“Thank you,” I said.
I bit my lip, wondering if they would ask further questions, but, blessedly, the Priest seemed content to ride in silence.
This band of Followers was a friendly, boisterous group, as they always seemed to be, and it felt more like a family party than pilgrims on a never-ending journey. Mieka laughed and chatted with those around her, seemingly unconcerned, but I could not stop thinking about Ban Morin and Milady. I knew there was no way they would have let us leave without someone trailing us, even if they dared not intervene as yet. Just because I couldn’t see anyone didn’t mean that they weren’t there.
“Baldbeak,” I whispered. “Can you fly about a bit and see if anyone is following us?”
His eyes were sharper than mine, and he would have a better vantage point. He gave me an affectionate ear-nibble and pushed off, zig-zagging up into the canopy of trees.
“They wouldn’t dare attack in daylight,” murmured Mieka from beside me.
I gave a yelp. I had been deep in thought, and her words startled me.
“Jumpy, are we?” she said in amusement. “Probably just as well. We should try and separate from the Followers before nightfall. Makes sense to stick with them as long as we can, though. Safety in numbers, and all that.”
I had wondered where we would spend the night, and my aching feet were glad when we came to a small hamlet at the edge of a wood before sunset. When the Followers stopped to rest, children poured out from the little houses to greet them. There seemed to be few travelers on this road, and such a colorful group would surely be a novelty and a distraction.
I watched as the Priest performed a few little tricks for them, much like Patrick had when I first met him, clapping their palms together and opening them slowly. Between them, an arc of light leaped, joining one palm to the other—white at first, then splitting into all the colors, before returning to white again.
The children bounced and applauded, talking excitedly. One of them made a little spark himself—barely there, the tiniest little flash of light on his palm—and the others responded as if he had lit up the sky with lightning. The Priest seemed just as delighted. This, too, reminded me a little of Patrick. Their tricks had the same edge of joy to them, that sense of magic for magic’s sake.
The Priest caught my eye and smiled. “Little things,” they said. “But it pleases the children.”
“That was beautiful,” I said. I sat cross-legged beside them. This close, I could see the pink of their scalp gleaming through their dandelion-fine white hair. “Is that … an affinity?”
I was becoming more comfortable with the word and it no longer felt forbidden.
They seemed surprised. “Some call it that, yes,” they said. “What do you know of affinities? I thought they were no longer spoken of, let alone taught.”
I tipped my head back, drinking in the sunshine. My Hair floated gently about my face, just a little—the way a cat’s tail moves ever so slightly when it’s contented.
“Someone told me about them,” I said. “Just a little. I don’t really know much.” I sighed. “And I spent my whole life watching my mother work with spellbooks and listened to her tell me that was the only way to wield magic safely. Then I find out that there are all these smaller magics, and anyone at all can use them, and they don’t need any kind of books or words to do so, and that no longer seems so bad … AndthenI find out about bone magic. So I don’t know what to think. If you told me nowthat someone could perform magic with their ears, I’d probably believe it.”
The Priest plucked a small meadow flower from the grass by their sandals. “If power is a precious stone, then affinities are more like these little blooms; fragrant and lovely for a day, then fading into nothing.”
“What is the point of them, then?” I asked.
“You sound like the Temple,” said the Priest softly, and I flushed.
“It is all right,” they continued. “I know it is hard to grasp when all you have ever heard is that magic must be harnessed and focused, pointed towards some end or other. That is what you have been taught—what everyone is taught, now. It is hard for the Temple to understand that something could exist merely for pleasure or for beauty. Affinities—or modest magics, as they are sometimes called—do not always have a use.”
They twirled the stem of the flower between their thumb and forefinger, and the little blossom shone brighter and brighter, until it was almost too painful to look at, before fading back to its unremarkable dusty pink.
“It is like my embroidery,” I realized. “Mother always said there was no purpose to making things prettier. She only let me do it because I couldn’t read—otherwise she’d have had me working on her books all day and night, as she did.”
“Perhaps it has no purpose—not in the sense she meant, anyway. But what a dull world it would be without such things,” said the Priest.
For a moment we were silent. Then, “May I share with you some of our old teachings from the Plague times?” they said after a while.
I nodded. They began to recite, their voice becoming deeper and somehow ceremonial.
“The Temple would have us believe the dead rose because of bone-craft. I tell you: It was magic itself. Fettered too long,silenced too harshly, it burst its bonds. Magic is not ours. It is older than our books, our bones, even our gods. When forced into cages of ink and words, it sickens. When offered too much of the body, it devours. Left to run free, it flourishes—but seldom in ways men can predict. Magic demands respect, not mastery. The wise learn balance. Those who would command it as servant will find themselves, in time, commanded.”
They closed their eyes for a moment and tilted their face to the sun, then turned to me and smiled.
“Does that make sense to you, little daughter?” they said.
“Yes,” I replied. “I think so.”
