In the beginning, Ynthe created the moons and named them Yanthic, Evon, Hulic, Prum, and Vorinathe; silver, white, black, blue, and gold he colored them. Bisunthe, daughter of Ynthe, peopled the moons with the Moonmages and gave them tools of war and tools of magic and tools of science. Hygund, son of Ynthe, took the matter not used for the moons and formed it into the Earth which he peopled with men and women, and he gave them tools of farming and tools of building and tools of animal husbandry.
To the Moonmages was given the power to travel to Earth, and this they did. And they traveled to Earth and then back to the moons, and to the men and women they gave tools of magic and tools of science, but the tools of war they kept for themselves and did not share.
– The Book of Origin, Chapter 1
Anessa couldn’t tell whether it was the snow reflecting the lights among the stars, or the stars reflecting the shape in the snow.
It was a disk, spangled with elaborate whorls and characters, an intensely decorated thing. It was ghost-white against the black of the sky, and gray-silvered against the whiteness of the snow. In the snow it was the length of a tall man’s height. In the sky it was the same size to the eye, the distance of which made it look massive, the size of Onicker’s mill wheel, which was so large that Anessa could swim in the buckets of it.
It shadowed the snow banks and lit the sky with spangles, and then the surrounding was pricked full of needle-points, each one opening the fabric of the air to reveal a tiny, sharp shard of reflected light.
I want you to remember this.
Alright. I will remember.
Once Anessa realized that she couldn’t feel the cold, she knew she was asleep, and woke.
The serge coverlet scratched the scales on her cheek as she pushed herself up, blinking in the candlelight. Dawn was just beginning to infuse the grays in the room with color, and it took her a moment to remember what day it was; when she did, she groaned. Inventory day. She wondered whether she could steal a few more minutes of sleep.
“…. Anessa…”
Venthal’s voice sounded bored as it always did when he called her name or referred to her in any way, but Anessa had learned to respond to it as though it were the bark of a command. He spoke her name offhandedly not because his current requirements were unimportant, but because she was unimportant. He seemed to wish her to remember that as often as humanly possible. She shrugged on her robe, closing it at the front, and slipped on her boots. Her work jacket was hanging on the back of the door. She debated with herself for a moment, and then grabbed it; inventory day was never entirely free from hazards, prosaic though it seemed. She tied back her pale silvery hair as she descended the stairs. She sometimes wished that her hair color had been the result of some experiment or other of Venthal’s, like the scaly patches on her cheek and neck. People might stare less if there were some explanation for it. Her eyes were also pale gray, but the eyes of the villagers were light as well, so that at least was unremarkable. Anessa treasured the few unremarkable things about herself.
“I’m here, Magister.”
Venthal looked up from his desk, his eyes sharp upon her. His eyes were ink-dark, but nobody ever remarked upon it; presumably a magister was permitted to look as remarkable as he wanted to. “Inventory.”
Four years of service and he still doesn’t trust you to remember which day is inventory day? Anessa quelled a sudden burst of anger, lowering her eyes quickly. It was like that with him; he either reminded her of things that an infant could have remembered, or forgot to give her obscure details that inevitably proved essential. At some point over the past year, she had begun to feel resentment about it. The feeling settled beneath her breastbone, a burning ache.
Anessa pulled out the inventory slate and began to mark out the supplies, shelf by shelf. Banesroot, sulphur, lilac wood strips, ground boar’s tusk, halvah. They were running low on halvah. She made a quick note of it with a red stylus. Thaddeus grass, fifteen bundles, for ailing livestock. Cadmium oxide and other salts, in sealed jars. Jujal tonic, rare enough that even Venthal could only afford a tiny stoppered vial of it… to be mixed with cow’s placenta and sold as a contraceptive. Only the Origin Sect of Hygund’s followers were forbidden to use it. Anessa squinted, holding the jujal vial against the small window–nobody would ever trust a magister whose shop was adequately lit–where the light was pouring from the silver moon Yanthic. There were perhaps twenty drops left. She made a mark with the green stylus.
“Don’t drop that vial.”
Anessa jumped, nearly dropping the vial, and swore under her breath. “I won’t, Magister.” Why can’t he just trust you? She moved down a shelf, to the pigments. She loved handling the colors; formulating them and mixing them and testing them with marks on the broad strip of limestone that lined the counter. The stone had been used for that purpose for so many years that it looked like a child’s rendition of a prism.
Venthal turned a page, and Anessa stiffened.
Very few in the village were wealthy enough to own books; even Venthal only possessed a dozen or so precious volumes, all scribed and bound in different parts of the country, most in different materials. Sheepskin, wood, fan leaves, leather, various grass weaves, some similar in look, but all different in the sound they made when the page was turned. Anessa could usually tell by ear what book Venthal was browsing that day. Today the pages were nearly silent: silk pages. Only one of the books was paged in silk. Venthal was reading The Radiance.
Anessa remembered the day he first acquired the only book he had that was written about Hell. She remembered it, because that was the day he changed the skin on her cheek to scales. He never would tell her whether it had been an accident or deliberate. Since that day, she had dreaded the book. She usually tried to make herself as invisible as possible when she heard those silk pages turning, but, not being a mage herself, her attempts had always been less than successful. She imagined she could feel Venthal’s eyes on her. What are you worth to him? Would he ever do anything to her that might kill her? Maim her?
For no reason, the sigil from her dream shone in her thoughts, pale and glowing in snow. Then she could see it dusky and starlit in the sky. She had promised to remember it; did she still? Her mind recreated the symbol with an accuracy that shocked her. She looked down at her fingertips, which were faintly stained with red kohl. Without any effort whatsoever, her fingers began to trace a circle on the pale limestone, filling it lightly with signs and shapes that felt strangely familiar…
Move back!
“Aclasek.”
Anessa jumped back from the counter as it erupted in acrid smoke. The smoke cleared, but there was a hazy stained place over the red mark she had made; acid burn. Had she left her fingers there an instant longer they would probably be shriveled black. She amended her prior thought: Venthal would most certainly injure or kill her if the whim graced him.
A shirr of silk in her ears told her that the book was being closed, and before she could react, Venthal’s strong fingers closed around her hand, pulling her away from the shelves, jerking her around to face him. There was a kind of harsh, calculating worry in his eyes that she had never seen there before. It stopped her from attempting to fight or flee. Venthal was not the type to worry, particularly about her. Anessa’s spine tingled as she watched him examine the singed countertop and her hand in quick turns from one to the other.
“What symbol were you tracing?” His voice was quiet but tight. Anessa instantly realized that he was asking her something that he didn’t already know the answer to; another rarity.
Experience had taught her to be truthful with him, and in this particular case, instinct agreed. “I don’t know. A thing I dreamed.”
“What was the dream?”
She briefly described to him the sigil in the snow and sky.
Venthal’s forehead creased. “Did you know the voice that spoke to you?”
“It was my own.”
The answer seemed to surprise him. “And did you also dream of Moonmages?”
“No.”
His eyes held hers for a moment longer. “You are not lying.”
Her throat tightened. “I never lie to you.”
He examined her, and nodded. “No, you haven’t before.”
The admission made her feel brave. She asked, “What spell was that?”
“A scouring spell. It should have stung you, but nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” Her voice shook lightly.
Venthal lifted an eyebrow. “You doubt my word?”
“You don’t always tell me everything.”
“That would take longer than you have to live, Anessa.” His voice had reverted back to its light, bored tone, the tone he almost always used when speaking to her. He released her hand. “Forget the symbol. Do not draw it again, erase it from your mind.”
She considered this. “It’s dangerous?”
“I believe you were about to inventory the metals. You have an hour before I open for custom.” His eyes pierced hers for a second more, and then he was back upon his stool, reading as though he had never left off. He turned a page… vellum. Anessa blinked. The Radiance had disappeared somehow. Now he was reading the catalogue of medicinal herbs.
A weapon. He used a weapon.
No, he didn’t. He didn’t realize it was a weapon.
But it was.
Anessa closed her eyes for a moment; blasphemy. It was beyond forbidden to create Spell weaponry. It was condemned. She turned back to the shelves and looked at the first of the metals, bismuth. She scooped a handful of the mirage-like fragments into her hand, holding them against the bright moonlit window to let the prismatic surface of the metal speak to her eyes. Venthal permitted her to keep a few bismuth fragments on the windowsill beside her bed. Small, beautiful things like that comforted her in dark moments.
She put the metal back and examined her hands, stained with pigment and powders and herb residue. Her fingernails were silvery and unusually sharp, no matter how often she filed or trimmed them. She wondered whether that was another thing that Venthal had done to her.
He’s not responsible for everything on the green earth.
No, I guess not.
Anessa considered herself lucky that her conversations with herself tended to alleviate the need to talk to other people, who generally avoided her anyway. Sometimes she would stay awake for hours into the night, just thinking to herself in long, spiraling dialogues. She even came up with chants sometimes, almost spells. They were harmless and helped her focus.
First, the mind.
Oh, that one.
Come on, you know the rest…
Yes, yes. First, the mind, the pilot of the vessel. Then, the body, the engine. Then, the heart, the navigator. Then, the liver, the guardian. Then, finally, the soul, the passenger for which all of the others exist.
Very good. Excellent.
Anessa mouthed the words of the chant to herself as she worked, and it calmed her as it always did. She could feel her soul, the passenger of the craft, being carried through the day by all of the other parts of her designed to do such work. Time spun on until it was time to unbar the door.
“Magister…” The first customer was a tiny, elderly woman with parchment-like skin and watery gray eyes. Anessa knew her; the woman was a Sounder of Hygund.
Venthal seemed to flow out of his chair to come greet her, taking her tiny wrinkled hands in his. “Of course, my dear lady. You’re in need of halfsinthe for your cough.” She coughed, as though in agreement. He nodded wisely. “My servant will see to it.”
Anessa poured out drops of halfsinthe from the deep green bottle into a tiny dark green glass vial; too much exposure to light would steal the virtue of the precious fluid. She tried to anticipate whether the old woman would haggle over the price. She looked poor, but most of the villagers kept a deliberately plain appearance of dress and manner, as anything ostentatiously expensive tended to raise eyebrows. Venthal wore a richly-embroidered cloak, but as Magister, special allowance was made for him. One could rarely tell how much wealth any individual had. Even dwellings were kept modest. Anessa had heard that there were towns in which the wealthy erected powerful domiciles, grand and looming mansions, but only foreigners could stand to live in such opulence. Those who lived in the village of Dingad had more dignity.
After a few more moments, she realized that the old woman was staring at her. Not staring, in fact, but glaring. Anessa sighed internally. The most devout followers of Hygund tended to dislike Anessa on sight. Given that she lived in a farming town, that accounted for most of the citizens she was liable to encounter.
Followers of Hygund disliked her, but the Sounders–those who found that which was Sound and that which was Unsound in the world–seemed to nearly hate her. She supposed that something about herself was Unsound.
There’s nothing Unsound about you.
Or possibly everything is Unsound about me, so I’m soundly Unsound?
Very philosophical.
Anessa gave the old woman the vial and didn’t bother to smile; it would have been suspicious. Vassals were expected to be unhappy in general.
Before the elderly woman left, she marked a Sign of Protection in the air and sniffed in Anessa’s direction. Anessa mentally marked a Sign of Insult in response, but outwardly said nothing. Nothing she could do would make the old woman see her favorably; nothing Anessa had ever done had ever had that effect on any of the villagers. Four years was evidently not long enough to accustom them to her existence. And she knew better than to make a Sign. Venthal had always forbidden her to, even the Sign of Greeting.
The day progressed and more customers came and were served and left, frequently making signs against Anessa as they went (and sometimes even as they arrived).
At the end of the day, Anessa tidied up and swept the floor, and Venthal said, “Take the Offering this evening. I have research to complete.”
Anessa shivered a little, but felt pleased. She always liked taking the Offering to the Great Stone. It was the only time it was permissible to deal directly with Moonmages, and Moonmages were the only people who never seemed suspicious of her. Actually, they barely noticed her, but that was also a novelty.
Throughout the day, the villagers had been depositing small items, mostly cuts of salted meat and fresh vegetables, on the table to the side of the doorstep. It was Venthal’s job–and therefore occasionally Anessa’s–to take these gifts to the Moonmages, who had no farms to support them. There had been some trouble over it the first time Anessa had taken the Offering, but Venthal was stubborn about permitting her to do it, and the villagers finally and begrudgingly acquiesced to the arrangement.
Anessa carefully arranged the bits of Offering in a large carrying basket and left the shop. The Great Stone was two miles deep into the woods and Yanthic had set an hour before, robbing the sky of most of its light. Hulic hung in the sky like a bruised eye; it would be two more hours before Evon rose. The shadows were deep and black, but Anessa wasn’t frightened of the dark. The dark had never hurt her. People were far more frightening. And the beasts of the forest wouldn’t trouble anybody carrying Hygund’s Offering, because they were subject to Hygund as well.
She slogged her way through the snow down the hill toward the wood. The patchy spring snow stopped at the borders of the forest, as the canopy of the trees was too thick to let it in, and she quickly found the old path. It was worn deep into the ground, packed hard by the tread of countless feet over hundreds of years. Dingad was an ancient town. She kept her pace steady and slow, as befitted the Walk of Sacrifice. As she walked, the forest occasionally whispered the calls of owls and the faint rustlings of small creatures in the undergrowth. Even the trees spoke, shuddering and creaking in the wind. Every sound was friendly to Anessa’s ears after a day of bleak subjection, and she felt her shoulders ease in the night air. It wasn’t very cold. It would soon be planting time.
Despite her enjoyment, the basket was heavy with the weight of a feast, and she was grateful when the clearing with the sacrificial stone appeared. No matter how heavy the snow fell, the rock was never covered. It glimmered a little in the darkness, specks of mica reflecting the starlight in a table of granite the width of a man’s height. It dipped slightly in the middle. She walked to the stone and carefully emptied the basket into the hollow, arranging each piece of food, careful not to bruise or damage anything. Then she stood well back and waited.
Anessa had overheard many villagers speak of the terror of the Moonmages, their dreadful power and vicious anger that was easily roused, their many-colored skins and eyes. She had never found the Moonmages to be terrible at all. They were different, but then, so was she.
A sudden pale light began to melt the darkness from the air, glowing steadily brighter until it was almost as bright as Yanthic, the brightest moon, the moon of growth. Anessa blinked, and then they were there, surrounding the rock, their forms shimmering vividly against the dark.
Two of them were Evonese, dressed in white robes that stung the eye. Four were Vorinathem, clad in some kind of gold metal armor that had been worked into scales like that of a fish. One was Prumish, clad in a simple blue smock, and another was Hulicem, in a similar garment of smoky black that nonetheless glittered as the light struck it. Anessa knew that the sight of a Yanthicem was rare; the highest of the moons rarely sent envoys to Earth for anything as trivial as the gathering of food. All of the present Moonmages wore haughty expressions, and all of them bore arms, from the simple knives at the hips of the Evonese to the broad flat swords and bristling spears of the Vorinathem.
The Prumish moonmage spoke gently. “It is the rare one.”
All of them turned to look at Anessa. She looked back at them fearlessly. It didn’t always happen, but once in a while, it did: they would refer to her as the rare one and examine her as though there truly was something rare about her. She had told Venthal this (it was never a good idea to keep things from him, he always somehow knew without her telling anyway), and he had taken it without comment of any kind, so Anessa had assumed it meant nothing other than a reference to her strange hair. Still, it was nice to be recognized by so noble a people. They didn’t sneer at her or make warding signs against her, they merely gazed at her and then looked away. It was friendlier treatment than she was accustomed to.
One of the Evonese said, “The offering is acceptable.”
“We give it gladly,” said Anessa, rotely. Supposedly this was the most dangerous part of the sacrifice: it was possible for an offering to be deemed unacceptable and for it to be rejected. When this happened, the results weren’t well documented by history. Apparently many things could happen in consequence of a rejected Offering, anything from a day without light to the razing of the entire town. Nobody in town could remember a rejection as far as Anessa had heard, so she didn’t see much point in being afraid of it.
There was a flash, not of light, but of sudden blackness. When it cleared, the soft glow had gone away, and nothing of the feast and the Moonmages remained but starlight. Anessa gradually made her way back to town.
She lingered for just a moment at the door, and gazed out at the snow. It might be completely melted by the next day or two. Suddenly, the sigil from her dream appeared in her mind again, as clear as the starlight. She felt a sudden impulse to draw it out. It would only take a moment.
The door opened, and Venthal was standing there, dressed in night robes. “I suppose I haven’t given you enough labor for the day, if you have the energy to stand in front of the door and stare at the fields rather than going to bed like a sensible being.”
Anessa ducked her head and tried not to scowl. She went indoors and prepared for bed.
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