“I had my hands full enough keeping these two out of trouble,” Kellyn says. “You should be proud that you’re such a good listener.”
I ignore the men, instead focusing on my brave sister. She was amazing tonight. I was so scared for her, but I realize now that we’re safe, and in spite of everything—“I’m glad you know how to fight.”
“Really?” she asks, her eyes looking to me with something akin to hope.
“I always want you safe. That is more important to me than anything else. I’m sorry I reacted poorly, and in the future”—I let a hint of sternness creep into my voice—“I expect you to tell me things.”
“I promise.”
* * *
We ought to be exhausted while traveling the next day, but the attack has made all of us hyperaware of our surroundings. I haven’t been able to calm down from full alertness yet.
Still, I need a distraction from the constant terror of wolf mauling.
“Petrik, what do you know of other magic users in the world today?” I ask, hoping to move the conversation in such a way as to help me figure out what to do with Secret Eater.
Petrik is delighted by the question. “Though I’m sure there are many magic users in the world who keep their abilities a secret, there’s only one other who is widely known like you are: the cotton spinner. While you take the ores from the land and shape them into magicked weapons, she takes the plants of the earth and spins them into illusions.”
I’ve heard stories of cloaks of invisibility and masks of disguise. The merchants and mercenaries who pass through our city bring many exciting tales. I don’t hear them myself, of course. I hear them secondhand from Temra.
What I hadn’t expected was that there were only two of us who advertised our abilities. I thought surely there must be more, even if I hadn’t heard of them before.
“The witch hunts of a century ago really wiped out most of those with magic,” Petrik explains, as though reading my thoughts. “Bloodlines known to carry magic were basically made extinct. Now that magic is no longer outlawed, I hope we’ll begin to see the ability spread.”
I’ve often wondered if that’s who came after Mother and Father. Someone with a violent hatred of magic. But that doesn’t explain why they killed Father.
Or why they left Temra and me alive.
“In all your studies,” I say, “have you ever read about anyone else with an ability like mine? Aside from my mother?”
“I have not, I’m sorry to say. I’ve read about those with control over many of the planet’s natural resources. Clay, plants, water, wood, minerals, animals—even the people themselves.” Petrik grimaces at the last one. “While others before you have used metals and minerals in other ways, you’re the only one I know of to combine magic with forging.
“I came across an old children’s book that talked of a man who could skip rocks great distances over the surface of the water,” Petrik continues. “There was a witch back in the day who could bend silver into any shape she wanted. She was the one to create a common currency throughout all of Ghadra, shaping the metal into coins. There are tales of an old woman who could call grains of sand to her. She could move them where she liked, make them form together to build extraordinary things: a house, a fence, the wall around a city.
“I’m afraid no one interviewed your mother or recorded her abilities. That is why I’m doing this. Life can be fleeting, and we don’t want any more knowledge lost.”
“I’m sorry if our mother’s death was an inconvenience for you,” Temra suddenly bites out.
“Oh, I didn’t mean—Temra, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have phrased it so carelessly. I only meant that what happens in our world is precious and should always be remembered. Your mother should be remembered.”
Somewhat appeased by his words, she says quietly, “I wish I could remember her. I was too young when she died.”
In my memory, she was nothing short of perfect. Beautiful, soothing, loving. I should tell Temra this, but my eyes sting just to think of her. My most vivid memory of her was shortly before she died.
I was so angry with Temra because she was playing with one of my dolls.
“I hate her,” my five-year-old self said. “We should get rid of her.”
“You want me to get rid of your sister? What should we do with her? Put her out in the street? Toss her out with the garbage? What do you think would happen to her?”