Chapter 17: Chapter 17: The Test

Saoirse shook her head—no. “He hates me.”

“He will train you.” Alyse's harsh kiss smashed down onto the top of Saoirse's head. “You will learn to use your magic, and you will escape the dragon.” Taking Saoirse's hand, Alyse dragged Saoirse to the base of the turret stairs. “Up you go.”

After a few quick steps, Saoirse looked back. “Aren't you coming?”

“Nay, dearie, I cannot. I have fittings, and well you know the turret is small. Murtagh has but two chairs.” Alyse climbed four steps to stand beside Saoirse. “Murtagh may be rude . . . and overbearing . . . and,” she paused, “quite ugly . . . -”

A weary grin lit up Saoirse's young face.

“But the guild values knowledge even above magic. What is known of magic Murtagh knows.”

Alone in the turret with Murtagh, Saoirse hugged her skinny arms around her petite frame. She was small for ten years of age; indeed, she would have been deemed small even if she had only seen eight years. Though goose bumps dotted her arms, the sun shone bright through the windows and the spring air had a hint of summer's coming warmth in it.

“We will begin by testing your abilities,” Murtagh said.

With Saoirse perched on the stool in front of his writing desk, Murtagh settled himself in his chair, and like the wise man he thought himself to be, proclaimed, “I will bring to my mind a memory.” Murtagh closed his eyes. “You will read my aura and tell me what emotion I am feeling.”

Saoirse longed for a fire, or a cup of warm broth.

With his eyes still closed, Murtagh regally lifted his right-hand, beckoning, “Saoirse, tell me what emotion I am feeling.”

She leaned forward, squinting, trying to “see” the colors instead of Murtagh's long, narrow nose and hairy eyebrows.

His voice took on an irritated edge. “Saoirse, tell me what I am feeling.”

“I can't see the colors today.”

“What?” Abruptly, Murtagh opened his eyes. “I don't understand.”

“Sometimes the colors are there and sometimes they're not. There's no music today either.”

“Ah, yes, the music. Well, we will get to that later. You should be able to see the auras constantly.”

“I should?”

He stood, walked toward her, and made to reach over her head. “Well, move!” She slid off the stool to get out of his way. Standing on tiptoe he took from the highest shelf on the wall above the desk a large, leather-bound book. Setting it down with a thump, he opened it and pointed. “See here?” In awe she gazed at the page. He'd told her stories, many stories, but he'd never allowed her to actually read one of his precious books.

He pointed to the page wonderfully illustrated with green leaves and gold pears rimming the ornately printed words. “Gayland is quite clear. Seers constantly see auras. Indeed, many had trouble discerning the normal things around them because of the auras.” He paused raising his head. “Look again.”

“But . . . but the colors aren't there.”

“Obviously, you don't know what to look for.” He got down a second book, flipped it open and began to read. “An aura appears as a cloud of smoke, or a haze of fog. The color of the aura denotes the emotions of the person. Bright yellow typically indicates hope, a creamy yellow, creativity.” He droned on, reading two entire pages. “Try again.”

“But—”

He raised his hand, commanding Saoirse to stop speaking. Settling himself in his chair, he closed his eyes. Saoirse's shoulders slumped.

“Now, Saoirse, look carefully. What color is my aura?”

Failure followed failure. The morning creeped forward. “How often do you see auras?”

“I don't know. Sometimes I hear the music first.”

Murtagh raised two frustrated, clenched fists into the air. “Forget the music!”

Pushing her aside— “How can someone so small constantly get in the way? Sit in my chair!” —Murtagh retrieved another book from the shelf, this one much more worn than the first, its pages actively rebelling against the aging binding. “Of course, of course. Not Gayland. I should have begun with Treckle, and the manipulation of magic.” He paused turning back to the book, rereading a few pages. “Yes, yes.” He took a deep breath. Momentarily the frustration disappeared from his face, replaced by a look of complete calm and patience. From a small jar sitting on the bookshelf beside the books, he drew out a live lizard.

“Oh, are we going to watch it change colors?”

“No, we are not going to watch it change colors!” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if somewhere among the rafters was a magical person who could kill a dragon. After he had breathed deeply—several times—after he had closed his eyes and asked the ancient gods to deliver him, he placed the lizard on the writing desk.

“Now, Saoirse, using your powers, draw the magic out of the lizard.”

“What?”

Again, he breathed in, holding the breath. Slowly, sighing softly, he exhaled. “Lizards are kin to dragons. They have magic, although of course only a small amount. I need you to draw the magic out of the lizard.”

“How?”

“How?” Murtagh rubbed his brow, trying to stop the pain that kept stabbing into his head. “What do you mean how?”

“Should I have a wand?”

“No! There are no wands!”

Murtagh collapsed onto the stool in front of the writing desk, roughly running his fingers through his short, thin, greasy hair. “In all the stories I have told you, have there ever been wands?”

“No, but I don't think you told me all the stories.”

He continued raking his hands through his hair. “You didn't exactly tell me everything either. Did you?”

She looked into the cold fireplace.

He sighed. “Perhaps some physical movements will energize your abilities.” He turned to face her.

Only her mother's rigorous training kept Saoirse from recoiling in shock. The rough raking of Murtagh's hair with his fingers had caused every thin, short strand to stick straight out from his head.

“Hold your hands in front of your chest.” Murtagh held up his hands, palms facing Saoirse, his fingers curled as if he was imitating a lion about to pounce. A giggle threatened because Murtagh did indeed look like a lion. One with a pathetically thin mane.

“Then grab the magic.” He reached forward toward the lizard as if he were about to claw the small creature. “And pull it toward you.”

Obediently, Saoirse raised her hands and curled her fingers into tiger claws. Reaching forward with both hands, she pretended to grab something invisible that was just in front of the lizard. The lizard responded by flicking out its tongue.

“Good, good,” Murtagh urged her on with his voice. “Can you see the colors?”

“What colors?”

About three in the afternoon, Alyse climbed the turret stairs. “What?” she exclaimed, “No, explosions! I'm a bit disappointed.”

“So am I,” Murtagh said.

Alyse looked from Murtagh's frustrated face to Saoirse, who immediately resumed reading the book on her lap. Books littered the writing desk, the hearth, even the floor. He'd brought down all twelve.

“What are you reading?” Alyse peered over Saoirse's shoulder.

“Gayland. The first part of the book is about auras, but the second is about the lives of the seers. “

“Sounds interesting.”

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“It is. Seer Poole was such a powerful healer that he once healed a man who'd been trampled by stampeding cattle.”

“I could've used his healing.”

Murtagh cast a strange look at Alyse. “Were you sick?”

Alyse eyes wondered about the room, “Oh . . . a childhood illness.” Placing her hand on Saoirse's shoulder, she rapidly said, “Does it say anything else about Seer Poole?”

“Yes. It says he was eaten. Gayland says that the ancient law states that all seers are doomed, doomed to a bitter end.” She continued in a quite flippant tone. “Two different dragons ate Seer Poole. One dragon bit his feet while the other swallowed his head. They tore him apart. You see, usually the dragons demand that the seers walk into their mouths, so that the dragon gets every bit of the seer’s magic. But Seer Poole refused.”

Alyse cast a horrified look at Murtagh.

“Saoirse,” he said, taking the book from her, “your lesson is over. Alyse will follow you down in a minute.” Like a fog rolling in from the sea, the orange-brown smoke of disgust bubbled up around Murtagh. Driven by the hideous smoke, Saoirse bolted through the door and down the turret stairs. She had traveled only ten steps when . . .

The smoke! I can see the colors!

As quick as she had left, she returned, catching the door with her fingertips before it clicked shut. Murtagh's weary voice froze her. “She's pathetic.”

“Surely, she must be powerful to draw a dragon the very day she was born? And Lord Laoch's son—Nathan, she helped him.”

He paced the length of the room and back again. “She doesn't see the auras consistently. The books don't even record a seer who didn't constantly see auras.”

“Maybe the books are wrong. Maybe she's different.”

He rolled his eyes; the weakest of chuckles escaping his lips. “She's different. Yes. All of the seers whose lives are recorded save one were men. That's the difference, Alyse.” Wearily, he sank into his chair. “She's a girl. She's weak.”

Alyse clenched her fists to keep from slapping him. “Two dragons have come here looking for her—”

He interrupted, “The dragons are hungry, Alyse. Even the tiniest fleck of magic is better than starving.”

“But . . .”

“I'll never be able to train her. There's nothing to train.”

Saoirse crumpled beside the door, her skirt rustling as it met the stone. Hearing the sound, Alyse pushed open the door and at once dropped to her knees, gathering Saoirse in her arms. Like a dam bursting, Saoirse's loud sobs filled the stairwell.

Alyse and Murtagh half-lifted, half-carried her to Murtagh's comfy chair. His aura gone stark white with concern, Murtagh started a fire. He even patted her hand, “We'll try some different tests tomorrow.”

The next day Saoirse didn't climb the turret stairs. She sat, in her nightclothes, staring out her window.

Alyse chided her, “Child, he's waiting for you.”

She leaned her hot cheek against the small, thick windowpanes imported from across the sea by her grandfather. “The day I was born, when the dragon came, if Father had known I was magical, do you think he would have given me to the dragon?”

Alyse carefully did not answer. “That did not happen.”

“But that's what they did in the old days. The people brought the dragons their food. They chained the seers to carts and took them to the dragons. They told Seer Liam they would kill his daughter if he didn't go.”

Alyse raised her eyes to heaven. “Why did I ever have Murtagh teach you? How daft can a person be?”

“A dragon is going to eat me.” Silent tears spilled down Saoirse's cheeks.

Alyse coming up behind Saoirse, wrapped her arms around Saoirse's tiny waist, snuggling her. Saoirse leaned back into the comfort of Alyse's warm chest. “What am I going to do?”

Grasping Saoirse tighter to her, Alyse kissed her hair. “All I know is that if love could save you, you'd be safe in my arms.”

“Love can't kill a dragon.”

In the night, long after Alyse had drifted off to sleep, Saoirse rose, dressed herself and went to the stable to visit Storm. The foal greeted her by pushing its nose against her chest, begging to be petted.

“Who's there!” a harsh voice called out. The bright light of a lantern had Saoirse wincing and turning away. “Young Miss, what ya be doing out here? Why it's almost midnight.” The groom hung the lantern from a hook near the stall.

“I . . . I wanted to see Storm.”

As the groom chuckled, the smell of whiskey drifted to her nose. “Nay, that's not why you’re here. You're here because you need to talk to someone, and horses, why they're the best sort for listening to troubles, because they don't give no fool advice. They listen, and munch on some hay, and listen some more. But now people, they've always got to be telling you what they think. They're no good at all, not when you're in trouble.”

Silent tears streamed down Saoirse's face.

“Ah . . . don't go doing that.” The groom shuffled his feet. He looked everywhere but at the Saoirse. But of course, he finally had to look at her. “Come here . . . ” He stepped forward and wrapped Saoirse in his arms. His shirt was of coarse wool. He smelled of sweat and too few baths. His chest, rock hard with muscle, wasn't a comfortable pillow for her head, yet when his strong arms wrapped themselves around her, she cried all the tears she'd been holding back her whole life.

She cried because her father had been burned, and because if he knew she was magic he wouldn't love her. She cried because she had failed Alyse. She was so pathetic even Seer Murtagh, a Seer of the First Rank, couldn't teach her. She cried for herself because she was doomed, doomed to a bitter end. And she cried for Aonair, because she'd never meet him, and she so wanted to meet him.

Eventually, the groom took her back to the tack room where he slept. He wrapped her up in his sleeping blanket, poured her a cup of whiskey, and toasted a slice of bread for her over his small cooking fire. As she drank the whiskey and nibbled on the toast he asked, “What's wrong, Princess.”

“I can't tell you.”

“Hmm . . how about I guess?”

Warm with the whiskey, she giggled. “You'll never guess.”

“Oh, I won't, will I?”

She shook her head.

“Let me see.” As if he was a great thinker, he tapped his finger against the side of his head, then rubbed his chin with his hand. Slowly, he nodded, as if a profound thought had, just that moment, come to him, “You,” he pointed to Saoirse, “had a plan for your life, a glorious plan. You thought you were special, but now all you see in front of you is a life you don't want.”

Troubled, stormy, gray eyes looked up into his.

“Did I get it right?”

She nodded.

“So, here's what you do.” He leaned forward, “Go wild.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow when the sun comes up, run along the beach. Take your shoes off. Let the cold spray get your clothes all wet.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Dunna you see? When you've got nothing to live for, why that's when the living really starts. What have you got to lose? A future that has you talking to horses?”

“You mean, that if someone found out that,” she looked up at the wooden roof of the room, pretending to think something up, “that maybe that a dragon was going to eat them . . . ” She raised her chin, piercing the groom with stare more formidable than her father's, “Then the best thing they could do would be to do everything they ever wanted real fast.”

“Now you've got it! Run, laugh, sing. Have yourself a bottle of the finest whiskey. Fill up your life with wild, glorious days.” He grasped her shoulders. “Live, little princess, live!”

 

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