“Because you do not think me capable of it, Mother?” she asked. “Because you intend to keep me here dressed in rags?”
Araminta looked at Demelza, her blue eyes widening in shock. “What in Wrate’s name are you wearing?”
Demelza nearly wilted beneath her mother’s stare, but she raised her chin. “I am wearing Evadne’s robe.”
“I specifically sent you clothing,” said Araminta.
“As if it could be called that!” said Demelza, furious. “You sent me a tunic of woven reeds! Dirty reeds, no less! I plucked several sugar beetles off the neckline alone!”
“I hope you did not waste them,” said Araminta. “I know I did not raise a wasteful daughter.”
Demelza almost rolled her eyes and then made herself stop. She had no wish to fight with her mother so early in the day.
“I did not waste them,” said Demelza. “Though they might have spoiled my breakfast. There is no reason for me to wear such clothes.”
“There might be a time where you must make do with what the land provides. Not everything may be laid out before you like a feast,” said Araminta, looking away from her daughter. “Go change your clothes. Now. I am very disappointed, Demelza.”
Demelza did not move. All she had ever done was try to please her parents. Hadn’t she put soot on her cheeks andclay in her hair at her mother’s request? But today, she was cold. And all she wanted was to sit in a beautiful robe and drink tea.
“No,” said Demelza.
Araminta stared at her. “What?”
Demelza took a deep breath. Losing her temper would get her nowhere and so she reached for reason. “Mother, this is… this is ridiculous! To be honest, it makes me feel as though I am worth less to you than my sisters. I am not a child! I’m seventeen! And I cannot begin to guess at the reason why you insist on having me comport myself like this!”
Araminta paled and her hand flew to her throat. It was a gesture Demelza had seen a thousand times. She was old enough to understand that her father might be a loving husband, but he was not a kind one. He was a good father, but he was not a good man. While her sisters relished their assignments and all of them wished for Prava to possess eternal life and more powers than Wrate himself—ambitions they had been assured were very normal for wizards and nothing to be alarmed over—it was not as though they had been given a choice. If her father wished, he could turn them all to swans and keep them locked in the oubliettes of Hush Manor. That he did not was only because he loved them. Demelza alone lay outside his reach.
“I am your mother,” Araminta said, her voice trembling. “How dare you disobey me, Demelza? Go to your library. Now. I shall deal with you later.”
Demelza had charged halfway up the stairs when she stopped, took a breath and stared back down the steps. She did not want to spend the rest of her day angry. Araminta seemed so distracted lately.
Perhaps they could go for a walk. Or talk by the fire. Or simply get out of Hush Manor to understand one another better.
Demelza was making her way back to the breakfast room when she heard her father’s calm, low tone and her mother’s shrill voice.
“I’ve had it!” said Araminta.
“Be reasonable, my love—” Prava started, but Araminta hissed at him to be quiet.
“I will not have a stain on my lineage!” said Araminta. “Demelza must go. Get rid of her.”
5The Wizard Considers Raising Chickens
The legend of the Isle of Malys began thusly. One moment, Wrate did not know of himself. The next moment… he did. Wrate was all the waters of the world and he was alone. He wanted to know what else he could make of himself, and so he threw his skin into the water and it stretched into the Isle. He tossed his bones onto the land and they became the white trees of the Ulva Wyldes. He tore out his teeth which became the Aatos Mountains. He plucked out his hair which became the Vale of Sylke. He pulled out his eyes and buried them in the ground where they became the Glimmers. His spit flowed across the land and filled the Famishing Sea. And when Wrate had made something of his unmaking, the last of his longing became the Silent Lakes.
But for all this, he was alone. And when he realized that he would always be alone, he wept. The steam of his tears became the clouds. When the clouds scudded across the sky, veritas swans sprang into existence and they became beingsof truth, sorrow and exquisite beauty. In their song, Wrate understood what he must become.
From Wrate, two lives emerged. For mortals, the first life was spent in a human body. Upon the first death, one could elect to live a second life in the form of a tree, rock or flower. The first life was for living and movement. The second life was for remembering and stillness. And in the second and final death, all returned to the endless waters of Wrate bearing slivers of life’s truths. In this way, Wrate was both a mundane multitude and a sacred singularity. And thus, he would find peace.
It was said that when Wrate heard the song of the veritas swans and understood the nature of his existence, he shed a single tear. This tear took the form of a lake which became known as the Dole. To submerge in its waters was said to summon forth one’s potential, to hasten destiny’s footsteps and to force the very hours to gallop toward the next day.
No one knew where the Dole might be found, but Demelza and her sisters had long been convinced it was not only in the Silent Lakes district, but also no more than an hour’s walk from Hush Manor. Their reasoning? None whatsoever. But it was a fun way to pass the time.
Besides, Prava—who knew everything about everything—could not prove that the pool wasnotthe Dole, which only cemented the little pond’s mythical status in their childhood imagination. When they were little, the girls would pretend to claw their way out of the Dole while screaming at the stars for “the cruel vicissitudes of fate!” And then takingturns dying and being resurrected. It was all very amusing. They did not really know what any of the words they used even meant, but they were fun to say. And even when they grew older and no longer played at dying and being ravaged by destiny, the Dole became a place where the sisters shared their deepest fears… their deepest wishes… in the hopes that if something was listening, then such good fortune would quicken its pace to find them.
At the bottom of the valley, the Dole appeared hardly bigger than a bathtub. It was tear shaped and its stone sides sloped with unnatural smoothness. Fuzzy tufts of dark blue hushbane grass swayed in the windless air. Demelza paused, gathering her breath. The wyvern hopped beside her, ears flattened against its body.
“You know I hate being far from the library,” it said.
