Wild Magic

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Honeychild. Itvelve now. Just tipped over puberty.

What a handful. She waxes her hair till it stands up in spikes. And she paints it green and orange and whatever color strikes her fancy-except for one long limber plait she wears falling across her face. Luck’s forelock, she says. My tribute to old Tungjii and hisser bald head, she says.

Nine years.

The Sibyl shakes her massive head, pulls the veils tighter about her shoulders; the hot wind is blowing strongly up the caves from the lava lake at the heart of Fogomalin, whipping wispy ends of white hair about her face.

Nine years since the Honeychild came.

Nine years since the Goddance began.

She closes her eyes. Her hands tighten on the finials; the black opal gleams.

Changes, so many changes.

Faharmoy the dedicated young scholar is a dedicated warrior now. Fervor is fervor; he would be the same whatever he did.

The Amrapake is pleased with him; he openly speaks of Faharmoy as his heir. In spite of this he hasn’t set his hand on Faharmoy’s head and proclaimed: You Are He.

The Sibyl^. chuckles, shakes her massive head. Heirs have been known to hasten the Day.

As obtuse as ever, the General is busy making enemies with his arrogance.

Changes, so many changes.

The Salagaum grow more discreet; they carry their robes in a bag when they’re out and bind down their breasts.

And the Honeychild, ahhh!

Poor little Reyna, poor little Salagaum.

You picked up what you thought was a kitten and it turned to a tigress in your hands.

And it will get worse.

Ah diyo.