Post by mistrali on Jan 1, 2022 20:12:35 GMT 10
Title: Liminal Spaces
Rating: PG for a brief mention of alcohol.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 655
Summary: Niko considers his ward while nursing a magical hangover. Set early in MitW/Sandry’s Book.
For Kypriotha! Sorry this is so late - inspiration struck at the last minute. Happy Wishing Tree
*****
“Excuse me.”
Niko looked up from the scrying bowl, his head swimming at the movement. His ward was standing there, all red hair and flashing spectacles. The bright spots in his vision accentuated the sparkle of her hairpins.
Gods above and below, he must have been Lakik-touched to think he would make a fit guardian for a child, in this state. He felt like he’d drunk a tankard of wine on an empty stomach.
“What is it, Trisana?”
A long-suffering sigh. “I told you, it’s Tris. You missed breakfast. The first mate wanted to see you for midday. She mentioned… scrying?”
Niko closed his eyes against the beginnings of a migraine. His supply of Trader tea had run woefully short; perhaps the first mate, herself a former Trader who had married out, would have some. In the absence of Rosethorn’s or Gorse’s more potent blends, it was the one thing that would blunt his vision-sickness. He wouldn’t be able to keep anything down for a day or two, even so.
“It’s rude not to answer when people are talking to you.”
He resisted the temptation to give her a piece of his mind about courtesy. For one thing, his emotions were on a knife’s edge. He might undo three weeks of progress with one harsh word. Gentleness was better taught with gentleness. And for another, he suspected Trisana was as prickly as Rosethorn, and for much the same reason.
“Scrying means seeing magically. I think you would benefit from coming - we will be discussing mimander magic, amongst other things. They sell mirrors that show only storms along a certain coastline, or oils spelled to prevent damage from seawater.”
Would she or wouldn’t she?
A flash of longing, and then a scowl like a thundercloud - or, perhaps, given Trisana’s proclivity to use storms and winds to regulate her emotions, a scowl like a sunny day might be the more pertinent idiom.
“How can you hobnob with Traders? They use blood magic,” she snapped. “And curses.”
“Both of those pursuits are illegal in Kurchal,” Niko retorted firmly, and caught himself in a yawn. “Whatever… assumptions… your relatives may have harboured about Traders are not to be repeated in front of the crew, do you understand?” The captain knew him well enough not to mind, but Niko would rather avoid stirring up anti-Trader sentiments unduly.
Mulish silence. She did not, Niko noticed, correct his use of past tense.
He sighed. Kurchal was mired in class prejudice, but then, itinerant and non-itinerant folk mixed like oil and water. Families like Trisana’s could hardly prevent themselves from being snared in the net of class warfare. His sympathies were rather more towards the Traders’ side of things, considering how his own lifestyle had taken him from Karang to Tharios. He had received his share of hostility from innkeepers who had mistrusted a vagrant Lightsbridge mage’s reasons for exploring their far-flung corner of the world, and from upper-class friends of friends who either thought him beneath their hospitality or too conceited for it.
Somehow he always expected the children he rescued to be more open-minded, and was invariably disappointed.
He rose with a lurch to wash the sleep from his eyes, and frowned at the wet rag folded neatly by the basin. He was sure he hadn’t left it like that. His razor, too, had been tucked into its leather casing, with the strop laid crosswise. The mirror was safely back in its compartment in his shaving case. Both their hammocks and blankets were rolled up, as neatly as any maidservant might have done it.
He wasn’t sure whether to be touched, guilty, irritated, tickled or bemused.
“You don’t need to tidy after me, Trisana.”
She glared daggers at him, the faintest of sparks playing around her hair. “I do know my way around a dust cloth, you know. I’ve been doing housework since I was six.” Her hair began to frizz, and the silvery-white glow of her magic to brighten. Niko caught his breath, even as the ache at his temples increased. The power around her was incandescent. Did the child not realise how artless she was?
Rating: PG for a brief mention of alcohol.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 655
Summary: Niko considers his ward while nursing a magical hangover. Set early in MitW/Sandry’s Book.
For Kypriotha! Sorry this is so late - inspiration struck at the last minute. Happy Wishing Tree
*****
“Excuse me.”
Niko looked up from the scrying bowl, his head swimming at the movement. His ward was standing there, all red hair and flashing spectacles. The bright spots in his vision accentuated the sparkle of her hairpins.
Gods above and below, he must have been Lakik-touched to think he would make a fit guardian for a child, in this state. He felt like he’d drunk a tankard of wine on an empty stomach.
“What is it, Trisana?”
A long-suffering sigh. “I told you, it’s Tris. You missed breakfast. The first mate wanted to see you for midday. She mentioned… scrying?”
Niko closed his eyes against the beginnings of a migraine. His supply of Trader tea had run woefully short; perhaps the first mate, herself a former Trader who had married out, would have some. In the absence of Rosethorn’s or Gorse’s more potent blends, it was the one thing that would blunt his vision-sickness. He wouldn’t be able to keep anything down for a day or two, even so.
“It’s rude not to answer when people are talking to you.”
He resisted the temptation to give her a piece of his mind about courtesy. For one thing, his emotions were on a knife’s edge. He might undo three weeks of progress with one harsh word. Gentleness was better taught with gentleness. And for another, he suspected Trisana was as prickly as Rosethorn, and for much the same reason.
“Scrying means seeing magically. I think you would benefit from coming - we will be discussing mimander magic, amongst other things. They sell mirrors that show only storms along a certain coastline, or oils spelled to prevent damage from seawater.”
Would she or wouldn’t she?
A flash of longing, and then a scowl like a thundercloud - or, perhaps, given Trisana’s proclivity to use storms and winds to regulate her emotions, a scowl like a sunny day might be the more pertinent idiom.
“How can you hobnob with Traders? They use blood magic,” she snapped. “And curses.”
“Both of those pursuits are illegal in Kurchal,” Niko retorted firmly, and caught himself in a yawn. “Whatever… assumptions… your relatives may have harboured about Traders are not to be repeated in front of the crew, do you understand?” The captain knew him well enough not to mind, but Niko would rather avoid stirring up anti-Trader sentiments unduly.
Mulish silence. She did not, Niko noticed, correct his use of past tense.
He sighed. Kurchal was mired in class prejudice, but then, itinerant and non-itinerant folk mixed like oil and water. Families like Trisana’s could hardly prevent themselves from being snared in the net of class warfare. His sympathies were rather more towards the Traders’ side of things, considering how his own lifestyle had taken him from Karang to Tharios. He had received his share of hostility from innkeepers who had mistrusted a vagrant Lightsbridge mage’s reasons for exploring their far-flung corner of the world, and from upper-class friends of friends who either thought him beneath their hospitality or too conceited for it.
Somehow he always expected the children he rescued to be more open-minded, and was invariably disappointed.
He rose with a lurch to wash the sleep from his eyes, and frowned at the wet rag folded neatly by the basin. He was sure he hadn’t left it like that. His razor, too, had been tucked into its leather casing, with the strop laid crosswise. The mirror was safely back in its compartment in his shaving case. Both their hammocks and blankets were rolled up, as neatly as any maidservant might have done it.
He wasn’t sure whether to be touched, guilty, irritated, tickled or bemused.
“You don’t need to tidy after me, Trisana.”
She glared daggers at him, the faintest of sparks playing around her hair. “I do know my way around a dust cloth, you know. I’ve been doing housework since I was six.” Her hair began to frizz, and the silvery-white glow of her magic to brighten. Niko caught his breath, even as the ache at his temples increased. The power around her was incandescent. Did the child not realise how artless she was?