Seven years ago...
The afternoon sun bathed Sibreth Orchard in a bright glow, from the white cherry blossoms to the farmhouse's clay rooftops and the field of wildflowers beyond. It was a beautiful sight for the few at the orchard lucky enough to be relaxing, good warm light to work by and good for the linens hanging in the yard; it was, however, much too bright to read by without some shade. A skinny young elfling ducked under the linens and marched through the tall grass away from the house with two books the breadth of her torso clutched tightly in her arms. She knew exactly where she was going: the gnarled old apple tree on the hill, the last fruitful plant from the old orchard.
She lowered her golden eyes from the tree's silhouette to watch her feet as she picked through the ruins of her grandfather's house: a stone foundation, a crumbling chimney, bits of clay debris. One larger piece was inscribed with markings, something from the cider urns instead of the shattered roof tiles that littered the ground. She scooped it up, turned it over in her fingers, then dropped it into the small atlas she carried, replacing her pointer finger as a bookmark.
It said "fifth bull season" but she didn't know what that meant; probably sixty years ago, but her father would be able to tell her once she found him. Her brain was still in another land, following the bloodline of the ancient Thrycene Empire that blazed a trail down the Red Coast, all the way across the Inner Sea from her home. She suspected the Thrycene dynasty would bleed itself dry, and the next chapter of Stravus' Account would prove her right; her little atlas was there for context.
She quickly crested the hill and found shelter under the branches of the old apple tree, slouching against the trunk, its twisted roots her armrests. There she resumed her history lesson, tracing the Emperors' campaigns on her map with a piece of charcoal while the author regaled her with stories of the family's arcane prowess.
" 'And the fires he felt from the torches of the thousands assembled before him as if they were in his heart; he had only to open his hand and a fireball erupted from the air, smiting the ambassador, leaving only ashes where a man had once stood...' Nice!"
Back across the field, through the third-story window of the farmhouse, two older elves watched. One had the younger girl's dark hair and golden eyes, the other her plentiful freckles — her father and then her uncle, from her mother's side. "Noira deserves a college. At least a court. Damn our wizards," her father sighed.
"She has the affinity even more than your father did," her uncle nodded. "Moons and stars..." He snorted. "You watch her eyes closely, the way she dips her fingers in a stream neither of us can see....she can feel power."
"But that won't be enough to buy her a chance to learn it. Leara and I have talked it over a thousand times if we've done it once. The Elders' colleges cost more in a year than this orchard makes in ten — guaranteeing the Mystic Guard a fresh crop of common-birth 'initiates' each year." The father grimaced at the thought and returned to their inventory of the attic, his brother-in-law following closely at his heels.
"There are other ways. Through — "
"Marriage?" He smiled. "Most of the Estland scholars never marry, and when they do it's higher than a Sibreth. Even the last mage in the governor's court married a knight's girl. If she could at least travel....but a merchant for a husband?" He frowned. "Trinkets from abroad and an empty home half the year....hardly the future a father wants for his little girl."
"Trelas." His brother-in-law caught his elbow before he could reach the stairs. "You aren't giving up, are you?"
"No....I'll keep sending my letters, and we'll keep saving our coins." Trelas shook his head helplessly, and cast a sad smile across the room at the open window. "But I'm afraid, if she wants a real chance at what she loves....Noira's on her own."
The afternoon sun bathed Sibreth Orchard in a bright glow, from the white cherry blossoms to the farmhouse's clay rooftops and the field of wildflowers beyond. It was a beautiful sight for the few at the orchard lucky enough to be relaxing, good warm light to work by and good for the linens hanging in the yard; it was, however, much too bright to read by without some shade. A skinny young elfling ducked under the linens and marched through the tall grass away from the house with two books the breadth of her torso clutched tightly in her arms. She knew exactly where she was going: the gnarled old apple tree on the hill, the last fruitful plant from the old orchard.
She lowered her golden eyes from the tree's silhouette to watch her feet as she picked through the ruins of her grandfather's house: a stone foundation, a crumbling chimney, bits of clay debris. One larger piece was inscribed with markings, something from the cider urns instead of the shattered roof tiles that littered the ground. She scooped it up, turned it over in her fingers, then dropped it into the small atlas she carried, replacing her pointer finger as a bookmark.
It said "fifth bull season" but she didn't know what that meant; probably sixty years ago, but her father would be able to tell her once she found him. Her brain was still in another land, following the bloodline of the ancient Thrycene Empire that blazed a trail down the Red Coast, all the way across the Inner Sea from her home. She suspected the Thrycene dynasty would bleed itself dry, and the next chapter of Stravus' Account would prove her right; her little atlas was there for context.
She quickly crested the hill and found shelter under the branches of the old apple tree, slouching against the trunk, its twisted roots her armrests. There she resumed her history lesson, tracing the Emperors' campaigns on her map with a piece of charcoal while the author regaled her with stories of the family's arcane prowess.
" 'And the fires he felt from the torches of the thousands assembled before him as if they were in his heart; he had only to open his hand and a fireball erupted from the air, smiting the ambassador, leaving only ashes where a man had once stood...' Nice!"
Back across the field, through the third-story window of the farmhouse, two older elves watched. One had the younger girl's dark hair and golden eyes, the other her plentiful freckles — her father and then her uncle, from her mother's side. "Noira deserves a college. At least a court. Damn our wizards," her father sighed.
"She has the affinity even more than your father did," her uncle nodded. "Moons and stars..." He snorted. "You watch her eyes closely, the way she dips her fingers in a stream neither of us can see....she can feel power."
"But that won't be enough to buy her a chance to learn it. Leara and I have talked it over a thousand times if we've done it once. The Elders' colleges cost more in a year than this orchard makes in ten — guaranteeing the Mystic Guard a fresh crop of common-birth 'initiates' each year." The father grimaced at the thought and returned to their inventory of the attic, his brother-in-law following closely at his heels.
"There are other ways. Through — "
"Marriage?" He smiled. "Most of the Estland scholars never marry, and when they do it's higher than a Sibreth. Even the last mage in the governor's court married a knight's girl. If she could at least travel....but a merchant for a husband?" He frowned. "Trinkets from abroad and an empty home half the year....hardly the future a father wants for his little girl."
"Trelas." His brother-in-law caught his elbow before he could reach the stairs. "You aren't giving up, are you?"
"No....I'll keep sending my letters, and we'll keep saving our coins." Trelas shook his head helplessly, and cast a sad smile across the room at the open window. "But I'm afraid, if she wants a real chance at what she loves....Noira's on her own."