Mirian rolled her eyes and waved the apple at him. “But it doesn’t.”
Tomas ate one of the apples because Mirian looked at him like he was an idiot when he didn’t want to. He didn’t enjoy it. It smelled more like Mirian than like an apple and while that wasn’t exactly a hardship, it was strange. His grandfather helped keep Trouge fed, went out into the fields and orchards with the other Earth-mages in the Mage-pack and got his hands dirty because that’s what Earth-mages did.
His gray eyes were nearly brown with mage marks.
“Maybe because he’s not at first level, it never occurred to him to try.”
He turned as Mirian closed the pouch over the last of the apples. “Him?”
“Maybe it never occurred to your grandfather to try,” she explained, then added, “you were obviously still thinking about it.”
“It’s weird.”
She made a face but didn’t object when he took the blanket roll from her and hung it from his good shoulder. He followed as she crossed to the pond where she wrapped the bulk of her skirt up onto the front of her legs before she crouched and filled the canteen.
“That’s mostly frog shi…waste,” he amended at the last minute. Long-legged shadows dove for the depths around clumps of greenish-black translucent eggs.
“First level water purifies.” She took a drink then offered it to him.
“Why?” The water in the canteen definitely smelled better than the water in the pond.
Her brows drew in deep enough to make a little vee over her nose. “Why?”
“I’m no mage, but it seems a strange place to start.”
“Strange like the apples?”
“Strange like complicated.”
“Oh. They say it’s because convincing water to be nothing but water is easy.”
That didn’t sound easy, but as the water tasted like it had come from a spring and not the next thing to a cesspit in a goat pasture, he was impressed.
“The next level involves parting water,” she continued, almost absently as he handed back the canteen. “The university built an artificial stream in back of the Water Hall. To move into second level, you had to cross it without getting your feet wet. It seemed a bit precious to me because parting water means moving water, so if you could get across the stream with dry feet, you should be able to move any water anywhere.” Canteen refilled, she straightened and swirled one foot then the other in the pond. At first Tomas thought she was making a point, her mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval at the university. Then he realized she was washing off the dirt and blood, the cold water painful against blisters on her heels. He hoped first level healing—or whatever level she was at—would be up to the contents of the pond. Hunt Pack learned not to wash a wound with dirty water. It seemed Mage-pack didn’t care.
When her feet were as clean as they were likely to get, she took a long careful step back onto new grass instead of mud and said, “My mother could keep her feet dry, as she informed me every time we passed a puddle even though she hadn’t tested high enough to attend the university.”
Until she mentioned her mother and started to smell angry, he’d thought she was talking to distract him from the apples.
“When you get right down to it,” she added, heading toward the road, “it’s a fairly useless skill. If there’s a puddle in your way, go around. If there’s a river, build a bridge. By third level, you can convince rain not to fall on you. Or you could carry an umbrella.”
Tomas frowned at the pond, decided he wasn’t hungry enough for frog, then hurried to catch up. “Are you sure that’s how it works?”
“The university may have been confused by my breadth of mediocrity, but they did let me in.”
The Mage-pack had no first level mages. Harry was no more than second, but Harry was a soldier and his friend, not a mage, and while he’d been upset about not qualifying for the artillery, he’d only really cared when it came to his stupid crush on Geneviene. He did, however, always make sure the soldiers under his command had hot food and coffee. Had been. Made sure. When he finally remembered to always refer to Harry in the past tense, would it be real? “Maybe they start with purifying because it’s useful.”
She shot him a glance that made him think his voice hadn’t been entirely steady. When the brittle edges were absent from her reply, he was sure of it. “Maybe, but it’s still a matter of degree. If you’re only powerful enough for first level, there’s a limit to how much water you can purify. First level Water-mages usually find work in high-end restaurants. First level Fire-mages are thrilled about the new gaslights because they have to be lit every evening and first level Earth-mages work with florists—which is almost respectable. First level Air-mages can blow out a chandelier, one candle at a time, without getting a ladder, so there’s always domestic service for employers with low expectations. A couple of girls had suggestions I’m not going to repeat about uses for maintaining your own body temperature.”
Wait…“Girls had suggestions?”
Her laugh felt like fingers rubbing behind his ears. He smiled freely for the first time in days as they reached the road and he took his position upwind of her right shoulder.
“You’d be surprised at what women talk about when there’s no men around. The point is,” Mirian sighed, the exhalation exaggerated, “with five first levels and only five first levels, my classmates made any number of useful suggestions. Oh, wait, I can do first level metal now, so there’s always a future of finding coins in sofa cushions.”
“It’s just…” He hadn’t forgotten the two second levels, but they seemed incidental. The apples had been more worrying. “…you don’t smell like a first level mage.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Now she sounded sad. Lord and Lady, was it him or was she always that confusing?
Mirian had a feeling that every time she let an opportunity to mention Jaspyr Hagen pass, the memory of what they’d shared, already ephemeral, was shredded a little more. But she refused have her mage-craft defined by the interest of a man. That would make her no better than the silly girls who wafted their scent toward the Pack, as though that and that alone would validate their existence.
“We could move faster if we’d stolen a horse in Herdon.”
She counted ten strides before Tomas caught up to the change of subject.
“Horses and the Pack don’t exactly get along. Not unless they’re raised together. My cousin Jared unseated half the Traitonian cavalry.”
“Weren’t they on our side?”
“You’d think. Their general was a bigot, and Jared was…”
Dead. She could feel his dead pile up in the pause, so she reached out and squeezed his hand. Words like I’m sorry were so inadequate they’d be insulting. After a moment, he squeezed back and, when she released him, cleared his throat and said, “Can you ride?”
“No.”
“Then why did you think we should have stolen a horse?”
“Because you could run on four legs, too, and it would be faster.”
“How would you falling off a horse be faster?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily fall off. Besides…” She turned far enough to wave at the smoke rising from the chimneys of Herdon, still not very far behind them. “…it has to be faster than walking.”
“It really doesn’t. We’ll walk for fifty paces, run for fifty paces. It’s what the volunteers do…” More dead in the pause. “…when they have to cover ground. Can you run?”
She followed his line of sight down to her feet, dust from the road already sticking to damp skin. At least the dried blood was gone. “Who walks to a rescue? I can manage fifty paces.”