The village was abuzz with activity. A quarter of the village men were out hanging white banners and lanterns between buildings, another quarter were wheeling lumber and stone to the central square where there would be more men putting together the last of the structures for the Ceremony. The smell of food was rich in the air, and already some of the women were bringing the goods they had baked out.
Everyone was wearing their formal attire; men wearing tight-fitting doublets and sleek black gloves; women wearing sky-blue dresses with sleeves that covered their hands.
Father also wore his doublet and black gloves, weathered and worn after years of use. He led the way to the center of the village where the village square was, greeting people as they went. Cor did his best to smile and be polite and restrain himself from tugging on his father’s sleeve and telling him to hurry.
Hylan lived in one of the larger homes two blocks south of the village square, and Cor wanted to have the time to drop by before they had to turn back and get Cor ready for the Ceremony.
The village square was the busiest part of all. It almost seemed as though half the village had come out to help decorate the place. The fountain in the middle–which drew water from the well directly beneath it–had been adorned with white and crimson streamers and circlets of blue poppies. The homes surrounding the open village square had also been decorated in much the same way. And all around the perimeter of the open area were stalls where food and other goods would be sold.
On the eastern side of the fountain a platform of wood had been erected, about five feet high with broad steps surrounding it on all sides. It had been painted white, and there was a low podium at the center of the platform with a marble throne sitting behind it. The throne looked ancient, with its weathered edges and almost impossibly intricate carvings, but it was new; created two years ago by Sculptor Isor. It was the sculptor’s greatest work. It made Cor’s stomach sink.
Unfortunately, this was where Father decided to stay the longest. He spoke to the men who were painting the last of the wooden platform, laughing with them and giving instructions to any who asked. Then he went to the men on the ladders putting up the white and red streamers on the rooftops, greeting them and telling jokes. Cor hung next to the fountain, waiting and wondering whether it would be better to leave his father and go to Hylan’s place alone.
“Morning, Cor!”
Cor startled and turned. Uncle Berimor smiled, showing his broad, yellow teeth.
“Good morning, uncle,” Cor replied.
“You’re up and about early today,” Berimor said. “Too excited to wait, I suppose. I was like that when I was your age.”
Cor nodded and remained silent.
“I see your father over there. He’s been working hard these two weeks.” Berimor waved as Cor’s father turned and saw them.
“Brother, the Spirit of the World is smiling upon us,” Omor said.
“Indeed, it is a beautiful day,” Berimor said, and the brothers exchanged an embrace. “You must be anxious.”
“A little,” Father admitted. “But I am proud of my son, and I will always be proud of him.”
“He’s sure to become a good man like you,” Berimor said. He turned to Cor. “No matter what happens today, hold your head high and be proud of your Talent.”
Cor tried to smile. He knew Berimor was trying to reassure him, but his uncle’s words only served to make him more anxious. Last year, Gimor had gone through the Ceremony and had received the Talent of Vitality. The crowd had raised the obligatory cheer and applause, but even Cor knew that the Talent of Vitality was the lowest of all the Talents. And it was the Talent both his parents had.
“Your uncle’s right,” Father said. “Any man can become great if he works hard.”
Cor tried to believe it.
At last they moved on from the village square and down south. Compared to the busyness in the village square, the area here was quiet. This side of the village was where Sculptor Isor and Uncle Unir–Cor’s mother’s brother–and most of the other well-respected people lived. The houses here were larger and of finer make, the stone bricks cleaner and the roofs made of ceramic tile rather than wood. But Cor always noticed with a little pride that none of their little gardens were quite as pretty as Mother’s.
Cor kept alert as they walked along the wide path. He could see Hylan’s home up ahead with its distinctive sky-blue roof. There was no smoke above the chimney–there was no smoke above most chimneys here–and he could not peer through the dark windows and see inside.
“Did you want to knock?” Father said.
Cor pulled his eyes away from Hylan’s house and flushed. He nodded. “I forgot to ask her something.”
“Hylan?”
Cor nodded.
They went up the little cobbled path in front of the house and climbed the two dainty steps onto the patio. After exchanging a look with his father, Cor took the carved wooden knocker and knocked.
There was the sound of movement inside the house, followed by silence. The door opened.
Hylan’s mother saw Cor’s father and gave him a practiced smile. “Good morning, Omor,” she said. Then she saw Cor and her smile faltered. “What brings you here?”
“May I speak to Hylan?” Cor replied before he could hesitate.
“She’s busy preparing for the Ceremony,” Hylan’s mother said.
“It’ll be quick, I promise. I just forgot to ask her something,” Cor said. He hoped neither his father or Hylan’s mother could tell his cheeks were burning.
Hylan’s mother made no reaction.
“There’s still four hours before noon,” Cor said desperately. “And we’ll talk right here. It’ll just take a minute.”
There was a painful silence. Then Cor’s father spoke. “My son’s a man of his word, Healer Saya,” he said. “Let them talk for a minute.”
Hylan’s mother sighed and closed the door. Cor stood completely still, not sure what had just happened. He looked up at Father who looked back at him and smiled. Half a minute later, the door opened again and Hylan appeared.
Hylan’s dark hair usually fell wildly about her shoulders, but today her hair was tied back in a clean bun. It had also been combed and slicked so that it looked almost black. She was wearing her mitar, and Cor could not help but notice it seemed much whiter and more elegant than his–hers looked like freshly fallen snow.
“What did you want to ask me?” she said.
Cor found himself at a loss for words.
“Well?”
Cor looked away and cleared his throat. “I–” His voice cracked. He wanted to sink into the ground. He looked to his side and noticed Father had stepped off the patio and stood a few paces behind him, smiling.
Cor shook his head. It only served to make him dizzier, but in a strange way that made things better. “Are you really planning to go away?”
Hylan made a face. “Cor, not here.”
Cor was about to protest, then he saw Hylan’s mother standing behind her. His face fell. “Alright,” he said.
“Was that all?”
I want you to stay here with me, he thought, but did not say. “That’s all.”
“May the Spirit send his blessings upon you,” Hylan said.
The sudden formality surprised him. “May his servant Myor watch over you,” he replied automatically.
Hylan flashed a smile, then closed the door, leaving him alone on the patio.
***
Noon approached too quickly. The subtle chill of morning had quickly intensified into a sweltering heat and Cor’s mitar was heavy and thick on his skin. The eyes of the people of the village behind him were equally as stifling.
There were eight of them seated on the mahogany chairs in a row directly in front of the painted wooden platform. Both the wooden podium and the marble throne behind it were still empty, but it would not be so for long.
Hylan sat two seats over on Cor’s left. He had looked over at her twice, and each time she had not turned to him. Now, as the sun rose to its apex, a hush began to descend on the crowd, and Cor’s heart began to thump hard against his ears. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows and onto his long white mitar, forming damp stains around his chest.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Somewhere behind them, a bell tolled five times, and a complete silence fell over the people. A jay chirped, and a chorus of rose beetles buzzed in their hidden refuges. An old man wearing a thick dark blue mitar seemed to materialize out of the shimmering air to the right of the platform. Old Shamon’s head was bald save for a tuft of hoary white hair near his temples, and his beard was of the same color and gathered thick and messy around his mouth–it looked as though it had not been combed for years.
The Old Shamon carefully ascended the painted steps and the world seemed to hold its breath as he came to a stop in front of the podium. He looked out above the crowd, his head gleaming with perspiration. From within the dark folds of his mitar he produced a crystal dish atop which a small fruit of unblemished white sat–a mistleaf apple.
With great reverence, he placed the crystal dish onto the flat center of the podium and stepped back. The bell tolled once, louder this time, reverberating in Cor’s skull.
Old Shamon raised his sleeves and eyes to the sky and mouthed silent words. A girl in a white mitar, much like the ones Cor and the other candidates wore, approached the white platform with a stick of incense. She was not really a girl–she had served Old Shamon since as long as Cor could remember and had always retained her youthful appearance. She never spoke and she never showed herself in the village except for once a year during the Ceremony. Some people called her the Witch.
The Witch bowed and held the stick of incense out to Old Shamon with hands hidden in the folds of her mitar. Old Shamon took it and as though on cue, the sky darkened as a cloud passed over the sun.
Fire sparked from within Old Shamon’s shadowed sleeves, and the incense burned. Smoke trailed like lazy tendrils from its tip. Old Shamon held the incense above the mistleaf apple, letting the smoke shroud it, and he closed his eyes. He may have been muttering something under his breath, but his mouth did not move. He stood in silence and the smoke from the incense spread over the podium and out, filling the village square and darkening it.
Though the smoke was thick, the smell was not. It was a light and sweet smell that conjured up stories of ancient palaces and mystical creatures. And it made you feel as though you were entering one of those stories.
Cor forgot his unease and watched, captivated, as the stick of incense billowed smoke and burned away. He had seen this before in years past, but being up front, it seemed as though the smoke was alive, pushing out from the tip of the burning stick and spreading itself out along the ground. The sky had turned an iron gray and it was hard to tell if it was from the smoke or from actual clouds that had gathered in the sky.
The last bit of incense burned out and the air stirred. In a moment, the smoke had cleared, but the spiced aroma remained, and the sky remained gray. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the smell of rain mixed with the sweet of incense.
Old Shamon lifted his cloaked arms once more and the bell tolled, the sound larger and more grave than before, as though the burning of incense had transformed it into a massive tower bell.
The mistleaf apple shone white on its dish.
“My people,” Old Shamon said. His voice was airy but it carried well throughout the square and even echoed against the surrounding homes. “The Spirit gifts to man two blessings: life and a Talent by which he lives true. We gather in the presence of the Spirit of the World to witness the gifts these young men and women have received. ”
The bell tolled, its tone brash and majestic. Cor wondered who was striking it this year.
“Children, stand,” Old Shamon said. Around him, Cor’s peers stood. And in a rush of anxiousness, Cor stood too. He glanced to his left and saw Hylan watching the white mistleaf apple. Cor turned to it. In a few moments, he would be stepping up to that podium. The crowd would be silent as he sipped from the tiny dish of silverworm venom the Witch served him. Then he would go behind the podium facing the crowd and place his fingertips on the mistleaf apple. And the apple would change color.
Azure for water, supple and cool;
Scarlet for fire, raging, unending;
Ochre for earth, ancient and new;
Clear-glass for air, fluid and flowing;
Saffron for light, ever revealing.
Strength begets iron, solid, unbending,
Swiftness is violet, bestowed upon few.
Keenness glows verdant, sharp and untiring,
Pale is vitality, where life ever pools.
Virgin unblemished shall the fruit be;
A black mark of darkness, and death thou shalt meet.
Cor hoped the white fruit would change color. In his head he knew it was no shame if it did not–it had not changed color for his parents–but in his heart he didn’t believe it. Pale is vitality, where life ever pools. Even the line seemed to admit that the Talent of Vitality meant little else than simply being alive.
Old Shamon had been chanting, and now he stopped, and the Witch said, “Pir Solin.”
Pir stepped from the line and climbed the painted wooden steps up the platform and stood behind the podium.
***
Cor was next to last in line and he watched as the other candidates went up to the platform to discover their Talent and receive their new names. Pir made the mistleaf apple turn a gentle green and became Napir; he would be a hunter like his father and roam the forests in search of rare creatures. Sahan turned the fruit a pale yellow and became Saha; she would join Lighter Thomor and Lighter Yana on their evening patrols around the village, restoring the little glass balls that glowed in the night to ward off demons.
Then came Eor and Filan and Hwir, and they all made the mistleaf apple change color. After Hwir was Hylan, and she stepped up to the podium with her back straight and her head held up high. The village already knew she had the Talent of Water. What other Talent resided within her?
The Witch gave her the delicate dish of silverworm venom and Hylan put it to her lips with great solemnity and sipped. She did not grimace like the others, but returned the dish to the Witch with a polite bow and turned to the mistleaf apple, which had returned to its perfect unblemished white.
The crowd held its breath as she brought her hands onto the small fruit. Cor almost looked away. The apple flashed a brilliant blue. The crowd’s silence seemed to rise in a crescendo as it waited. The apple continued to shine a deep blue, its color more vibrant than it had been for any of the other candidates. Even if it did not change to a second color, the village knew Hylan’s Talent of Water was a great one.
The blue fruit seemed to stutter, then turned as clear as glass. The crowd gasped. Cor’s heart sank. Hylan became Shyla, and she beamed as she stepped off the platform and returned to her seat. She did not glance at Cor even once.
The crowd did not settle back to silence even as the next candidate stepped onto the platform. The village had never had someone with two Talents, and there would be talk of what Hylan’s (Shyla’s) two Talents meant. It was a sign of good fortune, of course, but of what kind? A better harvest? A gentler winter? Or perhaps the King himself would come down to the village and make them all landlords and take Hylan (Shyla) as a concubine. Or perhaps a princess. Yes, whatever happened, Hylan (Shyla) could not remain in the village. At the very least she would enroll in the King’s university and serve in the palace. Perhaps she would go to the far north and explore the ancient and evil ruins that were there. Perhaps she would go down into the Labyrinths and search for ancient magicks lost to time. Perhaps she would go to the eastern mountains and battle against the terrible monsters that lived there.
The bell crashed and Old Shamon called for silence. The crowd settled down, slowly.
The boy at the podium–Nor–looked embarrassed and small. He lay his hands on the white fruit and it remained white. He quickly took his hands off and practically scampered off the stage and returned to his seat.
It was now just Cor and the girl next to him left standing. Cor felt his face burn red and his stomach squirm in knots. He stared off to the side, hoping the Witch would never call his name. But the strange woman did, and Cor stepped forward.
***
Cor almost tripped on the last step, and his heart pounded at the thought of how close he had been to falling flat on his face. He made his way to the podium and tried not to look at the white mistleaf apple. He looked out at the crowd instead and tried to look for his family. He found them quickly; they were in the third row. Mother and Father were watching with what seemed like concern, Plyan was falling asleep, and Gimor stared at the sky with blank, stupid eyes. Cor tried to smile but found his mouth wouldn’t move.
The Witch approached him with the tiny dish of clear liquid. Her yellow eyes matched the golden color of her long hair, and they unsettled him. She was shorter than him, and at a glance she seemed to be his age, but upon looking more deeply into those strange yellow eyes, it was clear she had to be at least three or four times his age.
Cor took the dish from her and tried not to spill it as he brought it to his lips. He felt the Witch’s eyes on him and Old Shamon’s presence behind him like a palpable pressure. He sipped.
***
The liquid was cool and sweet and burned like fire in his mouth. He nearly choked and tears sprung to his eyes. The Witch took the little dish from him and Cor was aware of the crowd watching him. He was sure none of the other candidates had had such a visceral reaction to the silverworm venom, and he was ashamed. But he still needed to touch the mistleaf apple.
The world seemed to spin as he brought his hands up to the white fruit before him. Silverworm venom opened your spirit and let your Talent bleed more easily through your body. That was how the mistleaf apple changed color when you touched it; it sensed the Talent flowing through your blood.
It seemed that opening your spirit made you dizzy.
Cor touched the apple.
For a moment, nothing.
Lightning bolted through him.
***
The pain was excruciating and immediate. It was as though a hot iron needle had been driven through his fingertips and up his arm and into his brain. He flung his hands back and screamed a silent scream. He staggered into Old Shamon behind him, and the impact sent another flash of pain through his body. He collapsed to the ground. Spears of lightning heat shot through his hands and knees. His body throbbed painfully, but he could not cry or scream.
He could hear the crowd murmuring, the sound loud up against his ears, and though he was sure his eyes were closed, he felt as though he were looking directly at the sun. He trembled, then stopped, then trembled again. His skin felt as though it were being torn from his body, as though he were being burned alive. Every moment that passed he thought he would die, but he didn’t. And the pain went on and on and on.
Then it was gone.
***
Cor stood up, dazed and confused. He did not know where he was until he saw the crowd. They were staring at him, and they were silent. Cor felt a hot wetness between his legs. As he looked down, his eye caught the crystal dish and the fruit it held. And he realized that the crowd had not been staring at him, but at the mistleaf apple before him.
The blood drained from his face. He stumbled back. One line of verse imposed itself in his mind.
A black mark of darkness, and death thou shalt meet.
Everyone knew the stories. Everyone heard the whispers. Everyone knew there was one color the mistleaf apple should never possess.
Black.
Cor turned and ran. Behind him, the crowd erupted into frenzy.