Chapter 5
Isca
Two days of being constantly on edge had gotten to me.
My mind, even my magic, was aflutter like a starstruck girl, not a composed woman of twenty-four years.
The lingering traces of the mage executioner’s magic seemed to be stuck to my skin as I finished my shopping, each tingle making my mind repeat the image of his small smile when I’d dared refute him.
It took effort but I forced the thought away, grounding myself in the walk home instead of in the echo he’d left behind. What a waste of thought. It had meant nothing. He’d only come by my stall to sneer, nothing more.
Flush after my spending spree, I pushed open the door to the cramped three-room space I’d called home since birth.
“Did you steal that?”
That was my welcome home. Accusation first, hello later. Not even a thank you as I entered holding a fresh chicken, soft loaf of bread, and brick of butter.
My father tried to rise, but his walking stick was across the room, leaving him struggling to stand on one leg. His voice held the same bark he’d used on recruits, sharp enough to make me flinch like a child even though I’d done nothing wrong.
Ever since Tegil had swiped an apple from a merchant’s barrel last month, every word from him came weighted with suspicion. I’d paid the merchant enough to feed his family for a week, but that hadn’t stopped Papa from looking at me like I might be next.
“No, Papa, I didn’t steal it,” I finally responded, striving to sound unconcerned. I placed the bread and butter on the table scuffed from years of too many knobby elbows resting on it.
As the sun dipped low outside, long, dusky shadows stretched across our tiny house, the last rays of sunlight casting an orange glow on the stone walls.
In the main room, Mama settled onto the chair next to my father with a soft sigh, repositioning herself to catch the last of the light to finish her day’s sewing.
Figurines my brothers had whittled from scraps of wood and small crafts my sisters had made throughout the years decorated small shelves on the walls behind her.
Apparently, it was Mama’s turn to start in on me. She speared me with a questioning look as I plopped the chicken onto the cutting board. That, combined with the thorny concern radiating off her, told me she meant business.
“Then how’d you manage this much meat and butter, Isca?” It was the same tone that had whispered a hundred warnings about men with lingering eyes and heavy purses.
I bit my tongue. Even though her question made me squirm, I couldn’t ignore the truth hidden within her anxieties. I’d been propositioned by wealthy men countless times already.
Grinning despite her tone, I let the silver and copper coins, newly exchanged for the gold one the executioner had tossed at me, clatter onto the wooden table.
My joy refused to stay quiet. It was louder than my mother’s disapproving silence, louder than her worry. We hadn’t eaten meat in a month, and the butter was three days gone.
“I made a profitable sale today,” I answered cautiously through my smile. “A lord wanted my stress-reduction tincture and left a generous tip.”
“This after returning home yesterday with cloth and shoes for Tegil?” she accused. “Isca, has this man come by repeatedly?”
“No,” I lied, a habit I’d picked up since money grew even tighter after my father’s near-fatal injury last year.
All the practice had made me adept at either hiding my feelings or altering them so much that Mama couldn’t understand them.
“You already know yesterday was because Assembly business ruined my sales. Today was different.”
Mama’s needle stopped mid-stitch. Then she gave me a pitying look that had me stuffing down the aggravation that had replaced my embarrassment. Her expression seemed to say, I know you’re not telling me everything.
She returned to her sewing without comment, too fast for me to give her a face of my own that warned, Leave it alone. But she likely felt my pushback even if she wasn’t looking my way.
Living under my mother’s empathic magic meant living without shadows to hide in.
Every unspoken feeling, every flicker of guilt was laid bare, so I’d learned early not to lie unless I knew it was something she would keep quiet about.
She had no way of knowing I’d done nothing wrong, that it was an encounter with a rude customer I’d likely never see again.
She sensed only the turbulent emotions I felt when reliving the memory.
Still, she wouldn’t let it go unless I handed her a distraction. Examining my hands, I said, “I had to dig the gold coin he tossed at me out of the dirt.”
She scoffed. “Can’t expect better from his type, can we?”
My parents both harbored a prejudice against the city’s magical elite, and rightly so. My father had guarded their fortress for more than twenty years, and received a pittance every month as thanks.
Right on time to save me from further questioning, Tegil swept in with the breeze. The scent of too many herbs to count—savory and sweet, clean and pungent—followed him into the house. My parents’ eyes widened, taking in the sheer size of the bundle strapped to his back.
Tegil placed his burden down in the middle of the floor, heedless of anyone’s need to walk anywhere, simply so he could gape at the chicken.
The moment his eyes found the bread, I snatched it up like a hawk claiming its prey.
It would be gone in a flash if I let a hungry thirteen-year-old boy anywhere near it.
I ordered, “Pluck that chicken outside and save the feathers for a pillow.”
“I was going to complain about being tired,” Tegil said with a toothy grin, “But the smell of that bread, with butter, and the chicken… I’ll start right now!”
Tegil sprinted toward tonight’s feast and was out the door with it before anyone could as much as greet him.
Looking at the size of the bundle he’d left on the floor said he’d had a good day of foraging.
The herbs, flowers, and mushrooms he’d brought in were all ideal for drying.
That would go far in shoring up our money reserves when combined with what was left of the gold coin.
Dinner was a quiet affair. It was hard to continue an argument when you were too busy filling your mouth with delicious food.
A firm knock rattled the door as we were scraping every last piece of gristle off the bones with our teeth. Tegil rose and lifted the heavy wooden bolt on the door.
Before a single word was exchanged, the deep purple cloak and wave of ambient magic humming in the air revealed exactly who the visitor was: a representative of the Mage Assembly—an important one from the silver thread edging his clothing.
My mother and I stood together to flank Tegil in the doorway, Papa following close behind.
If the Assembly wanted something, it was probably from Mama or me.
But even with us supporting him, a palpable wave of fear, like a cold, clammy hand grasping onto frozen skin, emanated from my baby brother.
It was enough to make my full stomach start a revolt.
My mother wasn’t faring much better. Her spine was straight, but she’d tucked her trembling hands behind her back to hide them. “Sir, we’ve paid our taxes this season. I still have the receipt.”
I couldn’t see the representative’s face under his hood, but I could feel his magic—less heated than the evocation mage enforcer’s, and more of a brisk spring wind than the wild inferno the executioner with blue eyes had possessed.
That was when I knew I’d be measuring everyone against that brutal stranger forever.
The Assembly representative addressed my mother. “Mage Heleth, I presume. I assure you I’m not here for the tax.”
His voice was a smooth tenor that didn’t match the imposing figure of an Assembly henchman. But magic ignored such physical distinctions, so we couldn’t truly be certain whether we were talking to the man who would hand down our deaths.
My stomach plummeted into a bottomless pit of anxiety. This had to be about the enforcers or the executioner. Or was the representative here because of something Tegil had done? Had my brother’s magic come in, and he was trying to hide it somehow? The horrible possibilities were endless.
I was so distressed I’d stopped listening to what my magic was trying to tell me.
My mind had started down the path of envisioning my baby brother as a necromancer when the Assembly representative reached into the leather satchel he’d had swung over one shoulder and took out a folded letter. The wax on the fine parchment glowed in the faint light.
He asked, “Mage Isca, can you read?” When I failed to answer promptly, he added, “I can also magically bind my word to a valid reading of it if required.”
“No,” I said. “I… I can read.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the wax seal. The words tumbled out of me. “What is this about? I’ve broken no edicts. Is this a disciplinary visit?”
“I…do not know,” he answered, a spike of confusion in his aura and written all over his face. “But they would not have sent me had discipline been in mind.”
I realized then with great relief that this messenger wasn’t radiating malice, only a calm fatigue one would expect of a man at the end of his day. For once, when it was most inconvenient, my anxiety had stifled the emotions all around me.
A long moment of silence stretched between us as my family stared at the anonymous messenger. My mother’s sharp pinch on my arm wordlessly reminded me to grab a coin for him as thanks. I swiped a copper off the table and offered it.
“Thank you,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice, “but that is unnecessary. I remain because I must relay your acceptance or rejection of the meeting.”
“She’ll be there,” my mother answered without hesitation. Her relief crashed over me and joined my own.
Being given a choice was a very good sign.
The messenger paused, probably realizing that I hadn’t even read the letter yet, then shook his head. He reached into his satchel again and handed my mother a cloth bundle and bade us farewell with a wave.
After Tegil mutely shut the door, everyone stared at me. My mother clutched the bundle tightly to her chest, and my brother chewed on one ragged fingernail. My father shook his head ever so slightly like he knew more than the rest of us.
Not wanting to hear either of my parents start in on me again, I slid one fingernail under the still-glowing seal. Light and magic flared from the wax as I opened it, briefly illuminating the room.
With shaky hands, I examined the letter. At the top was an unfamiliar, official-looking emblem. Scrolling shapes and flowing lines were seamlessly integrated into a design that looked drawn in one stroke.
I read it aloud.
“Mage Isca, daughter of Taig, daughter of Mage Heleth,
By order of the Mage Assembly, you are hereby summoned to attend Chancellor Maeron when the sun stands at its zenith on the morrow.
Present yourself at the Western Gate, where you will be received and guided within. Attire yourself in the garment enclosed and no other.
The nature of our request shall be made clear upon your arrival. Until such time, no further details shall be given.
Let your steps be swift and your presence punctual.
By my hand, Pasgen, Scribe for Chancellor Maeron Caervorn, this 40th day of Spring.”
My mother unfolded the cloth bundle she’d been clutching. We had only one precious candle burning, so it was dim in our small home, but both my parents reacted to the dress immediately.
“That gown is for high-ranking magical servants!”
“Isca,” my mother’s tone took on an edge, “what did you do?”
Mouthed off to a man who is probably a neighboring nobleman and cast a wave of magic over the entire marketplace in my terror. I’d conveniently left that last part out when talking to her last night.
But my mouth formed a single word. “Nothing!”
This had to have something to do with the feeling that I’d been watched for the second day in a row, with the rounds of fortress guards coming by my stall.
A wave of nausea washed over me again. I doubted this meeting would be a good thing, but telling my family about the guards would only make them worry more.
While my parents made a big to-do about getting me ready to meet the chancellor the next day, I worried about the day of lost wages. “Is Tegil going to mind the market stall tomorrow? He doesn’t even know the prices.”
“No,” Papa spoke up. “Your brother will work with me at the stall in the morning and do his foraging in the afternoon. Your mother will help you get washed up then join me at the stall later.”
I couldn’t help but smile because that was the most he’d said at once since losing his leg below the knee.
Papa had been the Assembly’s best mundane fighter before his injury.
He’d been proud, a bear of a man whose firm embrace always made you feel safe, and the best example of a caring father.
After nearly dying from the amputation, he’d been sick with fevers for months, barely rousing some days.
But now, it was as if seeing that dress had unlocked a bit of his old self.
The steady strength in his eyes, the quiet confidence in his posture, and a surety I hadn’t seen in months stole any complaints I’d been about to make from my mouth. The change was so welcome that the sudden lift in my chest nearly eclipsed the worry the letter had sparked.
“Now, what’s done is done,” Papa said, his voice a low rumble that soothed my anxieties. “Everyone, to bed. We all have an early morning tomorrow.”