Chapter 2 #4
“Most places don’t want Rivani lingering.
There’s a lot of hate toward us in Varnasia and we risk life and limb in many places just for existing.
I did not intend to travel out this way, but I stopped at a tinker’s to get a pot mended and — Well, you know how it goes.
One thing leads to another and I’m being run out of town. ”
She untied the scarf from around her braids and shook it out. It would require a wash. She grabbed a spare and retied the new one, preparing to resume work.
“When my horse fell, a wheel on my vyardin cracked. I ran from possible pursuit, but I feel like I made one foolish decision after another.” She laughed at herself.
“I cannot say that I feel anything about magic in general, neither warm nor cold to it, but Your generosity and care have been the greatest piece of luck I have had in years.”
The fortress, as usual, remained silent.
“I feel as if I am half-mad, talking to myself. Maybe I hallucinated everything.” She had never been a fanciful person though.
“Or I died in the forest and I am passing through some kind of afterlife test to determine whether it is a paradise or a misery.” She wiped her brow with the back of her arm.
“Either way, no one will ever believe me if I tell them of this place. It’s like a place out of time, out of reality even.
If the realm of the gods were an earthly place, I could imagine it here.
There are tales of Rivan sorceresses who could manage great feats, perform great magics, even manage to keep a residence like this in such good repair if they were powerful.
And our gods too, who command great power, have had their tales told and retold for ages, all about their great works and astounding abilities.
The sorceresses died centuries ago, though, and the gods rarely choose to show themselves.
You, Magic, must therefore be my experience with such things. ”
She returned to the pump for more cleaning water.
“Most of the Rivan sorceresses and strong magical bloodlines were killed off in the Great Persecution. Being of Rivan descent, we all have a little magic in our blood, but nothing like there used to be. Most outsiders think that we’re either charlatan magicians or people who sold their souls for dark powers.
Some of us can read hand, leaf, bone, or card which is just skill work and not magic, but I refuse to do it and I won’t sell anyone useless tokens even though I would probably live a better life if I gave into stereotypes.
I just can’t in good conscience. I hate when people assume I’m selling my body.
And it’s almost worse when they come to me asking for spells.
I prefer to sell balms and oils although I will weave the occasional basket if I have the concentration. ”
She lugged the full bucket over to the hearth and grabbed the rag. She moved to her knees again and resumed scrubbing the stones of the hearth.
“I had the strangest impression in the bailey — like I ruled over this place, like I might have had every right to use the front door.”
As if anyone who once lived here would have mistaken her for a Varnasian! And if the former residents followed The Great Holy, then she may have been risking much to trespass beyond the outer curtain, let alone the keep.
“It is a hard illusion to maintain, down on your knees scrubbing out a hearth,” she told the kitchen.
“Still and all, You have made me comfortable. I think whatever magic I possess brought me here.” She ran her fingertip over the line of mortar between stones.
“I don’t know what or why, but I am sure there must be some reason I found this safe haven.
Whatever magic remains in our bloodlines helps Rivani find each other and the places where magic still exists. It’s part of our survival.”
Maybe that’s why she had been looking for a thong tree, pulled here by something, only she had mistaken the feeling. She had not expected a deep well of magic without an obvious source. She had not expected ruins on a grand scale with the palatial keep still in liveable condition.
The brief contemplation of returning to the vyardin and seeing her poor, dead mare inspired heated pinpricks of tears.
She swallowed them back, wiping at her eyes to banish the traces.
Tears would not bring her horse back or keep her vyardin safe.
And besides, she had work to do. She had the difficult prospect of trying to figure out how she was going to resume her life.
Only the fool or the privileged could waste energy on unproductive thoughts.
Her chatter died and anxiety and fear grew in the potent silence.
She did not want to be rooted anywhere or be called to any place.
Her feet always itched. Her spirit always wandered and yet she faced a bleak and difficult future.
With the sun’s descent, she called an end to her work and retreated to the solar again. She brought a bucket of water with her, intending to leave it by the fire to heat for a scrub. A large basin, large enough for her whole body and filled with heated water, waited for her in front of the hearth.
“Oh merciful gods and beneficent Magic,” she invoked, “in me, You have a most grateful acolyte.” She set her bucket down by the fire to heat anyway, just in case.
As she lounged in the basin, she sighed.
To grow accustomed to this kind of life would be a dangerous thing.
She could lose her wariness, her caution, her survival instincts.
She could get too comfortable. That frightened her.
She would have to leave even though she longed to stay a little longer.
If she did not, she would be spoiled for the hard life that awaited her outside the forest.