Mahalia

By Moira Katson

From the author of the Light & Shadow Trilogy…

 

Headstrong and defiant, Mahalia dreams of running away to join the caravans that travel across the desert. There, she tells herself, she would be free to practice the magic she has always loved.

 

Her family has other plans. Mahalia is being trained to take her father's place as leader of their bloodline , and so she spends her days in the gilded cage of a noble's life.

 

But when an ancient enemy lays waste to the oasis, Mahalia is the only one left to protect her people. As a mysterious wasting sickness preys on her tribe and whispers begin, calling them demon-touched heretics, Mahalia must choose whether to follow the magic that has always called to her…

 

Or become the protector of her people that she was born to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moira Katson
• Release date: Dec 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393508373

Moira Katson

Moira Katson is an indie author living in the oft-frigid wastes of the American midwest. As a transplant, she is learning to love hot dish, fried food on a stick, ice fishing, and the hilarious faces her friends make when she posts about winter temperatures. Her less geeky interests include running, STRONG coffee, and cooking; her more geeky interests include gaming, voracious reading, and, of course, writing science fiction and fantasy novels!You can find Moira’s work online through Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and all Smashwords affliates. Moira is also on Facebook, and can be found on twitter as @moirakatson.Questions? Feel free to contact Moira at [e-mail]!

Book preview

1

Late morning sunlight warmed the air, making beautiful shapes on the carpets as it slanted in through carved sandalwood screens. Mahalia’s tea had grown cold as her pen scratched across the parchment, forming the elegant circles of runes that made up a warding spell. She chewed her lip as she worked, her green eyes fixed on the page, her gaze often drifting to an old book that lay open on the side of the desk.

It took me many weeks to learn to summon even a single spark. The ink was faded and the pages dark after so many years. Every time Mahalia took the ancient journal down from her bookshelves, she handled it reverently. It had come to her by chance, she was sure, by an oversight on the part of her parents—and that made it all the more precious. Ellia WindSeer was an ancestor in her mother’s line, a woman history had forgotten entirely…and whose story had captivated Mahalia from its first words: Today I began the study of magic.

As she worked through the diagrams, shaping the sound of the old tongues, Mahalia let her soul drift far from the lush oasis outside her house. She was no longer in a mansion of white stone, its fountain burbling merrily in the courtyard and surrounded by streams rushing along the inlaid marble paths. She could not smell the lush scent of jasmine, the honeysuckle that twined up the columns, or the sun-warmed trees that shaded the boulevards. The stands of hardy pomegranate trees outside the city walls, the fields of squash and millet, the olive groves, all faded away until Mahalia felt the hot sun of the deep desert on her skin, the wind howling over the dunes and sand lifted into the cloudless blue of the sky. This was Ellia’s world, with caravan rations and the threat of the Hashidah’s Breath—the great sandstorms that scoured the land. And Mahalia would trade every luxury of her life away in a moment, just to have the freedom Ellia had been given.

She would have remained there all day, but the sound of the servant’s footsteps recalled her. Mahalia flipped her own journal quickly to another page and thrust the other books under her desk, flicking her skirts to cover them as the man came through the door hangings.

Good morning, Farhaad. She was sure that he could see the flush in her cheeks and the pulse racing at her throat, but Mahalia kept her chin raised and tried to mimic her mother’s Proper Noblewoman Smile. Farhaad surely could not guess what lay on the floor at her feet.

Good morning, my Lady. Her father’s steward bowed his head to her. Farhaad was the most courteous, exquisitely polite man she had even met, so much so that Mahalia wondered if he had ever so much as raised his voice. His brown eyes were attentive as he came back up from his bow. Your father requests your presence in his study.

I see. Inform him I will be down presently.

My Lady, he also requested that you wear a veil. Farhaad bowed again and withdrew before he could see Mahalia’s stony expression.

A veil. Mahalia threw a glare at the door as she gathered up the books. Pausing for a moment to listen and hearing no one else stirring in the hallway, she ran lightly across the carpet to the bookshelves near her bed. Standing on tiptoe, she removed three heavy books and placed them on her bed, then slid Ellia’s journal, her own notebook, and her research book into the space. When she replaced the books, she frowned. There had been too many close calls lately. What if one of the servants thought to search her room?

She did not have time to come up with a new hiding place now. Mahalia crossed to the wardrobe and, on impulse, selected the least attractive veil she owned, a length of thick black cloth that would seem horribly out of place with her orange gown and red over-robe. She draped it across her hair and allowed a grim smile to touch her face when she saw the effect in the mirror. Her father would frown, but he could hardly fault her. He had said to wear a veil, and she was.

Still, even her play at humor could not keep her from scowling as she made her way downstairs to her father’s study. He would be receiving a delegation from one of the other tribes, covering his head as they did and going out of his way to assure them that the Yeshuhain were just as they were. And he never listened when Mahalia argued that from their pale skin to their fiery hair, from their customs to their magic, the Yeshuhain would never be like other tribes. Why should they pretend, when the truth was so evident?

Because that is how things are, Mahalia. Which had to be the worst excuse she had ever heard.

Mahalia took the long hallway that circled around her father’s study slipped into the room from the small door by the bookshelves. She had fixed a smile on her face, but felt it wavering almost at once as the delegates’ eyes traveled over her with suspicion and dislike. These men and women were already displeased with the bright color of Mahalia’s gown, with the red-gold of her hair and the slim height of the Yeshuhain. It was as she thought—she might as well not have tried at all.

May I present my daughter and heir, Mahalia? Her father’s burnoose was of undyed linen, offsetting the simple elegance of his own clothing, and eyes had flicked over Mahalia’s heavy black veil with only the tiniest flash of displeasure. Like Farhaad, the man was unflappable when there were fellow traders to impress. Mahalia, these are the caravan leaders I mentioned to you yesterday. Gulbahar, Jahan, Mirza, and their leader, Nima. He gave the slightest nod to imbue his words with meaning, his eyes reminding Mahalia silently that with Alfoudi delegations, one must always introduce and greet the leader last, not first, as a sign of respect.

It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Mahalia bit back a grimace and smiled sweetly, dropping into the traditional bow her mother had drilled her on endlessly. May all of your deals bring you profit, and may all of your roads be safe.

They nodded their heads.

We welcome a new trading partner, Nima said to her. The woman’s black eyes were sharp, assessing Mahalia and clearly finding her wanting, but her mouth shaped the proper words, and her delegates dropped into courteous bows behind her.

Now Mahalia must say something about the specific deal for which they had come, and she tried not to grit her teeth at the endless, meaningless pleasantries. Not one of them meant the words they said. The salutations were recited by rote, the bows forced, and the Alfoudi clearly disliked Mahalia just as much as she disliked the veil that was presently dragging at her hairpins. She wished herself, as hard as she could, out into the desert where the wind would blow her hair back and the sun would shine on her face, and she could summon fire and ice and wind to her without anyone demanding bowing or veiled heads.

It didn’t work.

The pottery from Nusur is creating interest in the market here in Tayyibe, Mahalia said. It is pleasing that both of us continue to profit from it. I hope that Heaven will grant many more such opportunities for us to deal together.

It was a good sentiment, remarking on their shared cleverness in creating a new craze for beautifully glazed pottery, and offering goodwill for further dealings. The caravans are our lifeblood, her father told her often, and we are theirs. Deal honestly with them, and they will return. Now he nodded at her, pleased with her answer. It demanded, subtly, that Nima suggest a new good to trade together.

We have noticed that the pomegranate crops do not fare well in Tayyibe this season, the woman mentioned. When the fruit withers, many develop a taste for it. Nusur is as yet unaffected by the droughts.

Despite her resolve not to let this meeting catch her interest, Mahalia glanced out of her father’s windows to the blue sky beyond. The early rains had not come this year to soak the new crops, and the reservoir in the city’s center had dropped perilously low.

"Do you have any insights on the aquifer levels?" the man named Jahan asked Mahalia. His tone was sharp, and his gaze said that he did not think she would have an answer.

Mahalia bit her lip. Her father’s look was a warning, but she did not need it: she could practically drag her fingers through the tension in the room.

The droughts have caused a difficult situation for the crops in the northern sector especially, she said carefully, after a moment of thought. Engineers developed some innovations to sweep accumulated sand out of the fields and erect wind blocks, but the deposited sand seems to soak some of the moisture from the fields before we can remove it. The city was using more water than it needed in the domestic aquifers, so we imposed limits on water usage and rerouted some of the water.

Her father gave a barely-perceptible nod, pleased with her answer, and Mahalia bit her lip before she could say just why she had been studying this. There was an answer to the drought, and one that would gain them goodwill—if only he would accept it. But she could not name it here.

Limits, you say. Jahan’s face was unreadable. Do I not see a fountain in your courtyard? He did not look to Mahalia’s father, but to her, his brown eyes narrowed.

There have always been fountains in Tayyibe, Mahalia attempted.

Not in times of drought! The Delethi would never have been so wasteful. His tone was scathing; the Alfoudi had taken particular offense when the Delethi ceded ownership of the oasis to the Yeshuhain.

It had been twenty years, Mahalia wanted to say. It was time for them to abandon their ill will. But she could not say that; she looked down and clenched one hand behind her back, letting out her frustration where the delegates could not see it.

I recall a great many fountains and gardens before the city changed ownership, Mahalia’s father observed calmly, but Mahalia saw him press his fingers against the desk, a sure sign of ill temper. We all hope, I am sure, that this drought will ease soon. Perhaps we may secure several crates of pomegranates from Nusur in your next caravan.

Perhaps, Nima said, her face unreadable.

Mahalia swallowed; the mood in the room had turned suddenly, unpredictably. Her father, she could see, had not anticipated this.

But perhaps, the woman continued, the Hashidah’s Breath will take the crops in Nusur as well.

We can only pray that it is not so, Mahalia’s father said, bowing his head to show the sincerity of his words.

Prayer is not what we require of you. Gulbuhar spoke now. "The Marahi report that their seers are waking from dreams of fire and stone, and they tell us they hear the whispers of forbidden magics coming from Tayyibe. Tell us, Lord FlameHeart, what have you done to curb the mages since last we spoke?"

You know all that I have done. Mahalia’s father did not insist on his correct title, Ailahafeez Fireborn, and Mahalia knew that he did not want to be associated with her aunt, Isura—one of the foremost mages within their tribe. The Mage Academy is not an official institution of the Yeshuhain. It does not sustain itself upon funds I control. I have spoken to Lady FireBorn. His face twisted. I can do no more.

She is your cousin, have you no influence? If we do not do more, the desert will be lost!

Mahalia bit her lip on a retort. This was not her place to speak, and she knew it. How often had her father told her to let the conversation take its course, not to fight the accusations and the untruths but to let them be revealed in good time, and only from the sum of them formulate a strategy? And yet, while she had taken to the ledgers and the charts quickly, pleasing her father and her mother with her aptitude, she had never been able to learn the art of negotiations.

Honored guests, I assure you that I wish as ardently as you do for an end to the drought. Her father’s voice was tense, Mahalia could see, but his smooth tones never wavered.

If you wished for that, the Academy would be in ruins and the mages dead.

Mahalia drew in her breath sharply and her eyes flew to her father’s face. He stood as if carved from stone, and only his head moved a fraction to tell her not to speak now. Let them bleed off their anger, he had told her more than once. His voice echoed in her head.

The memory could not drown out the present, however.

None of this makes sense! The words escaped her before she could stop herself, and her voice rang out into a room that was suddenly silent.

What does not make sense? Nima asked softly, dangerously.

Honored ones, please, disregard what my daughter has said. Her father’s voice was a warning, and desperate.

Does your daughter sympathize with the mages, then, Lord FlameHeart? Does she—

My daughter does not practice magic, I assure you of that. In his eyes, Mahalia saw genuine fear.

And what if I did? Mahalia cried out. She saw his horror but she could not stop the words from pouring forth. It would be nothing otherworldly. It would be no more than thousands have done since the beginning of the desert. The windcallers have turned storms, and the seers see throughout all time. We have served the desert as waterseers for twenty generations, and still do. Why must we forbid our kind from practicing their magic? Water and wind are called and no one says it is forbidden. Why, just because we can call fire—

Only the Hashidah use fire!

We all use fire! To warm our houses, to cook our food, to temper metals. She could not stop, even though her father was coming to her side. There must have been those before us who understood the workings of fire magic, and the desert never fell to the Hashidah. But because we do so more often, because we do not hide it, you look at a bad year and you tell us we’re summoning destruction!

"Enough. Her father’s voice fairly thundered. Mahalia, you will be silent. Honored ones, I beg your leave until the morrow."

And what shall we discuss then? one of them asked him, contempt lacing his voice. For if you will not destroy those among you who summon the old gods, then we can only think the whispers are right: all the Yeshuhain collude.

Think on it, her father advised them. I am known to you, my actions and my father’s, and his mother’s before him, are known to you. Whispers from the shadows may be greed as much as scholarship. Not all who whisper are seers.

They left without another word, Farhaad holding the curtains for them and escorting them through the corridor to the entry hall. Left alone with her father, Mahalia bowed her head, pressing her nails into her palm until she was certain she had drawn blood. Fury was pounding in her veins. It was meaningless, a stupid restriction made by those who knew nothing of magic and only feared anything new. That her father bowed to such words was awful enough, but to have him shame her in front of the Alfoudi delegation was worse. She was only speaking the truth. She rose from her bow as the delegates left, opening her mouth.

And stopped when she saw her father’s face as angry as she had ever seen it.

2

F ather.

No. Her father cut her off with a stroke of his hand.

But—

"No. Mahalia, I have warned you a hundred times about this." He dropped into the chair behind his heavy wooden desk, gathering his composure.

Mahalia looked over his solemn countenance, the skin pale from his hours spent indoors, the brown-red hair drawn back in a braid; in sunlight, glints of blond would show, and the earliest strands of grey. Her father’s green eyes, the same color as her own, studied her.

But it’s nonsense, Mahalia whispered. The words would not stay inside her. She heard a rustle and looked over to see Farhaad enter the room once more, a silent ally to her father.

Herr father, who sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

It is not just—

It is! She tore the veil off her head and threw it away, furious, feeling one of her hairpins tear free. "You stand there and you let them spread untruths, you let them speak of murder, you feed their fears by staying silent, and for what?"

For safety, Mahalia! Her father’s hand slammed down on the desk. He leaned forward now, his eyes intent. For safety. Look around you. Look at what you have, the luxury that is Tayyibe. The Yeshuhain are few, and our place in the desert has always been contested. We won our place here by gold, and we will keep it that way—and gold requires trade, Mahalia, trade with those who do not accept our customs.

And why should their customs be more important than ours?

Because that is the way things are! There is nothing to be done about it except to show them that we are not what they fear. It will work.

When? Mahalia cried. If we slink about in the shadows for all our life, bowing to their customs and forswearing our own people, when will they ever accept us?

Perhaps they will not, her father said wearily. Is that what you want me to admit? It is true. But it is a price I am willing to pay.

Why? Mahalia stared at him in horror. How? If we lose who we are—

Then we still have a home to call our own, and a place in this desert. Her father stared at her steadily. "You and your children will grow old in a house, sheltered from the Hashidah’s Breath, untouched by the monsoon rains. You will eat fresh food and have enough water to drink, and you will be safe, Mahalia."

Safety is—

Everything. Any hint of warmth disappeared from his voice. "It is everything, Mahalia. And that, you must understand now or you can never take my place as leader of this bloodline. To protect what you love, you will need to be prepared to make sacrifices. Do not fool yourself into believing ideals will serve as armor." He sat heavily, resting his head in one hand.

Mahalia bit her lip, turning away and pressing her nails into her palm once more. A deep, slow breath gave her the courage to make her voice calm. Her father had told her time and again that she must strive for calm—perhaps if she did so now, he would be able to hear her words and see the truth in them.

Isn’t it important, now of all times, that they not believe the myths? Mahalia asked finally. She would not apologize. She could not apologize. "Isn’t it important that now, of all times, we remind them these are only myths, before they use them to spread violence?"

Her father sighed.

Mahalia, you are eighteen now. It is time for you to learn to control your emotions.

You aren’t answering the question! She did not even try to mask her anger.

Because you know my answer. At last, impatience crept into his voice. "If these whispers are allowed to fester, it will endanger us, yes. And these lies, these untruths—they must be found at the source. But we—you—are not the one who will guide them to the truth.

No matter how infuriating, Mahalia, no matter how false, their notions are held in their hearts and minds, and arguing will only make them stronger. You know that such notions take time to lose their hold. As they see us in our houses, or managing trade routes, helping the other tribes, they will forget what they once thought of us. It only takes time.

"But there is no time, Mahalia protested. If they’re saying we’re using Hashidah magic… If we don’t change their minds… They will destroy us."

And you know as well as I do what we can do to change their minds. End the Academy.

That isn’t the answer.

You tell me of the danger, and yet you still do not understand how dire this is! Her father’s voice rang on the walls, and Mahalia saw Farhaad melt quickly out of the room. Since before you were born, this life has teetered on the knife’s edge. We would be secure here if only Isura would give up her foolish quest for power. But she persists, she draws ever more to her Academy, and the other tribes call it heresy! So tell me, what other answer is there?

You would let them take away our magic because they fear it for no reason? Mahalia stared at him incredulously. That isn’t fair.

You are not a child. The words were clipped. This world has never been fair. We would have no home unless we had given far more than we should have had to, to secure Tayyibe for our families.

But we had that because of our magic—because we were waterseers!

And now you live in luxury although you do not do magic yourself. Is that fair, Mahalia?

No. She did not want to say it, but it was true.

Life is not fair, it is survival. It is dignity. We were waterseers because that was all we had, sending those with talent to live like nomads in the desert and trading on their success. But now we do not have to do that any longer. Our kind can have the dignity of a home—all of us. Those with talent do not need to sacrifice their lives in the caravans. We are building a better future.

"Is it better? What is the point of having a home, of owning Tayyibe, if we cannot even follow our own customs?"

Safety, her father said softly. As I said, Mahalia. We will change our customs if we must, to survive. Everyone does. Who knows now what the Hashidah truly were, before they became a myth? Once, fire must have claimed an oasis, Mahalia—and from that, the desert has learned to fear it. Such are the roots of all customs. Even the Yeshuhain wear veils when they follow the caravans, to avoid sun-sickness.

The magic is different, Mahalia protested.

No. It is not. And before you say it is our magic and our city, for I know that you will, remember that this city is not just ours—it is the greatest trading hub of the desert, the oasis that produces the most crops with the labor of many tribes. If we do not maintain it in peace, all will suffer. You know that others have a place here, and that they should. Your curries and your silks, the stories your nursemaid used to tell you of the Hashidah—none of that is Yeshuhain.

She said we would see the Hashidah were returning when the storms grew closer like this, Mahalia murmured, memory catching her.

"That is nonsense." Her father sighed and gave her a look.

"That’s what I just said, and you said I had to mind it!"

"You do have to mind it—because they believe it. Because, as you noted, some of them still think fire magic is the Hashidah’s work, because the worst of the rumors have said that we’re demon-touched. And if all of them decide to believe it, they can have us killed."

You of all people, who taught me science and engineering, who taught me to tell truth from fiction, who just told me the myths are nonsense, must know that there is no truth to this.

What I know is that they threaten violence if we do not bow to their demands. You cannot dispute that, surely. He used the patient he always used to build an argument—the tone he had used to remind the Alfoudi that they knew him as a trader, and human.

Mahalia gritted her teeth.

If we allow them to take magic from us because they fear a myth, what more will they demand?

What does it matter, if it gains us safety?

It matters, because magic can solve the drought! Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. She had been reading, trying to solve the crisis, trying to find the right time to share her theories with her father.

Her father stopped dead, his mouth hanging open almost comically.

What did you say? he managed at last.

We’re waterseers, Mahalia said. Aren’t we? And better than any others. Aren’t we? And water is what we need, isn’t it?

Mahalia, you should not—

Just listen to me, just for a moment. She was pleading now, the elaborate circles of the spell appearing behind her eyes. If she could only show him how beautiful it was… With the windcallers, the waterseers, the ice mages—we could end the drought.

Impossible.

It could work, I swear it could.

I don’t mean the mechanics of it! I mean the idea. To ask them to use our mages… He shook his head. Mahalia, thank Heaven you did not say this in front of our guests. Never speak of it again.

But Father, we could make the desert green again. Just like in the stories, before the Hashidah came.

There was a silence.

The desert, her father said finally, was never green, Mahalia. That is a myth like all the others.

Maybe, but doesn’t have to be a myth in the future. Maybe it’s a myth because they want it so badly. And why not? Why shouldn’t we want plentiful crops? Father, we could make it real. She met her father’s eyes, going to kneel by his chair and look up at him. "And then they would trust us, they would know we were their allies."

We would gamble our lives, her father said simply. His hand covered hers lightly, but his face was set. And I cannot allow that. You’ve always been one for ideals and freedoms, but you do not understand this one fact: we are outnumbered, and badly. If they decide to take the oasis back, we cannot stop them.

They won’t.

No? The Marahi have sent out a call for their seers to return to the deep desert. The Majool have all but disappeared from Tayyibe, and the Choradi are beginning to refuse our contracts—all to go east. They are summoning soldiers to them. And what can that be for, Mahalia, but an attack on us?

No. Mahalia stopped.

Yes. If they gather enough who think we are heretics, there will be nothing we can do to protect ourselves. And it is my duty to protect our family, Mahalia. My duty, and whoever comes after me must do the same, or we are lost. Now go. I must think on what the future holds, and your mother will be taking you to be fitted for gowns so that we can begin betrothal negotiations.

Mahalia knew better than to say anything to this. When their eyes met briefly, she knew he would brook no argument on the topic of her marriage today of all days. She took a moment to stare at him, her childhood idol, the man of endless ingenuity and smiles, always so elegant and calm. When she had been little, Mahalia had sat on his window seat as he worked, and peered through the slotted sandalwood screen at the world of greenery and color beyond. She had so loved to watch her father work: Farhaad and him moving in a silent dance of pointing and writing, hushed words.

When had it all changed?

3

She turned and left without a word, stooping to pick up the veil so that he would not call her back. Her teeth were gritted, her posture straight, chin lifted—if not for her expression, her mother would call her a perfect young lady.

But she was not. Mahalia began to run as soon as she was out of her father’s study, hiking up her skirts and running pell-mell across the entry hall, heedless of the footmen and their curious stares. She was not foolish enough to argue with her father, but neither was she going to find her mother and make her way into the market to look for fabrics.

At the first breath of fresh air in the courtyard, she felt her heart ease. She leaned against the wall under the half-roof for a moment, peering through the trailing greenery of the jasmine to where the fountain flashed in the sunlight. The air was hot and still today, and the shade was welcome—though it occurred to her with a flash of humor that her parents would not want to arrange betrothal negotiations if she was deeply sunburned. Still, she could hardly stay sunburned for the rest of her life. Gnawing at a fingernail, Mahalia paced along the shaded edge of the courtyard.

Mages, murder, rumors. Troops gathering in the east. It was not real, surely? There had not been war in centuries. And for all that the traders spoke vile things, there had never been any real reason to worry, had there?

She was beginning to sound like her father. Mahalia groaned and twisted her fingers in the hair at her temples. If her father’s sources were correct about the troops, now was no time to allow such rumors to be spoken. If they could move quickly and use her plan to end the drought, all would be well—and the more she thought about it, the more she thought that it was the only plan.

She was just about to go find her mother and make a heartfelt plea, in fact, when she heard a scrabbling sound and a muffled curse from the corner of the courtyard, and crept forward in time to see an auburn head appear over the wall. Her cousin Faseira’s fingers grasped at the fragile grape vines, and then with a hastily bitten off shriek, the girl tumbled over the wall and landed in a heap at Mahalia’s feet.

Shhhh, Mahalia whispered, but she was laughing even as she ran to help the girl up. Are you all right?

Oh, I’ll be fine. Faseira was constitutionally unable to be upset, Mahalia often thought. Even as she winced and rubbed her elbow, she was laughing at her own fall. She shook her head until the auburn hair settled again into its close-cropped bob, and then she pushed herself up and smoothed out her simple skirts. As a child of SunBorn and StormBred, Faseira was a cousin many times removed. It was her mother’s mother who was FireSoul, a tiny branch of the FireBorn line, and whose blood gave Faseira entry into polite society as niece, however distant, to the fabled Isura FireBorn.

What only Mahalia knew, however, along with Faseira’s immediate family, was that the girl had the potential to rival Isura as a mage. Faseira’s family had long hidden, behind their cloud of shame, that she was prone to unleashing fireballs and spears of falling ice. She was rarely allowed out in public, and her friendship with Mahalia was encouraged by both sets of parents, neither of whom suspected that their children were dabbling in magic.

I was hoping you would come by today. Mahalia offered a hand and drew Faseira to her feet, helping the other woman dust off her robes.

Oh?

Yes. I wanted to show you something. Mahalia looked over her shoulder cautiously, and seeing that the courtyard was empty, knelt to pull a tiny box of charcoal out from under a nearby bench. She had chosen this corner for her diagrams because a convenient arrangement of columns and shrubberies hid it from her father’s view, even if his study windows were open.

Now she worked quickly, not knowing how much time she had with Faseira before her mother came to find her. She brushed the last dregs of sand away, then began to sketch symbols quickly on the marble. She had been planning this diagram for weeks. It came clear to her on the edge of sleep, tugged at the corners of her mind while she tried to attend in her father’s lessons.

Mahalia’s breath came short with anticipation as she sketched the concentric circles of the spell. She was careful, she was always careful: first the inner wards, old language protecting the bearer of magic from the Hashidah’s influence, a ritual request that the seers of the desert always made and she could not bring herself to neglect. Next came the first call of magic, the opening of the mind and the request of tranquility. A human mind was cluttered,