‘He’s all right now?’ she said.
Chrisanie patted her arm and tucked his chin over her head, settling down.
‘Did he say that he could … see anything?’
Chrisanie sighed. ‘I suppose we’re not going back to sleep then?’
Maylie rolled on to her side and looked into his eyes. ‘’Tis important.’
‘Everyone has bad dreams sometimes, May.’
‘But—’
‘I know.’
Before they had had children, Maylie had reminded Chrisanie that magical Gifts were strong in her bloodline. He knew, of course. Maylie’s aunt had been Silicia’s healer and lived in this very cottage before Maylie took up that unofficial role after her aunt’s death.
‘You thought Gredie had some Sight when he was smaller, remember?’ said Chrisanie, putting his large, calloused hand over her own. ‘It came to nothing.’
‘He did have a little. But it were just the charm of babyhood.’
Maylie had watched her eldest son closely as a toddler, noticing the way he would occasionally pause and stare into the distance, seeing something that others could not – something that she could no longer see herself. She had waited nervously as he grew, wondering if the Sight would develop. But as the winters passed, Gredie stopped crying and gurgling at shadows.
‘’Tis different with Rozowie,’ Maylie added. ‘He’s older; ’tis not the Sight, ’tis something else.’
‘What?’
Maylie rolled on to her back and stared up at the wooden rafters. Her Gift was one of the unspoken secrets in their marriage. To be a healer was all fine and good – useful for the village – but a magical Gift that had lasted into adulthood was different. Such skills could not be allowed to grow unrestrained. It was too dangerous. That was how sorcerers, charmers and enchanters weremade – magic-wielders with wild, untamed power that could not be controlled. In the Central Realm, magic had only one rightful place: within the strict confines of the Masterhood, honed through formal study and bound by law.
‘The King’s men came to the village in the last moon,’ Chrisanie added after a pause.
Maylie did not need to ask what they were looking for. She knew. The King’s men swept the region of Calestra and the Mountain villages every few winters, looking for those with Gifts and magical inclinations.
‘Did anyone come forward?’ she asked.
Chrisanie shook his head.
‘I suppose Staccasie’s family said nothing?’ remarked Maylie.
‘Like I said, no one came forward.’
The third daughter of a goat-herder, Staccasie had grown up in Silicia with an unusual knack for guessing the outcome of future events and an inability to hide it. ‘She’s just a little different,’ said her family, not wanting to send their daughter off for formal magical training. But last autumn, Staccasie had disappeared. Her parents claimed she was visiting relatives in the city, but Maylie suspected the girl had run away. She did not blame her – better to go before you were forced.
‘We must be careful with Rozowie,’ said Maylie.
‘What Gift do you think he has?’
Maylie twitched. She trusted her husband completely. Chrisanie had never asked too much of her, letting the unspoken parts of her past stay buried. He was a kind, gentle man and she did not need to fear him, but it was hard to voice aloud what she had taught herself must stay hidden.
‘Rozowie is always at the stream,’ she said slowly.
‘He likes to play in the water.’
‘Yes, but he can … move it.’ She winced.
‘What do you mean?’
Maylie did not know how to explain it. Many times, she had watched her youngest son from a distance splashing in the river that curled around their cottage. It was one of many streams that braided the mountainside, and its water was cool and fresh. To take a sip from one of these streams was both delicious and startling. It made your teeth ache.
