The other Elders still had not arrived at the Council Hall, and likely would not until noon or later. Gherland told Antain to sit.
The Grand Elder stared at Antain for a long time. Antain couldn’t get the Tower out of his mind. Or the madwoman. Or the baby left in the forest, whimpering piteously as they walked away. And oh, how that mother screamed. And oh, how she fought. And oh, what have we become?
It pierced Antain every day, a great needle in his soul.
“Nephew,” the Grand Elder said at last. He folded his hands and brought them to his mouth. He sighed deeply. Antain realized that his uncle’s face was pale. “The Day of Sacrifice approaches.”
“I know, Uncle,” Antain said. His voice was thin. “Five days. It —” He sighed. “It waits for no one.”
“You were not there last year. You were not standing with the other Elders. An infection in your foot, as I recall?”
Antain tilted his gaze to the ground. “Yes, Uncle. I had a fever, too.”
“And it resolved itself the next day?”
“Bog be praised,” he said weakly. “It was a miracle.”
“And the year before,” Gherland said. “It was pneumonia, was it?”
Antain nodded. He knew where this was going.
“And before that. A fire in the shed? Is that right? Good thing no one was injured. And there you were. All by yourself. Fighting the fire.”
“Everyone else was along the route,” Antain said. “No shirkers. So I was alone.”
“Indeed.” Grand Elder Gherland gave Antain a narrowed look. “Young man,” he said. “Who on earth do you think you’re fooling?”
A silence fell between them.
Antain remembered the little black curls, framing those wide black eyes. He remembered the sounds the baby made when they left her in the forest. He remembered the thud of the Tower doors when they locked the madwoman inside. He shivered.
“Uncle—” Antain began, but Gherland waved him off.
“Listen, Nephew. It was against my better judgment to offer you this position. I did so not because of the incessant needling of my sister, but because of the great love I had, and have, for your dear father, may he rest easily. He wanted to make sure your path was assured before he passed away, and I could not deny him. And having you here”—the hard lines of Gherland’s face softened a bit—“has been an antidote to my own sadness. And I appreciate it. You are a good boy, Antain. Your father would be proud.”
Antain found himself relaxing. But only for a moment. With a broad sweep of robes, the Grand Elder rose to his feet.
“But,” he said, his voice reverberating strangely in the small room. “My affection for you only goes so far.”
There was, in his voice, a brittle edge. His eyes were wide. Strained. Even a bit wet. Is my uncle worried about me? Antain wondered. Surely not, he thought.
“Young man,” his uncle continued. “This cannot go on. The other Elders are muttering. They . . .” He paused. His voice caught in his throat. His cheeks were flushed. “They aren’t happy. My protection over you extends far, my dear, dear boy. But it is not infinite.”
Why would I need to be protected? Antain wondered as he stared at his uncle’s strained face.
The Grand Elder closed his eyes and calmed his ragged breathing. He motioned for the boy to stand. His face resumed its imperious expression. “Come, Nephew. It’s time for you to return to school. We shall expect you, as usual, at mid-afternoon. I do hope you are able to make at least one person grovel today. It would put to rest so many misgivings among the other Elders. Promise me you’ll try, Antain. Please.”
Antain shuffled toward the door, the Grand Elder gliding just behind. The older man lifted his hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder and let it hover just above for a moment, before thinking better of it and letting it drift back down.
“I’ll try harder, Uncle,” Antain said as he walked out the door. “I promise I will.”
“See that you do,” the Grand Elder said in a hoarse whisper.
Five days later, as the Robes swept through the town toward the cursed house, Antain was home, sick to his stomach, vomiting his lunch. Or so he said. The other Elders grumbled during the entire procession. They grumbled as they retrieved the child from its pliant parents. They grumbled as they hurried toward the sycamore grove.
“The boy will have to be dealt with,” the Elders muttered. And each one knew exactly what that meant.
Oh, Antain my boy, my boy, oh Antain my boy! Gherland thought as they walked, tendrils of worry curling around his heart, cinching into a hard, tight knot. What have you done, you foolish child? What have you done?
7.
In Which a Magical Child Is More Trouble by Half
When Luna was five years old, her magic had doubled itself five times, but it remained inside her, fused to her bones and muscles and blood. Indeed, it was inside every cell. Inert, unused—all potential and no force.
“It can’t go on like this,” Glerk fussed. “The more magic she gathers, the more magic will spill out.” He made funny faces at the girl in spite of himself. Luna giggled like mad. “You mark my words,” he said, vainly trying to be serious.
“You don’t know that,” Xan said. “Maybe it will never come out. Maybe things will never be difficult.”
Despite her tireless work finding homes for abandoned babies, Xan had a deep loathing for difficult things. And sorrowful things. And unpleasant things. She preferred not to think of them, if she could help it. She sat with the girl, blowing bubbles—lovely, lurid, mostly magical things, with pretty colors swirling on their surfaces. The girl chased and caught each bubble on her fingers, and set each of them surrounding daisy blossoms or butterflies or the leaves of trees. She even climbed inside a particularly large bubble and floated just over the tips of the grass.
“There is so much beauty, Glerk,” Xan said. “How can you possibly think about anything else?”
Glerk shook his head.
“How long can this last, Xan?” Glerk said. The Witch refused to answer.
Later, he held the girl and sang her to sleep. He could feel the heft of the magic in his arms. He could feel the pulse and undulation of those great waves of magic, surging inside the child, never finding their way to shore.
The Witch told him he was imagining things.
She insisted that they focus their energies on raising a little girl who was, by nature, a tangle of mischief and motion and curiosity. Each day, Luna’s ability to break rules in new and creative ways was an astonishment to all who knew her. She tried to ride the goats, tried to roll boulders down the mountain and into the side of the barn (for decoration, she explained), tried to teach the chickens to fly, and once almost drowned in the swamp. (Glerk saved her. Thank goodness.) She gave ale to the geese to see if it made them walk funny (it did) and put peppercorns in the goat’s feed to see if it would make them jump (they didn’t jump; they just destroyed the fence). Every day she goaded Fyrian into making atrocious choices or she played tricks on the poor dragon, making him cry. She climbed, hid, built, broke, wrote on the walls, and spoiled dresses when they had only just been finished. Her hair ratted, her nose smudged, and she left handprints wherever she went.
“What will happen when her magic comes?” Glerk asked again and again. “What will she be like then?”
Xan tried not to think about it.
Xan visited the Free Cities twice a year, once with Luna and once without. She did not explain to the child the purpose for her solo visit—nor did she tell her about the sad town on the other side of the forest, or of the babies left in that small clearing, presumably to die. She’d have to tell the girl eventually, of course. One day, Xan told herself. Not now. It was too sad. And Luna was too little to understand.
When Luna was five, she traveled once again to one of the farthest of the Free Cities—a town called Obsidian. And Xan found herself fussing at a child who would not sit quietly. Not for anything.