their fists and yelled words she didn’t hear. Five blocks and turn left, three more and turn right. Turn, turn. Where were the city gates? They must be close. Had she lost her way? Rushing down the thoroughfare at breakneck speed, she craned her head to see down the side streets. There! She hauled on the reins, pulling the horse into a hairpin turn. At the same time, she glanced over her shoulder after her pursuers. The guards weren’t far behind her. Too close for comfort. And there! There in the center of the green uniformed men was the unmistakable figure of Tor Dekar himself! Blazes! He must have been just standing about, waiting for her to make a break.
She turned to whip the horse to go faster yet, but the impact of the shaky old cart slamming into the corner of a building nearly threw her out of her seat by. Horror as thick as bile flooded her as she heard the rear wheel catch against the stone and come off the axle with a splintering screech. The horse, jerked to a standstill, screamed and bucked against the traces, then broke into a careening run that bounced the cart ferociously. In a panic, the beast whirled, trying to get away. The broken cart lurched, tipping refuse bins everywhere. The dragging axle caught against the gutter. In a heartbeat, Rowyn found herself face down in the street with the horse frantically kicking and bucking a few scant feet away. One well aimed kick sent wood splintering into her face and the wagon banged down onto her shoulder. She screamed in pain and shock.
A yell from the guards pounding down the street forced her into action. She pushed and shoved her way out from under the edge of the cart. Rough wood ripped through her coat and dragged fiery claws across her skin. She staggered to her feet, clenching her teeth. The city gates stood open and unguarded not four houses away. Beyond them lay a field, then the relative safety of the woods.
“Dakiin!” her pursuers hollered. Slave. “Stop her!”
“Through here!”
“Catch the blasted chit!”
“Don’t let her get away!”
Then Dekar’s voice, rising above the others: “Don’t catch her—kill her.”
Rowyn ran, gasping and swearing at the Fates.
Citizens gaped open-mouthed at the ruckus. No one helped the guards, but they didn’t help her, either. Digging under her coat, Rowyn pulled out the little bag in which she’d tucked the Mir Stone to keep it safe. Then she ran as she had never run before. Fear pushed and shoved her, threatening to trip her up. Her entire life would begin or end right now, right in front of this unwilling, wide-eyed, pathetic audience.
One of the two iron gates began to swing closed.
“No!” Rowyn screamed. Faster! She must run faster!
A broken cobble skittered sideways beneath her. She smashed to the ground, tumbling and crying. Her wrist hurt, but she still clutched the useless stone. The thunder of booted feet closed in on her.
“No!” she repeated frantically, scrambling up into a hobbling run. “Leave me be! I just want to be free—By the Flame of Life, just leave me alone!”
A spear struck the road just behind her and bounced up, tangling her feet.
Down she went again, banging her elbow painfully. But the expected grip of callous hands hauling her upright didn’t come. No one cried out their victory. No weapon pierced her body.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all…
Rowyn sat up, rainwater blurring her vision, soaking her britches. Clutching the Mir Stone in both hands, she hugged it to her chest. A moment of dizzying blackness nearly overcame her. She blinked until it was gone, then peered around.
No guards.
No Tor Dekar.
There was no one at all. Not one human sound.
“H-hello?” she called out.
The steady rain tap-tap-tapped against the cobblestones and gurgled down the gutter. A door creaked as it swung slowly back and forth, but no one appeared. No curious faces gaped at the windows.
Chest constricting unexpectedly, Rowyn picked up the spear that had tripped her and got to her feet, using it as a staff. She limped down the street, looking into shops, checking down the alleys, calling out now and then. It took a long time to make her way back to the museum. Just like the rest of the city, it stood dreadful and desolate.
She was free.
Gods help her, she was free…
÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷
Rowyn’s Magic comes from the short story collection, Obscurely Obvious—Available on Amazon