The Fire Mages Read Online Free
Author: Pauline M. Ross
Scribery
It took me a year longer than I expected to get to the scribery. I worked and saved and worked even more, spending nothing, but it still wasn’t enough. In the end, my father insisted on making up the difference. I heard Mother arguing with him about it. Well, it was not really arguing, Mother never stooped to such a level. Merely, she laid out a whole series of reasons why I should stay until I had earned the money myself: it was indulging me, I would never learn to be independent, there were the other children to consider, the whole idea was nonsensical anyway.
Father’s replies sounded amused rather than angry. “She has wanted nothing else for years. You don’t need her in the teaching room now you’ve got Deckas to help you, and there’s nothing else for her here.”
I could imagine the sour expression on Mother’s face. “You spoil her, you know. You shouldn’t encourage her in these fantasies. Law scribe, indeed! She should stay here where she belongs. But no, she has to aim for the moon. And if she fails, all that money will be wasted.”
“Maybe so, but she won’t know what she can do until she tries. So let’s see how she gets on, eh?” Mother was silent, not convinced, I was sure, but she had run out of arguments. “Besides,” Father added in a cheerful tone, “if she can manage the first two years of the five, she’ll be a transaction scribe and make silvers by the handful and keep us in comfort in our old age.”
So, at the advanced age of seventeen, I went to Ardamurkan town to learn to be a scribe. Father made the journey with me. He wanted to buy some tools, he told me, even though he usually got what he needed from the tinker who came through the village several times a year. So I left Durmaston on a turnip wagon, too happy to feel the ignominy of it as we lurched through the forest. The sun sang to me, the birds hopped about the branches solely to entertain me, the leaves rustled above my head in sympathetic pleasure, the trees energised me and even the rain, when it came, was gentle and encouraging. Nothing dismayed me, for I was going to the scribery, as I had longed for ever since I was a child.
The travelling scribe came through the village two or three times a year, and usually he set up his shop in the back room at the inn. But the year I was eight, there had been a fire, so he stayed with us instead and conducted his business in the teaching room. I was fascinated by the little piles of paper he set out on the desk – creamy white for personal messages, pale blue for business contracts, yellow for agreements between individuals. I would sit, mesmerised, as he inscribed each page with its flowing script.
The spellpages were the best. For these, the paper was always the same, a pale muddy brown colour, like ordinary paper left too long in the sun, but it glowed with a pulsing energy. The scribe used blue ink for spells for wind or weather, green to encourage the crops to grow, red for a healing spell, whether human or animal. I stared, breathless with enchantment, as he drew the script on the page, watching the letters shimmer and dance, gradually settling into a pale silver sheen. The magic drew me to itself. I could almost taste it on my tongue and feel it crackle in the air.
From that sun I wanted to be a scribe. I knew where my future lay, and even being a simple transaction scribe wasn’t enough. I was determined to aim as high as I could, and become a law scribe.
Now, at last, I was on my way. I would learn the secrets of scribing and I would have the power of magic in my hands. With the special paper, quill and ink, under my careful fingers the dancing letters would glow with energy and I would be able to heal people or ensure good crops or fertile marriages or safe journeys. What could be more wonderful? I’d make silvers by the basketful and be somebody important. Perhaps even my mother would respect me.
~~~~~
After three suns of travel, we arrived at
It took me a year longer than I expected to get to the scribery. I worked and saved and worked even more, spending nothing, but it still wasn’t enough. In the end, my father insisted on making up the difference. I heard Mother arguing with him about it. Well, it was not really arguing, Mother never stooped to such a level. Merely, she laid out a whole series of reasons why I should stay until I had earned the money myself: it was indulging me, I would never learn to be independent, there were the other children to consider, the whole idea was nonsensical anyway.
Father’s replies sounded amused rather than angry. “She has wanted nothing else for years. You don’t need her in the teaching room now you’ve got Deckas to help you, and there’s nothing else for her here.”
I could imagine the sour expression on Mother’s face. “You spoil her, you know. You shouldn’t encourage her in these fantasies. Law scribe, indeed! She should stay here where she belongs. But no, she has to aim for the moon. And if she fails, all that money will be wasted.”
“Maybe so, but she won’t know what she can do until she tries. So let’s see how she gets on, eh?” Mother was silent, not convinced, I was sure, but she had run out of arguments. “Besides,” Father added in a cheerful tone, “if she can manage the first two years of the five, she’ll be a transaction scribe and make silvers by the handful and keep us in comfort in our old age.”
So, at the advanced age of seventeen, I went to Ardamurkan town to learn to be a scribe. Father made the journey with me. He wanted to buy some tools, he told me, even though he usually got what he needed from the tinker who came through the village several times a year. So I left Durmaston on a turnip wagon, too happy to feel the ignominy of it as we lurched through the forest. The sun sang to me, the birds hopped about the branches solely to entertain me, the leaves rustled above my head in sympathetic pleasure, the trees energised me and even the rain, when it came, was gentle and encouraging. Nothing dismayed me, for I was going to the scribery, as I had longed for ever since I was a child.
The travelling scribe came through the village two or three times a year, and usually he set up his shop in the back room at the inn. But the year I was eight, there had been a fire, so he stayed with us instead and conducted his business in the teaching room. I was fascinated by the little piles of paper he set out on the desk – creamy white for personal messages, pale blue for business contracts, yellow for agreements between individuals. I would sit, mesmerised, as he inscribed each page with its flowing script.
The spellpages were the best. For these, the paper was always the same, a pale muddy brown colour, like ordinary paper left too long in the sun, but it glowed with a pulsing energy. The scribe used blue ink for spells for wind or weather, green to encourage the crops to grow, red for a healing spell, whether human or animal. I stared, breathless with enchantment, as he drew the script on the page, watching the letters shimmer and dance, gradually settling into a pale silver sheen. The magic drew me to itself. I could almost taste it on my tongue and feel it crackle in the air.
From that sun I wanted to be a scribe. I knew where my future lay, and even being a simple transaction scribe wasn’t enough. I was determined to aim as high as I could, and become a law scribe.
Now, at last, I was on my way. I would learn the secrets of scribing and I would have the power of magic in my hands. With the special paper, quill and ink, under my careful fingers the dancing letters would glow with energy and I would be able to heal people or ensure good crops or fertile marriages or safe journeys. What could be more wonderful? I’d make silvers by the basketful and be somebody important. Perhaps even my mother would respect me.
~~~~~
After three suns of travel, we arrived at
Readers choose
Erica Stevens
P. J. Fiala
Anjuelle Floyd
Peggy Gaddis
Unknown
Saranna DeWylde
Kimberla Lawson Roby
Robin Cook
Elisabeth Crabtree