Chapter 14: 17. The Tutor

Rorri

 

“Wait here, please, ser.”

The guard zipped by, leaving Rorri in the parlor room just past the manor’s narrow entrance. He stood on a dazzling marble mosaic – maroon-and-white tiles arranged in an eight-pointed starburst, so clean he could see his reflection beneath him – and was daunted to find not a single speck of dust in the room, not even floating about in the sunrays. He dared not sit on the white sofa, or set his bag on the varnished center table; though he’d washed and prettied all morning, he still feared he might stain anything he touched.

A stray servant passed, staring at the foreigner from between pristine white pillars, then disappeared just as quickly, only to be replaced by another a few moments later, then another, each passing whispers between them…

Rorri pretended not to notice, maintaining a thin smile. Don’t bounce. Don’t bounce. Don’t bounce…

The guard finally returned, brisk and agitated, his pink face reddened to the color of raw beef.

“Follow me,” he said tersely, avoiding the forest elf’s gaze.

Rorri trailed the guard down deep purple-carpeted corridors, his skin tickled by the parting air. The manor exuded a rigid, orderly, suffocating aura. He measured his breath, but the effort was dizzying with how quickly his heart was beating. If only he’d accounted for this before he ate the flower. He still would have eaten it, just maybe a bit earlier, so the peak would have tapered before he got there.

At the end of the hall, the guard stopped in front of a partially open door, held his breath, then gave three light knocks.

“My Lady,” he called. “Your tutee—”

“I know,” a voice interrupted. “You were just here, Markus, you don’t have to tell me again.”

The guard froze, all but trembling in his boots.

“Let the man in, for god’s sake!”

Markus gave Rorri a stiff nod and pushed open the door. Rorri hesitated, but shuffled across the threshold, gripping the straps of his bag.

The study was dark and scantily furnished, with only a wide bookshelf, a reading chaise, and two chairs tucked under a mahogany table near the room’s only window. Candlelight flickered from wall sconces, shelves, and a modest chandelier, jarring in contrast to the sunny high-noon sky. Rorri felt as though he had entered some strange, twilit otherworld, where night and day had traded duties, where the moon imparted warm light to the world, while the sun hid away until dark.

He kept his head bowed in a covert initial sweep of the area. His tutor’s soft blue slippers caught his eye, crossed under her chair, ankles barely exposed below the cinched cuff of her pants – nothing at all like the bloated skirt Bilge had described as the uniform of feminine nobility – and his eyes drifted upward without his consent. Before he realized it, and before he could stop himself, he had drank in her shirt, a fine pink river of silk…

With a jolt, he remembered that it was not the pet dog’s place to look his master in her eyes, and he flicked his gaze to the floor. He was on a mission. He had to focus.

The woman’s chilly voice pierced the silence, freezing the air between them.

“Do you want to die?”

Rorri’s heart stopped. He looked up, face colored with shock.

“Because,” she continued sharply, “if you keep holding your breath like that, you’re going to pass out, hit your head on the wall, break your neck, and die. I’m in no mood to clean up that mess today, so please, ser, breathe for me, and spare us both the trouble.”

A beat of bewilderment passed. He hadn’t actually noticed that he wasn’t breathing, and although it had only been seven seconds or so since his last breath – drawn just before he crossed into the room – the realization set in, and he exhaled suddenly into a sputtering laugh, choking as he inhaled. Rorri barely glimpsed the fine crack in her joyless illusion, the tiny smirk dimpling her cheek as she suppressed a chortale, and he coughed to recover his breath. Markus, still hovering by the door, averted his eyes, as if he’d just walked in on a scandal.

“You may leave, Markus,” the noblewoman said, waving her hand. The guard scurried away without hesitation.

“Come in then, close the door.”

Rorri obeyed, gingerly turning the golden doorknob as if it might crumble at his touch.

“You must be…” She shuffled through a small stack of papers. “Girreah, I presume?”

Rorri blinked. “S-sorry?”

“Girreah… Mantel… Mantelborbin? Am I saying that right?” The woman flitted her gaze between the document and her pupil, but Rorri’s face betrayed his utter lack of recognition. She tucked the paper away and folded her hands together. “Right. Have a seat.”

Rorri shuffled towards the empty chair, his thoughts already spiraling. Why wasn’t his name on her list? Did Bilge’s ‘friend’ mess something up? What would happen if he was found out? There was clearly a measurable inconsistency in record keeping. If someone cared enough to do any digging, they could easily uncover the deception, and prove it, at that. And, though Rorri had no idea how Iridan’s nobility or bureaucracy actually functioned, it seemed obvious that this was a loose end, a blunder which threatened his safety. He might be better off running away after all. He was small and quick, almost certainly able to outrun Markus, and the manor’s entrance wasn’t too far, if he could make it down the hallway without any other interruptions—

“Hello?”

His tutor waved her hand in front of his face. “There you are,” she said. “Could you show me your invitation, please?”

“Oh – sorry, y-yes, of course, m-my Lady,” Rorri bumbled, scrambling for the letter. He reached out as far as he could to present it, doubled over in a deep bow, as if afraid to offend her by moving his feet.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, “would you sit down, already? You’re making me nervous with that.”

“Yes! M-my apologies, my Lady!” Rorri set the envelope on the table, pulled the chair out an uncomfortable distance away, and sat. She eyed him with interest, then gave the letter a cursory once-over.

“Rorri, then?”

Rorri gave a tense nod. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Lovely,” she continued with a small sigh. “My name is Shacia, and, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, I will be your magic tutor.”

Rorri stared at his knees silently. She narrowed her eyes, rested her elbow on the table, and inhaled sharply.

“Normally after an introduction, the other party will reply with something like, ‘it’s a pleasure to meet you’, or ‘charmed’, or, I don’t know… ‘hi’. Are you capable of this?”

Rorri swallowed. “Y-yes, I’m sorry, my Lady, it’s—”

“Please,” she interrupted. “While you are in this room, address me by my name. If we are ever to meet in public for some inexplicable reason, you may resume your insufferable groveling then.”

Rorri paused, briefly considering whether this was some sort of test. But, despite her intensity, something about the noblewoman’s candor set him at ease.

“Also, ser, you’ll have to look at me at some point – unless you intend to learn magic by the carpet’s instruction, in which case, I suppose I ought to excuse myself.”

Rorri’s eyebrow trembled in its uncertain position, but with her permission, he deliberately raised his head, and his breath fled his lungs.

He’d never actually seen a white elf before, but he never could have guessed that they would be truly white – strikingly, eerily white – the envy of clouds, ghosts, and powdered ice. She seemed almost unnatural, or perhaps supernatural, like a creature from a story meant to scare children. A pattern of pink veins emerged around her eyes, lips, nose, and the tips of her long, pointed ears, pulsing gently beneath her thin skin. Apart from her motility, it was all that distinguished her from a corpse. Bits of yellow hair escaped the hastily-tied bun which obscured her age, though he guessed her to be slightly older than him, based only on her demeanor. Her face looked as if, in its creation, it had been gently pinched on one side and baked permanently crooked. Her right eyelid drooped, half-obscuring a pale green iris, and her left eye gleamed, a sharp, crisp beacon of acuity and wit – but those observations were something to be tucked away for later, perhaps as inspiration for a painting.

Far more importantly, in the fleeting time that their eyes met, Rorri felt something he didn’t understand, something he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t a spark, it wasn’t butterflies, it wasn’t lustful or romantic. It was… familiar, but not comforting – like déjà vu, but not quite – like meeting an old friend he’d never met before, or a perfect stranger he knew intimately.

Something rattled in the cavity of his chest. He twitched and looked away, breaking the mysterious tension, though its residue remained. Shacia tilted her head, eyes lingering upon him, and spoke with resonance unique to the wealthy and educated.

“What do you already know of magic?”

Rorri scratched his ear, hummed, and squinted as if thinking very deeply.

“N-nothing, really,” he said after a calculated pause.

Shacia huffed. “You’re lying.”

He stiffened. She leaned in, resting her elbows on the table.

“And you’re terrible at it,” she added, a smirk prodding the edge of her lips. Rorri chuckled nervously.

“I’ve been told that b-before,” he said, right as he noticed, for the first time since he’d sat, the incessant tapping of his own foot. He pressed his elbow into his thigh and forced it to stop, but the tapping traveled up to his hands, which he promptly hid in the crooks of his crossed arms. Shacia watched him as if observing the pitiful, bumbling gait of a young kitten.

“And yet, you still try,” she said with a light sigh. “I can imagine a number of reasons why you’d lie about your magic knowledge to your magic tutor. Perhaps you want to impress me with your talent later by making me believe you know nothing now?”

Rorri shook his head, looking vaguely offended.

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “What is it, then?”

“I, uh…” Rorri paused, gnawing the inside of his cheek. “It’s something I can’t really t-talk about.” He glanced at her lips – chapped and pink – then blinked and looked back to the floor.

“Hm…” Shacia cleared her throat, scooting into the fold of the chair. “I once read a history on the forest elves by a Larrasinaiae scribe, though ‘history’ might be too kind for them. Anyway, it’s the only account I’m aware of that mentions the forest elves’ mind-reading magic – the origin of the myth, if I had to guess. They called it Méspoulis, if I’m not mistaken.”

Rorri’s eyelids fluttered, almost imperceptibly.

“Most scholars don’t even believe it’s real,” she went on. “There’s a reason why magic is so unpopular these days, why people don’t trust real magicians. It has a way of ruffling feathers, especially that magic. It’s frightening, the idea that one only has so much control over their own secrets, that one’s mind can be stolen, like any other thing behind a locked door. It’s much more comfortable to believe it’s a fairy-tale, isn’t it?”

Rorri’s eyes swept the floor as his tutor’s musings settled in his ears.

“I d-don’t know much about magic, like I said, but…”

Shacia subtly plucked her lip as she listened, still and intent, like a cat listening for rustling in the grass.

“I-if there were people that could do magic like that, I think they w-would have very strict rules. They’d want to keep it a s-secret, since… I mean, how many p-people would you trust with that sort of power?”

“I’d be hard pressed to think of one,” Shacia laughed, melting the tension in Rorri’s shoulders. “I wonder, though… Would someone know if their mind was being read?”

Rorri paused. “Magic that p-powerful sounds like… like it would be hard to miss,” he said, selecting his words with care.

A pensive, oddly comfortable silence settled over the room. The Snow’s chaotic dance slowed to a light flurry, his heart simmering like warm soup, still quick, but…

“I do need to know what I’m working with,” she resumed with an authoritative tone, shaking him from his brief relaxation. “Let’s try this, then. In your own words, what do you think magic is?”

“Erm…” Rorri’s face contorted in cycles of pursed lips, furrowed brows and shifting eyes. He started to speak, then cut himself off, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he finally grumbled.

Shacia drummed her fingers on the table. “First three words that come to mind. No wrong answers. Go.”

“I-I don’t like being put on the spot…”

“That’s a shame,” Shacia said, leaning back, “because I’ll be doing that quite a bit.”

“…O-okay, then,” he conceded, hands trembling in his lap. “First three words… I don’t know… Force? S-Secrets…”

A lengthy pause ensued. Shacia remained quiet as the forest elf wobbled in the wake of his ever-bobbing foot. He sighed and dipped forward, pressing his thumb into the space between his eyebrows.

“The third word I have just d-doesn’t seem to fit…”

“What is it?” Shacia leaned in.

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“I keep wanting to say ‘art,’” he mumbled, shaking his head, “but it’s n-not right…”

“Interesting,” she said. “It’s certainly a step away from the first two, but why do you think it’s not right?”

“Because…” Rorri paused, shutting his eyes. “You don’t f-force your art on people, you wait for them t-to come to it and… just h-hope they’ll like it.”

“So your third word should be… hope, maybe?”

Rorri glanced up. She was chewing on her fingernail, eyes distant, but thoughtful.

“As if to say, ‘I hope this works…’” She smirked and pulled her hand away. “Yes. I love it. Force, secrets, and hope – I think this might be the first time someone has ever answered that question without a trace of whimsy. I’m impressed, honestly.”

Rorri gave a sheepish smile. “Is that a good thing?”

“God, yes,” she said. “If I hear one more person say ‘a glittering sunset’ or ‘a child’s laughter’, I’m literally going to vomit…”

Rorri chuckled. Shacia hummed and looked up at the chandelier, his gaze closely tailing behind.

“I want you to extinguish every flame in the room, without getting up from your seat. Consider this a placement exam.”

Rorri’s eyebrows shot up. “I-I don’t know where to start,” he stammered. “I’ve never—”

“I’m fairly certain you do, and you have,” she said curtly. But, seeing his panic-stricken face, she sighed and shut her eyes, willfully cushioning her tone. “I can demonstrate, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” Rorri nodded, more grateful for the delay than the demonstration. She graced him with a subtle nod and swiveled to face the room, puffing out her chest and leveling her chin. Rorri grabbed the opportunity to look, knowing, now, that it was safe – even educational – to do so. She lacked the sturdiness shared among the thicker women below the Plateau. Her wealth must have softened her curves, he figured. And though her spine and shoulders formed a perfect ‘T’, he was sure he’d glimpsed a slouch in them, earlier. He imagined her hunched over a book or a writing desk – it seemed a more natural image – but he shook the thought away. He barely knew her. She had no business reading books in his imagination, and it certainly wasn’t his place to entertain her there.

She brought her outstretched palm before her lips, as if to blow a kiss. Rorri pictured a tea light in her hand, a tiny flame swaying in the still air, and thought she might be picturing the same. Her nostrils flared briefly before she gently blew, and every single candle’s flame – on the chandelier, the shelves, and the sconces – danced and vanished in unison, leaving behind near-total darkness, and a peculiar, sugary aroma.

“Simple,” Shacia said. Rorri could have sworn he felt her breath on his ear, as if she had leaned in to whisper a secret, but as the thought crossed his mind, the candles sparked back to life, and she was no closer than before.

“That was… neat,” Rorri said, his cheeks flushing.

“I know,” she replied with a smirk. “You don’t have to use the same movements. Some people prefer command words. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Rorri swallowed hard, suddenly feeling exposed…

“And stop tapping your foot,” she added sternly. “You’re wasting energy.”

His muscles locked at her command, remembering Bilge’s warning. Though Shacia didn’t seem suspicious of him, he worried she might be catching on, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus on restricting his movement whilst also doing anything else. Rorri exhaled forcefully, pleading with himself to stay calm, and stopped his heel on the floor.

 

You’re just wasting energy.

 

And…

Something clicked.

As he planted his heel, that energy – that same nervous energy which perpetuated his leg’s momentum and caused his tongue to stutter – skittered up his leg and into his belly, where it sizzled and climbed up his chest, diffused into his arms, and pulsed with his heart. For the first time, he recognized it for what it truly was. It had always existed within him, normally suffocated by the fog in his brain… He thought it was Snow at first, but the Snow merely parted the fog.

“I had no idea,” Rorri mumbled, a manic glint in his eye.

“…Sorry, what?”

Rorri suspended his thoughts, focusing on the chittering in his limbs and keeping his body still. He closed his eyes, and as he exhaled, he guided the magic into his fingertips, letting it seep into every nerve, simmering, then boiling, until it became unbearably hot.

“Darkness!” he shouted, unleashing all that he had amassed.

The tension in his body evaporated, leaving him hot and limp, like a boiled noodle. He dropped his hands into his lap, reasonably confident in his success – but as his eyes fluttered open, his heart sank. The candles still bathed the room in light. He hadn’t extinguished a single one.

“Oh no,” he squeaked, disappearing into the chair.

Shacia fought hard to contain her laughter, but the strain showed clearly on her face. She cracked, pretending to cough, but Rorri saw through the facade. He covered his eyes, trying desperately to squeeze himself out of existence.

“Maybe you just need a new word?” Shacia said, stumbling into a small giggle. Rorri sank deeper into the chair, until he was barely visible from across the table. “I just mean that ‘darkness’ is a bit… grim, isn’t it? It just doesn’t quite fit you—”

“Please just kill me,” Rorri mumbled into his hands.

“Now, don’t be like that! It really wasn’t so bad,” Shacia said. “I think I saw one of them flicker a little.”

“...Really?”

“Sure!” she replied with an encouraging lilt. “It’s a start. You have a lot of potential, I think.”

Rorri scooted upright, taking care to avoid eye contact. “I suppose now you know what you’re w-working with, anyway,” he said, resuming his nervous bounce.

Shacia rested her gaze on him, propped up on her palm, like someone caught in a compelling daydream. A lengthy, uncomfortable silence lapsed, yet neither of them made an effort to interrupt it. They remained frozen, as if time itself were waiting for someone to command it away.

“I do,” she finally said, blinking rapidly. “Right – sorry, I nearly forgot, I have a waiver for you to sign.”

She rifled through the mess of papers, then slid one in front of him, setting a fine pen on top. Rorri stiffened, as if she’d just passed him a dead rat and beckoned for him to eat it. Though he had learned the alphabet well enough to sound out individual words, he certainly didn’t have the proficiency to interpret a legal document. But, not wishing to cause a fuss, he pretended to read it for what felt like an appropriate length of time, then hesitantly scribbled on a line towards the bottom, hoping that was where he was meant to scribble.

“Lovely.” Shacia assimilated the document aimlessly into the dozens of others, then shook her head, as if coming out of a trance. “Sorry, I’ve just remembered, I have a… something I have to go to, in a little bit. I’ll have to ask you to come back tomorrow.”

“Oh,” he said, taken off guard. “O-of course – that’s fine, I think. Erm… S-same time, then?”

“Yes,” she chirped. Rorri stood and waited for further direction, but it seemed she’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Do I n-need an escort, or—?”

“Right.” She shot up from her seat. “I apologize, it’s just – I’ll be better prepared tomorrow.” She darted ahead of him and opened the door. He followed just as briskly, shaken by the abrupt dismissal.

At the front door, Shacia faced him, each standing at their full height. Their eyes and lips and noses occupied the same plane, as if reflected in a mirror, neither one looking upwards nor downwards at the other. As their eyes met, Rorri swore he saw something akin to fear shimmering on the surface of hers.

“Tomorrow, then,” Shacia said.

“Yes, my Lady,” Rorri said with a slight bow. She ushered him out, and he left without looking back.

 

*******

 

When Rorri got home, Adar and Bilge were sitting at the kitchen table, each pinching a tiny sandwich between their thumbs and forefingers.

“Can I have one?” Rorri asked as he dropped his bag to the floor, eyeing the three remaining sandwiches on the shared plate.

“’Course,” Bilge obliged. Rorri devoured it in two bites, barely finishing the first as he went in for the second.

“How was your lesson?” Adar asked.

Rorri shrugged. “It was alright. Didn’t really d-do much.” He watched Bilge pluck up another sandwich, leaving one more on the table.

“Didj’ya find out anyfin’ on the Widow?” Bilge asked through a mouthful of half-chewed bread. Rorri shook his head.

“Working on it,” he said, scratching his ear. “Figure I’d ease into it. She had to cut it short, anyway, so I didn’t really have the chance t-to ask her anything.”

Bilge belched. “Fair ‘nough.”

“When’s your next lesson?” Adar asked, eyeing the last sandwich.

“Tomorrow.”

“Wot’d she look like?” Bilge asked, picking at the bread wedged between his front teeth.

“She’s… sort of w-weird looking? Got a lazy eye or something. Very white.”

“Nice,” Adar said. Rorri snorted.

“Nobles,” Bilge mused. “They’re all sorta weird lookin’. White elves in particula’…”

“They’re kind of spooky,” Rorri agreed. When he looked down, the last sandwich had vanished. He glared at each of his housemates separately, but neither acknowledged him. “I think I’ll have a nap,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m headin’ to the Brew’ry,” Bilge said with a belch, standing to shrug on his coat. “Stop by when yer up, if y’want a pint.”

“Mmhm…”

Rorri shuffled into his room and dropped onto his thin bed, slightly plumped by fistfuls of stolen straw in the hope that it might become comfortable some day. The front door rattled the wall as Bilge departed, and shortly after came a gentle knock on his bedroom door.

“Uh… Come in?”

The door eeeeked open, just a crack.

“I saved this for you,” Adar whispered. His hand hovered into the room, the tiny sandwich propped in his palm like a precious gem. “Just in case Bilge was going to take it. You know how he can be.”

“Thank you, Adar,” Rorri said with a soft chuckle. “You’re a true friend.”

He took the gift graciously, and Adar shut the door without a word, leaving Rorri alone to ponder the day’s mysteries.

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