Mama’s needle stopped mid-stitch. Then she gave me a pitying look that had me stuffing down the aggravation that had replaced my embarrassment. Her expression seemed to say,I know you’re not telling me everything.
She returned to her sewing without comment, too fast for me to give her a face of my own that warned,Leave it alone. But she likely felt my pushback even if she wasn’t looking my way.
Living under my mother’s empathic magic meant living without shadows to hide in. Every unspoken feeling, every flicker of guilt was laid bare, so I’d learned early not to lie unless I knew it was something she would keep quiet about. She had no way of knowing I’d done nothing wrong, that it was an encounter with a rude customer I’d likely never see again. She sensed only the turbulent emotions I felt when reliving the memory.
Still, she wouldn’t let it go unless I handed her a distraction. Examining my hands, I said, “I had to dig the gold coin he tossed at me out of the dirt.”
She scoffed. “Can’t expect better from his type, can we?”
My parents both harbored a prejudice against the city’s magical elite, and rightly so. My father had guarded their fortress for more than twenty years, and received a pittance every month as thanks.
Right on time to save me from further questioning, Tegil swept in with the breeze. The scent of too many herbs to count—savory and sweet, clean and pungent—followed him into the house. My parents’ eyes widened, taking in the sheer size of the bundle strapped to his back.
Tegil placed his burden down in the middle of the floor, heedless of anyone’s need to walk anywhere, simply so he could gape at the chicken. The moment his eyes found the bread, I snatched it up like a hawk claiming its prey. It would be gone in a flash if I let a hungry thirteen-year-old boy anywhere near it.
I ordered, “Pluck that chicken outside and save the feathers for a pillow.”
“I was going to complain about being tired,” Tegil said with a toothy grin, “But the smell of that bread, with butter, and the chicken… I’ll start right now!”
Tegil sprinted toward tonight’s feast and was out the door with it before anyone could as much as greet him. Looking at the size of the bundle he’d left on the floor said he’d had a good day of foraging. The herbs, flowers, and mushrooms he’d brought in were all ideal for drying. That would go far in shoring up our money reserves when combined with what was left of the gold coin.
Dinner was a quiet affair. It was hard to continue an argument when you were too busy filling your mouth with delicious food.
A firm knock rattled the door as we were scraping every last piece of gristle off the bones with our teeth. Tegil rose and lifted the heavy wooden bolt on the door.
Before a single word was exchanged, the deep purple cloak and wave of ambient magic humming in the air revealed exactly who the visitor was: a representative of the Mage Assembly—an important one from the silver thread edging his clothing.
My mother and I stood together to flank Tegil in the doorway, Papa following close behind. If the Assembly wanted something, it was probably from Mama or me. But even with us supporting him, a palpable wave of fear, like a cold, clammy hand grasping onto frozen skin, emanated from my baby brother. It was enough to make my full stomach start a revolt.
My mother wasn’t faring much better. Her spine was straight, but she’d tucked her trembling hands behind her back to hide them. “Sir, we’ve paid our taxes this season. I still have the receipt.”
I couldn’t see the representative’s face under his hood, but I could feel his magic—less heated than the evocation mage enforcer’s, and more of a brisk spring wind than the wild inferno the executioner with blue eyes had possessed.
That was when I knew I’d be measuring everyone against that brutal stranger forever.
The Assembly representative addressed my mother. “Mage Heleth, I presume. I assure you I’m not here for the tax.”
His voice was a smooth tenor that didn’t match the imposing figure of an Assembly henchman. But magic ignored such physical distinctions, so we couldn’t truly be certain whether we were talking to the man who would hand down our deaths.
My stomach plummeted into a bottomless pit of anxiety. This had to be about the enforcers or the executioner. Or was the representative here because of something Tegil had done? Had my brother’s magic come in, and he was trying to hide it somehow? The horrible possibilities were endless.
I was so distressed I’d stopped listening to what my magic was trying to tell me.
My mind had started down the path of envisioning my baby brother as a necromancer when the Assembly representative reached into the leather satchel he’d had swung over one shoulder and took out a folded letter. The wax on the fine parchment glowed in the faint light.
He asked, “Mage Isca, can you read?” When I failed to answer promptly, he added, “I can also magically bind my word to a valid reading of it if required.”
“No,” I said. “I… I can read.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the wax seal. The words tumbled out of me. “What is this about? I’ve broken no edicts. Is this a disciplinary visit?”
“I…do not know,” he answered, a spike of confusion in his aura and written all over his face. “But they would not have sent me had discipline been in mind.”
I realized then with great relief that this messenger wasn’t radiating malice, only a calm fatigue one would expect of a man at the end of his day. For once, when it was most inconvenient, my anxiety had stifled the emotions all around me.
A long moment of silence stretched between us as my family stared at the anonymous messenger. My mother’s sharp pinch on my arm wordlesslyreminded me to grab a coin for him as thanks. I swiped a copper off the table and offered it.
“Thank you,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice, “but that is unnecessary. I remain because I must relay your acceptance or rejection of the meeting.”
“She’ll be there,” my mother answered without hesitation. Her relief crashed over me and joined my own.
