Maralith's Destiny

I wrote this in 2006, found it clearing out some old emails

"Believe what you will, you have a Destiny."

I look up from the evidence I am cataloguing, unsure as to whether to be
amused or annoyed by Warren's sudden, uncharacteristic insistence on
distracting me from my work. Still, my brother-in-law is a big, square
man, just like my Eppie, and I tend to humor him more than I probably
should.

When unsure, retreat into what you know. "I am an forensic alchemist," I
point out with a wry smile, "not some sort of adventuring loon." While I
declaim, I carefully peal the waxy bark away from the underlying woody
stucture of the 'unnatural' ivy vines I had been given to analyse, and
note in my lab journal the total absence of cankerous galls, warpweb, or
other signs of banework.

"Besides," I grunt as an afterthought, "the days for such things have come
and gone. I have matured beyond the notion of making a name (and place at
Court) for myself through romantically daring (and stupidly dangerous)
alarums and excursions."

Teasing several woody fibers from the ivy stem, I press them between two
thin panes of glass and add a drop of malachine dye. Muttering the
Conjury of the Proximal Phantasm beneath my breath, I adjust the angle of
the magnified and stained image for maximum clarity of detail and begin my
next set of notations. Still no sign of either natural disease or malific
tampering.

Warren, much to my semi-surprise, holds his tongue at my semi-casual
flaunting of sorcery and replies to my words. Drat! So much for my hopes
of distracting him, or perhaps dismaying him, into abandoning his attempts
at redirecting my life and leaving me to finish my work in peace.

Pah, I really don't have time for this, and I am doing nothing wrong. I
have an Exemption with the Queen's own seal: I am not only allowed minor
sorcerous conjurings, I am commanded to assay them in the service of the
Realm. But Warren is devout, and the Queen's recent legalization of cold
magics does not erase a lifetime of queasy prejudice and Temple warnings.

But no, today something is driving him more than his usual concerns for
the state of my soul. Instead of retreating from my homely little garret,
he shuffles his feet and runs print-stained fingers through his shock of
yellow hair while pointedly clearing his throat. Then, when he is sure he
had captured my full attention, he holds up his big, blunt hands and began
counting on his fingers.

"Primus, Miralis," he said holding up his pointing finger, "you are only
twenty and eight. This is the Fourth Century, not the Dark Ages. As a
working adept you have at least 100 good years ahead of you. Maybe 200.
Stop talking like you've prunified.

"Secundus, Varsutheus's an elf. You left his service ten years ago, which
is three breath's difference to him. It's questionable if you've been
gone long enough for him to consider you gone, instead of stepped out for
a breath of air.

"Tertius, now that Ephrahim has passed on you have no further excuse for
putting off your practicum. And once you have that, you'll be a full
guild member and won't have to stoop to cold work anymore," he continued
with a pained frown.

"Quartus, cynicism and love of comfort is not the same thing as maturity.
And, and..." he paused and his eyes rolled up and to the left as he
searched his memory.

"Quintus," I supplied, impressed that he had made it as far as he had.
Very few non-adepts learn even one or two words of Old Arcane, and few as
religious as Warren will defy superstion and speak them aloud. But then
again, Warren is from a family of wordsmiths. And I think he was trying
to impress himself with his own open-mindedness as he prepared his last
point.

"... and Finally," he held up his thumb, ignoring my introjected offering,
"Mir, I don't know how much longer you'll continue to be safe here, useful
to the new Queen or not. If you won't complete your training, and you
won't check out Varsutheus, you should at least 'port to some place off
the Eastern slope."

"Warren," I began in a voice of utter resonableness that belied the sudden
bitter sickness in my belly. "28 IS past 'prenticing age by anyone's
reckoning. Varsutheus wouldn't want me anymore. And... in the normal
course of events, I'd be planning out my children's training, not
jabbering on with my absent husband's brother about starting over myself!
...I'm as safe here as I would be anywhere. Safer. I... have family
here."

Was that an edge of pleading I heard in my voice? Um... yes. Warren
heard it too, and he lips turned up in a crooked smile as his own voice
took on overtones of satisfied, but well-mannered, smugness.

"Maralith, you don't actually have any children and Epherham's been
missing for going on two years. You lost your house last year and live in
a garret apartment over my printing shop, with a nearcat and two hoppers
for company. You may make a decent living sifting through rat droppings
and making lists of what you find in the pockets of the dead, but since
you've gotten back from your own searching, every centum that you've been
able to scavenge beyond what you need to stay alive has gone for diviners
and locator spells.

"Eph's dead, Mir. Even Mam's nearly come to terms, and your hanging on is
making things harder for her than it needs to be. Let Eph go. Move on.
Get away from this place and start a new life before winter sets in and
we're snowbound and trapped with bad memories and plague nightmares
again."

"Don't call me that," I wanted to scream when I heard the hated nickname.
My hands were shaking, my carefully maintained adapt's detachment
flash-flared away by the sickening flush of betrayal and raw loss. But I
didn't scream. Instead I watched myself respond resonably to the
reasonable discourse that followed the insult. Maralith, he had called
me, the name of a demon.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and choked out "Ephs' coming back, I
know he is. Or I'll find him. I'd know if he was dead."

Now, at least, I knew what the real issue was -- the baletaint I had
picked up during my own starcrossed first expedition searching for Eph.
Warren was speaking out of fear of taint and fear of sorcery and rising
religious fervor as traditional Temple values were brought into question
by the edicts of the new Queen. As long as I practiced sorcery, I
couldn't turn to the Temple for cleansing. And sorcery was the only skill
I had that would allow me to earn enough coin to keep up my search for
Eph...

At some level, my enlightened half-brother and his poor widowed mother
were certain I was damned. And contageous. Or maybe they were just
afraid that when the mob came for me, it would come for them, too.

I forced my attention outward from the black shell of my own misery, as
Warren was still talking and... some part of me decided that maybe I
needed to hear.

"Eph's not coming back, Mir. You know it. I know it. The roads have
been cleared for months now. If Eph survived the first strike, he would
have gotten word home by now. In your own words, he wasn't much of an
'adventurer'."

I am amazed. Warren is wondering if he dares cross the six feet between
us, from where he perches on my spare stool to where I lean against my
workbench. Now that he has won his point, he wants to comfort me. I can
see it in the forlorn slouch of his shoulders and the straining of his
half-open hands.

No, he doesn't dare. "If you go to Coronado, no one will care that you're
tainted," Warren grumbles softly as he stands, adjusts his tunic, and
reaches for the doorlatch.

I turn my back, holding my breath and my own spine rigid until I hear the
door close behind Warren and his footsteps starting down the rickety
stairs. Pause, breathe. I'd just confirmed that there's no evidence of
baletaint on the ivy. Now I need to test for shambler's rot and poisons.
Align edge and center, resonate void. I need my wits about me if I am
going to have my report for the magistrate ready before the hearing.

So I can get paid. I'm going to need travelling money.