City of Keys, page 8
“This is it?” she asked.
The witch pretended not to hear. She left Nikola to it.
Sitting on the hole with her sore bum was unappealing, so Nikola braced a leg on either side and peed straight down. A metal bin seemed meant for the used paper. It wasn’t so bad. Men peed that way. Though she didn’t look forward to the other.
She found her own way back to her chamber and studied the book until Cairness returned and brought her to a larger chamber overlooking the water. Six witches sat at a long wooden table, with two other women in the plain white dress Nikola wore. The girls were younger, one dark, one fair. They chattered to each other, sneaking glances her way. Cairness made no attempt at introductions.
Since Nikola was forbidden to speak Osterlish and understood nothing of the conversation, she ate in silence. More fish, very spicy, and yellow rice. Water was the only beverage, but it was fresh and cool and tasted like ambrosia. After, Cairness showed her the bathing chamber. A pool like the one in the Mahadeva’s grotto, deeper and so hot she had to ease into it by inches. The soak did wonders for her stiff muscles.
Back at her own room, Nikola unwrapped the sodden bandages. Her palms were cracked and raw but didn’t look infected. She sniffed the skin with a grimace. They’d applied some sticky ointment. It smelled foul. She lay back, staring at the rough ceiling. It wasn’t as bad as the Arx in Novostopol, though she seemed fated to always be the outsider, hovering at the edges.
“I’m not here to make friends anyway,” she muttered.
Could she really learn lithomancy? Be a powerful witch in her own right? The idea stirred feelings she didn’t care to examine too closely. With a sigh, she blew out the candle and went to sleep.
At home, Nikola rarely bothered with books. When she did pick one up, she’d be daydreaming by the third page. Absorbing an entire language at the ripe age of twenty-seven proved torturous. When she finally mastered the first primer, Cairness brought her two more. There were regular verbs to memorize, present, past and future. Then all the irregular verbs. Then the genders of the nouns—a stupid, pointless complication that Osterlish lacked. She attempted halting conversations, though deciphering the witch’s rapid, clipped speech was far more difficult than reading the books. Sometimes she caught words here and there when she eavesdropped on the others, but not the meaning of the sentence. It was maddening.
Cairness had not lied when she said Nikola would do nothing else until she grasped the basics of the Athaaran tongue. Only the knowledge that her revenge depended on it kept Nikola from hurling the primers straight down the piss-hole. That vow burned like a quiet, steady flame inside her. She threw herself into her studies, often skipping meals because she had her nose stuck in a book. Even Cairness, who had never once expressed any interest in Nikola’s welfare, began to chastise her for working too hard. She insisted that Nikola walk along the beach each day to stretch her legs. The other acolytes were assigned to accompany her, which is how she learned their names. Bethen was the fair one, with spun gold hair and long, gangly limbs. She had a sunny innocence that made her hard to hate.
“I like your silver tooth,” she said with a grin, speaking slowly and pointing to her own white canine.
Nikola tried to explain how she’d lost the tooth riding a bicycle and saved up her salary for weeks to buy a fancier replacement. The tale required a combination of pantomime and creative use of her meager word list, but Bethen seemed eager to help, teaching her the correct terms and covering a sympathetic gasp of laughter as Nikola pretended to fall off the bike. Oh shit was apparently a universal expression.
Jenifry was more reserved, but not exactly unfriendly. They were already well into practicing simple spells and hadn’t been forbidden to talk about it in general terms. Thus Nikola learned that lithomancy had to do with something the witches called the “inner eye.” One used this intuitive capacity to tap the ley inside the stones.
There were different types of witches. Some served at the temples. Others helped the crops grow. Still others were warriors, defending the isles from invaders. This much they admitted, but when she pressed them about how lithomancy actually worked, they clammed up.
“Your time will come, Nikola,” Bethen said gently.
“Do they ever speak of me?”
The blond novice shook her head. “No, but they never speak of others’ progress.” A sigh. “It is very difficult to master. Most are years in training. Trust me, I am not much ahead of you.”
Nikola returned to the vat of laundry she was scrubbing. “I did not come all this way to be a char again,” she muttered.
“Why did you come?”
Nikola turned her face away. The grief came and went in waves. She’d be fine for days and then it would strike over the stupidest thing. Rain made her think of their last night together. The yarrow blossoms growing near the sea reminded her of his scarlet robes, the chunks of dark amber on Paarjini’s bracelet of his eyes.
“To escape,” she said simply, which was true. But the chains of memory were not so easily broken.
One night, six weeks into her language studies, Cairness came to summon her for supper. Dark had fallen. Stacks of primers covered the table, along with the stubs of used candles.
“You must eat,” the witch said, hands on her hips. “Your mind will not function properly if you deny the body it is attached to.”
Nikola looked up, bleary-eyed, and covered a yawn. “I’m almost done with this chapter. There in a minute.”
“Now.”
Nikola’s lips thinned. Curse the woman! She pushes me relentlessly, and now she complains when I do as I’m told. I ought to—
Nikola blinked. She realized that not only had they been speaking easily in Athaaran, but she had just thought in Athaaran. She leapt to her feet.
“When can I begin my real training?” she asked, holding out her hands. “They are healed. And you must admit I speak well enough to understand.”
Cairness arched a brow. “I will discuss it with the Mahadeva.”
Two more days went by, during which Nikola awaited their decision in an agony of impatience. She was rinsing out her headscarf when her shoulder-blades began to tingle. Nikola turned. A statuesque woman with short-cropped kinky hair was watching her. She had a full mouth, wide-spaced eyes and broad, flat nose between chiseled cheekbones. Nikola’s gaze dropped to the rings on the witch’s hands. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest.
“I am Heshima,” the woman said. Her voice was rich and husky. “I will be your tutor.”
Nikola wrung out the scarf and stood. “I am eager to learn,” she said.
“Good. Come to me after supper.”
Heshima turned and walked away. Nikola watched her, fighting the urge to race after and drag her to the ground. It could be no accident that they had given her the very witch who cast the spell against Malach. Or did they think her too stupid to realize? If it was a test, she intended to pass. Bide her time. Extract every drop of knowledge—then decide on a suitable punishment. Something to make her hair and teeth fall out, perhaps.
And that would be just the beginning.
She barely tasted the meal. It took some searching, but she finally found the witch in an empty chamber with one wall open to the sea. Dozens of beeswax candles burned on the floor. Nikola sat down cross-legged across from her. To her vast relief, there were no books. Just a large leather pouch.
“All magic is change,” Heshima said. “Transformation. It is through the grace of the goddess that we have the ley and the means to use it. What do you know of Valmitra?”
“Very little,” Nikola admitted.
“Then I will tell you. She takes various shapes. Serpent. Wyrm. Dragon. Like those creatures, her form is in constant flux.” Heshima held up a gemstone. “Every scale contains a fragment of her power. When she sheds her skin, it works its way to the surface. This is why the mines never run dry. They are constantly replenished from below.”
Nikola nodded, tamping down her impatience. She had no interest in their religion.
“To tap this power, there are three requirements. First is the need. The emptiness that cannot be filled by any other means. The wish and the will. Second, the emotion associated with the need. Without passion, need has no force or meaning. Lastly, the knowledge. The rituals known only to the witch.”
Again, Nikola nodded, hanging on every word now. At last she was learning something useful!
“Explain what I just said in your own words,” Heshima ordered.
She swallowed, sifting through her still limited vocabulary. “The mind tells the hand to move, but the hand must hold the proper tool to do the work.”
Heshima gave her a considering look. “Yes, that is one way of looking at it. But there is a fourth thing of great importance. The moral standpoint. Magic is used to protect. To restore harmony. It is performed out of love, not hate. “
Nikola held her steady gaze.
“Some are drawn to magic because they think to use it as a weapon. This is wrong. Attempt to wield manipulative magic and it will rebound on you tenfold.”
The hypocrisy of this statement made her blood simmer, but Nikola would not rise to the bait. “I understand.”
“I hope you do. Now, I will explain the basics. When a stone holds ley, it is charged. That means it has the potential to create change. The spell discharges the energy from the stone. Most can only be used once. There are two types of energy: projective and receptive. The first projects power outward. It connects to the subconscious mind. Receptive stones are the natural complement. They direct the ley inward. They are soothing and calming. Protective. They attract good. With practice, you will know just from looking at a stone which type it is. That is where we will begin.”
She took a gem from her pouch and handed it to Nikola. “Feel the weight. The size and color. Which do you think this is?”
The gem was dark red and heavy. “Projective,” Nikola guessed after a moment.
Heshima’s face gave nothing away. “Why?”
“The color.”
“What about the color?”
She looked away. “It made me think of giving birth. Blood and pain. But also creation.”
Nikola sensed the witch’s surprise in a slight widening of her eyes. “Yes, garnet is projective. What about this one?”
She set the garnet aside and examined an oval, pearly-looking stone. “Receptive.”
“Why?”
“It looks like a pool on a still night with the moon shining down overhead.”
“And?”
“The image is peaceful. Sleepy.” She set it next to the garnet. “Was I right?”
“In every respect.” The witch eyed her warily now. “Moonstone is both receptive and strongly associated with water.” She opened her pouch and spilled an array of stones across the floor. “One by one, Nikola.”
She chose a black stone. “Projective,” she said immediately. “It makes me think of a mirror. Reflecting back another spell.”
“Onyx. It is defensive.”
“This one . . . . “ She cupped the smooth blue stone. “I see a falcon high in the sky, hunting.”
“Lapis. It enhances eyesight. Which makes it what?”
“Receptive.”
Nikola worked her way through the pile. Not all were gemstones. There were chunks of marble, coins, lumps of ore. She didn’t know the names, but she unerringly named their properties. By the end, she no longer needed to touch them. Just the color and shape were enough. Heshima grew quiet, affirming each choice with a slight nod.
“There are so many to remember,” Nikola said, flushed with her triumph. “But I will set myself to learn the names. Do you have any more?”
Heshima swept the pile back into the pouch. “We have been working for three hours. I think it is enough.”
Nikola felt surprised. The time had passed quickly. “Can we resume in the morning?”
“No.”
Nikola scowled. “Why? Haven’t I pleased you?”
The witch barked a deep laugh. “I have never seen talent like yours before. I think you are ready for the first initiation. It comes much later for most acolytes, but you are an unusual case.” Her pewter eyes flickered. “In more ways than one.”
“What’s the initiation?” Nikola wondered.
Heshima smiled.
She tossed and turned that night, brain whirling with disconnected thoughts. The next day, Cairness led her down the beach. The tide was going out, leaving clumps of black seaweed. Little crabs burrowed into the sand. Nikola walked in the shallows, letting the waves wash her feet. Her nerves sang, but she wouldn’t let the red-haired witch see it.
She expected a bunch of them to be waiting, some ritual prayer followed by a demonstration of ability, but Cairness led her inside another cave and down a long passage. It ended at a vertical shaft leading down into darkness. Iron rungs were attached to the sides of the shaft.
“To commune with Valmitra, you must enter her domain,” Cairness said.
Nikola peered into the hole. “How far down does it go?”
“Far enough.”
She listened, but there was no sound of waves splashing below. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You will remain at the bottom until she names you.”
“How long does that take?”
“It depends. Sometimes hours, sometimes days. I will wait here. But if you come out before Valmitra makes her will known, you will learn no more.”
Nikola considered this. “What happens to acolytes who fail the test?”
“They go home. Since you have no home, nor skills, you will be given a job in the fields.”
And lose all hope of getting back at them.
“I will not fail.”
Cairness said nothing. She sat down on the floor and started reading a book.
Nikola climbed down the rungs. Gradually, the shaft around her faded until she moved purely by feel. At last her feet touched bottom. She groped along the walls. The chamber was barely larger than the shaft itself.
What did “naming” mean? How would she know when it was done?
Boredom set in immediately. She passed the time reviewing the lesson with Heshima. Nicomar. Receptive. Used for protection and success in an endeavor. Kunzite. Also receptive, with strong earth properties. Fairy-shot. Projective. Used for divination. Black amber. Receptive and a ward against nightmares. Cat’s Eye. Projective. An aid for youth and beauty, but also to make a cloak of invisibility. Heshima had not told her that, but she’d sensed its potential for illusion.
When she finished with stones, she turned to metals. Gold, brass and antimony. Rulers of fire. Aluminum, mercury and tin. Rulers of air. They must be part of the blasting spells. Definitely projective. Copper, lodestone, and silver ruled water. She wondered what would happen if you mixed fire and water with the proper focus. Could she make a person’s blood boil in their veins? Yet she had taken the witch’s warning to heart. Nikola would not attempt magic with malicious intent until she felt certain she had complete mastery.
The hours unspooled. She paced in circles. Just the brief taste had opened a whole new world of possibility. The endless combinations of stone and metal. It was far beyond what Marks could do! Lithomancy was the first thing she could claim any talent whatsoever for, though why it was so, she had no idea.
Nikola had feared it would be like learning their language. Rote memorization that made her head pound. Yet lithomancy felt more akin to remembering something she had forgotten. In every other way, her instincts were terrible. Striking a bargain with Malach was merely the coup de grace in a lifetime of dubious choices. But this! It came as naturally as great sex—without the regrets.
She basked in the glow for a while, but eventually tedium set in again. She sat and dozed. Woke and paced. The temptation to climb the ladder and invent a story for Cairness was strong, but Nikola resisted. The craving for knowledge outweighed everything else. Her natural skill would only get her so far. She wanted all their tricks. Every scrap they possessed. If she had to sit in a hole for a month to get it, she would.
Hunger and thirst were minor annoyances. She discovered new reserves of stubborn patience. She would wait them out. Wait wait wait. Surely something will occur!
Interesting, what happens to a mind left in darkness. Memories surfaced—of Bal Kirith, but also her childhood and life at the Arx. The people she had known. Old grievances. Then the future. Will this happen? Or will that happen? What if I get what I want? What if I don’t get what I want? Will anything make me truly happy?
Then, the remorse. Does the child hate me? Does she know my name? Does she look more like him or like me?
On and on.
And at last, when the machine broke down and the war was lost, a strange quiet.
Her own heartbeat. The slow movement of air. Nothing else. Time ceased to have meaning.
Pain brought her back. Just a twinge at first. She coughed, pressing a hand to her chest. Her eyes opened, though in the black it made no difference. Hunger gnawed at her stomach. Nikola swallowed, the discomfort increasing. Something scraped at her womb.
Saints, not her monthly blood. Not now.
The pain ceased. She exhaled slowly, then reached for a rung of the ladder and hauled herself up. Weak. How long had she been down there? Wait too long and she wouldn’t have the strength to climb out. Would Cairness come looking? Nikola wasn’t sure.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “I will stay a little bit longer—”
Her larynx closed. She let go of the ladder, dropping to hands and knees. Sweat erupted at the edge of her headscarf. Something was very wrong.
She coughed hard, throat burning. Coughed again. Violently. A hard object slid past her tongue. She heard it strike the ground. Nikola spat, wincing at the taste.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered thickly.
She felt along the ground until she found it, slippery with saliva.
“Oh, you bitches,” she whispered with a shaky laugh.
