In a corner of the world far removed from national conflicts and the burdens of swelled egos with equally swelled power, the slow dripping of the flagging rain competes in staccato against the buzz of marsh-loving insects. The rhythm of the rain beating against the sheet of corrugated metal above me drowns out everything, even my thoughts. I frown down at my work boots that I had spent the better part of an hour this morning polishing, but now were splashed with clay and mud. I slap my neck at the feeling of something with too many legs landing on me. Looking down the road, I see Brenda and Kaila still attached to the cart sitting resting in the rushes just off the road. In the cart they pull, a large canvas covers four open crates full of the week’s pickings from my family’s orchard. Six-foot tall razor grass blocks out everything other than the muddy wagon-road that runs off into the horizon in either direction.
Sticking a hand out past my cover from the rain, I test the sprinkling water and, finding it hardly worth consideration, stand from my crouch. The mud of the road pulls at my boots as I trudge to where I had set Brenda and Kaila to harness. I pull out the metal rod I had stabbed into the ground and tied their leads to. The rain still sprinkles, but the blue summer dress I wear, embroidered with muted yellow flowers around the hem, is still clean enough to be presentable.
“I told you we didn’t need an umbrella,” I say as I pat one of the ponies' flanks. Two sets of eyes turn to stare blankly back at me. The ponies stamp their impatience as I climb back to the bench seat and take up the reins once more. “Let’s try to get this done before mom has a conniption.”
The trip to the nondescript stretch of road to where the quartermaster has positioned his own carriage just off the edge of the road shouldn’t have taken long. On most other days I would have driven the ponies through the rain in order to spend as little time as I could dealing with the muggy air and the insects it attracts. On any other day, the son of Lord Timmian, Helkin Timmian, would not be on an excursion through his father’s lands. However, given that today the young lord was about, I refuse to show myself in front of the man looking anything close to a drowned rat. The thought of rats makes me check to make certain my orange mop of infernally curly hair adequately covered my ears. I hate my ears.
“Try and make me wear a poncho,” I mutter to myself as the quartermaster’s wagon comes into view over a hill.
Two other pony-drawn carts have parked themselves on the opposite side of the road to the Lord’s covered wagon. I see Randoll and Tev still at work unloading their own carts as the quartermaster, Damious Gon, watches the men from beneath the canvas that covers his driver’s bench. The two farmers finish their loading as I pull my own cart off the road in front of the quartermaster’s wagon. The twin chargers of Lord Timmian look down upon Brenda and Kaila with dull, black eyes, dew still glistening on their impossibly white coats. Not to be intimidated, Brenda whinnies back at the lord’s stallions as Kaila snaps her teeth at the air.
“Sir,” I say as way of greeting to the quartermaster still seated on the wagon’s bench.
Damious Gon casts his eyes sideways at me, seeming to only notice the long and noisy approach to his wagon when I deign to say anything to him. The man smiles kindly while he climbs down from his wagon-bench with slow, ponderous steps. His knee pops when he settles his weight onto impressively svelte, firefang leather boots. Seeing the mud of the road swallow up a good inch and a half of the man’s beautiful black boots makes me wince. Damious Gon, an elven man in his later years, bows in the elegant manner only elves and celenials seem capable of and offers his hand up to me to help me down from the driver’s bench. Damious Gon’s bright copper-colored hair, typical of elves, is pulled into a knot behind his head, allowing his striking angular features to show their prominence.
“Ms. Devardem,” he says.
“Thank you?” I half ask, unable to stop it from becoming a question as I accept the man’s outstretched hand. It is the first time he has ever used my last name. The casual speech Mr. Gon uses when he called me “Charlene” was absent. I am still getting used to this whole, being respected by other people thing. When I let my own boots plop into the mud, I make certain not to ruin any of Mr. Gon’s other clothes with a splash of muddy water.
“You are quite welcome young miss,” he says as he stands back and lead me around my own cart to where the cover over the cargo has been tied down. “Believe it or not,” Mr. Gon continues as I begin to untie the knots that kept the cover tethered, “this past week was the first time that I enjoyed one of your family’s pears.”
“What?” I look up at the man, my knotwork momentarily forgotten. “You’ve never tried any of them?”
“No, Ms. Devardem. What I have come to procure belongs to Lord Timmian and his household. I am a strict adherent to my own role as his quartermaster and have not partaken until just recently. Lord Timmian loves your family’s produce and often keeps it all to himself.”
“Really.” I finish my last knot and start to fan the wagon cover to bounce all the water over the side and onto the road. “I never knew that.”
“It is true,” he assures. “It was only in this past week that Lord Timmian offered one to me.” The man kisses his fingers as he pantomimes eating a pear. “Pure bliss. Often, it has been that I have shunned pears, finding them either too stiff or too soft to truly enjoy. The ripeness of your family’s pears, exquisite, perfectly textured, and the flavor, light and sweet. I can see why Lord Timmian has been buying them from your family’s orchard for so long.”
Whipping the cover fully aside to drape over the side of the cart, I reveal four large crates of pears: two of the blue Jamerix variety that are my favorite, one of the pink Softpears, and one of green Sweetkiss. I set my boot into the step of the sidebar of the cart and prepare to swing myself up when Mr. Gon stops me with a hand.
“Ms. Devardem,” he says. “I will have my man do this unloading for you.” He gestures to Ruthas, sitting on his diver’s bench fiddling with rolling a cigarette between his hard, calloused fingers. Ruthas looks up at Damious’ harsh gesture and raises an eyebrow at the motion.
I have known Ruthas since I first started delivering the weekly produce for my family when I turned thirteen, two years ago. Ruthas looks through his bushy brows at me, and I shrug in reply as I step back off the side of the cart. With a sigh, Ruthas stuffs his snuff back into his jacket pocket and climbs down from his driver’s bench to begin his new, menial task.
“Thank you kindly, sir.” I know better than to refuse any kind of consideration the Lord’s quartermaster shows me. Spotting a dirt clod sticking to my still dry summer dress I try to brush it aside with my hand, only to end up smearing it more than anything against my leg.
“It is of no problem at all,” Mr. Gon says as, at the rear of the cart, Ruthas leverages himself up with a grunt of effort. “Lord Timmian wished to convey--”
“I had heard that Lord Helkin would be with you today,” I say, looking over the covered wagon in front of me that was entirely absent of any handsome lordlings.
“No longer I am afraid,” Mr. Gon says, picking up the changed tempo of conversation like the expert he is. “Lord Helkin was accompanying me this morning. In fact, you missed him by less than half an hour. The young lord has taken such an interest in the lives of the little people recently, it is such an admirable trait to observe in a scion of the great house of Timmian.
It is strange, this man is practically ennobled himself, but he has never spoken to me before with anything approaching this kind of formality. Less than a week ago and no one would have ever thought to consider me anything other than one of the “little people.” Yet, here I am, this man of good breeding and upbringing in front of me, attempting to converse like I was anywhere near the same level as him. I am pretty certain that he is lying about not having ever eaten one of my family’s pears before also. The placid reflection of kindness that seems to say “Yes, you are almost a few rungs on the ladder below me,” that Damious wears fills me with greedy happiness.
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“Lord Timmian wished for me to express his congratulations on your brother hitting the Fifth ranking,” Mr. Gon continues.
“Lord Timmian has heard about that then,” I say. I immediately recognize the foolishness of my own words. If Lord Timmian had not heard of my brother’s recent climbs into the highest echelons of power, there would have been no chance that the well-respected man in front of me would have treated me as anything more than the painfully common stock I was.
“Of course he has.” The man leans down toward me, making me want to lean in to hear his whispered words. “Between you and I, I always saw greatness in that boy. I told Lord Timmian and Lady Maranda when they were deciding on approving his permit for roaming rights that the boy had something about him that should be cultivated. I am glad that I was taken seriously at the time, and we managed to set Corinth on his way. Less than a decade later and the boy has become a man of renown and prestige. Lord Timmian is beside himself with having the honor of a fifth ranker come from among the lands he governs. I doubt any future petitions for roam will ever be denied your family in the future.”
“That is quite kind of his Lordship,” I say.
“Lord Timmian went on to say that he would love to host your family in the manor whenever your brother came back to visit his home for a while. I’m certain that he must have acquired some exotic kinds of tastes in his travels.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t seen Corinth since he left.”
“But he has sent packages back to your family has he not? A set of essentia for your parents and older brother, yes? I recall Lord Timmian’s ritualist saying something about conducting ceremonies for them.”
Though his expression had not changed, something in the man’s tone, or perhaps the serpent shine behind his rimmed spectacles, makes me want to move away from him. “He has,” I say.
“Does your brother Halford plan on becoming an adventurer as well?” Damious asks. “If so, I am sure that Lord Timmian would love to meet him before he departs. I wouldn’t bet against him hitting the fifth rank alongside Corinth. The boy has an incredible passion and drive doesn’t he.”
“I suppose he does. I think that he plans on adventuring, though he doesn’t talk to me about those kinds of things.”
“No trouble. No trouble at all. Tell me, young Ms. Devardem, have you given any consideration toward adventuring yourself? I sense that you still have not integrated any essentia as of yet, but I find myself wondering.”
“No, I am still without anything like that. That Mr. Jebas, you mentioned him, when he came around the house to do my parents’ rituals, he tested me and said I was old enough, or my body is, or whatever it is you are supposed to say. Corinth didn’t send me any essentia, not many fifteen-year-old girls can safely handle them, but I’m sure he will soon. I’ve thought about adventuring, but every time I think about the monsters you have to fight, I don’t know, I just get a bit scared and--”
“It would appear that Ruthas has finished,” Damious says, cutting me off. I sense another shift in the man’s mood at my mention of being scared of monsters. Damious Gon produces a pouch of coins from his belt and hands it to me.
I open the drawstring of the pouch and immediately cinch it closed once again, afraid that my eyes told me the truth about the wealth inside. “This is too much Mr. Gon. Far, far too much.”
“With the usual payment, Lord Timmian has bid me to add a celebratory twenty bronze coins in celebration of your brother’s recent achievements.”
“If you’re sure,” I say, holding the pouch tight to my chest.
“Quite certain,” Mr. Gon says smoothly.
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A drizzle rears its bubbly head as I make it to the last quarter mile before my family’s orchard. When I pull Brenda and Kaila to a halt in front of my home, I slip getting off the cart, and end up with a knee in the wet gravel of the family drive. I try to rub the dirt away from my knee and dress before I realize that I am still in the rain. I might have groaned and kicked the cart. I turn the ponies loose, knowing that they would wander their way into the rain shade the barn offered, before marching past the shiny, five-cooker grill that sat outside the front door. My father has yet to use the grill for anything other than bragging, but there is a plan to host half the county at a barbeque sometime in the next week.
The door to the house shines with glistening new, blue paint, like the rest of the home, and swings wide on silent, freshly oiled hinges as I put my weight to it. Muttering to myself about the horrible, world-ending fact that I had put so much work into the morning to not see a hint of Helkin Timmian, I work at kicking off my boots onto the porch before I start to track mud into the house.
“No chance that it will rain anytime soon,” a high feminine voice says from the hall behind me. I groan again before turning to see my mother standing there in a tomato splattered apron over her overalls. It was still difficult to accept the woman standing in front of me as my own mother. Over the last week since Daela Devardem had absorbed the essentia that her wealthy, adventuring son had sent, the physical changes had been startling. Her complexion has cleared to a blemish free tan, the wrinkles that had begun to eat at the edges of her eyes have vanished, the wild bush of curly orange hair has smoothed to a flattering bounce and the color has deepened to something that could be mistaken for red. Though I stab to death the little piece of my mind that notices it every time, I think my mother’s bust getting larger as well, perky even. I shudder internally and try to kill that noticing part of my brain all over again. Sometimes I wish I was less observant; far, far less.
“So, I was wrong,” I sigh.
“Mmhmm,” my mother intones. She cast her hand forward, and I feel power wash over me as all the water soaking through my clothes and hair is pushed away from me, falling into a puddle just outside of the still open door. “More than twenty years before I found a way to finally stop you kids from tracking mud and water into the house.”
“You just wanted to show off that fancy new magic of yours,” I say. I try matting down my orange curls, which have become an even more confused mess--no success.
“Not untrue,” mom says, smirking. “Speaking of magic, a package arrived for you from Corinth today.”
I forget the chicken’s nest of orange yarn on top of my head and rush to my mother, almost barreling into the woman as I squeeze to get past her and into the kitchen where I know such a package would be. She stops me with an outstretched hand. “I have it here for you,” she says.
Mom holds out her hand and with her fingers seems to pluck a palm-sized pyramid of gold out of the air. She turns it over in her fingers and watches on at her daughter’s fascination, giggling to herself.
“Which one is it?” I ask. I reach out toward the pyramid, the essentia, but my mother holds it up and out of my reach.
“That is the interesting thing,” she says as I reach to snatch the golden pyramid away from her. “Apparently this is a Gold Essentia. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I thought it might have been one of those common essentia that don’t see a lot of use, but no, Corinth said in his letter that it is actually quite rare. No idea what you would want with a gold essentia, digging up minerals maybe.”
With a jump, and perhaps a tad of unladylike ribbing of my mother, I manage to grab ahold of the golden pyramid. The Gold Essentia buzzes in my hand as I hold it. I have no idea what someone might do with a Gold Essentia. Perhaps develop abilities to make things look golden, I like the color well enough. Maybe it will turn my hair golden like some of the more exotic elves. That possibility was worth anything if I could get it.
“What else?” I ask, a manic smile no doubt spreading on my lips. “Did he send an Air Essentia? Maybe a Power Essentia, I’ve heard that there was some nice abilities you can get from that. What will my conflux be? Avatar? Green Speaker?”
“Nothing else,” Mom says with a shrug. “He sent along the required components for integrating an essentia but said that he has his eye on a specific set for you. He is keeping that a secret from me though, so I don’t have any more info to give you.”
My excitement drains away. I still feel the tingle of the Gold Essentia in my hands and that mollifies the let down somewhat. Every other member of the family has their four essentia. They have all attained the first rank. I looked up at my mother and let my eyes roam over the changes that attaining the first rank has gifted her, has gifted all the members of her family. My mom notices every time I stared at her new silky red hair with open envy, preening. I would give almost anything to get my hands on the remaining three essentia to reach the first rank myself and hopefully attain that beautiful hair. There certainly were no other changes--ones that I pointedly attempted to ignore--that I was secretly pining for as well.
“Aw, Sweetpea,” mom says, pulling me into a hug. “There’s no need for you to worry about getting a full rack of essentia just yet. Remember that even having one, even having one ability, is far more than most people can say. Won’t be too long before Corinth finds those other ones he’s after and sends them this way. There’s no reason for you to rush it. What would you need those powers for anyway? You’ve been picking pears just fine since you could walk.”
I feel something wrong about those last words. A part of me is certain that I should get all the powers I can get my hands on. I have seen how much respect the people about the small town we live on the outskirts of have begun to pay me once news about my brother had spread. I see the way that they look at Halford now as he sets off on his own to face challenges that his new abilities finally allow him to.
“There has to be some kind of safe position on an adventuring team,” I mutter into mother’s apron.