Wild Magic

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Honeychild is celebrating her nameday with fire, poor baby. Eight and bewildered, she went from the loving cradle of the Beehouse to the battleground of the School. It’s hard to be scorned and tormented for how you look, hard to be terrified of your own Talent.

Ah well, it means I’ll have a pupil to pass my days. I believe I shall enjoy that-and hate it at the same time. I don’t like being used to hone a weapon for the Honey Mother. Ahhh hahhhh.

Chumavayal is honing his own weapon. Poor little Prophet-to-be, he was happy where he was; that’s finished.

The rot is starting, no one sees it yet; things will get much worse before the rains come again.

Chapter 4. The Honcychild And The Caste System

Dancing from foot to foot, the girl thrust her thumbs into her mouth and pulled it into a horrendous grimace, waggled her fingers at Izmit the Silversmith’s Daughter and her coteries of toads who walked sedately away along the lane, pretending to ignore her. Another girl was patting her mouth and hooting.

A moment later they came skipping back to Faan who was huddling, stunned and miserable in an angle of the wall, trying to pull herself together after the nasty verbal attack by girls she hadn’t even spoken to before; it wasn’t what they said so much as the malice and hate she felt in them that had made her so sick.

“‘Loa, Wascra,” the face-maker said; she was all elbows and knees with rusty black hair like a load of fleeces and reddish-bronze skin. “Don’t let that potz play her tricks on you. All the brains she got she sits on, vema vema. I’m Ma’teesee and this’s Dossan; she quiet, but she smart. You’re new, huh?”

Faan nodded; the lump in her throat was still there and her eyes were burning with tears she was fiercely determined wouldn’t fall. “Faan,” she muttered.

“And your da tried to set y’ in his caste, huh?”

Faan ran her tongue over her lips; she thought about trying to explain, but she didn’t understand it herself so she just nodded.

“Si11-1y, huh, Dossy?”

The other girl smiled at Faan, patted her arm. “Das do it all the time,” she said. “They don’t know what it’s like.” Her voice was soft and musical. She was smaller than Maleesee, with curly light brown hair and skin only a few shades darker than Faan’s. “You come to the Wascram class, Faan, you don’t need to fool round with them.”

Ma’teesee danced away. “Vema vema, true it be, no one else’s smart as she.” She giggled. “Le’s buzzit. School’s done, time for fun.”

Faan straightened. “Do you rhyme all the time?”

“Oooooh she said it she said it…” Ma’teesee and Dossan grabbed hands, prisoning her inside their arms, then danced around her, chanting, “Ooooh she said it ooooh she said it…”

Faan giggled, ducked too quickly for them to catch her again, then the three of them went running down Verakay Lane.