Tuvos, Day 14 of Rhexia
Blind Moons
Year 602
Respect. Respect everyone. Always.
I cannot count the times I’ve made an ass of myself
because I didn’t consider what someone else has been through.
—From the private journal of Farax Lucean,
Master Alchemist at Craestor University from Year 598 to Year 603.
Evin started.
Her tongue was thick and dry and her head pounded. How long had she slept?
Stark daylight insisted through the dirty glass window panes of her second-story private room. Her sheets were twisted and soggy with her own sweat, and the room smelled of stale alcohol and cheerlessness.
She stared blearily at the blank ceiling for a moment, willing the hot throbbing in her head to subside.
The wine was not sitting at all well in her roiling stomach.
She rolled over and put a weak hand to her head, trying to judge what time of day it was by the cast of the shadows in her silent room.
These sodden mornings were miserable. And self-inflicted. Why do I keep doing this to myself? she wondered desperately.
Evin loved to dance, and rollicking evenings at the pub were something she looked forward to all week. The thrill of the fiddle and bodhran thumping in her chest, the grasp of someone else’s warm hand in hers, the shy glances exchanged between ever-revolving partners—these were all things she fell addictively drawn to. She supposed she liked the taste of the ubbeave wine too, and enjoyed the way it made her feel.
It didn’t seem to be worth this, though. Surely, she had no real reason to indulge so vehemently—and so often. She had no sorrows to quench. Her work life was challenging, but not unbearable.
Work, she thought then, incoherently, her damaged synapses finally beginning to fire and a pool of panic beginning to form in her belly. Her heart sprang to life.
She had slept late. And she was expected at work.
Suddenly spurred into action, Evin stepped shakily out of bed. The movement elicited a small, despairing whimper.
She was dizzy and felt worryingly ill.
Relentlessly, she upbraided herself. This is your own fault, she told herself viciously over and over again, as if it might make the whole thing easier to bear. Your fault.
The situation might, perhaps, have bothered her less—if it wasn’t the third time it had happened this month. If she’d had any parents, they’d have been most disappointed; her older sister Wynn had been very firm with her as it was. And Master Stacia had threatened to turn her out for the habit. Evin hated her own lack of foresight and self-control, perpetually telling herself that every drink downed was money lost, and to cap it, she would continue to manufacture mornings like this for herself.
Today, she may just have murdered her own livelihood.
Resolving to hurry down to the shop and see if she might keep her position, she rummaged in her chest for something clean.
She threw on a worn chemise and stockings, then followed with a pair of brown eborel trousers and a simple earth-coloured tunic. She shoved unsteady feet into a pair of scuffed brown boots and glanced up into her small, grimy dressing mirror.
Evin’s long hair had been braided the night before but had since mostly fallen out into ratty tangles. Her grey eyes looked tired. She pulled her hair free and didn't bother to comb it, opting instead to twist it up into a haphazard top knot.
Forcing herself to keep taking slow breaths so she wouldn’t be sick, Evin locked her door and made her way down the hall.
Outside, the harbor town of Liminey was slowly rousing itself, and she grew dimly aware of the sounds of rattling wagon wheels on cobblestones, doors opening and shutting, and the distant ringing of a bell. It had begun to peal well before she noticed it, so she belatedly counted the strikes.
It was at least ten bells. So she was three bells late. Or more.
Starting the day over or making a different choice at the pub the night before was impossible now; this reality was all she had to work with. The only thing she could do to influence her situation for the better in any way was continue to hurry, arrive quickly, and abjectly beg Stacia’s pardon.
Most of the service workers like Evin would have been laboring at their occupations for hours already. The merchants and tradesmen who managed the working class in Liminey Village had most likely breakfasted and were beginning to see to their own duties, while the nobility would be just stirring or drowsily enjoying that first steaming cup of tea in bed. Evin wished intensely that she were a lady of inherited fortune instead of needing to be up at first light serving the populace. Then she could drink as much as she wanted, and hang everyone else. It was a chilly morning, and she was exhausted, and late, and probably still a little drunk, and she hadn’t worn the proper clothing.
Someone framed in a window above her chose that moment to beat out a small rug and Evin blinked and spluttered as a shower of dirt, dust, hair, and spiky bits of grit floated down to settle into the crevices of her clothes and hair. She wiped the grime from her mouth, disgusted.
The world shook as she made her way clumsily down the lane, her footfalls leaden. Her body continued to flutter imperceptibly, that cold nervousness melding horribly with her body’s own rebellion at what she had done to it. She felt damaged. Every step seemed to bring the bile up into her throat and she did her best to swallow the nausea doggedly back down. I’ve got to stop, she thought. If this morning doesn’t teach me, nothing will. No more of this. No more.
She bent over, stopping momentarily and hating that thick feeling in her nose and mouth. Her face had begun to tingle. She spat on the cobbles a few times, bracing her forearms on her spread knees.
But she wasn’t sick. Defiantly, she forced the nausea back.
Wynn had spoken briefly to her the night before, suggested she slow down. But Evin hadn’t listened. She was so positive she’d be able to judge when she’d had enough.
Wynn was Evin's elder sister and owned the Upset Owl. For being family, Evin could sometimes get a discount on food, but unhappily, this did not apply to any alcohol she might imbibe. Her pounding head told her this was a good thing.
Evin finally reached the shop, slowing her pace just for a moment to catch her breath. She had served at the Wheel and Well for three years now, and while it was a demanding job at times, she found she liked the work. She was good at it. Her co-workers were generally pleasant people barring Alon’s incessant teasing, and it seemed the education to be had was valuable, something she believed more with each passing day.
She smoothed loose strands of hair back behind her ears and dabbed the sheen of sweat from her face with the back of a shaky hand. Divines forgive me, she thought, trying not to retch. Help me through the day and I’ll never do this again. I swear to Calumn, I won’t.
A couple was just leaving the shop, and she recognized one of the Wheel and Well’s perennial customers, who nodded affably to her.
Evin caught the heavy wooden door just as it began to close and went in.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shop after her disorienting jaunt through the sunlit street. Some patrons sat at the wooden tables chatting, but most stood to wait for their drinks before hastily leaving for the day. The little shop wouldn’t see the nobility coming in for refreshment for another bell or so.
Evin saw Guiote at the back of the room—the girl was grinding something to a fine powder. Tak was handing a generous mug of something to a man and watching him taste it. And Master Stacia was just coming from the back storeroom, her arms full of supplies.
Evin wondered guiltily which one of them had stayed late in order to account for her absence, and she saw Tak's eyes flicker reproachfully up at her, his mouth flattening in disapproval. She tried to shoot him a look of silent apology but he glanced away from her.
She caught up with Stacia and fell into step with the woman as she worked. "I'm here," she said stupidly and with such an air of apology that it was almost a plea. "I'm so sorry."
Evin wasn’t sure what she had expected—a lecture perhaps, a snide comment, or at the very least a dirty look.
But Stacia didn't slacken her pace. "Get your apron and send Tak home," she told Evin curtly, and that was somehow worse than anything else she might have said—for it meant that true admonishment would come later, probably privately, and that it was indeed sober enough in tone and content to merit that sort of delivery.
Evin nodded to her master and hurried away, still dizzy.
The back room smelt strongly of herbs and denatured parchment. This was where all of the shop records were kept, and sheaves and sheaves of dusty, deckled paper climbed the shelves. A couple of dingy windows let the mid-morning light in. There were plenty of quills and ink, and some of the attendants left their things here for future use. One of her long knit shirts hung on a peg next to Alon’s cloak. A series of primitive cabinets lined one of the walls, some of them so stuffed with their contents that the little doors bulged and wouldn’t close properly.
There were also a few wooden boxes and reed baskets stacked in the center of the floor, full of inventory for storage and distribution and packed with sawdust and little curly wood shavings. If she had been to work on time, all of it would have been put away. Now everyone would be tripping over it all day, and they had her to thank for it.
Evin used the indoor pump to splash cold water on her face and scrub her hands, picking at the dirt that had collected under her fingernails. She’d made it to work and had been allowed to continue. How then would she manage to get through this thrice-damned day feeling as horrible as she did? Then she had a flash of inspiration—the healing kit.
The employees at the shop kept a small box of implements in one of the cabinets. She opened it and pulled the wooden box free, then breathed a sigh of relief.
Neat rows of tiny bottles and vials lined the box, nestled in among fragrant wood shavings and replete with hand-scrawled labels. One label read Headache Relief. Another, Blood Loss Aid. There would only be necessities in here, no glamours, liquid luck, or love potions. There were others, too; For General Pain, Menstrual Cramp Cure, and Haste. All of the brews were alchemical and to be used internally.
Evin's clumsy fingers found the bottle marked Hangover Relief and held it so that the light streaming in through one of the back windows told her just how much was left. She frowned. Not much—a popular brew, then. With her thumb and forefinger, she picked the cork out and took a sip, careful to tilt the bottle so the edge didn’t touch her lips. One swallow should be enough to do something, she reckoned.
The liquid was cool. She tasted salt, and mint, and a bit of funk at the end that suggested rotten fruit. The strong piquancy of it nearly made her gag, but then she felt the ingredients begin to take effect and stilled in wonder.
It was incredible, really.
Her head cleared slightly. The feeling in her feet came back, and most of the nausea began to melt away. Hangover Relief wouldn't cure all the symptoms, she knew—but it certainly helped. As her wits began to return, she realized suddenly that she was horribly, horribly thirsty. She hastily replaced the potion bottle and shoved the little box back into the cabinet, slamming the door.
She worked the cold iron handle of the pump once more, greedily guzzling the frigid water that eked out.
She took a woven half apron from one of the iron hooks mounted to the wall and tied it hastily about her waist. All of the Wheel and Well’s aprons were fashioned of neutral-coloured eborel and came in one size, making the employees resemble an army of fishwives as they saw to their customers’ needs.
Evin nodded to herself and patted at the pockets of her apron, satisfied that no materials or remnants of materials had stayed behind to complicate matters. One never knew what one might find in the pockets of a brewer’s apron. Then she cast a final glance about the back room before hurrying out into the main service chamber.
She slipped in through the narrow area that delineated the counter from the rest of the shop and came up behind Tak, placing a hesitant hand on his back. It was warm and sweaty, and she felt another stab of remorse.
“What?” he said with quiet indifference, not even turning to look at her. Tak was about her height, and slight. She could feel how tense he was.
"I'm here," she said insipidly, feeling rather than sensing the peeved exhalation he gave in response. "I'm so sorry,” she whispered with contrition. “Buy whatever you want in the shop today. On me."
He didn’t move when she said this, but she could feel his surprise at her offer. Tak’s dark, narrow eyes were focused on what his nimble hands were doing, his black lashes cast downward and effectively hiding his expression from her.
He finished pouring some warm, opaque, pinkish liquid into an earthen mug. Then he gave it to Guiote, who bustled away from them to place it in a customer’s waiting hands.
He didn't respond to Evin, just shouldered his way past her and made his way back into the storage room, untying his apron as he went.
She took a deep breath and looked around at the workspace, taking a moment to collect her bearings.
Tak always kept his surface clean, and today was no exception. The tools he had been using were neatly lined up in the order of frequency of use—the mortar and pestle, a set of sharp little knives, peeler, a wire mesh strainer, and a pile of loosely woven cloths. There was a jar of clean spoons for stirring and tasting, and clean mugs and glass vials were lined up in the cupboards down below like so many little soldiers ready for battle.
Evin’s appraisal coincided with a slight lull in custom, and next to her, Guiote gave her a nudge.
"Where have you been?" she hissed. Guiote was tall and thin, with freckles, startlingly blonde eyelashes, and deep red hair.
Evin shook her head, colouring slightly. "I slept in,” she offered, chagrined.
But the girls eyes lit expectantly. “And?”
"Too much wine," Evin added, defeated.
Guiote was both delighted and horrified. "And you were supposed to be here...?"
“At seven,” Evin finished, feeling miserable. “How many bells is it now? Or do I even want to know?”
"You don’t,” Guiote confirmed. "I think we have some Hangover Relief in the healing kit. It’s quite effective.”
“I took some,” Evin told her, nodding wearily.
Whereas the chaos of the back room always overwhelmed her with its mess, the public part of the Wheel and Well had appealed to Evin since the first time she had seen it.
The front bar was a thick slab of beautifully polished maple. Beyond it, large hewn beams spanned the high ceilings and flanked the walls, which were built of whitewashed cob. Stacia had tucked little pots of herbs wherever they would fit, instilling in the shop the comfort and charm of growing things. The Wheel and Well’s fine products and welcoming interior ensured that the business had no problem drawing customers. It was a popular place to have a chat with a friend, break a journey, or gather resources for a task.
Evin chewed on her lower lip and stared down for a moment at the oiled flagstone floor. Sometimes she thought she’d rather be anywhere else than behind the counter, laboring in the oppressive heat or bone-chilling cold. But she was forced now to admit that she found this place welcoming, inspiring, objectively beautiful, and very dear to her.
She fervently hoped Master Stacia wouldn’t dismiss her after today. She didn’t think she could bear it.
A customer was approaching the counter, and Stacia squeezed past the two young women to greet him with a broad smile. The man was probably a local merchant looking for some fortification. He asked for Alertness and paid with coins.
Stacia took his money and dropped it into the wooden bucket underneath the counter with a soft clink. Then she grabbed a clean clay mug from the set of shelves adjacent to the bucket and turned to study the formidable collection of shop ingredients.
The wall behind the back counter was lined with tens of hundreds of jars containing raw elements, powders, rocks, sticks, shells, leaves, preserved animal and insect parts, and some more mysterious ingredients.
Alertness was easy; Evin could have made it herself. She watched as Stacia loaded the cup with a leveled spoonful of ground ugalia bark, a heaping spoonful of dried basil, and a pinch of flux root shavings. "What would you prefer to take this in?" she asked the man. "Traditionally, it’s prepared as a cold tea."
“That’ll be fine,” he replied, nodding, and Stacia handed the cup to Evin with an indiscernible look.
She took it silently and turned toward the back wall.
The space there employed a carefully stoked set of ovens that had been fitted with a large piece of iron—it had been specially forged for the purpose. Decanters of water, infusions, and various types of alcoholic and caffeinated liquids bubbled constantly there, always ready for use.
The steel pitcher of cold water sitting nearby was sweating profusely, so Evin used a towel from the counter to pick it up by the handle. She filled the earthenware mug about three quarters of the way full and selected a clean spoon, giving the mixture a good stir.
There was an awkward pause while they all waited for the ingredients to incorporate.
Then Evin stooped to collect a tiny glass vial and stopper from the shelves directly before her and uncorked it. Utilizing the mesh strainer Tak had laid out, she carefully poured the contents into the vial. The liquid was tinged green now, and the bits of herb and sediment that were too large stayed behind, caught in the strainer. She corked the vial and gave it to Guiote, who would imbue it.
The redhead bowed briefly over the steaming mug, murmuring something indistinguishable. Evin was always curious about others’ imbuement processes, and found herself constantly asking them after the fact to explain what they’d done.
Finished, Guiote handed the tiny bottle to the customer. He took it and tasted the potion gingerly. Then he nodded satisfactory thanks at Stacia before making his way out of the shop and into the now teeming streets of Liminey.
* * *
Bricot smiled to himself as he watched the students assemble on the roof.
He remembered quite fondly participating in the same type of activity himself as a young thing back in Boradîn. Astronomy was such a dusty subject in general, unless one took the opportunity to apply the information practically. This was a perfect way to breathe life into the stodgy illustrations and paragraphs they’d all been poring over together for the past few months.
The night air was cool and pleasant, and the faraway sounds of insects drifted up to them from the established trees on the university grounds. It was still mid-Rhexia, early in the year, and the promise of warm weather over the summer to come made his very being hum with the anticipation of it.
Several of the students gripped simple lanterns lit with gently glowing beeswax tapers. Everyone had strange, long shadows projected onto their faces, suggesting insect-like antennae.
A comely student flung her long hair behind one shoulder and patted the paneled roof next to herself, beckoning a friend to join her as she took her place.
Master Bricot realized quite suddenly then that he didn’t, in fact, remember much about the nighttime sky observation mandatory to his years of study. The practice was inherently dark or at least dim and recommended itself well to covert activities, and so he seemed to recall a lot of fervent yet ultimately innocuous hand-holding with a certain young lady in his life at the time—now long since gone.
Master Farax approached the group of students, her long, stately robes silhouetted against the pitch sky. The high points of her smooth olive complexion glowed in the lantern light.
Bricot wondered if she minded teaching after her regular hours. From what he knew of her, she’d much rather be spending her free time training, planning lessons, or perhaps just catching up on sleep.
Nervously, he ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair.
“That’s enough,” Farax said gently to still the chatter. “Please settle in.”
There was some subsiding conversation while they each found spots on the roof and sat down, but the students eventually quieted.
Bricot smiled again. They were a fine group of people, really.
The University of Craestor took in only nine students per year, which kept the school small. There were no caps on ages, so while the youngest students were generally eighteen or nineteen summers old, the more advanced students might be fifty or even sixty. At the time, the oldest student at Craestor was Bale, who was forty-five. He lent his cohort a fine touch of focus and calm, tempering them all with his age and life experience. Bricot had been teaching for so long that he’d forgotten that odd sense of incongruity borne of addressing a student older than himself. It had once bothered him acutely.
The only thing that irked him at times about the student populace at Craestor was the superior attitude frequently displayed by students from upper class families. Certainly, he had to admit they weren’t all entitled little snobs—but the ones who were did their best to make life difficult for everyone else. A shame that it’s even a problem, he thought to himself.
“Who can tell me why we’re here tonight?” Farax asked them all, brushing a dark, springy strand of auburn hair behind one ear.
A student raised his hand. This was young Alais. “It’s blind moons tonight,” he said.
“That’s right,” replied Farax. “Blind moons. In other words, Petra and Thyxia are both invisible tonight. This means that we can see some star formations more clearly than usual. There’s one constellation in particular that I want you to keep watch for. Any guesses as to which one?”
The students exchanged glances with each other and several shrugged.
“It’s good to see that some of you have been reading ahead in your astronomy text,” she said flatly.
Bricot hid a smile.
“It’s the maid’s garter,” she told them, recovering. “Nine stars nearly in a row, and a tenth just above. There’s a lovely myth that goes with it, so hopefully someone can find the constellation for us. Ready to douse the lamps?”
A chorus of agreement met Farax.
“All right then,” she said, grinning at their obvious anticipation. “Go ahead.”
Simultaneously, everyone extinguished their lanterns, and Craestor’s rooftop was swathed in blackness. There were a few awed exhalations as everyone’s eyes adjusted and the studded firmament of stars began to come into focus.
Farax waited for the students to settle, then cleared her throat. “All right. What do you see? What can we pick out? If you’ve read your text, this should be easy.”
Alais pointed off in a northerly direction. “There’s Minos after she turned into a bear,” he offered. “That’s the one I always look for. That large star is the jewel she wears at her throat.”
Master Farax nodded approvingly. “Yes, Alais. Well done. What else?”
Bale showed them The River constellation—the one that signified the journey all people take upon death before they arrive in the realm of the gods.
Peripherally, Bricot noticed Diarmad surreptitiously picking his nose.
Farax finally pointed out the Maid’s Garter to them.
A little silence fell as they all regarded the string of stars, and Bricot felt something ancient and inscrutable stir within him. The beauty and wonder of the night sky had held all sorts of answers for Heladrithians over the ages. Was this what his ancestors had felt, too?
Master Farax cleared her throat and prepared to continue. “Some of you already know this tale, but it is part of the curriculum,” she said, then added formidably, “It will probably be on a test.” With a deep breath, she began.
“Once, when trees could speak, a divine union loomed in the Pantheon of the gods.
Young Pikyia, the Goddess of Chastity, was to marry Aethe, the God of the Sun.
Pikyia’s mother was Bipel, Goddess of Spring, and Aethe’s father was Calumn, God of the Cosmos. Together, they had planned and agreed upon this marriage before their children were ever born, and truly, Pikyia and Aethe looked forward to sealing the union themselves, being already acquainted, friendly, and fond of one another.
Perhaps more than fond of one another.
For gods to marry was not so unusual in those days. In addition to the ceremony, several things needed to happen to ensure a truly sanctioned relationship. The binding bridal cup needed to be consumed, and the maid’s garter needed to be given to the groom. Pikyia, as the Goddess of Chastity, would be renamed the Goddess of Marriage after the wedding. She was radiant in her expectation.
But Aethe was not the only god watching her.
Yad, son of Beilli the War God, wanted her for himself, and followed her everywhere she went. As the son of a god, Yad enjoyed a somewhat elevated status, but held no office of his own. He was all-consumed with the ethereal beauty of Pikyia and dreamed of her choosing him over young Aethe.
Yad, in his desperation to change his fate, visited a human seer, and asked what he might do to claim Pikyia as his own.
She told him what to do, and he obeyed.
On the day of the wedding, the entire Divine Pantheon gathered together to celebrate. Pikyia was resplendent, and Aethe, equally beautiful. Each of them wept with joy.
When the time for exchanging vows came, Pikyia offered her soon-to-be husband the ceremonial goblet so he could drain it and seal the union. But after consuming the contents, Aethe grew deathly pale and fell to his knees. He had been poisoned.
The Five Deities of Healing were called upon to try and save him, but it was too late.
Yad stepped forward immediately and confessed his crime, taken by a fit of pride and false dignity. He believed that if he revealed himself as clever and more demonstrative than Aethe, he would appear more worthy a suitor for Piykia, and that she would change her mind and choose him instead. He admitted he had used a spiritual poison on Aethe, and that the effects were irreversible. There was no antidote. The God of the Sun was truly dead.
Amidst inconsolable wails from the rest of the Divine Pantheon, Pikyia stared at him in shock and horror, the tears frozen on her pale face.
Yad misinterpreted her response, and, believing himself the victor, requested that she hand over her bridal garter to him.
Piykia launched herself at Yad, her long fingers outstretched and seeking blood. With her fingernails, she clawed his eyes from their very sockets. And this is why today, if someone is jealous or covetous, we say, “Watch your eyes,” as a warning.
Blinded and screaming, Yad cursed her.
In response, Piykia ripped off her own sacred garter, and with all of her might, she flung it into the heavens so that no one else would ever touch it. There it stuck fast, and this is why, today, we can see the constellation The Maid’s Garter only on nights when our moons Petra and Thyxia are both veiled, or, blind.
Upon the death of Aethe, there was no one left to control the movements of the sun, so his father Calumn, God of the Cosmos, took over his late son’s duties. This was a weighty responsibility, and now, we have a cold season to counter our warm one. Calumn is not strong enough to keep the sun near us always.
Yad was given a title: Demigod of Jealousy. The human seer that had assisted him was sought out and put to death for her crime. To this day, no one knows how to brew a spiritual poison, and experimentation to this end is strictly forbidden. This is the only known instance of the concept in all of history.
Piykia remained the Goddess of Chastity, and still rules the hearts of all who are pure. But she is also bitter and sad. Now, physical chastity is not worshipped as it once was. It should not be used as currency, but as an expression. That said, I would not be rounding out the lesson if I did not remind you; those who abstain are said to possess heightened magical abilities.”
“Not that you would know,” muttered someone from the back of the group.
A collective gasp, some mutters, and a couple of snickers emanated from the students.
Instantly, a searing flame burst into life behind Bricot’s skull. The trepidation he usually felt when addressing anyone directly completely evaporated. “Who said that?” he demanded. “What a horrible thing to say. Apologize—at once!”
Farax’s eyes held a dangerous glint of irritation… and was that humor?
“Answer me,” he pressed them all. “Instantly!”
Nothing.
But Farax clapped her hands slowly a few times. Each snap was rife with sarcasm. “That was so tremendously tasteless that I’m almost impressed,” she finally said, her voice only wavering a little. “Implying that your female master is a whore. How very original.”
A hush had fallen over the group of students. Bricot noticed Bale shaking his head in disappointment.
“Was that fun?” Farax prodded. “That little reaction you just garnered? Because you’ll have to decide if what happens next is worth it, Diarmad.”
Bricot was incensed. “Diarmad said that?” he hissed. He took a step toward the group of students, trying to pick out in the cloaking darkness which one of them was the offending student so he could throttle him.
Farax gave a shrug that was barely perceptible in the starlight. “Of course he did,” she said with a cheerless laugh. She didn’t bother to lower her voice, and Bricot could hear her unabashed annoyance. “Do you know him?” she continued. “He can’t resist. I suppose he thinks I invited the comment by daring to tell a story about the Goddess of Chastity.” She moved away from Bricot with an air of finality, announcing, “Fine. I won’t let this stand and neither should you. Diarmad, come with me. Now.”
“It wasn’t me!” the young man protested as he clambered to his feet, his voice betraying hints of nervous laughter. Already eighteen, Diarmad’s voice still cracked like he was in the throes of puberty.
It made Bricot want to hit him.
“I wouldn’t be a master alchemist if I didn’t know how to observe,” Farax told him. “And you’re the only one here who still manages to sound like a wet fart when he speaks.”
Covert snickers from the group.
Farax moved toward the door that led from the roof back into the observation chamber. “Let’s go and see Colin, shall we? I expect he’ll be very interested in your clever remark. Bricot?”
The other master alchemist turned to look at Farax.
She made a picture. Her long auburn waves fell to her waist, and her dark, intelligent eyes seemed to rise to the challenge of her current situation. Even through her master’s robe, he could still make out the form of her generous hips and slim waist. She wasn’t even very upset—not really. Just firm. It seemed Farax would always surprise him.
“Would you please take my astronomy class through the rest of the constellations?”
The boy glowered up at him through stormy eyebrows, and Bricot set his jaw. “It’s a shame to interrupt your lesson,” he replied, hesitating, then suggested, “Why don’t I escort Diarmad?” Why don’t I slap Diarmad around a bit? was the thought that echoed soundlessly after his offer.
Farax considered, then said definitively, “No. I want to. I think I’ve earned it.”
Bricot assented, surprised by her answer. He supposed she had.
