Wild Magic

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The Quiambo Prime Walim Korongo stepped back and let the General precede him into the workroom.

A tall boy, all bone and skin, Faharmoy was bent over the Holy Thxts, copying a page with meticulous care, adding his own embellishments•to the plain text. He’d already illuminated the first letter with an elaborate interlacing of angular lines and forms, Chumavayal’s Hammer and Anvil predominating, overlaying the black lines with brilliant color and a touch of gilding; now he was working on the columns of glyphs. His fingers trembled between strokes but were iron-steady when he was laying down the lines of ink. He was concentrating so furiously on making the page perfect he was unaware of the men standing beside him, looking down at his work.

Wenyarum Taleza reached toward his son, started to speak, but the Quiambo Prime caught his arm. “Wait,” the old kasso murmured.

Wenyarum shrugged, let his hand drop. Because he couldn’t bear to watch his son’s finicking work, he moved across the room to one of the windows and stared out through the bubbled glass into the inner court with its sacred Fountain.

He came back to the table when he heard the Quiambo Prime speak to the boy.

“That’s fine work, Mal Faharmoy,” the Quiambo said. “We will miss you here at the Camuctarr.”

“Miss me? Heshim Korongo?”-

“Your father has come for you, Mal Faharmoy. Your life will take another direction after this. I hope you will not forget the things you have learned here.” The old man’s hand closed hard on the boy’s shoulder, a silent warning.

Faharmoy stood silent, contained, his confusion and anger constrained by years of discipline.

Wenyarum Taleza stared at his son with concentrated dislike, jerked his thumb at the door, and went out. Faharmoy followed him.