Her hidden fire, p.11
Her Hidden Fire, page 11
The other girls were filing out of the room. As she followed them, she bowed her head under her hood and built her thought-wall, swiftly creating a new display, her silver fish flickering restlessly in the depths as the last blocks slid into place. She couldn’t stop her worry coloring her thought-wall, though, staining it with her anxiety. With a final tug she pulled power up the thread, setting the thoughts circling in random patterns through the day.
When she reached the courtyard, the other girls were already forming a line, but when she tried to join them, they moved closer so there was no room. From her place at the front, Ailbhe glanced back, her face expressionless, and said, “Commoners go last.”
Her face burning, Éadha began making her way to the end where the other commoner girls, Béibhín and Nuala, were already standing. When she got there she saw Gry had arrived, and he stepped back to make a space for her. As she took it, Ailbhe glanced over her shoulder then rolled her eyes at him. Gry, though, just grinned back at her cheerfully until she turned away.
In silence they followed the Head Keeper’s swinging lantern through the cloisters, feet echoing on the bare stone. In the predawn darkness, the temple was lit by torches set in braziers along the walls. Bundles of fragrant pinewood burned in fire-wells at intervals up the center aisle, creating circles of heat in the frosty air. Ahead, the Channeller apprentices filed into their plush red-cushioned seats in the center while the Keepers slipped into the high-fronted Keeper pews set sideways-on. Éadha could see Ionáin’s tawny head in the middle of his class, flanked by Senan and Coll.
The senior Keepers stood behind the pews, hoods raised so their faces couldn’t be seen, hands crossed and tucked into their sleeves, like living statues lining the temple wall.
As the bells stilled, four Masters paced slowly up the center aisle, swinging incense-laden thuribles on long silver chains until the smoke filled the temple, drifting over the Keeper pews. Éadha’s head began to swim as a potent blend of incense and another unfamiliar smell surrounded them, the smoke filling her lungs and dimming her eyes. At the same time, a single drumbeat began thumping in rhythm with her heart. Gradually, it was joined by other deeper, more complex rhythms that built and echoed with fierce intent.
The incense and the pounding of the drums were making her dizzy, forcing her to grip the pew in front to steady herself. As she did, the Masters stood as one and began to chant. In their song Éadha heard the ferocity and joy of power, coursing through the heart, the body, the mind. From nowhere a sudden wildness gripped her. Urged her to rip down her thought-wall, to reach out and drain the life force from everyone around her until they collapsed in a pyre at her feet and she rose like an arrow, blazing out with all the power she was capable of, shattering through the dome above.
Her power surged up inside her, demanding to be unleashed. She fought to hold it down, but as she did, the drums kept up their relentless beat, faster and faster still until they merged, collapsing to a single racing beat that arrowed into her mind and slammed into her worry-stained thought-wall. For one frozen instant it held against the impact, and then it shattered into unbeing, her true thoughts fleeing all through her mind.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a hooded Keeper’s head shoot up, whipping this way and that like a blind creature trying to locate the source of a sound. And beside her, she sensed Gry’s head inching about, his eyes sliding sideways toward her.
Éadha knew the power holding her thought-wall together had shone out in the moment it shattered. That the Keepers’ grasping, spidery senses must be spooling outward now, searching for the source of that power flare. The part of her that could still think through the drug haze and the drumbeats was screaming in terror, scrabbling to rebuild her thought-wall from the scattered images ricocheting through her mind.
But each time she managed to cobble her thoughts together, the drums pounded them apart once more. And mutely, sullenly, deep inside her, something else was resisting too. A part of her that’d stayed standing in the Channellers’ quad last night, staring in at Ionáin’s rich apartment, and whispered to her now that it was all too hard. That maybe it was better like this. Better to be caught now and recognized for what she was, a Channeller born, and take her place like Linn in a turret with stained-glass windows, and sit on a red velvet seat, and be kept in out of the rain.
But as she struggled, the drumming finally stopped and the congregation rose and began to sing. It was the refrain of thanks, the same song she’d sung with the choir at Ionáin’s Reckoning, and as the melody rose around her, from note to well-loved note, she climbed, pulling herself away from the seductive drumbeat of despair and desire. She remembered the promise she’d made to protect Ionáin and built back a shining thought-wall of music and memory that deflected the searching Keepers’ creeping threads so they withdrew, thwarted.
A little later, as the apprentices shuffled out through the temple doors, a voice behind her said, “Are you all right?”
It was Gry. “You seemed a bit…wobbly back there.”
“The smoke and the singing, I don’t know, it affected me,” she replied, her head clearing quickly in the morning air. He fell into step alongside her. Éadha felt a twinge of surprise and, underneath that, fear.
“I wouldn’t worry, that’s normal. They burn molash potions with the incense to heighten the rush from channeling. You’ll get the hang of it. You should see how it affects the new Channeller apprentices. Of course they’re far more sensitive than us lowly Keepers. Some have even been known to lose it and start trying to channel right there on the spot.”
She looked at him sharply, but Gry’s eyes were wide, full of nothing but a seemingly innocent concern. Still, though, this was far too dangerous a subject, and so she said abruptly, “How do you know so much about this place?”
Gry’s eyebrows twitched as if to say he’d registered the topic swerve before he said, “My cousin graduated a few months ago; he told me what to expect, and then my Family goes back a bit. So plenty of nursemaid’s tales for me and my sister since we could first sit on her knee. I used to long for a story that didn’t involve battling dragons or raising palaces—possibly something involving cows,” he finished with a slight grimace.
“So what happens now?”
“Well, breakfast in the ref now. After that, the real work begins.”
Éadha’s anxiety began to churn once more. Her thought-wall was back up, but she wasn’t any closer to reaching Ionáin unseen in time for his lessons.
The refectory was in the main House, its east-facing windows lit by the rising sun as the apprentices trickled in, some as dazed-looking as Éadha. The same buffet was laid out as yesterday—mounds of fresh fruit, warm bread, and steaming hot chocolate. In front of her, two Keeper girls were chatting as they inspected a glistening pile of strawberries in a porcelain bowl, carefully selecting the ripest, roundest berries.
“They’re very good, much better than our crops this winter,” said one.
“Mother always says Master Cathal could channel pomegranates from a teaspoon of soil in a snowstorm,” the other replied.
“But look out for the tomatoes; they’re the hardest to get right. Best avoided for the first term, at least until the new Channellers get the hang of them.”
Standing behind the two girls, Éadha wondered if she was the only person on Lambay who didn’t already know everything there was to know about First House, from the hazards of tomatoes and drugged incense to the Masters and their talents. She felt like someone playing a high-stakes game of blindman’s bluff, flailing as she tried to feel out the obstacles and pitfalls ahead while all around her the smugly sighted looked on, sniggering. How had she thought she could outwit the Masters when she didn’t know the first thing about this place?
A group of black-robed Channeller students burst in, talking loudly, pushing and shoving each other in high spirits. Ionáin was in the middle, laughing and ducking to avoid a cuff from Senan. They were followed more slowly by Ailbhe and the other girls from Éadha’s dorm. All sat down at a long table, though not before the Keeper girls bowed to the Channeller apprentices.
Seeing Éadha, Ionáin jumped back to his feet, waving to her to come over. Awkwardly she did so, Gry strolling alongside her, for all the world as if they were old friends rather than two people who’d barely met. And Éadha had the sense of a decision having been reached by the tall, dark-haired young man beside her. One she had no say in at all.
“Éadha, there you are,” said Ionáin. “You know Coll and Linn and Senan from yesterday. Everyone, this is Éadha, from home. She’s the one I told you about, who faced the dragon in the Blackstairs on our way here.”
Éadha smiled self-consciously.
“Yes,” snorted Senan. “The word faced is doing a lot of work there. Anyway, I heard Huath chased off the bitch but not before its spawn had hatched, so they’re hunting for them now.”
“It was so lucky your uncle Huath was there,” said Ailbhe, leaning in to the conversation, gazing wide-eyed at Ionáin. “Though I’m sure you’ll be as strong a slayer as he is.”
The talk turned to the different Channellers, with Ionáin loyally backing his uncle against younger Channellers recently returned from the western front with tales of new techniques, new slayings. But when Gry made some small remark about his cousin, Senan’s head whipped about like a snake. “Ah, the boy Keeper. How are you doing in your Keeper dorm? I heard your aunt Hera canceled the midwinter festival at House Críoch rather than face the pitying looks from her sisters. I think I’d prefer no power at all than to be a Keeper. So very mediocre, don’t you think? At least being powerless has that whiff of notoriety, eh, Ionáin? What girl in their right mind would have you now?”
Gry had flushed at Senan’s onslaught, but his voice was calm as he replied, “At least my parents didn’t have to ask the Reckoner to keep going for—what was it?—a whole ten minutes before you finally managed to pass because we already have a Channeller in the Family.”
“That’s a lie and you know it!” Senan sprang from his chair and had to be held back by Ionáin. “You’re lucky there’s a power ban, or I’d show you what a real Channeller looks like.”
Gry sat unmoving, other than to pop a strawberry in his mouth, and after a moment Senan subsided into his chair once more. There was a short pause, then the chatter rose around them again. Éadha, though, was more interested in what Senan had said.
“What did he mean by a power ban?” she said to Coll beside her.
In between mouthfuls of food, he explained, “Well, as Master Irial will no doubt lecture us about later, it’s all about the Stages. Purifying our bodies and minds into worthy vessels. So, basically, no flying, fighting, or anything else fun for the first while.”
It was a reprieve, she thought. An unexpected gift of time. Time to find the way to reach Ionáin with her power unseen, to keep her promise after all. And the relief of this realization was so strong Éadha swayed slightly in her seat.
She straightened up then, looking around the sunlit ref with a new sense of possibility. Ionáin glanced her way, and she grinned impulsively across at him. He smiled widely in response, blue eyes shining with their old shared laughter, before turning toward a knowing kick from Coll.
From the darting looks of Ailbhe and the other Keeper girls around her, Éadha knew that in that one moment, with that one shared smile with Ionáin, she’d managed to make an enemy of Ailbhe after all, but just then, just there, she didn’t care.
12
It was later that morning. Éadha and the other novices stood shivering in the stone handball alley at the northern end of First House. Though the high walls sheltered them from the sea winds, it was still bitterly cold in the thin spring sunshine. Master Irial stood before them holding a net of handballs—small balls made from twine and covered in leather. He was a tall, slim man, well muscled, with keen eyes and an amused expression. His long hair was tied back and his cloak off, though Éadha could see no trace of the dragon burns that’d ended his posting in Westport.
“Today begins your first Stage: preparing yourselves in mind and body to be worthy vessels of power,” Irial began. “You’ll need immense physical strength, agility, and flexibility to contain and use your power, whether in dragon combat, in the peaceful arts of building and growing, or in the weaving of illusions. We begin with handball. A sport that requires speed, agility, and coordination of the hand and eye, all essential when wielding the yew staff. So—any volunteers?”
Ionáin’s hand went up to cheers and back slaps from Senan and Coll as he stepped out from the Channeller apprentices in front of Irial. The Keeper novices were in a separate group a little to one side, watched over by Fiachna. Quickly he stripped down to his tunic, the wind tearing at his hair. Éadha felt a twist of longing when she saw how lean and strong he looked in the Channeller uniform, with its slim-fitting pants and narrow top, his skin golden-brown in the sunlight. Beside her, Muir, one of the girls from her dorm, gave Ailbhe a meaningful nudge while stifling a giggle.
Irial, meanwhile, threw the ball in the air and smashed it with his hand against the far wall. It rebounded toward Ionáin, hitting him hard in the chest, and he doubled over, the breath knocked out of him.
“As I said, speed and agility. Also quick reflexes.”
Laughing good-naturedly, Ionáin picked up the ball, and Master Irial walked him through the serve, showing him how to place his feet to react swiftly to the flying return, how to twist his body to avoid being hit, how to throw himself across the court in a diving catch and hit the ground in a roll. Ionáin quickly took to it, and soon all of the apprentices were playing with varying degrees of success, the air filled with the sounds of balls hitting walls and various tender body parts as they ricocheted back.
Standing there in the spring sunshine, watching Ionáin race around the alley, for all Muir’s stupid giggles, Éadha was still fizzing with the relief of knowing she didn’t have to find a way to supply him with power just yet and with another, deeper feeling she wouldn’t admit to herself but that filled her until she almost had to rise up on the balls of her feet to hold it in. The feeling of being, for just a little while, free. She’d come here to protect Ionáin, but for now he didn’t need her. She was free to just be. In this place of power and wonders, she’d nothing to do but train like all the Family apprentices around her.
When her turn came to step into the alley, she threw herself into the game. Her hands were calloused from herding, making it easier for her to strike the hard ball. She adapted quickly to the game’s rhythm, anticipating the flight of the ball and positioning herself instinctively to send it flying back against the wall and beyond reach.
As the morning wore on, Master Irial set up a tournament that quickly turned competitive. Ionáin was knocked out early on, Linn defeating him with a practiced smash that bounced off three walls before whizzing past his outstretched hand.
The next game was between Gry and Ailbhe. As the two names were called, Éadha sensed a collective breath from the other apprentices. Gry stepped forward, shrugging off his cloak. Underneath the uniform, his arms were taut and muscular, his smooth, dark skin gleaming in the afternoon light. Beside her, Muir gave a small sigh and whispered to another apprentice, Síofra, “Such a waste.”
“I know,” Síofra replied. “I mean, why even bother when he’s only a Keeper?”
“Still though,” said Muir. “Maybe he’s hoping Linn will take a chance on him? That name still means something.”
Meanwhile, Gry had taken up position in the stone alleyway. Watching him, with his cropped hair and his lean fitness, once again Éadha had the disconcerting sense he’d arrived somehow more ready for Lambay than the rest of them. As if, long before he’d gotten here, he’d been preparing himself, almost like a warrior preparing for battle. But still, as Ailbhe stepped forward, there was no aggression to him, only a kind of pained embarrassment as he nodded to her politely. Her expression was considerably more chilly, barely acknowledging him as she drew on a pair of soft leather gloves.
The match was over in minutes, Ailbhe sending the ball slamming around the alley at a speed Gry, for all his apparent strength, was seemingly unable to match. Though Éadha couldn’t help noticing how perfectly timed his misses were, every time his hand falling just inches short of where the ball landed. And as he returned to his spot, while Éadha’s dorm mates loudly cheered Ailbhe’s win, she could’ve sworn she saw something very like relief on his face.
She, meanwhile, had come through the first few rounds, Ionáin loudly cheering, “Victory to House Ailm!” when she beat Síofra in a close game.
And even though it was the most normal thing in the world for Ionáin to cheer for his oldest friend, Éadha still felt relieved to hear it. Because, she realized, after less than a day on this island she was no longer sure what was normal anymore.
Next up was Ailbhe. She stepped into the alley with smooth confidence, her shining hair tied into a neat bun. They were well matched: Ailbhe with the superior skill and experience, Éadha relying on her longer reach and natural agility to stay in points. Almost everyone else had been knocked out by now, the Keepers returning to stand behind Fiachna. The Channellers sat high above them on the alley walls, feet dangling as they looked down at the two girls racing about the alley, diving and twisting. Ionáin was still noisily cheering Éadha on while Ailbhe’s dorm mates cheered for her. Ailbhe was perfectly composed, her skin only lightly flushed as she served ball after ball. Éadha suspected it was almost as important to her to make it look easy as it was to win. But she could also see that after several hard matches Ailbhe was beginning to tire. Saw, too, her quick, irritated glance upward when Ionáin gave a particularly loud cheer. “Come on, Éadha! Show them what us northerners are made of!”
