The Iron Crown

3: Saoirse

She would let him sleep. Saoirse sighed, collecting the bowl from where it had fallen. She placed it beside the fire and sat back, running her fingers through her hair. She could still hear his thoughts, disorganized and rattling around in his head, the last traces of the spell still lingering in her ears. She didn't like to use her magic like this, especially not on someone who didn't even know she was casting. But this far from, well, anything, and she couldn't afford to take chances. It was strange, though. He seemed to be truly unaware of why he was being hunted, only that he was, and that bad things would happen if he was caught. And that fear...she'd never felt anything like it. It was so intense it was almost suffocating, like the emotion was truly hers. Even now, asleep, his mind was seething like a bucket of spiders. She didn't dare attempt to press any further, though she knew full well that asleep, she would have very little trouble digging through his memories for answers. Saoirse sat back, turning her gaze to the fire, hoping that if she paid enough attention to the dancing flames, it would drown him out.

It was another five or so minutes before the spell faded completely, and Saoirse felt as though she could finally breathe again. She fumbled in her satchel, tugging out the frayed, leather-bound journal. Saoirse worried her bottom lip and took a deep breath. Her entire village had raised the fees so that she might attend the entrance exams at the Star Tower. There were very few places one could go to study magic. A few mages in Atun's glory, perhaps the Druids of the Southern woods if you could find your way into their sanctuary – but both of those choices were dangerous for their own reasons. The Star Tower sat, far to the north of the city and within the shadow of the celestial peaks, but only a few days ride from her village. The people there, she'd been told, we relatively normal – at least, as normal as wizards could be. By far the safest bet, and the most likely to permit her to study. Once every fifty years, it was said, they would take new blood from the city and the villages. She'd saddled their most impressive horse – Noctis – and worn her finest cloak. Everyone had seen her off, and she'd promised them when next she returned, she would officially be an apprenticed wizard.

They laughed when she'd arrived at the gates. When she'd shown them the spells she taught herself, they'd told her to return when she had a writ from the city or double the coin. Unsure what else to do, she'd just turned Noctis around. It had taken her village a year to raise the gold currently nestled within her satchel. She couldn't ask any more of them. No, she would return the gold to those who had tried to help. She would just have to continue to teach herself, though she had long since exhausted the collection of books in her grandfather's attic. Perhaps she could go to the city, see if there was anyone there who might be able to teach her? She ran her fingers across the faded cover, then flicked it open.

The parchment was yellowed and spattered with ink and smudged charcoal. Many of the pages were loose, ripped out from other books and annotated when she'd grown tired of copying from them. Saoirse smoothed down the cover, unfolding the first page. She wasn't about to let this interruption break her from her evening routine, especially now she would have to find some other way to weasel her way into learning magic. She couldn't afford to let herself slip now.

The diagrams and sigils sketched across the first page were complex, overlapping and entwining like ivy. Some parts of the page were almost completely blotted out where she'd made mistakes when copying them from her grandfather's books. Some of these drawings were almost as old as she was, and even then, for all her time studying, she still hadn't been good enough for them. Perhaps these simple spells weren't impressive enough.

Saoirse ran through her drills as quickly as she dared, only practicing each sigil once. The words came like sweet nectar from her lips, whispered in a soft language she barely understood. Her hands twitched, tracing the same symbols from her book in the air. Her fingers left glowing, blue arcs in their wake. Light, hovering and pulsating until she uttered the final words. In response, the fire flared a little higher, then took on a turquoise hue. The smoke it gave off turned from a burning stench to the sickly scent of honeysuckle. She smiled a little, but her heart was twisting. Back home, everyone had been so impressed when she'd make the fire dance or change the colour of the lanterns. 'Parlour tricks', that was what they'd called her magic when she'd arrived at the Tower.