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Authors: Lynna Merrill
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be affected by the trifling entertainments of commoners. A former lady of Mierenthia's peerage should not be affected by them, either.
Merley had tried to fly away, before. Now the furthest she could fly was to that dour gray building across the street, at a few steps distance. Not literally fly, at that, for even the bodies of Bers were in certain ways restricted like those of mundane humans. She could at most jump, hoping that the path was narrow enough for her to overcome before Mierenthia would suck her downwards—before the towers would swirl together with the wind to make her fly in the only direction she did not want to fly in. She dreamed of falling, sometimes. It was probably inevitable for someone who spent the nights crawling along the towers' walls.
Merley shifted her body slightly, to allow her bent left leg to stop being numb. The moons were fading, and far to the east the sky was milky and pale, with the mountaintops glazed in pink. As if, far there beyond Balkaene, old Slava's morning feast of milk and rose petal cookies had suddenly spread up to the sky for the world to see. Or, at least, for Merley to see.
Merley closed her eyes, her heart beating faster than it had a moment ago, her mind barely controlling her hand to not slam into the wall. If it did, she would fall. She blinked back her tears. Mistress Cook Slava, one of the few people in her father's House who had dared befriend her, was lost to her forever. Had been, like everything from her old life, worthy or not, since her sixteenth birthday more than a year ago.
May you be blessed with the Master's fire and light, Merley thought to the wind, as if it could bring the words to both Slava and the mountains, even though it blew the other way, towards Mierber. Well, right now it might be good to try to bless Mierber, too. If she did not, if she let sadness and anger rule her here and now, she might lose her tricky balance and prove Henna right that her " overly fervid " personality would bring her " inevitable downfall. " Henna would not even appreciate the irony. Besides, Merley would never prove her right, in anything!
She should go. Soon Henna would be on her way towards the Novice tower, her yellow robe swinging around her hips in that special movement of hers, her feet dragging on the ground. Merley winced at the thought of the sound. Henna was not a sick woman. Everything from her cropped gray-brown hair and sharp eyes, to her ample hips and the inevitable rod in her hands emitted rigidness and health. Henna did not need to drag her feet, like that wrinkled old man yesterday morning had, his hands trembling, his eyes darting wildly left and right, bent twofold with the weight of his firebucket.
Merley crept out of the cranny, her right foot trying a protruding piece of stone while the fingers of her right hand slipped inside a crack in the wall. Her body shivered. It sometimes did when she climbed, the air inside her stomach floating to form a pulsing cloud, pushing up and pushing out, whispering that if she released her hold she could walk to the sky. She paused, taking a deep breath, then coughed as dust sprinkled her throat. So much dust. The building was buried beneath centuries of it, with stones and cracks that seemed to have been there forever, but never changed.
The moment she took control of the air in her stomach, the wind tugged sharply at her robe, so Merley had to flatten herself against the wall. The teachers said that air was treacherous; that the wind might caress her cheeks but in its dark, elemental heart, it still dreamed about destroying her wall and her world. Their world.
If it could, the wind would bash the tower walls until the whole tower was scattered into pieces, they said—gradually, stone by stone, or at once, in a flurry of mortar and torn scraps. Water would drench the walls until they decayed, and the soil of Mierenthia itself would engulf them. Air, water, and the soil where wildlife grew and thrived—only
Merley had tried to fly away, before. Now the furthest she could fly was to that dour gray building across the street, at a few steps distance. Not literally fly, at that, for even the bodies of Bers were in certain ways restricted like those of mundane humans. She could at most jump, hoping that the path was narrow enough for her to overcome before Mierenthia would suck her downwards—before the towers would swirl together with the wind to make her fly in the only direction she did not want to fly in. She dreamed of falling, sometimes. It was probably inevitable for someone who spent the nights crawling along the towers' walls.
Merley shifted her body slightly, to allow her bent left leg to stop being numb. The moons were fading, and far to the east the sky was milky and pale, with the mountaintops glazed in pink. As if, far there beyond Balkaene, old Slava's morning feast of milk and rose petal cookies had suddenly spread up to the sky for the world to see. Or, at least, for Merley to see.
Merley closed her eyes, her heart beating faster than it had a moment ago, her mind barely controlling her hand to not slam into the wall. If it did, she would fall. She blinked back her tears. Mistress Cook Slava, one of the few people in her father's House who had dared befriend her, was lost to her forever. Had been, like everything from her old life, worthy or not, since her sixteenth birthday more than a year ago.
May you be blessed with the Master's fire and light, Merley thought to the wind, as if it could bring the words to both Slava and the mountains, even though it blew the other way, towards Mierber. Well, right now it might be good to try to bless Mierber, too. If she did not, if she let sadness and anger rule her here and now, she might lose her tricky balance and prove Henna right that her " overly fervid " personality would bring her " inevitable downfall. " Henna would not even appreciate the irony. Besides, Merley would never prove her right, in anything!
She should go. Soon Henna would be on her way towards the Novice tower, her yellow robe swinging around her hips in that special movement of hers, her feet dragging on the ground. Merley winced at the thought of the sound. Henna was not a sick woman. Everything from her cropped gray-brown hair and sharp eyes, to her ample hips and the inevitable rod in her hands emitted rigidness and health. Henna did not need to drag her feet, like that wrinkled old man yesterday morning had, his hands trembling, his eyes darting wildly left and right, bent twofold with the weight of his firebucket.
Merley crept out of the cranny, her right foot trying a protruding piece of stone while the fingers of her right hand slipped inside a crack in the wall. Her body shivered. It sometimes did when she climbed, the air inside her stomach floating to form a pulsing cloud, pushing up and pushing out, whispering that if she released her hold she could walk to the sky. She paused, taking a deep breath, then coughed as dust sprinkled her throat. So much dust. The building was buried beneath centuries of it, with stones and cracks that seemed to have been there forever, but never changed.
The moment she took control of the air in her stomach, the wind tugged sharply at her robe, so Merley had to flatten herself against the wall. The teachers said that air was treacherous; that the wind might caress her cheeks but in its dark, elemental heart, it still dreamed about destroying her wall and her world. Their world.
If it could, the wind would bash the tower walls until the whole tower was scattered into pieces, they said—gradually, stone by stone, or at once, in a flurry of mortar and torn scraps. Water would drench the walls until they decayed, and the soil of Mierenthia itself would engulf them. Air, water, and the soil where wildlife grew and thrived—only
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