The Pattern Scars Read Online Free Page A

scry
    So tell me yes and I’ll tell her
    No one will have to know.
    It took me several minutes to read this poem, because I was simply slow (my father had taught me to read a little, years ago; my mother laughed at us and then got angry), and because it was written in tiny letters on a piece of paper that fit in my palm. Also, it was smoky in the kitchen, even though the window shutters and door were open to the autumn air.
    I had just finished squinting at this scrap of paper when Bardrem dropped another one into my lap. I glared at him but he was already gone, whirling from countertop to cookpot with trays of carrots and potatoes while Rudicol yelled, “My granddam moves faster than you, boy, and I don’t even have to flog her!”
    The words on this second bit of paper were not a poem. They said: “My poems are usually very serious. That one was like a joke—but what it
said
was real. Wait for me after. Bardrem.”
    I peered again at the poem, frowning. I thought I understood it, except that it didn’t seem possible. (My heart was already beating faster than usual, in a place that felt very high up, closer to my throat than to my chest.)
    “Who is she?” I asked him later. It was about midnight; my room was dark except for the flickering of a single candle. I had fallen asleep waiting for him and was now trying to shake the heaviness from my head and limbs without seeming to.
    He shrugged. “Just a girl. I think she’s fifteen.”
    “Why doesn’t she want to go to Yigranzi?”
    Another shrug, and eyes cast toward the ceiling from beneath a swatch of fair hair. “Because . . . I don’t know. I think she might not like her. Because of where she’s from, what she looks like. Something like that.”
    “Oh.” I blinked and ran the back of my hand across my eyes, trying to make it look as though I was itchy rather than tired. Bardrem had begun pacing from one end of the room to the other, whirling at each turn as if he were still in the kitchen.
    “I shouldn’t. Yigranzi’s told me not to. I don’t know enough—I haven’t practised since that time with you, and the mirror was so strong—”
    “So don’t use the mirror. Try another way. You know some, don’t you?”
    My heartbeat was so close to my throat that I thought I might not be able to speak—but I did, said, “Wax on water . . .”
    “Good.” He was already at the door. “I’ll go get some for you. And I’ll get her, too.”
    “No—wait—” But he was already gone, and it was too late.

    The wax was wine-coloured and the girl looked young.
Fifteen?
I thought, staring at her blond plaits (rows of them, all tied at the ends with blue ribbons), and at her scowl.
    “Stop looking at me like that,” she said. Her voice was a surprise: low and dark. “You’re not Otherseeing yet, are you?”
    “No.” I tried to keep my own voice calm, as Yigranzi had told me to. “But I need to look at you, before. I need to see you with my own eyes first.” I felt silly saying these words, because I hadn’t thought of them and because I didn’t really believe them. All I saw now was a girl with squinty green eyes and thinned-out lips and a sleeping gown that was too big for her.
    “Ready,” Bardrem said. He was at the washstand; the pitcher was on the floor, though the bowl was still where it usually was, full, waiting to serve this new purpose. I went to stand beside him. He was holding a little clay pot above the candle flame. The pot was swimming with wax.
    “Stand here,” I said. The girl obeyed. I was not sure whether I wanted to smile or tremble. I took the pot from Bardrem, who stepped away, out of my sight. I tipped, poured; the wax fell in slow, fat drops that darkened and spread as soon as they touched the water.
    “Now,” I heard Bardrem hiss, and the girl cleared her throat.
    “Tell . . .” she began, then faltered. “Tell me my future”—louder, almost angrily.
    Words, wax, water—and my vision staining wine at the