Read Online Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) by S. L. Farrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S. L. Farrell
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Keep—no, that’s not quite true. Many doors are locked here, some with metal and some with magical wards. But not the doors for the acolytes’ rooms; anyone can walk in on us at any time and the Siúrs seem to often do so. Faoil’s usually here when we’re not together in classes or doing the duties assigned to us. She’s here right now as I write this, and has already asked me who I’m writing to. I told her “a friend.” She didn’t like the answer but she’s too uncertain of me to ask any more questions. Maybe she’s afraid of what I’ll say to my mam, and how that might affect her family.
There are always other people around; the Bráthairs and Siúrs; visitors and supplicants from Inish Thuaidh; people from Inishfeirm; even Riocha from Talamh an Ghlas come to inquire about putting their sons and daughters here—though not too many of those. I’ve heard from the other acolytes that the Rí Ard has created his own “Order of Gabair” based in Lár Bhaile and he wants none of the Riocha taught the arts of the cloudmage by “vile Inishlanders.” I’ve been told that several acolytes from the Tuatha left here in the last two years to go to Lár Bhaile and the new Order, and there are empty rooms in the keep’s dormitories. Still, I can feel people watching me, all the time, even though they think I don’t notice. Máister Kirwan seems to be around every other corner I turn, especially. There’s one Bráthair—Owaine Geraghty—who also seems to go out of his way to be around wherever I am. My mam knows him somehow; knows him well enough that she gave him a clochmion even though he is of totally common blood, if you can believe that.
And my mam seems to think that some of them may be watching me for other reasons. She warned me before she left: “Be careful. Not everyone is your friend, and because of who you are, you are always going to be in some danger.” I wanted to ask her why in the Mother-Creator’s name she is leaving me here if she felt that way, but that would have just made her angry.
I’m treated like a servant. I’m expected to wash dishes, to wait on the cloudmages and visitors at meals, to tend to the gardens. The acolytes are little better than slaves. You should see my hands, my love—they look worse than Nainsi’s, all red and splotched and scratched, the nails hopelessly broken. Not the soft hands you used to hold at all. Tomorrow morning, before my first class in slow magic, I have to go out and help bring in the breadroot crop from their easy beds in the High Field, a good half-mile trek, and we’ll be getting up before dawn to start.
And the classes themselves: dry, boring material droned at us by dry, boring teachers, mostly. Histories, lists of names and dates and events; catalogs of clochs na thintrí, both Clochs Mór and clochmions and their names and reputed powers and current mage-holders; all the past Holders of the Clochs Mór and Lámh Shábhála; the skill of letters—which many of us already know but that doesn’t matter, we still have to attend the class; the clan names of the Riocha and their genealogies. Máister Kirwan’s class, once a week, is the worst waste of time, since we do nothing but sit silently with our eyes closed and “think of nothing.” An impossible task, of course, since the moment you try to think of nothing your mind is filled with everything. We can’t even sleep while we’re sitting there—anyone caught actually sleeping gets extra chores. And I can’t neglect telling you about the slow magics of water and earth, the most boring and insufferable classes of all—nothing but memorizing long chants and lists of ingredients to make little or nothing happen.
I miss you so much, Lucan. Sometimes I try to imagine your face and your touch and the sound of your voice, try to fix it all in my mind so I can’t forget it. Usually I can, but the last time I saw you seems so impossibly long ago, and I want so much for my inner vision
There are always other people around; the Bráthairs and Siúrs; visitors and supplicants from Inish Thuaidh; people from Inishfeirm; even Riocha from Talamh an Ghlas come to inquire about putting their sons and daughters here—though not too many of those. I’ve heard from the other acolytes that the Rí Ard has created his own “Order of Gabair” based in Lár Bhaile and he wants none of the Riocha taught the arts of the cloudmage by “vile Inishlanders.” I’ve been told that several acolytes from the Tuatha left here in the last two years to go to Lár Bhaile and the new Order, and there are empty rooms in the keep’s dormitories. Still, I can feel people watching me, all the time, even though they think I don’t notice. Máister Kirwan seems to be around every other corner I turn, especially. There’s one Bráthair—Owaine Geraghty—who also seems to go out of his way to be around wherever I am. My mam knows him somehow; knows him well enough that she gave him a clochmion even though he is of totally common blood, if you can believe that.
And my mam seems to think that some of them may be watching me for other reasons. She warned me before she left: “Be careful. Not everyone is your friend, and because of who you are, you are always going to be in some danger.” I wanted to ask her why in the Mother-Creator’s name she is leaving me here if she felt that way, but that would have just made her angry.
I’m treated like a servant. I’m expected to wash dishes, to wait on the cloudmages and visitors at meals, to tend to the gardens. The acolytes are little better than slaves. You should see my hands, my love—they look worse than Nainsi’s, all red and splotched and scratched, the nails hopelessly broken. Not the soft hands you used to hold at all. Tomorrow morning, before my first class in slow magic, I have to go out and help bring in the breadroot crop from their easy beds in the High Field, a good half-mile trek, and we’ll be getting up before dawn to start.
And the classes themselves: dry, boring material droned at us by dry, boring teachers, mostly. Histories, lists of names and dates and events; catalogs of clochs na thintrí, both Clochs Mór and clochmions and their names and reputed powers and current mage-holders; all the past Holders of the Clochs Mór and Lámh Shábhála; the skill of letters—which many of us already know but that doesn’t matter, we still have to attend the class; the clan names of the Riocha and their genealogies. Máister Kirwan’s class, once a week, is the worst waste of time, since we do nothing but sit silently with our eyes closed and “think of nothing.” An impossible task, of course, since the moment you try to think of nothing your mind is filled with everything. We can’t even sleep while we’re sitting there—anyone caught actually sleeping gets extra chores. And I can’t neglect telling you about the slow magics of water and earth, the most boring and insufferable classes of all—nothing but memorizing long chants and lists of ingredients to make little or nothing happen.
I miss you so much, Lucan. Sometimes I try to imagine your face and your touch and the sound of your voice, try to fix it all in my mind so I can’t forget it. Usually I can, but the last time I saw you seems so impossibly long ago, and I want so much for my inner vision
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