Chapter Thirteen - Indigo & Celadon
The stories they had grown-up with, the legends that had been their primary education in all things spiritual and esoteric. He could scarcely believe it was all true - it was all coming true and he was smack in the center of it all.
No, not the center. But nearby, at least. Brigan adjusted his cap, a mushroom-shaped bundle of silk and satin that had cost more than the sum of everything else he owned. Probably, in fact, more than everything his whole family owned or ever had. But it was a benefit of being maegabairn... mageborn. Of being one of an ever-dwindling number of Fey in the world, those who could touch the aether and shape it to their will. One who could draw raw power from the Earth, who could hear the Stone Gods, who could-
Bah! he thought, Its coming true, I know it. I feel it, but why won't they listen to me? Just because I'm only a first-tier apprentice? Brigan sighed, dusting his hands over the front of his smock. It too was finer than anything he had owned before his power was discovered, though unlike the cap it was a plain, bleached cotton. No more nubby, nappy wool. No moldy thread-bare hand-me-down furs, no brittle hemp-weave or laceweed trousers, and no more horsehair either! Only smooth silks, satins, the finest, softest cotton and wool, and garments lined in fresh, clean vair or rabbitfur.
Being an apprentice - even a first-tier - was such an honor. The Bronze lady fawned all about him, the gnomes and even her cousins, they all treated him like some sort of prized doll. They dressed him up, taught him ancient lore and signs that a first-tier had no business knowing just because he was the first they had found in two decades, they let him read anything he cared to, danced with him, fed him choice bits and only required that he work as hard as he could at the spells and lore.
But they didn't respect him or his visions. They all subscribed so completely to the prophesies and legends of the past, but none of them would listen to him when he tried to tell them about the future.
The real future.
Brigan chewed on his lower lip, watching as the Helena ushered two more children into their sanctuary at Nettlehelm. That made four now. The two little ones seemed to have adjusted rapidly. They had been brought in two days ago, bloody and crying. Brigan had made butterfly illusions for the quiet girl and sung a song about the Hero-Pirate Trance Jones that made the little boy's eyes go wide with wonder.
These two were older, several years. The girl appeared to be of an age with Brigan himself, but that wasn't what he noticed first. Not her disheveled hair, a lovely black as glossy as a raven's wing in the sun, not the torn dress and shredded stockings. Not all the blood either.
Because when the girl entered the narrow, circular chamber, she hesitated only a moment before lifting her chin and peering up.
And as their eyes met, intensely-hued indigo meeting an eeriely pale green, electricity sparked across the distance.
...its her.
Posted by Pheenie @ 9/19/2008 11:57:00 AM