The Last Red Year

FIVE: My Gift To You

 "You're damn lucky they're expectin' you to change your clothes for the banquet anyway," Kizlane says, so very obviously trying to hold back laughter as they lead the trio back to their room. "You got your new training robes and such. Be right unseemly of you to show up to such an important event all wet."

"Sorine made me do it," Kas says quickly. "They said they'd give me all their pocket money if I jumped."

"An' you made the choice to climb that ladder." Kizlane lets out a faint snort, shaking their head. "Kids." They get a trace of a faraway look in their eyes, just for a moment, like they're staring off into some future they know is impossible. "Anyways. We guesstimated on the sizes for yer training robes for tonight, but you'll get 'em properly tailored later. An' a few extra sets, seein' as you three seem like the type to wreck yours gettin' all muddy."

"Are we going to be in trouble?" asks Mauragan, their voice even smaller and quieter than usual.

"Not if word don't get out. An' I can keep a promise," Kizlane says. "Cross my heart an' hope to die." They stop at the door to the trio's room, leaning against the wall. "You lot get dressed. Clothes're on your beds."

Kas makes a run for the bath-chamber after they've snatched up their new robes, not even taking the time to look them over first. They don't want to drip all over the fur rugs...they know how wet fur smells thanks to the sheep that congregated out of town. Does wool count as fur? They don't know. They don't know a lot of things, really. Tenacitas, the Magescourt...it all feels like a whole new world to them.

They hesitate to tear off their wet rags, not knowing what to do with them--they find a little hinged panel on the wall with an engraving of a blouse on it, labeled Laundry Here. Laundry...that's clothes that need washing, right? It's a city word, that's for sure--they heard it for the first time from Sorine. Tallin always just called it the wash.

They swing open the little panel, staring down the chute into the darkness below. They wonder how far down it goes--there's a rock in the pocket of their soggy pants, and they figure they could toss it down and see how long it takes for it to make a sound.

They have to take a minute to appreciate the rock first--it's one of those pretty composite ones, with shiny bits embedded in its surface that look almost like cloudy glass. They love those little crystals--they spend so long looking at the rock, turning it over and watching it glint and glimmer in the light from the bath-chamber lamps, that they almost forget what they were doing in the first place. Oh, right. The laundry chute. They prop it open again, dropping the shiny rock into the abyss below.

It bangs against the sides, skittering down into oblivion. The sounds of it sliding around and hitting the walls last for far, far too long. Kas furrows their eyebrows, sticking their upper body all the way into the chute and bringing their hand forward. They squint, trying to tug at the same threads that pull their magic forward--they don't want to risk starting a fire taking one of the lamps off the walls, or, worse, accidentally drop it down the chute.

A soft green light sparks at their fingertips, illuminating the surprisingly gentle slope of the laundry chute. It seems to travel the length of the back wall of the residence hall, and there's an inscription on the brassy metal panel right behind the hinged door--Commissioned in the 2102nd year at the Order of Arch-Mage Kizlane.

They laugh a little as they pull their head out of the chute, wondering what business Kizlane had having a laundry chute built. They'll have to ask them about it later. They finally take off their wet clothes, throwing them down the chute and poking at the slightly oversized training robes they've been given. They don't entirely know how to actually put them on. They end up sticking their head halfway through an armhole, then putting their leg through the same armhole, then just giving up and lying on the floor wrapped in a towel until Sorine yells at them to hurry up. They sigh, going back to trying to figure out the complicated clothes. They finally manage to get them on in a way that at least looks decent, and they look at themself in the mirror, feeling like a completely different person. They reach out a hand, tracing their finger across the surface of the mirror, the outline of their face. Their face is the same as always--untamable curly black hair they always keep much shorter than Isri's, falling just below their ears, light brown skin and sparing freckles. Their nose still has the little bump that makes it look broken, and their eyes are still the same almost-unnatural green. (Kizlane said they were pistachio-colored once. They still don't know what a pistachio is.) Yet, somehow, despite everything, they barely recognize themself.