He placed his stolen bouquet at the foot of the magical tree, and then found a patch of grass where he could sit and wait for his parents â and, he hoped, Ophira. The air was alive with conversation and murmured incantations. The faithful set down their flowers with their heads bowed. Three more finches lit upon the branches, and then something beneath the birds caught Jordan's eye.
A small older man with a hooked nose and dark eyes stood brazenly before the tree, staring at it. He must have sensed Jordan watching him, for he turned and gave him a smile that made Jordan shudder. The man's lips were drained of colour, and his pale skin made Jordan think of candle wax. Those nearest to the tree didn't seem to notice him. The pilgrims farther away, couldn't they see him reach towards the finches and snatch one? Didn't they hear the terrible crunch as he squeezed the tiny bird to death and then tucked it into his pocket?
The man rested his hand on the dark surface of the tree. Something sparked, and Jordan smelled ash. Then, before his incredulous eyes, the man stepped into the air beside him and disappeared. In his place, one small black feather drifted down and settled at the base of the tree. Without thinking, Jordan picked it up and put it in the pocket of his feast robes. He stumbled back to his patch of grass, trying to process what he'd seen.
“Happy birthday, Jordan.”
He startled so badly at the sound of Ophira's voice that she asked, “What is it? Are you all right?”
Jordan studied her pale face and blue eyes that were trained on him. He glanced back at the tree. “I . . . nothing. It's nothing.” Jordan had been certain that he'd seen the man. Now he wondered: what had he seen?
Ophira was wearing her blue feast dress, with white ribbons in her long dark hair. She had bent to adjust a sandal, her body as graceful as a belt-dancer's.
“You managed to escape your grandmas for the afternoon,” Jordan said, swallowing what he'd really wanted to say.
“I expect they'll track me down before long,” she said easily. Everyone called the seers grandmas, even though they weren't. They were just old.
Ophira laid a hand upon his arm. “Look â Arrabel is coming. She's going to name the year.”
High Priestess Arrabel had entered the ceremony accompanied by four of her crimson-robed mystery keepers, one of whom carried the immense and sacred Book of What Is in both hands. Jordan's father had once told him this was the only occasion in the entire year that the precious Cirran book of spells and incantations left the Meditary.
Something about Arrabel made her beautiful, though Jordan could never figure out what it was, for her nose was long, her forehead high and her chin pointed. Perhaps it was the stillness that shone through her like a lantern, or maybe it was just her kind-heartedness. There were others in the palace whose mere presence made a person feel like a servant, but Arrabel was not like that. Even the farrier felt chosen when she spoke to him. Today her blonde hair was pinned up, her priestess robes an intricate arrangement of beads and buttons and the feathers of countless birds.
A hush descended as the mystery keepers edged away from Arrabel. Her eyes were closed, her arms thrown wide, her face angled towards the cloudless sky. The breeze lifted wisps of her hair.
“Do you figure she's already decided which bird will name the year?” Jordan asked softly.
“Oh yes,” said Ophira. “She's been studying the sky for months.”
One of the mystery keepers opened the Book of What Is and in unison the keepers recited an incantation to the Great Light. As they spoke, light flashed from the book's pages in tiny sparkling points.
“Now the wind will pick up,” Ophira said. “Listen â the keepers are calling the birds.”
Jordan was thankful to live in the Cirran part of Katir-Cir that honoured the great mysteries. Mystery did not cross the snow-tipped mountains that divided the lands of Cir from the coldly rational provinces of Brin. He thought of the magical burning tree. He liked the way a mystery teased you, like a locked door.
The mystery keepers' chants fell to a hum, and went silent. Then, in a tone both calm and commanding, Arrabel said, “I declare this to be . . . the year of the magpie.”
There were cheers as the sky thickened with the black and white birds. Ophira's forehead wrinkled and she stared at the grass. “The birds of thievery,” she said.
“Is it a bad omen?” Jordan asked.
“A warning, maybe. Magpies are known for stealing the eggs out of other birds' nests.”
The mystery keepers closed the book and began to walk back towards the palace but Arrabel stopped, as if she'd been struck by a puzzling idea. Her eyes searched the gathering, her expression grave. When Jordan realized her gaze was on him, he gave a short bow and said, “My lady.” By the time he'd straightened, she had walked on.
“What was that about?” Ophira asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Bells and billy grain,” came a wrinkled cry. “There you are, âPhira!”
Jordan sighed. It was Mama Manjuza, a hunched woman concealing a face as wizened as an overripe mango behind her seer's veil. She gripped Ophira's arm and pulled her away, saying, “Girl's gotta see to her grandmas now, Jordan. Off ye go.”
Ophira shot Jordan a look of regret, gave a small wave, and departed with the old woman. Jordan scanned the people for his father's face and found him beside a small koi pond offering family friends good wishes for the New Year. Elliott squeezed his shoulder and whispered, “Happy birthday, son,” and Jordan smiled.
“Have you seen Mom?”
“I expect she's here somewhere,” he said. But when they went searching for her in earnest, they couldn't find her.
“Go on ahead to the contests,” Elliott said. “I'll bring your cakes. Just be home for dinner,” and he gave the customary Cirran sign of greeting or leave-taking, pressing three fingers to his forehead with a short bow. Jordan made sure none of his friends were around and then gave the quickest bow possible and hurried off.
As he made his way past trumpeters, jugglers and merchants, he noticed the crowd had swelled. By now the underrats had arrived â Jordan spotted two in trench coats, and several others wearing extraordinary silver silk suits. They had already imbibed too much mug-wine and were trying, without success, to pick people's pockets. Nearby, a woman swatted one of them with her basket.
But that was normal for a feast day celebration. What was unusual was the number of foreigners. Not just Omarrians or farmers from the provinces who attended the celebrations every year, but unfamiliar people, dark and quiet, hanging back from the others. They did not offer greetings as Jordan passed, and when by accident he bumped an older man and apologized, the man answered in a thick unrecognizable accent. Perhaps they were from the south. The land of Ut was rarely traveled because of the heat and sheer desolation of a desert journey. And then a jester popped up before him wearing a hat formed entirely of shoes, each of which proceeded to hop off his head and walk away, and Jordan laughed and forgot about the strangers.
He passed the hammer throw and the wrestling ring that had been set up in one of the larger courtyards, and continued until he reached the archery fields, a colourful conglomeration of flags and targets. The Cirran flag flew in every direction, and with the breeze it seemed as if the doves themselves would take flight. Jordan spied some of his school friends already taking turns with the bows. Anyone was allowed to shoot before the official contests began. When they saw him they waved him over.
“Take a shot, Jordan,” they called. “Donovan's already hit the bull's-eye twice.”
Everyone knew Donovan would take the dark blue robes of a novice Landguard next year; his aim was unsurpassed. It made Jordan jealous to think of it. Not that he wanted to be a Landguard; he just wished for a recognizable talent, an uncomplicated path towards the future. All of his friends knew what they were going to be. A few were born to be scholars, and one was going to his uncle's ranch in Cirsinnia to work in the horse stables. But Jordan could not follow in his father's footsteps. Carving tools felt awkward in his hands and he tended to use too much force, cutting too deeply with the chisel and ruining the bowl or bird sculpture.
He sighed and fixed his eye on the concentric circles of the target, nocked the arrow and pulled. He had the strength for this art, but not the aim. When his arrow landed in a haystack, his friends hooted.
“You're supposed to hit the parchment, Jordan.”
He grinned. “I was aiming for the haystack.”
A series of trumpet blasts announced the beginning of the real contests. Everyone moved aside, and Jordan saw the commander, Theophen, leading the palace Landguards towards the field. With his hair streaming behind him and his head so erect and proud, he reminded Jordan of a lion. A jagged scar ran the length of his left cheek. It gave him a stern bearing, but most folks knew he had a kind heart. Donovan would be lucky to train under him.
Two boys struggled to bring in the enormous ceremonial bow and presented it to Theophen. In other regiments the commander shot first, but Theophen passed the honour on to his second-in-command. He would shoot last. The target was placed an impossible distance away. One after the other the Landguards shot. They were well trained and reasonably accurate and their shots earned respectable applause. But when Theophen picked up the bow, everyone went quiet.
A tall man with a long black beard had come to stand next to Jordan. “Is he a good shot?” the man asked in a heavy accent.
“The best,” said Jordan, “Watch.” One, two, three quick arrows were released, each scarcely aimed it seemed, and each a precise bull's-eye. The spectators roared with delight and Jordan felt some interior needle swing as surely as the needle of a compass. The way all eyes were on Theophen; that was what Jordan wanted, to stand at the centre of an admiring crowd.
“Hmm,” the stranger said. “Is the high priestess as talented with a bow and arrow?”
“High Priestess Arrabel is not allowed to use weaponry.” Jordan was about to add, “But everyone knows that,” when he realized the man had walked away.
There were horseshoe games and a distance race from one end of the mountain plateau to the other, and then a challenge to see who could throw the weighted ball farthest. When the trumpets announced the palace feast, Jordan took leave of his friends and made his way home. Something was bothering him; something wasn't quite right about the day, but it was like trying to recall a dream. He could grasp one corner, then another, but when he tried for the third the whole thing fell apart. Finally he gave up, remembering that sasapher cakes awaited him, and he hurried towards home.
When he arrived, Elliott was placing small lit lanterns in every window of the house. The glass chimes were already hanging by the front door, a traditional ward against dark magic. Jordan could smell chicken roasting on the fire outside, but there were no cakes.
“The feast has probably kept your mother occupied,” Elliott said when he saw the disappointment on Jordan's face. There was a tone of concern to his father's voice that hadn't been there earlier.
Jordan knew this was the busiest time of year for Tanny. She would work until midnight helping with whatever tasks arose. Tomorrow at breakfast she would tell them all about who had sat next to whom around the enormous banquet table, and which snippets of conversation she had caught as she rushed to deliver yet another platter of food. She would speak of High Priestess Arrabel's grace and how gallant Commander Theophen was, and Jordan would find himself wishing once again for something more in his life, something nameless and great and exciting . . . and unknown and impossible.
He went into his bedroom and gratefully exchanged his feast robes for the short pants he usually wore. That evening he and his father ate their dinner on the rooftop patio because the spectacle of the burning tree was more magnificent when viewed from afar. After the meal, Elliott lit his sasapher pipe and Jordan chewed on a stalk of mellowreed. They sat back in their chairs as the heat of the day rose from the stone around them. The summer breeze smelled of fried fish and cardamom, the Balakan River flowed in the distance, and somewhere nearby came the music of a flute. When the two moons rose like yellow eyes in the sky, their edges shone with an orange hue that happened only once a year and made them true-f.
“The Twins,” Elliott said, and proceeded to tell Jordan the old tale about how a thousand thousand years ago the moons had once been twin sisters named Lucinda and Maelstrom.
It was a tale Jordan knew well. The sisters had lived back when magic bloomed freely across the lands of Katir-Cir, the good sort that came from the Great Light and delighted everyone with innocent enchantments. Elliott spoke of Lucinda's talent for magic and how ordinary lumpy Maelstrom had no gift for it. He told of the day Maelstrom discovered that magic had an underside â the undermagic, which few spoke of, because naming something gives it life and few wanted such dark magic to live. The source of this shadow magic was a great candle that awaited its king, a sorcerer of formidable power whose spirit was greedy for more.
“They would call him the Beggar King,” said Jordan's father, “for he would be inclined to want.”
The Beggar King came to Maelstrom, and they left to seek this power. When Lucinda found out, she begged the Great Light to hide the undermagic, hide it away where neither her sister nor this sorcerer could access it. And the Great Light heard her prayers, and the undermagic disappeared, its vulture guardians put to sleep. To end the sisters' dispute, the Great Light transformed them into twin moons obliged to rise and set in tandem. Jordan could see even now that one moon was slightly darker than the other.
“Some folks call it the undermagic moon,” Elliott said, “for Sister Maelstrom likes to remind us of the darker ways of the world and how she longs to see them return to Katir-Cir.”