But Iama sage. My power is as natural to me as breathing. Can I really simply never use it again?
I have the control to;Iam trained. I do want to live a new life.
But sages for the last five centuries haven’t had a real choice. They could be a tool of the priests, or they could suppress a key part of their nature. That’s it.
Both options are a kind of prison, not freedom.
But maybe freedom is not possible for sages.
Zan digs into his pack and passes me a large bow.
I blink. “Shouldn’t that have a package attached to it?”
“It’s for your hair,” Zan explains. “One of my scales with the eye spell is sewn into it. To hide it. Sages used to practice with the spell when they came down the mountain until they were sure they could keep their power suppressed. The Quiet was never quite as strong or consistent in Crystal Hollow—the Order couldn’t work magic there, but sages could.”
I eye the bow like it’s a snake.
“It will give you the chance to decide what you want,” Zan says gruffly. “You can let yourself be known as a sage now, or later. When you’re ready.”
Another attempt to give me the gift of freedom he didn’t manage before, at the temple. Or years ago.
I’m not sure this is freedom, but itisspace to move so I can decide.
“I don’t know how to wear this,” I finally say.
Zan hesitates. “May I put it in your hair?”
He’s always so cautious about touching me. Is it care for boundaries, or a history of not being wanted?
Or does he feel the same rush I do when we touch, and he doesn’t know what to make of it either—
Or he does.
“Yes,” I say, pausing on the trail.
Zan crosses behind me, and I am hyper-aware of his presence at my back. At the gentle brush of his hands against my hair.
I don’t feel a rush this time; more like a tingle of awareness on my skin.
This, I am reasonably sure, is not magic.
Zan fastens the bow in my hair quickly, competently, like he’s done this before, which also gives me pause, a moment in which I reassess how I am interpreting all of his interactions.
But he hasn’t taken human lovers; at least none that have interested him in settling down. Not that he’s interested in that with me, but—
The cottage we are going to share had a nursery with his image in it.
I wonder if he learned to do a human child’s hair.
Maybe that’s the reason for his hesitation to touch me: an accumulation of memories for people he’s lost.
We may be the same age, but I haven’t lived the centuries he has, not really. Distant awareness while meditating isn’t the same, and while that mental work may enable me to grow faster now, my mind making connections quickly, it isn’t the same.
I never had people to lose.
“Do dragons normally use magic to be among people?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Dyes, mostly. There are other technologies for altering eye color for those of us who have more uncommon human coloring, but I haven’t had access to those in many years. I sometimes still dye my hair black, though. It’s... easier, in a way.”
