CHAPTER 41. Mika

YEW Street was a small, well-kept lane. People were already out about their morning business, and bread sellers and milk vendors were calling their wares. Dawn was breaking and the clouds overhead were pink against the pale blue of the sky.

“Mika said a green-and-yellow door,” said Thero, looking around.

The house in question stood at the far end of the street. It was a tidy little place, with late-summer flowers growing on either side of the stone doorsill. The upper windows were still shuttered, but they could hear a woman sobbing.

“Oh, Illior!” murmured Micum.

“We need to know for certain.” Thero went to the door and knocked.

An instant later the shutters were thrown open overhead and a youngish-looking man in a nightshirt leaned out and gave them a puzzled look. “Who are you?”

“Are you the father of a boy named Mika?” Thero asked.

“I am, if that’s anything to you.”

“Please, sir, if you would, how is the boy?”

The man broke into a broad grin that belied the sounds of weeping still coming from the room behind him. “He’s awake! But how did you know?”

“Forgive us for bothering you at such an hour,” said Micum. “This is Lord Thero of the Oreska House. He’s been working with the high priest of Dalna to find a cure for the sleeping death. I think he may have helped your boy tonight.”

“I must examine him,” Thero told him. “It’s of vital importance to all Rhiminee.”

The man goggled down at Thero. “Of course, my lord! By the Maker, wait there!” He slammed the shutters closed and a moment later flung the front door open and wrung Thero’s hand with tears in his eyes. “Come in! Oh, my lord, how can I ever repay you?”

“No need for that. Just take me to the boy.”

The happy father, who introduced himself as Aman, didn’t appear to be much older than Thero. He led the three of them upstairs to a low-ceilinged bedchamber under the eaves. A plain bedstead covered in bright quilts stood in the center of the room, and beyond it, by the far wall, a young woman knelt on the floor by a little trundle bed, rocking a child in her arms and weeping with what they could now see was joy. The boy looked over her shoulder as they came in, and Thero recognized him at once. It was Mika, sandy-haired and skinny. His eyes, which had been colorless in the mist, were the same clear grey as Seregil’s, Thero saw with an inward thrill.

“There he is, Mama, the wizard I dreamed of!” Mika cried, struggling out of his mother’s arms and coming to stand before Thero. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, then Mika threw his thin arms around the wizard’s waist. “Thank you, sir, for sending me home!”

Thero stroked the child’s hair. “You’re very welcome, Mika.” The sense of magic was much stronger. Two hours ago he hadn’t known the boy existed; now he felt a sense of excitement and recognition he’d never experienced before.

You will know, Nysander’s voice whispered from his memory. Just as I knew with you.

He gently loosened the boy’s grip on his waist and drew his crystal wand, looking for any residual magics. Behind him, Micum and the parents were talking in low voices.

Casting the spell, he drew the sigil over Mika and watched as waves of soft pale light cascaded over the boy, then settled

like a veil and turned silvery white. He touched his wand’s tip to it and felt a tingle of that same familiar magic go up his arm, but with it a jolt of the foul spell that had captured the boy’s soul. For a fleeting instant he saw Atre’s face. The man was laughing with someone as he raised a phial to his lips and drank.

Thero suddenly couldn’t breathe. Hastily jerking the wand back, he cast a sign of warding, then dispelled the sigil. The boy would need cleansing.

Micum hunkered down and held out what appeared to be a cat’s eyetooth. “Mika, you traded with a beggar for this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the child replied politely.

Thero took it, but as with the yellow crystal, there was nothing magical about it, nor any trace that there ever had been. But he had a clear vision of the dead yellow tom it had come from, and, more faintly, of Atre having handled it. These objects were not the key, just the bait.

“What did the beggar look like?” he asked.

“She was an old woman, sir, and though she was dirty, she was very kind. She said that was a baby dragon’s tooth.” He looked at his mother’s tear-streaked face. “Did I do wrong?”

His mother fell to her knees beside him and clutched him to her breast again. “No, lovey, no! She was an evil woman, this man says.” She looked gratefully up at Micum. “And he says he and his friends are going to catch her and make her stop hurting children like you. What do you say, child?”

Mika gave them both a solemn little bow. “Thank you, kind sirs.”

Thero smiled. “You’re most welcome, Mika. Can you tell us more about what this old woman looked like?”

“She had a long nose and whiskers on her chin, sir. And things hanging from her belt, skulls and stones and things.”

“Very good. Anything else?”

Mika thought hard. “Just that she smelled of onions.”

Micum chuckled. “That’s a useful detail. Are we done here, Thero?”

“I need a moment alone with the parents and the boy. Will you wait for me downstairs?”

When Micum was gone, Thero turned to the parents. “May I speak with you away from the boy?”

“I don’t want to leave Mika alone,” the mother said, putting an arm around her son’s shoulders.

“We can talk in the sitting room. It’s just across the hall here,” said Aman.

He led Thero into a comfortably furnished chamber. “Please, sit. May I offer you some mead, my lord? I made it myself.”

“Much appreciated.” Thero accepted a cup and sipped politely. “This is excellent! And please, call me Thero. No need for titles.”

“You’re very kind.”

Thero sipped the honey wine politely. “Are you a mead maker by trade, Aman?”

“I am. I have a shop in the Harvest Market.”

“You must do very well.” Thero took another sip, then rested his cup on his knee. “Tell me, when did you know that Mika is wizard-born?”

Aman sighed. “I figured you’d see it.”

“Are there wizards in your family, or your wife’s?”

“Not that we know of, but her great-granddad and my great-great-grandmother were ’faie, so Mika has the blood from both sides. But he’s the only one to show any sign of magic.”

“What have you observed?”

“Well, sometimes things move when he’s in a temper. He sent a bowl flying just last week. And he can turn fire blue if he stares at it hard enough.”

“Why haven’t you presented him at the Oreska House?”

Aman turned the cup in his hands. “He’s our only child, you see. And Yriani couldn’t bear to part with him.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m sorry to say this, but if Mika has the ability to move things without any training, then his power is very strong, and unless properly taught, he could hurt people without meaning to as he grows older and his gift more powerful. He might start fires without meaning to, or even kill. A

gift like his won’t just go away. And I’m sure you know that he’ll not have a normal life span. He needs to have contact with his own kind if he’s to be happy.”

Aman stared down at the floor between his bare feet. At last he sighed. “What must we do?”

“I would like to take him on as my apprentice. He would live with me at the Oreska House, but be free to visit you and his mother anytime he likes, so long as it doesn’t interfere with his studies.” He could see the man warring with himself, knowing Thero was right about Mika’s future if he went untrained, but heartbroken at the thought of giving up his son. “A wizard’s apprentice is like his own child, and treated as such. My master was very kind to me, and I would certainly be so with Mika.”